An American Duchess (17 page)

This was for Zoe. He owed her this—a beautiful wedding day.

He looked to her. What did she think of his clumsy words, his nerves?

He saw how her forehead was furrowed. Hell, if he wanted to believe their marriage could work, he had to get through this.

He cleared his throat, louder than the reverend had done. People shuffled on pews. His collar choked him. He’d faced battle. He could confront a wedding.

“I, Nigel Arthur William Hazelton, take thee, Zoe—”

On the words “take thee,” a soft smile came to her lips. A shared smile. He looked at her face, and she filled his every thought. Moments now and she would truly be his. The words suddenly came easier.

Then it was her turn. The reverend fumbled with his prayer book and cleared his throat again.

“Do you, Zoe Anastasia Gifford...” Then inexplicably, the reverend stuttered, saying, “To love, ch-cherish and—and—” The man’s voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “What is the meaning of this? Someone’s altered my book!”

Nigel stared at Wesley, who tipped his book of scripture down. Some of the words in the man’s book had been blacked out with a pencil. The reverend cast a shocked glance at Zoe.

With his tone of voice like the hissing sound of a leaky tire, Wesley said, “Your Grace, I apologize. I do not understand. Miss Gifford wished to make a change in the vows.”

Nigel turned to her. Murmurs rose through the congregation, but they hadn’t heard what Wesley had whispered.

Zoe met his gaze. “I didn’t do anything to the book. I told him just what I wanted to say. I wanted my vows to you to be exactly the same as the ones you say to me, Nigel. Without
obey.
Someone was just having a joke with the book.” She gave Wesley a gentle, beautiful smile. “Why don’t you continue, dear reverend? It’s been so very lovely so far.”

With that, Zoe managed to win over the reverend. Red in the face, Wesley took a deep breath and continued. Out popped the word
obey.

She wasn’t going to repeat it. Nigel was sure of it. Once he would have been shocked. Now he could see Zoe was correct—what did it matter? His father hadn’t done a lot of loving and cherishing during his marriage. A vow was not what you said, but what you did.

“I, Zoe Anastasia Gifford, take thee, Nigel Arthur William Hazelton, to be my wedded husband,” Zoe repeated, her voice ringing out in the church. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance.”

She had said the word she objected to. And he knew she’d done it for him—to spare him embarrassment.

Suddenly Nigel realized something else. Zoe was now his.

The responsibility almost overwhelmed him. She was bold and honest and more filled with life than anyone he’d ever known. And he was a damned mess.

The rings were presented on Sebastian’s gloved palm. Nigel shakily slid one onto Zoe’s slender finger. His voice was equally shaky as he said, “With this ring, I thee wed.”

* * *

Rice rained over them. Zoe clasped the hand of her husband and let him lead her out of the church to the guests and the villagers.

“Three cheers!” shouted one of the villagers.

Hurrahs followed. Caps flew into the air. Children squealed, scampering around the legs of adults. In the crowd, Zoe saw the simplest laborers, the merchants and all the local gentry. Every soul in Brideswell had gathered to wish them well. The elderly farmer who she had encountered on the road the first day she’d arrived was there, looking on with his familiar dour expression. Mrs. Billings leaned heavily on a cane, helped by Julia’s sweetheart, Dr. Campbell.

Joy surrounded them.

But Nigel had looked anything but happy in the church. He had looked exactly as he had when she’d found him outside Murray’s jazz club, suffering from shell shock.

“A kiss!”

A cry started over the crowd for a kiss.

Was Nigel going to kiss her? He had looked so upset in the church. When she saw him at the altar, he had looked stricken and in agony. He had been tugging at his collar. At that moment, he looked as if he were going to shake to pieces or explode in anger.

Then he’d looked at her. His blue eyes went wide as he drank in the sight of her in her dress. His lips had softened and she saw him suck in a deep, long breath. He had looked...as if he’d been struck by lightning.

He had been nervous, stumbling over his vows. But he had not looked outraged over the word scribbled out in the book, and she’d thought he would. She knew who had done it. She had looked at the guests and Isobel had flushed with guilt.

Now, at the happy demand for a display of affection, Nigel looked blank. As if he had no understanding of the meaning of the word
kiss.

“We shouldn’t disappoint them, should we?” she said to Nigel. “They’re happy for you.”

He drew off his hat with a nervous gesture. From his towering height, he bent to her lips. Without saying a word. She went up on tiptoe and their mouths touched.

It was the softest kiss. Not passionate, but very gentle.

“Huzzah!” several people shouted. “Hurray to the duke and his new duchess!”

“Long lives to them both!” cried others.

Nigel broke the kiss first, moving back and wearing a light blush. Laughter and more cheers sounded among the villagers. Zoe laughed up at her new husband. Softly she teased, “That wasn’t a kiss to sweep me off my feet.”

“That is not the kind of thing I can do in front of an audience,” he said stiffly.

More rice was thrown at them, and then a girl cried out, “Do toss the bouquet! Oh, please!”

Laughing, Zoe turned her back to the crowd. She knew just where Julia was standing. And she threw her bunch of roses over her shoulder. A feminine squeak sounded and Zoe whirled around to see a chunky young woman elbow Julia out of the way and snatch the flowers out of the air. She shared a rueful look with Julia.

Then Zoe turned to Nigel. She felt she was glowing from the inside out. He wasn’t smiling—he was watching her, a poignant expression on his handsome face.

“We should go to the carriage, Zoe. To return to Brideswell.”

He said it in far too cool a way. “Good,” she answered. “I want to get you alone.”

“We won’t be alone.”

“Nigel!” she cried in protest. Why didn’t he get it? But she soon saw he was right. A footman waited at the carriage, holding the door open. There was the driver, of course. And the carriage was open, so everyone could see the newly married duke and duchess. It was sweet. But not good when she ached to kiss him hard.

Nigel lifted her train and she slid along the smooth seat. He held the train to her, and she bustled all the fabric around her.

She had insisted all the villagers be able to attend the wedding breakfast. Mother had been shocked. Mother had had her heart set on an exclusive guest list, bursting with dukes, earls and possibly—gasp—a prince or princess.

Mother and the dowager had been in agreement in their shock. Tents for the reception? The farm tenants touring the grounds and piling food on plates? Horrifying.

But it was going to be done.

The coachman flicked his reins and they were off. Zoe didn’t quite know what to say. Why had Nigel been so nervous in the ceremony? Why was he so stiff and quiet now? They both sat awkwardly. They’d been married for just a few minutes. Before, she would have said something to annoy him. But she didn’t want to do that now.

No, she was going to be honest. “Are you having second thoughts?”

Nigel jolted in surprise. “Of course not.”

“Then what was wrong in the church? You were pulling at your collar and sweating. You looked like you wanted to run.”

There was a silence. At the picnic, in the churchyard, Nigel had actually talked about what he felt—he’d talked about love. But now he was acting cold and austere, the way he’d been when she’d first met him.

“Have we just made a colossal mistake?” Zoe asked.

* * *

“Colossal mistake?” Nigel repeated, startled. Was that what she felt?

“I wanted this to be the happiest day of your life. I intend to make it that.”

“It is.” Hell, he’d said that too curtly. He had been fighting to control his shaking through the wedding. Deep in his heart, he was afraid she had made a mistake in marrying him.

Once he would have been unable to find the words. Now he had to try to explain. For her. “Zoe, ever since I returned from the War, wounded, I’ve avoided large events. Standing up there, on display, I feared I would embarrass you in some way. I feared I would start shaking—or worse. I was afraid of doing something that would shock or horrify people.”

“They are your friends and family,” she said.

“True, but who can criticize you more or hurt you deeper?”

“I suppose only people whose opinion you care about can hurt you. But don’t you see you have nothing to fear?”

He had everything to fear. This should have been the happiest day of his life. But the guilt in his heart churned harder today. Because he was having joys denied to so many men who had entrusted their lives to him. Because when he stood in front of all the villagers, people he had known for his entire life, he had felt conscious of his scars. Conscious of the tremors in his hands, brought on by nerves.

“I know,” he said. He wanted to change the subject. “We have the breakfast. Then the honeymoon. Then the financial business will have to be taken care of. I have a schedule to put in place—improvements to the farm buildings, purchases of new farming equipment—”

“We’ve just married, and you’re thinking about farming equipment.”

He flushed. “You are correct, Zoe. We have other things to think about.” He frowned. “What happened with the vows? I looked out over the guests and I saw Isobel go red. That usually means she is guilty of something.”

“I think it was Isobel,” she admitted. “She was with me when I talked to Reverend Wesley about the vows.”

“She scribbled in a book of scripture.”

“She doesn’t agree that women are property of men. She’s a modern girl.” Zoe cocked her head. “You had better not punish her. I won’t allow it.”

“Ah, you want me to obey you.”

She was about to protest, but he held up his hand. “I am teasing, Zoe. I will not punish her.”

“Thank you.”

“But I will talk to her,” he continued. “It was still wrong to deface the reverend’s property.”

Zoe giggled. That, he hadn’t expected. Then she laughed. “Nigel, I love you. When you talk like that it makes me want to—”

She slid across the seat and pressed against him, crushing the yards of tulle in her dress, and she kissed him. As passionately as she could.

Hungrily, he kissed her back. He wanted to give her the kiss of a lifetime.

He heard applause from the people lining the road and he drew back. He could not do this—kiss with abandon so publicly.

Zoe waved, bubbling with joy. To him, she said, happily, “I can’t wait until our honeymoon. The time at our wedding breakfast is going to be agony, you know, waiting until we can get away. I am so excited to see Monte Carlo.”

Nigel cleared his throat. Guilt was surging again, and he couldn’t seem to forget all the young men he’d known who had died—who had wives and sweethearts and had given up their chances for love. “Zoe, I cannot go to Monte Carlo. I cannot face traveling across France. It is too filled with memories for me. I will not leave Britain, Zoe. I cannot. Instead, we will go north, to my hunting seat.”

* * *

“Where will you be taking your honeymoon? The south of France is a popular choice. Hot, of course, but to be on the coast of the Mediterranean—quite lovely.” Knocking back champagne, the tall, thin countess had cornered Zoe. Zoe wanted to find Nigel, and this irritating woman wanted to find her soft underbelly and stick a fork in it.

Julia looked panicked. A lot of people had heard the countess’s carrying voice. “There are lots of lovely places one would want to go.”

“Nothing compares to the south of France. I adore Monte. Anywhere else would be uncivilized.”

Mother had told her to go to Monte Carlo or Nice for their honeymoon and she’d thought it would be fun. But Nigel refused to leave Britain and hadn’t told her until they were already wed.

It hurt to have a decision made without including her. But she wasn’t going to give Lady Chawley-Lampkin, or Crawfish-Lumpy—whatever her name was—the satisfaction of knowing she was unhappy. “His Grace did not want to return to France,” Zoe said coolly. “Not so soon after the War. He feared it would dredge up unpleasant memories and he chose to remain on British soil.”

“Pshaw. You should have insisted, my dear.”

“I didn’t want to make the duke unhappy.” And what business was it of this woman’s?

Was it really true that Nigel had been afraid his shell shock would affect him at the wedding? And why would it—if the day really was a happy one?

She’d never dreamed she would feel unsure on her wedding day.

Nigel said he loved her. She loved him. It was
enough.

Lady Lumpfish was still speaking. “I thought perhaps the arrangements would have
already
been made,” she said in a cutting tone. “The duke’s
brother
is a frequent visitor to Nice and Monte—it’s well-known Lord Sebastian loves the tables.”

So that was what this was about. A chance to claw at her about shifting from Sebastian to Nigel.

“I wondered if the duke simply decided to pick up where his brother left off,” the countess continued. “Though I suppose you felt you could do better.”

“Who cares where you go?” Zoe said coldly. “I thought honeymoons were supposed to be spent indoors. Even in the south of France, we’d never see more than the bedroom.”

Food slid off Lady Chawley-Sourpuss’s plate and landed with a squish on the woman’s shoes.

Zoe smiled and walked away. Couldn’t they leave yet? Toasts had been made. The good wishes had long vanished, and now, fuelled by Brideswell’s champagne, the women were showing their claws.

A hand touched her arm. Zoe hoped it was Nigel’s, but Julia stood there, lovely in her pale blue bridesmaid’s dress, the scalloped hem dancing around her slim legs.