"It just doesn't make sense to me, indeed it don't. Why go to all this trouble and the expense of this gathering, get all these young women here for the boy to make a choice from, if he knew all along that it was no more'n a tiff they'd had that could be repaired?"

"If who knew?" "Neville, of course. I hope he realizes how much disappointment his announcement has caused. Celebrate indeed. It's a bloody tragedy."

Tragedy, no. Shock, yes. Unexpected, not really, merely forgotten for a short time, that it was the more likely outcome. So Ophelia had been right all along, and unfortunately, so had Sabrina. Last night with her and Duncan had merely been an impulse for him, an opportunity a healthy male wouldn't pass up, and she certainly hadn't tried to prevent it from happening. Nor could she regret it even now.

What hurt, though, what was devastating to her, was that he went from making love with her directly to making amends with Ophelia and asking her to marry him. A little time in between, even if only a week, would have lessened the blow. But apparently his making love to Sabrina had been the catalyst that made him realize where his true feelings lay.

Ophelia entered the room just then and was met with halfhearted congratulations from a few people, though she didn't seem to notice, was radiating with triumph. Raphael had been correct in one thing, at least—no one really felt like celebrating this particular engagement. The young men there, with the exception of Raphael, who seemed to really not like her, were no doubt disappointed, if not brokenhearted, that Ophelia was officially unavailable again. And there was at least one female with shattered hopes . . .

Sabrina really couldn't bear to listen to Ophelia gloat, yet knew she would if given the chance. And she suspected the only way to avoid that was to leave, and very quickly, before the London girl noticed her.

"I'm not feeling too well, Aunt Hilary."

"Don't blame you a'tall, m'dear. Feeling rather sick to my stomach myself. Shall we go home?" "Yes, please."

Chapter Thirty-three

The pounding on the door finally woke Duncan, enough to growl that he'd help whoever it was to roast himself over some hot coals if he didn't take his pounding somewhere else. The person outside didn't. He opened the door instead. Duncan didn't notice, sitting there in the middle of his bed trying to hold his head together, since it truly felt like it was coming apart.

"You don't look too good, old chap. Imbibe a bit too much while celebrating last night?"

Duncan opened one very bloodshot eye, pinned Raphael Locke with it, and said, "I'll have tae find a vat o' oil tae boil. Hot coals just willna do it for you."

Raphael chuckled and pulled up a chair next to the bed. Duncan, seeing that his unwelcome visitor wasn't getting the message that he was unwelcome, groaned and buried his head under his pillow.

Unfortunately, though Rafe's voice was now muffled, it was still heard. "I know why I would be sick unto death this dreary morning, all things considered, but what's your excuse? Since you've changed your mind about marrying Ophelia—"

"Why the devil would I do that?"

"Possibly because she's so beautiful she takes your breath away?"

Duncan sat back up with a snort. "What an Englishmon may find fashionably beautiful, a Highlander might find pale and sickly. A Scotsmon would want his lass tae have a sturdy constitution and enough meat on her bones tae wi' stand a northern winter. D'you ken that Ophelia would ne'er survive in the north country, that she'd wilt at the first sign o' bad weather? And bad weather is a constant there, no' the exception. I would have realized that, e'en if she hadna turned me again' her wi' her vicious tongue."

"But you will be living in England now, won't you, so what's the difference?"

"If I thought I'd ne'er see the homeland again, I'd wither and die m'self."

"Then how is it, old chap, that you happen to be engaged to her again?"

It was there on the tip of Duncan's tongue, an automatic answer, but this being the second time Rafe was implying that Duncan had changed his mind about Ophelia, it jarred a vague memory of why he had gotten falling-down drunk last night.

And that stirred another, even more elusive memory of both his grandfathers confronting him with the news that he now had to marry Ophelia, and he was too drunk to care at that point. Had he really told them that? That he didn't care?

Trying to remember it all was stabbing even worse pains through his head, so he finally gave up and replied, "No' by my choice, I assure you."

"Ah, so it's like that, is it?" Raphael said, disgust and disappointment mixed equally in his tone. "Somehow I thought you would have a bit more of an independent nature, rather than jumping to do the old man's bidding."

"When did it become your bluidy concern, what the hell I do?" "When I decided to take you under my wing, of course," Raphael replied. "Take your wing elsewhere, I'm no' wanting it."

Raphael chuckled. "Too late. I don't abandon my friends just because they turn out to be absolute imbeciles."

"Your last warning, friend. If you dinna get oout o' here and let me die in peace—"

"Now, now, don't make threats you cannot possibly carry out in your present condition."

A good point, Duncan realized belatedly, so he simply gave up trying to oust the fellow and opted to bury his head again under his pillow. Ignoring whatever else Raphael had to say would get his point across, he hoped. Amazingly, he even managed to fall back asleep for a bit, which was a blessing, considering how much pain he was in.

When he woke the second time, he had no idea how much later in the day it was, but at least his head

wasn't pounding so viciously now. But if he thought Raphael Locke would be long gone, he was much mistaken. The Englishman was still sitting in the chair next to the bed, reading from a book he must have pulled from the small shelf of books in the room. They weren't Duncan's books, had just been there as part of the room's decor when he'd moved in.

"What time is it?" Duncan mumbled as he sat up, very cautiously, so as not to start the hammers pounding in his head again.

"Not too late," Raphael replied, setting the book aside. "I would imagine there's time for you to still catch luncheon, if you hurry."

The very thought of food turned Duncan's complexion nearly green. Not a moment later, he was racing toward the chamber pot and throwing up a good deal of the poisons in his system. Another blessing. He actually felt much better when he crawled back to the bed.

"You're still here?" Duncan groused, seeing Raphael still sitting there with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, calmly watching him.

"Do you always sleep fully clothed?" Raphael countered, ignoring the question put to him. "Only when I dinna recall going tae bed."

"Ah, yes, that would be a good excuse, I suppose," was replied dryly. "Why are you still here?"

"Curiosity, of course. I confess I simply don't understand what happened yesterday, or how you could turn into such a fool overnight. It's going to be rather difficult to get rid of me, old chap, until you fess up."

"If I could remember what happened yesterday, I might oblige you, but since I canna ..."

"Now, that excuse just won't do, indeed it won't. Once you're feeling up to stuff again, it will all come back to you. I'll wait."

"Then do your waiting elsewhere, if you dinna mind," Duncan said.

"And let you hide from the truth even longer? No, no, my presence will stimulate your memory, I'm sure, if for no other reason than telling me all will satisfy my curiosity and send me on my way."

If Duncan didn't think his head would regret it, he would make an effort to toss Raphael out of the room. Instead he lay back, closed his eyes, and tried to recall the events of the night before. Slowly his memory started to clear.

"That's quite a blush, old chap," Raphael remarked with a chuckle. "Course, looks much better than that green tinge you were wearing."

Duncan's blush deepened. He would have given anything to be alone just then, to explore more fully what he was remembering, but with his unwanted guest sitting there awaiting details, some of which he would not be given, he gave a mental sigh and put those particular memories away for later.

"She made her cry. I was infuriated aboot that, knowing firsthand how vicious her tongue can be, and wanted tae know what had been said."

"I can imagine who it is that has the vicious tongue, but who is it that she made cry?"

This was asked with a narrow-eyed look that indicated Raphael's protective instincts had been aroused, enough for Duncan to reply, "It wasna your sister, 'twas Sabrina. And I tried tae get from her what had happened, but wi' nae luck. She was tae upset tae e'en discuss it. So I went tae confront the cause. I recall I was furious by the time I found her, since she wasna easy tae find. I was finally directed tae her room by a maid. I figured she had gone there to fetch something, since the hour was still early, the party still in full progress, and if we were tae have heated words, better upstairs where nae one was likely tae hear. Ne'er once did I think she had gone up tae retire for the night."

"Why do I get the appalling feeling that you found her in bed?"

"It wasna that bad, though it might as well have been. She was in her underthings, petticoats and the like. I barely noticed—" Raphael's snort caused a pause, then the insistence, "I swear tae you, I was tae angry to really see her, and even when I did take notice, how revealing is a womon's underthings, eh? No' much bluidy different than some evening gowns I've seen. 'Tis nae more'n the fact they be 'underthings' that make them inappropriate for the male eye tae behold."