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it—well, Neville might, but as I said, yer auld enough tae be telling him nay and meaning it.”
    “‘Tis nothing tae do wi’ stubbornness,” Duncan said, his tone rising in annoyance.
    “O’ course it isna.”
    That condescending tone got Archie a glare. “I’ll be picking my own bride, is all, nae more’n any mon expects tae do, yourself included.”
    “And glad I am tae hear it. But why burn the bridge afore ye cross it? Hae a look at the wench Neville found for ye first afore ye decline her. Ye may like her well enough. But if ye dinna, at least make an effort tae find anither.”
    Duncan snorted. “I’ve nothing again’ marriage, Archie, but I’m a bit young tae be thinking o’ it yet.”
    “And I’m a bit tae auld for ye no’ tae be. I may outlive Neville, and I’ll find someone tae help me here in the meantime, but I willna feel comfortable retiring completely again till yer son is auld enough tae take o’er.”
    Which meant that Archie was in complete agreement with Neville, that Duncan marry immediately. One of the major undertakings of his life, and they both wanted him to rush into it.
    Duncan left the kitchen in disgust. He’d go to England. But he wondered if his grandfather Neville would be glad of his coming.

Eight
    I t was quite possibly the most gloomy, forlorn-looking place Duncan had ever seen. He supposed the thick carpet of fog that rose several feet above the ground might be responsible, as well as the leafless trees that could be dead as not, for all he knew. Or perhaps the early hour of the morning was why it looked so deserted.
    On the other hand, Duncan truly doubted that any small bit of sunshine would impress him much in his current mood, nor any bright fauna if there was any to be found this time of the year. He was in a state of mind to hate Summers Glade, and hate it, he would.
    Sir Henry had wanted to arrive last night, which would have been easily done since the inn they had stayed at had been less than twenty minutes away at a steady clip. But Duncan wasn’tabout to meet this English grandfather of his for the first time after a full day of traveling. He wanted to be at his most alert, not tired and thinking only of a hot bath and bed.
    He hadn’t planned to arrive before Neville Thackeray was even out of bed, though, which turned out to be the case, and was a letdown, since he was primed for a confrontation with his grandfather. And the place wasn’t deserted, as he’d almost been hoping by the look of it. Inside it was teeming with servants, more than ten large families could possibly make use of, all there to wait on one old man.
    To be fair, though, Duncan allowed it was a very large house the marquis lived in, which might be needing a few extra servants to see to the care of it. He also allowed the English might be a wee bit pampered, great lords like his grandfather in particular, and so they might think they needed huge staffs when they really didn’t.
    But for all the bleakness on the outside of the old estate, there was much bright grandeur to be found on the inside. The furniture in most of the rooms that Duncan had a glance of in passing was old-style French, the delicate, overly carved kind. It was well preserved for its age, but so ornamented as to give the place a gay, if gaudy, feel.
    Mirrors and pictures were in gold-leafed frames that were nearly as wide as what they framed. Chandeliers were so large and with so much dangling crystal, they were likely to blind anyone unfortunate enough to look up at them when fully lit. And there were flowers in eachroom, suggesting that there was a hothouse on the estate somewhere.
    All in all, Summers Glade, at least on the inside of it, certainly wasn’t what Duncan had been expecting from an old English marquis, and certainly not after the dour look of the outside. Staid, unpretentious, heavy pieces had been his guess for what Neville would surround himself with, not the frivolous decor of the previous