At the moment Ormsley looked on the verge of tears as his damp, faded blue eyes roved almost lovingly over Ian's face. "Good afternoon, my lord," he intoned formally, but the ecstatic expression on his face gave Ian the impression the servant was restraining himself from wrapping his arms around him. "And-and may I say-" The elderly man stopped, his voice hoarse with emotion, and cleared his throat. "And may I say how very-how very very good it is to have you here at-" His voice choked, he flushed, and Ian's ire at his grandfather was momentarily forgotten.
"Good afternoon, Ormsley," Ian said, grinning at the look of sublime pleasure that crossed Ormsley's lined face when Ian knew his name. Sensing the butler was about to bow again, Ian put out his hand instead, forcing the loyal retainer to shake hands with him. "I trust," Ian joked gently, "that you've conquered your habit of overindulging in French brandy?"
The faded old eyes brightened like diamonds at this added proof that Ian's father had spoken of him to Ian.
"Welcome home. Welcome home at last, my lord," Ormsley said hoarsely, returning Ian's handshake.
"I'm only staying a few hours," Ian told him calmly, and the butler's hand went a little limp with disappointment. He recovered himself, however, and escorted Ian down a wide, oak-paneled hall. A small army of footmen and housemaids seemed to be lurking about, ostensibly dusting mirrors, paneling, and floors. As Ian passed, several of them stole long, lingering looks at him, then turned to exchange swift, gratified smiles. His mind on the looming meeting with his grandfather, Ian was oblivious to the searching scrutiny and startled glances he was receiving, but he was dimly aware that a few of the servants were hastily dabbing at their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs.
Ormsley headed toward a pair of double doors at the end of a long hall, and Ian kept his mind perfectly blank as he braced himself for his first meeting with his grandfather. Even as a boy he'd refused to permit himself the weakness of thinking about his relative, and on those rare occasions when he had contemplated the man he'd always imagined him as looking rather like his father, a man of average height with light brown hair and brown eyes, Ormsley threw open the doors to the study with a flourish, and Ian strode forward. walking toward the chair where a man was leaning upon a cane and arising with some difficulty. Now, as the man finally straightened and faced him, Ian felt an almost physical shock. Not only was he as tall as Ian's own 6'2"; to his inner disgust, Ian realized that his own face bore a startling resemblance to the duke's, whereas he'd scarcely resembled his own sire at all. It was, in fact, eerily like looking at a silver-haired, older version of his own face.
The duke was studying him, too, and apparently reached the same conclusion, although his reaction was diametrically opposite, he smiled slowly, sensing Ian's ire at the discovery of their resemblance to each other. "You didn't know?" he asked in a strong baritone voice very like Ian's.
"No," Ian said shortly, "I didn't."
"I have the advantage of you, then," the duke said, leaning on his cane, his eyes searching Ian's face much as the butler's had done, "You see, I did know,"
Ian stolidly ignored the mistiness he saw in those amber eyes, "I'll be brief and to the point," he began, but his grandfather held up a long, aristocratic hand.
"Ian, please," he said gruffly, nodding to the chair across from him. "I've waited for this moment for more years than you can imagine. Do not deprive me, I implore you, of an old man's pleasure at welcoming home his prodigal grandson."
"I haven't come here to heal the family breach," Ian snapped. "Were it up to me, I'd never have set foot in this house."
His grandfather stiffened at his tone, but the duke's voice was carefully mild, "I assume you've come to accept what is rightfully yours," he began, but an imperious female voice made Ian swing around toward the sofa, where two elderly ladies were sitting, their fragile bodies all but engulfed by the plump cushions. "Really, Stanhope," one of them said in a surprisingly sturdy voice, "how can you expect the boy to be civil when you've quite forgotten your own manners?
You haven't even bothered to offer him refreshment, or to acknowledge our presence to him." A thin smile touched her lips as she regarded a startled Ian. "I am your great-aunt Hortense," she advised him with a regal inclination of her head. "We met in London some years back, though you obviously do not recognize me." Having met his two great-aunts only once, purely by accident, Ian had neither animosity nor affection for either of them. He bowed politely to Hortense, who tipped her head toward the elderly gray-haired lady beside her, who seemed to be dozing, her head drooping slightly forward.
"And this person, you may recall, is my sister Charity, your other great-aunt, who has again dozed off as she so often does. It's her age, you understand."
The little gray head snapped up, and blue eyes popped open, leveling on Hortense in wounded affront. "I'm only four little years older than you, Hortense, and it's very mean-spirited of you to go about reminding everyone of it," she cried in a hurt voice; then she saw Ian standing in front of her, and a beatific smile lit her face. "Ian, dear boy, do you remember me?"
"Certainly, ma'am," Ian began courteously, but Charity interrupted him as she turned a triumphant glance on her sister. "There, you see, Hortense-he remembers me, and it is because, though I may be just a trifle older than you, I have not aged nearly so much as you in the last years! Have I?" she asked, turning hopefully to Ian.
"If you'll take my advice," his grandfather said dryly, "you won't answer that question. "Ladies," he said, bending a stem look on his sisters, "Ian and I have much to discuss. I promised you could meet him as soon as he arrived. Now I must insist you leave us to our business and join us later for tea."
Rather than upset the elderly ladies by telling them he wouldn't be here long enough for tea, Ian waited while they both arose. Hortense extended her hand for his kiss, and Ian obliged. He was about to bestow the same courtesy on his other aunt, but Charity lifted her cheek, not her hand, and so he kissed that instead.
When the ladies left so did the temporary diversion they'd provided, and the tension grew thick as the two men stood looking at each other-complete strangers with nothing in common except a startling physical resemblance and the blood that flowed in their veins. The duke stood perfectly still, rigidly erect and aristocratic, but his eyes were warm; Ian slapped his gloves impatiently against his thigh, his face cold and resolute-two men in an undeclared duel of silence and contest of wills. The duke yielded with a faint inclination of his head that acknowledged Ian as the winner as he finally broke the silence. "I think this occasion calls for champagne," he said, reaching out for the bell cord.