An American Duchess (18 page)

“Can I hug you?” Julia breathed.

Zoe felt her nerves ease their grip. “Of course.”

They embraced. “You should have caught the bouquet,” Zoe said. “I tried to make sure you got it. Since I’m quite sure you are going to be the next one to wed.”

Julia blushed. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of such a thing if it wasn’t for you. I would have been locked away in Brideswell, still deeply unhappy. Anyway, I did try for the bouquet, but Lady Chawley-Lampkin’s daughter elbowed me out of the way. Look—there is Nigel.”

Julia pointed down the lawn. Zoe saw Nigel with his nephews. He saw her and began to run toward her.

Zoe’s heart stuttered. Nigel wore a smile—a brilliant smile of joy. Seeing her had made him smile.

“I haven’t seen him this happy since before the War,” Julia said. “You have changed him, and I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.”

It was proof a modern, determined American girl could accomplish anything. Including winning the man she loved.

 14 

WEDDING NIGHT

Near Berwick-Upon-Tweed

“My little girl, a duchess!”

Zoe had barely got into her mother’s room when she was snared in Mother’s perfumed embrace. Mother beamed. Zoe wasn’t sure if it was happiness—or the champagne at the reception.

“Well, we did it, dear. I’m so very happy.”

“Happy for me for marrying the man I love.”

Mother rolled her large violet-blue eyes. “Happy for you for securing your future.” She lowered her voice to a determined whisper. “I remember what it was like to have an empty larder, a dirt floor and the despair of not knowing where the next meal would come from. I vowed you would have so much more.”

“Mother, I grew up that way.”

Mother waved logic away. “You must barely remember it. Your children will never know that kind of a life, Zoe. And neither will you or I. Ever again.” Mother’s expressive eyes narrowed. “And you must keep our past quiet, Zoe.”

“We don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

“You remember what things were like when we first came to New York. Do not give anyone anything that can be used as ammunition.”

Mother let her go and strode back to the door that led to her dressing room. From the doorway, she wagged her finger at someone in the room. “Now, be careful with those dinner gowns. Have you no idea how to pack a trunk? Those things are the height of fashion in New York and I don’t want them ruined.”

Zoe peeked around the corner. Two trunks stood open, and Mary, Mother’s maid, was rushing to and fro, trying to transfer Mother’s dozens of outfits to the cases.

“Mother, are you leaving already?” Of course she would be, Zoe realized. She must be returning to New York. Silly, but she’d expected her mother to be here when she returned.

Homesickness washed over her with such strength she could barely stand.

She was twenty. For all her bravado, she’d never been on her own before.

She was married. She was crazy about Nigel, but when she thought about it, she really barely knew him. Her husband was still a stranger.

“Of course we are leaving, dear. I have been told the train leaves at three o’clock. Now, darling, I’d love to talk, but my maid has packed my trunks all wrong and they have to be redone in the next hour, and that’s not going to happen unless I’m standing over them.”

“Your train leaves at the same time as mine?” It meant she could have one very last hug with Mother before they went separate ways: Mother to Southampton to sail home, and her to the north with Nigel.

“It’s the same train, darling. Of course it leaves at the same time.”

Then she understood. “Mother! You are
not
thinking to come on our honeymoon?”

“Zoe, a lady does not raise her voice.”

“Stop trying to act like the dowager.” Was the dowager still the dowager now that she was the duchess? Zoe had no idea. And it didn’t matter. “Mothers do not accompany daughters on their honeymoons.”

“They do.” Her mother lifted her fingers to count the instances.

“No! I’ve heard the stories. Every single time the bride was miserable.”

Mother’s expression was pained. “Then where am I to go? I doubt I’ll be welcome here, if you aren’t here.”

“Go back to New York. With Uncle Hiram.”

Mother looked obstinate. “If I’m alone with Hiram, he will harp on that check. Endlessly. I can’t face a transatlantic voyage with Hiram.”

Now she could understand Mother’s fear. While Mother had caused her own disaster, she understood. But she could not have Annabelle Gifford on her honeymoon. She couldn’t do the things she wanted to do with Nigel with Mother hanging around.

“I will speak to Nigel’s mother. I see no reason you couldn’t stay longer and let Hiram travel ahead of you. Remember, Mother, if you go back, you can crow to every leader of Manhattan society that I am now a duchess. Brag about the wedding. Rub it in a little.”

Mother did look happier. But she feigned shock. “We do not brag, Zoe.”

“You brag all the time.”

“That is not bragging. There is nothing wrong with informing people of our family’s accomplishments.”

Zoe rolled her eyes.

“But if I go back to New York, what will you do? You’re going to the ends of the earth for this honeymoon. You’ll be bored stiff, honey.”

“Mother, I really don’t think so.”

* * *

On the train, Nigel read the newspaper while Zoe watched the countryside go by. It was warm in the compartment. Rain started outside, making the sky dark, and Zoe fell asleep, curled up against Nigel. She awoke as the train pulled into a station—gray clouds and showers made it almost like night. They hurried to a car and set off north.

“Finally,” Zoe murmured. “I can kiss you.”

Nigel gave her one kiss—a quick, proper one. Then he drew back with a quick glance toward the chauffeur. “Wait until we arrive,” he said softly.

Zoe pressed up against the glass, but couldn’t see into the dark of early evening and the windswept sheets of rain. Finally, the car stopped before a house. She could barely make out stone walls, a tall roof and pinpoint spots of lights burning here and there behind windows. They had passed tall, craggy hills and black lakes. Lightning forked through the sky now and thunder boomed so loud it seemed to rock the car.

“Are we in Transylvania?” Pressing her face to the window of the car, she peered out.

“Still in England,” Nigel said. “We are near Berwick-Upon-Tweed, the northernmost village in the country.”

The northernmost place? It was even more rain drenched than anywhere else she’d seen in England. Zoe pushed down a sense of disappointment. If Nigel feared he would remember the War if he stepped on French soil, she didn’t want him to go through such pain.

The car door opened and a footman in livery stood by the door, holding an enormous black umbrella. Zoe slid out, and as Nigel joined her, she turned to him, got on her tiptoes and whispered, “Why don’t we go right upstairs to bed?”

She said it quietly so only he would hear.

“Now?” Nigel frowned. “It’s dinnertime.”

“You’re joking, right?” She was so frustrated. She rested her hands on his broad shoulder. She moved so close her lips brushed his ear and said, “Isn’t it glorious to think we can make love whenever we want? It’s no sin. No scandal. And I’d like to start now.”

His footman stared impassively ahead.

“That would be impossible,” Nigel said in a low voice.

“How can it be
impossible?
” How could she be the only one eager to go to bed?

“Quiet, Zoe. We cannot just run in the door and run upstairs to bed.” He gazed at her as if it were obvious.

“I don’t see why not.”

“The staff will be presented to you. We will be required to change for dinner. Cook will want to display her prowess to you tonight. After dinner—after coffee in the drawing room—we will be able to slip away.”

He was being staid and annoying. She felt a funny kind of panic. She’d thought once they were married and the wedding was over, and they were free of duty, he would be that man who’d made love to her in an airplane again.

“I don’t care about any of that. Can’t we just go upstairs then get something sent up if we get hungry later? Like room service?”

“The staff would be offended,” he said softly. “And Cook does not do...room service.”

“Have you forgotten what you bargained for when you married me? Remember the airplane?” Nigel really could drive her mad. No man had ever annoyed her like this.

Zoe slipped out of her coat and stepped out from the shelter of the umbrella. In only a few moments, she was soaked. Her dress clung to her. It stuck to her bosom, held up by her bra, stuck to her stomach, her bottom and her legs.

“What in blazes?” Nigel growled. He grabbed the umbrella from his footman. Zoe giggled as she saw that both Nigel and the servant’s sangfroid had shattered like glass.

Nigel stormed toward her and held the umbrella over her head. She brushed her wet bob back from her face and gazed innocently at him.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, but quietly, so the footman wouldn’t hear.

“Now I have to go up to my bedroom and take off all my clothes to change into dry ones for dinner.” It was summer, June, but the rain was cold. Still, she would be damned before she’d shiver. “It’s up to you if you want to join me.”

The footman took the umbrella from Nigel. Her husband put his coat around her. “I will never forget the aeroplane, Zoe,” he said softly. “Both times we were in it together.”

* * *

He didn’t come upstairs. So Zoe gave in, changed into a silk dress of pale blue, with strings of beads and a feathered headpiece.

She’d dreamed of a honeymoon spent in bed. Of waking up with Nigel, utterly naked between tangled sheets. Of nibbling strawberries and cream from a tray, drinking champagne, then rolling on the bed and making love all over again.

But at this moment, she didn’t know where her husband was.

In his deep, gorgeous voice, he’d told her he would never forget the time they’d flown in her airplane. And the time they made love. She had quivered with desire as his husky voice flowed over her. As she breathed in his scent imbued in his warm coat.

But he hadn’t taken up her invitation!

He wasn’t in his bedroom—she’d checked. He’d dressed for dinner apparently after she’d given up on him and decided to have a warm bath. There was no plumbing at this house either. Buckets of steaming water had been brought up from the kitchen. She’d felt sympathy and had them stop with just enough water to make herself wet and wash her hair.

She ended up wandering down the same large corridor twice. Even though this house wasn’t as large as Brideswell, it was still enormous. When he had called it a “hunting seat” she had pictured something small. This was a mansion. And with the rain and few lamps lit, it was a dark and rather gloomy one.

“Are you lost, Your Grace?” A woman materialized from the shadows. “I am the housekeeper here, Mrs. Folliat.”

“I am looking for the drawing room. And my husband,” Zoe said. She was certain there was already talk about her downstairs. She had waved at the servants gathered in the foyer and announced, “Lovely to see you all gathered here. I’ve gotten wet and I would love a bath.” She’d swept upstairs—and paused at the landing. “Would someone show me which bedroom is mine?”

No doubt she had scandalized the staff. But they would be, no matter what. She wasn’t going to be what they would expect in a proper duchess. So she might as well get them accustomed to it.

Mrs. Folliat looked as if she’d sunk her teeth right into a lemon. But she gave directions and Zoe sashayed into the drawing room moments later.

Nigel was already there. Along with a tray of drinks—and a footman.

“You should have brought a wrap,” Nigel said. “It gets chilly in the dining room.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else.” She sipped a gin cocktail. “How many houses do you have?” She’d known true poverty in her childhood. And she couldn’t help but point out, “Funny what passes for hard times in different parts of the world.”

“We keep it for shooting. It and the London house are the last of our houses besides Brideswell. The others are long gone. I know I really should have sold this house, but my mother loves it dearly. As does Grandmama. After my brother’s passing, I did not have the heart to get rid of this house.”

She had been flip. But she saw pain in his eyes and felt guilty. He did that to her—goaded her to say something sharp, and then he showed vulnerability, made her heart ache and made her feel terrible for teasing him.

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“No. Thank you, Zoe.”

“Don’t thank me.” She smiled wickedly. “But how about you show your gratitude after dinner?”

He ran his finger around his collar and a blush washed over his high cheekbones.

The gong rang then, summoning them into dinner. Two places were set—at the ends of a long table. Zoe sighed. They could have dinner, but not a conversation unless they shouted.

Tomorrow, she intended to change that.

So as not to offend Cook, Zoe went through course after course, watching Nigel along the length of the table. Watching him drink wine and eat was terribly erotic. A voice kept whispering in her head:
This is your wedding night.

Dessert came—a charlotte russe, large enough to feed a whole house party.

That had to be it.

No, trays of cheeses were brought out. One of the footmen stepped forward. “Coffee in the drawing room, Your Grace?”

“Very good,” Nigel said.

She was bouncing on her seat in irritation. He didn’t look perturbed at all. How could he want
coffee?
Didn’t he want to get up to bed? She didn’t get it. She thought the
groom
was supposed to be even more eager than the bride.

He had been pretty eager in her airplane—

They retired to the drawing room. There was no fire—apparently one was never lit during the summer. Her shoulders jerked involuntarily. Cold seemed to whisper through the house like ghosts. She faced Nigel, who had settled in a wing chair. “Don’t you want to go up to—?”

She had to break off as coffee came in, a huge silver urn of it, carried on a large silver salver. It was a procession: first the urn, then the cups, then cutlery, then trays of delicate cakes.

Of course, again, they weren’t alone. A footman remained, to cater to their every wish. Everyone in England talked in front of the servants. She supposed it helped force them to engage in proper, polite conversations and keep ladies from raising their voices.

“The drive was good,” Nigel remarked. “From the station.”

She was not going to make small talk on her wedding night. “Sure it was. But I think I’m ready for
bed.
”

Nigel got to his feet. “Good night,” he said.

Good night? Bugger that, to use one of Sebastian’s expressions. “I’ll see you soon,” she said jauntily.

* * *

Zoe flopped back on her bed. She yawned. Her body wanted to fall into sleep, but she was fighting to stay awake. This was her
wedding
night and Nigel
had
to come to her sometime. She’d been upstairs for an hour. Where was her husband? A discreet rap sounded on the white paneled door that connected from her room to Nigel’s bedroom. Their bedrooms were side by side, and on the opposite sides, they each had apartments consisting of a combined bathing and dressing room, and one small parlor each. All in a smaller scale than Brideswell, of course.