Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts #5) - Cynthia Wright Page 0,89

well imagine the depth of your grief, sir. If I can help in any way…”

A liveried servant was opening the door to the coach. As the duke began to rise from the cushioned seat, he said, “You can, Lennox. I would ask you to address me as ‘Father.’”

“Of course.” It would be cruel to deny him such a simple request, yet the word seemed to stick in Lennox’s throat. “Father.”

For a moment, the older man paused, eyes closed. “When you say it,” he murmured, “I can almost imagine it is my Charles speaking, your voice is so much like his.”

* * *

The next few hours passed in a blur for Lennox. He was shown through the grand rooms of Greythorne Manor and encountered many servants, all impeccable in the duke’s garnet livery. Except for Burley, the young groom who had greeted them outside, the servants were clearly trained to fade into the background. The duke treated them with an air of absentminded kindness, as if he didn’t really see them.

“The original dwelling that stood here was in the Domesday Book, you know,” his father said as they toured the house. Lennox reminded himself to find out what that meant. “King Henry gave it to my father, the last duke, but it’s been up to me to do the rebuilding. My travels in Europe inspired me a great deal.”

Lennox saw that there was no great hall, no common room where most of the guests would eat and sleep, while only the lord of the manor and possibly a few family members would have private chambers. It was all very different from Duntulm Castle, where Lennox had been raised, or Dunvegan Castle, the clan stronghold. The walls were hung with costly tapestries, though none could match Nora’s artistry, Lennox thought. Much of the carved paneling was gilded, and the ceilings were elaborately decorated.

The duke paused to speak to a stone-faced steward named Wilton who led them up a wide staircase. Arched windows overlooked the stairs, spilling the pink hues of twilight through diamond-shaped panes.

As they ascended, Lennox realized that the duke was watching him from the corners of his eyes.

“Your home is magnificent,” Lennox said, careful to be truthful without admitting that he didn’t care for the style.

“I’m so pleased you approve. Are you not an artist?”

“Aye, I suppose ye could say that. I do like to draw and paint, when I have the necessary materials.”

Hastings gestured toward the paintings ranged over the large wall beside the stairway. “I like to think that we have some very fine works of art here. Holbein himself painted these.” He paused in front of two large portraits that hung side by side. One featured a timid-looking young woman, petite and rather plain, wearing an old-fashioned gable headdress. “That is my duchess, Jane, when she was a new bride.” Even as he spoke, his gaze moved away to settle on the other portrait.

“Her Grace was very lovely,” said Lennox before turning slightly to regard the painting of a young man. “And is this Charles, your son?”

The duke nodded mutely, tears filling his eyes.

“I am so sorry.” Should he touch his father? Probably not, yet he could not resist laying a hand on his shoulder in comfort as they stood together. The young man looking back at them from the painting had an angular face and large, dark eyes that held a spark of humor. Lennox found himself returning his half-brother’s wry smile. “Ye must be very glad to have this fine portrait. I can see how special he was.”

“Can you indeed?” the duke asked hoarsely. “I still cannot quite believe he is gone.”

Lennox patted his shoulder. “I am sorry,” he repeated.

“You are a kind young man.” Their eyes met for a moment. “I appreciate that. Now then, let us go up.”

Wilton was waiting discreetly at the top of the stairs. He led the way down the corridor and opened a door. Lennox felt both men watching him now, and he guessed the fine, spacious room must have belonged to Charles. He went in, inhaling a faint but unmistakable scent of sandalwood. It felt as if the last occupant had departed only a short while ago.

For a long minute, Lennox stood silently, looking around the room. Clearly designed for a man, it was richly paneled and lined with tapestries depicting the drama of a boar hunt. The carved poster bed was covered in midnight-blue velvet, and precious leather-bound books lined shelves near the mullioned windows. One volume