An American Duchess (19 page)

It probably wasn’t even Nigel, Zoe thought, annoyed. Probably her maid or another servant. “Oh, come in,” she called.

It was Nigel. In a robe of dark blue, belted at the waist.

Her heart pounded and her breath came fast. He could do this to her—make it almost impossible to appear jaded and sophisticated. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed.

She rolled onto her side, propped up so her body made a sensuous line. Her white satin nightgown spilled over her thigh and poured onto the bed, revealing almost all of her bare legs.

She lifted a brow at her husband. “It took you long enough.”

“My apologies.” His hands gripped the belt of his robe. But he wasn’t taking it off. “Should we get into bed?”

“Get into bed?” Zoe jumped off her bed, stalked over to him, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.

He was strong, but she must have startled him because he fell over, landing on her mattress.

“We’re not going to do something as boring as that,” she said.

She stretched out on top of him in her formfitting nightdress and wriggled suggestively over him.

It worked. His erection swelled beneath his robe. Even beneath the thick velvet she could feel it. Planting her hands on his chest, she kissed him.

He responded. His mouth opened and he kissed her hungrily. Their tongues dueled. Their lips crushed together, hot and hard. Nigel tore his belt open, then his robe.

Pajamas. He wore a set of pajamas.

Zoe slid her hands all over him to torment him for wearing pajamas when this was their wedding night. She caressed him over his chest under the fabric. Then slid her hands into his trousers.

He groaned in surprise against her mouth.

But he drew back from her kiss—he always did that. He would stop when she was raring to go. His large hand wrapped around her wrist. He stilled her hand. “Zoe, no.”

“Why not?” Nerves hit her. And doubts. She might be bold but she had no experience. And dukes—rich, autocratic men—were supposed to keep strings of mistresses before they married. Had Nigel done that? Before the War, before he was injured and scarred? He had seemed to know what he was doing in her airplane.

Gathering courage, she stared boldly in his blue eyes. “Don’t you like it?”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what? Touch you? Don’t you remember what we did in the airplane? I’m not going to lie on back and shut my eyes and do my duty. Sex is supposed to be fun. I intend to have fun. A lot of it.”

She wriggled down his body. His trousers had a drawstring waist, so it wasn’t hard to tug them down.

One quick glance up at Nigel’s face showed he looked shocked.

Did he really think she planned to be proper now they were married? That afternoon in the airplane—or when they’d kissed in her car—she’d felt connected to him. Closer to him than she’d felt to anyone.

She wanted that feeling on her wedding night.

“I’m not going to be proper,” she warned. “I bet most ladies are only proper in bed because they don’t feel any desire for their husbands.”

Pursing her lips—which she’d painted with lipstick while waiting for him, to look as alluring and pretty as she could—she bent down a planted a kiss to the most intimate part of his body.

“Zoe—” Her name came out terse, and before he could say more, she parted her lips and took him in her mouth. She knew girls did this—girls in New York talked about it. Young men had even asked for it in the backs of cars, though she would never have done it with them.

But she wanted this with Nigel. She wanted to shock him right down to his toes.

And she wanted to delight him. He was her husband. This was what marriage and intimacy was all about, wasn’t it?

He started moaning and groaning, and his head tipped back as if he were in severe agony.

She loved seeing him like that. So out of control. His feet were bare because his slippers had fallen off, and his toes were stretched out straight.

He groaned, “Zoe, you have to stop.”

No, she wasn’t going to do that. Not even at a duke’s command.

Nigel’s hips jerked right off the bed and his fist slammed against the mattress and he howled.

Zoe was stunned. She’d made him yell.

Suddenly she was lifted. Lifted by his strong arms and he kissed her.

He rolled her onto her back. He pushed at the thick counterpane and the bedcovers, trying to get them down underneath her. She helped him by shimmying them under her. Finally she was lying on soft, cool sheets—her experience in England was that the beds were
always
cool or cold.

He got over top of her, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders, his legs open over hers. She gazed up at him, aware of his size. He was so much taller, his legs incredibly long. Supporting himself on his strong arms, he bent to her. His lips brushed her collarbone.

Skimmed lower and touched the swells of her breasts.

She trembled underneath him. Yes, this was what she’d dreamed her wedding night would be.

He kissed her breasts through her nightdress, kissed his way down her abdomen. Watching her from beneath his thick, black lashes, he took hold of her satin skirt and lifted it.

Higher. Higher.

He bared her to him. She caught her breath, thrilled to be so exposed, but nervous, too. Her heart beat faster with anticipation than it had ever done.

His mouth lowered to her most intimate place.

And his kisses there made her moan, shiver, then scream with sheer pleasure. She climaxed, her eyes shut tight, her hands gripping the sheets.

Gasping in the aftermath of ecstasy, she giggled, squealed and wriggled on her bed.

This was glorious. Just what she’d dreamed of. She felt she could fly without an airplane. She felt filled with power, naughty, wicked and so very happy she wanted to sob with joy.

Stupidly, she felt a bit shy. Even after all they’d done together. She fought that—she was not going to be a wilting flower.

* * *

Zoe pulled up her nightgown and drew it over her head, tossing it off the bed. She rolled onto her tummy, wiggled her bottom, and Nigel felt all the blood drain out of his head as he covered her. God, she was beautiful. Naked. Exquisite. Luscious.

This wasn’t what Nigel had imagined his wedding night would be. His father had told him to expect a nervous bride, trapped by ignorance, frigid and afraid.

Of course, Zoe had never been like that.

He took off the top of his pajamas, kicked off his trousers.

He wanted to give Zoe pleasure. He’d sensed her unhappiness. If he gave her pleasure here, maybe she would forgive him. For his awkwardness on their trip here.

She moved with him, wild and wanton.

He fought to hold on. All the sounds she made, the words she gasped in her lovely voice, were the most erotic things he’d ever heard.

She screamed, “Nigel! Nigel, oh, goodness!”

At that instant, his control snapped and he climaxed. A bright light burst in his head, and exquisite pleasure shot through him. He almost collapsed, consumed by ecstasy and exhaustion.

He leaned over her and captured Zoe’s mouth in a series of quick, frantic kisses as they drew in deep breaths.

Zoe was his
wife.
How had he ended up such a lucky man?

Gently he moved away from her, collapsed on the bed and drew her down with him. He took ragged breaths. His heart still hammered.

Zoe sat up getting off him, and she fumbled through the evening bag she’d tossed on the bedside table. From her gold cigarette case, she took out two and held one out to him. He took it, his fingers brushing hers. Even after the wildest, most intimate sex, just that touch sent sparks through him.

With her manual strike lighter, she lit her cigarette, then his.

She sat up. Her naked, slender legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Her lipstick was mostly gone, some still smeared on her lips. Her bobbed hair was a tangle.

She looked indescribably sensual.

Nigel rolled onto his stomach to be closer to her. He brushed his knuckles along her thigh.

“You know, I was starting to worry,” she said.

His heart lodged in his throat. “Worry about what?” he asked cautiously.

“I told Lady Chawley-Sourpuss that it didn’t matter what was outdoors on a honeymoon since all the fun is indoors.”

He sucked in a lungful of smoke and coughed. “Good God, Zoe. You did not say that to Lady Chawley-Lampkin.”

She tipped back her head and blew a smoke ring. “I did. She was trying to pry into why we weren’t going to Nice or Monte Carlo.” She gave him a bold gaze. “Anyway, I was telling the truth. That’s what I expected out of a honeymoon.”

He blushed. They weren’t going because he couldn’t face crowds and couldn’t face the memories that would surge when he traveled. He didn’t know what it would do to him.

“But when we got here, you didn’t seem too anxious to come to bed.”

“I was, but it would not have been proper to rush upstairs, Zoe.” Not entirely untrue. Nigel took a draw on the cigarette. “I hope it was worth the wait.”

“It was.” A silver tray sat on the side table. Zoe stubbed the cigarette in it. “But I’d like to spend as much time in bed as we can. This is our honeymoon.”

* * *

Making love to Nigel had been sexy and naughty and erotic. Zoe lay down beside him and pressed her body tight to him. She felt dizzy and glorious.

She knew people who had to smoke all the time. They got irritable and nervy when they didn’t have a cigarette in their hands. She never wanted to be addicted to anything. For the same reason, she didn’t use cocaine or morphine. She drank, but not to excess.

But making love to Nigel? She could get addicted to that.

“Good night, Zoe.” Nigel kissed the top of her head, and then he sat up. “Breakfast will be served downstairs. Your maid will bring you your tea in the morning. I’ll see you at breakfast. Unless you prefer your breakfast in your bed now that you are married.”

The covers rustled and he slid out of bed.

She bolted up. Gaping in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘at breakfast’? Aren’t you going to sleep with me?”

“It isn’t done, Zoe.”

“Of course it is. People do it all the time.”

But her husband shrugged on his robe. At the connecting door, Nigel bowed to her. Bowed! Then he was gone.

 15 

NIGEL’S MEMORIES

“Get your head down. Goddamn it, get your bloody head down!”

The shouts wrenched her out of sleep. Confused, Zoe opened her eyes wide and sat up, groggy. Who was yelling? The cries were muted, but they sounded so desperate and awful.

“Dear God, what in hell are you doing? Get back, Cromwell! Get back before you get your head blown—” A loud yell of horror and agony pierced her right through to her heart.

Oh, Lord, it was Nigel.

Zoe jumped out of bed, let out a scream herself as the cold grabbed her and hugged her tight with its icy arms.

“Nigel!” She ran toward his door. What was wrong? He sounded as if he were dying.

She wrenched the old ornate doorknob and ran into his bedroom. It took her moments to understand the scene before her eyes.

One of his curtains was open, throwing moonlight into the room and casting silver-blue light over Nigel.

He wasn’t in the bed. Naked, he thrashed to and fro on the hardwood floor. Garbled words came out of his mouth. He shouted names and incoherent sentences. She recognized one word.
Blood.

She stood, gripping the doorknob, looking down in shock.

She must stop this. He could hurt himself. His face was a mask of tortured agony.

“They’re coming. They’re coming. Get out. Save yourself.” He didn’t shout that. It was a fervent, desperate demand.

How did you snap a man out of a nightmare? She got on her knees at his side. She must snap him out of this as quickly as she could. He could hurt himself. He was suffering terrible pain. And it was terrifying to watch him. He acted as though this were real.

She was trembling. But she grabbed his shoulders to shake him, sure it would wake him—

He let out an unearthly yell and he threw her. Now she knew his strength, for she slid back along the floor until her back stopped by hitting something hard. Pain exploded in her shoulder. She’d slammed into the front of a leather chair.

Should she get away from him?

She couldn’t leave him like this.

Zoe struggled up onto her knees. She put so much pressure on her shoulder to do it, she cried out. It was a fight, but she got to her feet. Then she gathered her strength and shouted, “Nigel, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

But this was like no bad dream she’d ever had. He seemed to be living it.

She needed to make some sort of loud sound to shock him awake. She grasped the fire poker and the shovel and struck them together.

The explosive crack of sound didn’t do what she’d hoped. Nigel threw his body, outstretched on the rug, hands trying to gouge into the floorboards.

This was what he would have done when something exploded. She saw it with cold, harsh clarity. He would throw himself into the muck to avoid the explosion, the shrapnel.

“Nigel. It’s Zoe.” She knew it was a risk, but she’d always declared she wasn’t afraid of anything.

She went to him again. Touched his face. She flinched, expecting him to strike her again. But he didn’t move. His body heaved with his deep, ragged breaths, as if he’d exhausted himself. As if he had no more strength inside him.

Even though she knew he had shell shock, she hadn’t really understood what it meant. She’d thought it was awkward shaking—which surely he could fight. She hadn’t dreamed it was this.

Was he plunged back into hell every night?

He hadn’t escaped war at all. He wasn’t being shot at, but his mind thought he was. It was as real for him at night as it had been for four horrible years.

Her hand on his face seemed to soothe him. She tried shaking him again gently. He mumbled in protest, but finally his lids flickered.

Deep blue eyes gazed up at her. Eyes filled with agony.

He rolled onto his back, and she got on top of him. She hugged him, her satin nightdress pressing to his bare skin, tangled around both their legs.

“Zoe,” he whispered. “What happened?” He sucked in a deep breath. “I was having a nightmare, wasn’t I?”

“Yes. I heard you and I came in to wake you.”

He lifted her off him, horror and disgust written on his face. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

“I know you suffer from shell shock.”

He didn’t say anything. He sat up, arms dangling off his knees.

“Where are your servants? You can’t tell me they didn’t hear you scream.”

“I have forbidden them from coming in when I am having one of the fits.”

“Nigel, what if you’d hurt yourself? They should have ignored you and come to help you.”

“Good servants do not do that.”

“Then I’ll have to take care of you.” She got to her feet. She came back carrying his robe and settled it around his shoulders. She overlapped it in front of him so it warmed him.

He touched her hand. “What are you doing?”

“You’re cold. You need whiskey—or brandy or whatever you prefer to drink.”

“Why are you doing this? I thought you would be horrified.”

“Haven’t you learned yet that it takes a lot to shock me?”

“Go back to bed, Zoe. Once I’ve woken, I cannot get back to sleep.”

She looked to his mantel clock. “But it is four o’clock. You will be exhausted if you don’t get any sleep.”

He shook his head, sending stray locks of dark hair to dust across his eyes. “Even tired, I won’t sleep. I don’t fight it anymore. But now you know why I cannot sleep with you.”

She saw his pain in admitting it.

“If you’re going to be awake, why not come back to bed with me. We could make love again. Make love until the sun comes up.” She took his hand and put it against her breast. Then she bent over so her lips touched his right ear. “I don’t usually fall into bed until dawn,” she whispered. “So I can make love until morning...if you want.”

He lifted her, picking her up easily in his arms. His lips touched her forehead and he cradled her against his chest.

“Or we could use your bed,” she suggested.

Effortlessly, he carried her to his bed and he placed her gently on it.

She got onto her knees. “Your bed is even bigger than mine.” She touched the bed curtains, tied to the ornate columns of the bed canopy. “These are lovely. I think this bed is very old—am I right?”

“Two hundred and fifty years old. Used by many Dukes of Langford.”

She giggled, and then her soft laugh caught in her throat. “Let’s use it together. Please come to bed with me.”

Crooking her finger in invitation, she fell back onto the soft mattress. Nigel followed.

He made love to her so slowly it was exquisite. After, she snuggled against him, put her arm over his chest and her leg over his. She intended to keep him with her.

“You have so many terrible memories of the War. You must have good memories. I don’t know any of those. There’s so much I don’t know about you. What’s your happiest memory?”

His lips touched the top of her head; his fingers caressed her bare shoulder. “The moment you walked into the church this morning.”

She loved being constantly caressed by him. And that was what he kept doing. Skimming his fingertips over her arms, her shoulder, her neck, collarbone. Making her skin tingle everywhere. “Is that really true?”

“Yes. The second-best memory I have is of being in your aeroplane and looking up at you as we made love.”

Her heart pattered wildly, aching with love. “I want to know about your past. What were you like as a little boy?”

“A holy terror.”

“I can’t believe that.” She didn’t want to yawn, but she couldn’t help it. Making love left her sleepy and lazy and so relaxed she felt she floated on a cloud.

“It’s true.”

She was aware of Nigel gently kissing her temple. Of cradling her even closer, lifting her onto his chest to lie on him. His arms were strong, muscular, and wrapped around her.

Struggling to subdue another yawn, Zoe opened her eyes wide. She was going to stay
awake.
Nigel needed her. “What’s the naughtiest thing you did as a boy?” she murmured, her cheek pressed to his firm, broad chest.

She never heard the answer.

* * *

Zoe woke up alone, of course. Her maid had come in and was opening the tall velvet curtains. But even as Callie tugged the heavy drapes back, revealing the window, only gray light filtered in. It wasn’t raining, but thick iron-gray clouds blotted out the sky.

This wasn’t supposed to matter because she was supposed to be waking up with Nigel and she would reach for him, and they would make love all morning. All day.

But he had put her back in her own bed while she slept. She didn’t even know where he was.

“His Grace wished to tell you he has gone walking on the moor, Miss—Your Grace.” Callie blushed. “That’s a strange title, isn’t it? What’s it supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Zoe said, ruffling her hair. “A king is a ‘highness.’ I guess ‘grace’ was supposed to be the next best thing.”

“I’ll try hard to get it right, Miss Zoe. I mean—”

“Never mind now. We’ll work on it.” She thought of the mean, snobby girls in New York having to curtsy to her and call her that. For a moment, she felt like her mother. A wicked sense of satisfaction flared in her heart.

Then it fizzled.

It seemed a silly and insignificant thing. Compared to the pain Nigel was going through.

“What does one wear to walk on a moor?” She thought of the sensible shoes worn by women at Brideswell, and the tweed skirts, the shapeless things they called jumpers, the heavy coats.

“They wanted to know if you wanted your breakfast in bed, Your Grace.” Callie said her title carefully.

She could have breakfast in bed. She supposed ladies did that to fill time. Then they went through the rigors of getting dressed. “Don’t bother. I’ll go down for my breakfast.”

Zoe dressed in trousers and boots, a shirt open at her throat and the leather jacket of her flying ensemble. Breakfast awaited her in the dining room, like at Brideswell. Places were set at one end of the long table. She ate quickly.

She was walking out the front door, pulling on her leather flying gloves—in June, for heaven’s sake, because the wind off the ocean was cold—when the butler materialized out of nowhere. “Might I inquire as to your destination, Your Grace?”

He asked politely, but he was prying into where she was going.

What did the staff think? This was England. It was normal, probably, for a husband and his brand-new bride to have separate breakfasts, and for him to go for a walk instead of going back to his wife’s bed on their honeymoon.

“I’m going to walk and catch up to my husband.” She deliberately called him that—instead of “the duke.” Mother would have called him “the duke,” but she wasn’t going to. He wasn’t His Grace to her; he was her husband. And they could stuff their shock.

A brisk wind whirled around the house and threw Zoe’s bobbed hair around her face. She heard barking and followed the sound, rounding the stone house. Nigel, wearing tweeds and tall leather boots, playfully fought a stick from the mouth of a white hound, while two brown ones barked and jumped around him. Freeing the stick from the dog’s jaws, he put his arm back, then threw the stick with power and ease. It hurtled high and the dogs streaked off after it. He threw like a New York ballplayer.

He saw her, and she saw a guilty expression come over his face. He shook it off, but it was there. “Good morning, Zoe. Did you sleep well?”

She walked to him. “I take it you didn’t get back to sleep.”

The hounds were running back to him. The white dog had the stick and was in the lead, the other two hard on his heels.

“I had a better night than I’ve had in a long time.”

“But you didn’t sleep, did you?”

The dogs arrived then, and Nigel put his attention to tossing the stick again. She watched him—the broad shoulders moving under tweed as he wrestled the stick away. The soft, controlled command he gave that made the dogs sit.

Small things took her breath away. The pure blackness of his hair brushing his white collar. The length of his eyelashes and the curl of them. He must have been absolutely beautiful as a child. He was gorgeous now with his piercing blue eyes, his sharp cheekbones, his mouth that rarely smiled, but when he did, she was so tempted to kiss him.

When he straightened and threw the stick, she asked softly, “What happened to you in the War? What haunts you in those terrible dreams?”

His shoulders stiffened. “I do not know. I never remember the dreams.”

His gaze stayed on the dogs. Which meant he was lying. “I am sorry I woke you, Zoe. That is why, when I returned to Brideswell after the War, I had a room in the south wing of the house. It’s rarely used and far enough away that I don’t disturb anyone. Here, the servants made up the room adjoining yours. I will move to another—”

“Don’t! Please, don’t. I don’t want you to feel you have to run away from me.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Can’t you forget what happened in the War? You’re safe now.”

“I know. That’s the madness of it. I got through. I survived. I was graced with life, when so many died. But it’s a tainted gift. I do not believe I’ll ever be free of the War.”

She hurried to him and touched his arm. “There has to be a way. Treatments—”

“I have learned about the treatments used. Cold baths to shock, for example. It’s torture, and half the time it leaves the man a worse wreck than when he started—no good for anything. I will not do that.”

“If you don’t, we will never share a bed. Sleeping with you, curled up against you all night. That is what I want to do. But you’re telling me I’ll never experience that, if you don’t try to find a cure for this.”

“Zoe—I’m sorry. I should have been honest with you.”

“There must be a way.”

“It’s been four years. I know there is no way.”

They were alive, they were married and they could make love whenever they wished. Zoe knew that should be enough. It wasn’t so terrible if they didn’t sleep together. But it was something she had wanted from marriage. “Nigel, have you finished your walk or are you willing to give me a tour?”

He offered his arm. “I would be delighted. I didn’t want to disturb you this morning, and I always walk early when I’m here.”