An American Duchess (20 page)

“How often do you come here?” There were so many things about him, about his life, she didn’t know. And she felt bad about having spoken bluntly about his condition. For once, she believed she shouldn’t have been honest.

“Usually once a season. I come for hunting in the autumn. In the summer, it is cool here and hot at Brideswell, so the family usually comes in August.”

“How about London—how often do you visit there?”

“We avoid town in the summer. Go for the opening of Parliament. We avoid the winters there now—too expensive to fully open the house.”

“How many houses did you once have?”

“Six. I sold off three to cover Father’s death duties. We kept Brideswell, the London house and this one.” He was leading her up a hill. “We can see the ocean from up here.”

They stood at the top, and she could see the vast horizon, the rolling waves. She thought of something else they hadn’t discussed. “When will you want to make trips to New York?”

“New York? A transatlantic journey.” He shook his head.

Her heart tightened. “That’s where my family is—my mother and my uncle, my cousins.”

“I would never stand in the way of your visiting your family, Zoe.”

“But you won’t go.”

“I’m uncomfortable with that sort of travel. People are put off by the scars.”

She realized what he was saying—that he would travel only in his small world, where he felt safe. If she wanted to go home, she would have to go alone. “I want to take the weight from your shoulders. I want to help you.”

“I will not talk about the War, Zoe. These things would horrify you. I refuse to do that to you. It’s my duty to protect you from such things.”

“Nigel, I’ve been touched by war. I lost my brother.”

“No, Zoe. I will not speak of it.”

“I’m a strong girl.”

“I know, but I don’t know if I am strong enough to tell you the mistakes I made, Zoe. I can barely live with them myself.”

* * *

That night, Zoe made love with him in her bed, kissed him passionately and slept alone.

As she settled into her bed and drew up her covers, she still knew eventually she would have her husband in her bed.

Americans possessed drive, energy, conviction, and they had a great deal of faith in themselves—that was what Father had always told her. It was what made them successful.

Nigel had told her he could not reveal the mistakes he’d made to her. She took his no as a temporary situation. But like Father when he’d taken over a company, she recognized she needed a longer, more careful campaign.

She wanted her husband to open his heart to her. She’d been honest all along with him.

The next morning, he tapped on her door, surprising her—and buoying her faith. He wore his riding clothes—breeches, a jacket, hat and tie. “Would you like to ride with me this morning?”

“Of course,” she said.

When he left her room, she pulled on trousers and a tweed hacking jacket, then followed him downstairs.

They went for the ride before breakfast. It was early morning, and the sea breezes had cleared away most of the fog that had gathered overnight. Patches still filled the valleys, and wisps of fog streamed around the horses’ legs on the tracks. As the last of the mist evaporated, Zoe galloped after Nigel across fields until they reached a ridge that overlooked the sea. The air tasted of salt. Waves rolled up on a beach of pebbles, far below them.

Nigel brought his mount close to hers. He leaned over and kissed her. They controlled their horses, while they kissed and kissed. She loved it—the heat of their mouths, his hot, impulsive passion, the brisk coolness of the whipping breeze.

She knew he wouldn’t talk to her yet, but she was determined that someday he would. Nowadays, husbands and wives were supposed to be partners. They were supposed to be together for more than just the economic advantage of sharing a household or holding to some idea about their duty to procreate. She put her gloved hand to his face and caressed him. To let him know she cared so much about him. Her fingers grazed over his scars.

He didn’t pull away from her hand.

In the afternoon, he took her tramping all over the property. Through meadows filled with daisies and buttercups, beneath the leafy canopy of the woods.

“This is my favorite spot,” he told her. He led her along a narrow path that wound through slender trees and dipped into a valley filled with wild roses. She breathed in the glorious scent. The dogs ran with them, charging away to follow scents, then returning with tongues lolling and tails wagging.

“It is beautiful.”

He turned and smiled—a dazzling flash of white teeth and dimples. “Come here.” He stood her in front of him and covered her eyes with his hands. “Let me lead you,” he said, his voice a soft, deep growl by her ear.

She obeyed, letting him gently guide her. She smelled the brine of the ocean. Nigel took his hands away. They stood on a sand beach—the sand was wet and firm—in a small cove. Waves broke in foamy white on the beach. On each side rose the gray, rugged rock face of the ridge.

“It’s beautiful.”

“The beach is submerged late in the day, when the tide comes in. It comes in fast here, because of the shape of the cove.”

He held her hand and they scrambled over rocks, walking the length of the cove. Together, they threw sticks for the dogs. When Zoe noticed the water lapping at her shoes, Nigel said, “We should go up.”

They did, and the next days followed the same pattern. She had tea outside with Nigel, on the back lawn, beneath the large branches of an oak. He read his newspapers and she read hers. They ate sandwiches and sipped tea, then walked, or rode until it was time to dress for dinner. They had moments where they laughed together—like at the moment when the housekeeper came in with ten letters. All from Zoe’s mother, and all written in the two extra days Mother had stayed on at Brideswell.

Each night, after dinner, she would join Nigel in the drawing room for sherry and brandy. At eleven o’clock regularly, they retired to bed.

In bed, Nigel was a different man. He focused on her, giving her pleasure. When she suggested daring things, he was always a little shocked, and then he agreed.

Afterward, he would kiss her, wish her good-night, and he would leave her bed. When all Zoe wanted to do was fall asleep with him in a decadent tangle of arms and legs.

She worried about Nigel. She was frustrated he wouldn’t speak more to her, but he refused. He had secrets locked inside.

She loved the quiet moments they shared. The companionship she felt even when they were reading their own newspapers. Or when he shared stories about past years at the hunting seat as they walked.

But those moments didn’t help her forget how much he was suffering or ignore the wall it created between them. If anything, it was worse to feel her heart soar as they walked hand in hand and know he wouldn’t sleep with her. That he never intended to sleep with her.

One night, when she couldn’t sleep, she walked through the house. Rain pattered against the windowpanes. She carried a candle, for there was no electricity here, of course. In a drawing room, she saw the glow of another candle’s flame. She padded into the room.

Nigel stood by the window. He leaned against the glass. He started, whirling around when her foot made a floorboard creak. “What are you doing up? Did I wake you?” An intense look of guilt burned in his eyes.

“I think the rain woke me.” She shivered. “It’s cold in here.”

“You are going to take me to bed, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

The anguish lightened on his face and he held his hand to her. As they walked through the room, Zoe bumped a hard object under a white dustcover. A small pile of records slipped to the floor.

When she lay in her bed alone later that night, after sex, the records gave her an idea. She bet that object under the dustcover was a gramophone.

And she was right.

The next afternoon, after tea on the lawn, she took her husband to the drawing room. Per her instructions, a footman had set the gramophone on a small table, with the stack of records in their paper sleeves beside it. “I found that in here.” She picked the first sleeve off the top, drew out a record and put it on, gently placing the needle.

The music and first words came out, and Nigel strode over and lifted the needle. He did it with such a fast, efficient motion he didn’t even scratch the recording. “Not that one, Zoe. Not ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning.’ Too many memories. They listened to that while I was at war.”

Her cheeks were hot, her body cold. She’d wanted to bury his memories, not provoke them. Desperate, she went through the pile. Two records slipped off, fell to the parquet floor. The word
waltz
caught her eye and she quickly put the record on.

Soft notes and gentle music filled the room. She wanted to be danced around the room. But she’d never seen Nigel dance. Not even at her engagement ball.

He came to her and he held out his hand. “I have not waltzed in a long time. I would very much like to dance with you, Zoe.”

Gently holding her hand, he drew her to him. He put his arm around her waist, pressed his hand lightly to her back. So close, she had to tip back her head to look up at him.

He whirled her into a waltz. He guided her expertly, and he moved so gracefully she felt she floated across the room. She had no idea he danced so well. She circled with him, her heart soaring just as it did when she flew. Around the room, they spun. This dance could last forever, couldn’t it?

But it couldn’t. The music died away and Nigel brought her to a stop.

She wanted to tell him he was a good dancer or say how beautiful it had been, but the moment her lips parted, he kissed her.

The whirring sound of the end of the record filled the room. But she didn’t care. She melted in Nigel’s arms, in his kiss.

When he stopped kissing her, he said huskily, “You have tried so hard to make me forget my memories. To help me. You have walked all over the countryside to accompany me. You have played with three wet dogs. You have invented the strangest cocktails I have ever tasted. All to make me forget. You—you touch me so deeply, Zoe. I love you. I love you so very much.”

“Doesn’t that mean you can trust me and talk about what happened to you?”

He hesitated. His deep blue gaze burned into her. Then he shook his head. “I can’t do it, Zoe.”

* * *

Their waltz changed everything—and Zoe didn’t know why.

That night, Zoe snuggled up to Nigel in his bed. “Are you sure you don’t want to try sleeping together?”

He kissed her and got out of bed. First he poured some brandy from the decanter kept in his room, and he downed the drink in one swallow. Then he paced. Naked, he walked back and forth in front of the fireplace. Finally he said, “Zoe, this is harder for me than I thought.”

“What is? Do you mean our marriage?”

He looked so sad. “Even when we make love, I cannot forget the memories that haunt me. For some reason, it makes me feel guiltier. And that makes my memory get sharper.”

“Then I’ll work harder to make you forget.”

“It will not work. I need time to prepare myself to see you. I need time to quell my memories and to try to control the way my body betrays me.”

“But that never happens when we make love,” she cried. “You never show any signs of having shell shock then.”

“I am struggling, though, Zoe. That is when I fight hardest to control it. I do not want to hurt you.” He paced again and he didn’t look at her. “It takes me a long time to prepare to see you. Hours of ensuring I am in control. That I’ve pushed any memory that could trigger an incident far back in my brain.”

“An incident?” What was he saying?

“What you saw during my nightmare. What I need to do when I am going to see you is prepare for you. Dukes in the past visited their duchesses on a schedule. I’d like to set aside nights and times for lovemaking.”

“Like appointments?”

“Exactly like that.” He looked at her, his mouth taut and grim.

What could she do? He couldn’t give her more. Not yet. She thought this was wrong—but it was what he needed. At least for now.

“All right, I guess,” Zoe said.

 16 

THE ANNOUNCEMENT

At the end of the fortnight, it was time to return to Brideswell. The car drove to the train station, and she and Nigel caught a late-morning train to the south. They had a first-class compartment and Zoe wished she could lift up her skirts right there and seduce him. But she had agreed to appointments for lovemaking.

She asked him his plans for Brideswell and Nigel told her about improvements to farms, and cottages in need of roofs. His excitement was sweet. He truly cared about his tenants.

She had a few changes to Brideswell she intended to make. But she wanted those to be a surprise.

“We’re coming into the station.” Nigel leaned back from the window. To her surprise, he gently kissed her. “Returning to Brideswell with you is the most special moment I’ve had.” Then he blushed. “Other than our wedding. And when we were in the aeroplane—”

He could be so sweet he made her want to cry. She kissed him back, in a long, loving union of their lips.

They disembarked and porters brought their cases. The Daimler whisked them to Brideswell, where Nigel’s mother—her mother-in-law—and Julia waited on the drive. Zoe got out and Julia came forward at once to kiss her cheek.

His mother came to him. “Did you have a lovely time? Take many walks?”

Only a mother would ask her son that when he returned from his honeymoon. “Several, once the rain ceased.” He offered his arm to his mother. “I must go inside and speak with our steward. Now that we’ve returned, there’s much work to be done. Work that can now be done.”

Zoe followed him inside with Julia. He left for his study, and she went with the other women to the drawing room, where the dowager sat, in front of a large silver tea tray.

The dowager’s lips were pursed with disapproval. She sipped her tea. “Sebastian has gone to Capri. He left shortly after your wedding.”

Nigel’s mother, Maria, sighed. “He has gone so far. I fear I won’t see him again. That I have lost another of my children—”

“He isn’t lost just because he is making his own life,” Zoe insisted.

“Living like a bohemian.” The dowager sniffed. “An artist—he wants to be an artist.”

“What else is a duke’s younger brother supposed to do? He is going to be happy. Isn’t that what matters?”

“I had thought perhaps he might settle down and wish to enter the church,” Maria said. “I wanted that for one of my children. It would not be my church, but it would have been in service to God.”

Zoe’s brows shot up. “Sebastian? Goodness, the church wouldn’t have made him happy. Sebastian loves dancing, music and parties.”

“That is true,” the dowager said thoughtfully. She looked at Zoe a long time. “But Capri?”

Zoe faced her grandmother by marriage. “I know he will be happy.”

“An American would say that is the most important thing.”

“And we would be right,” Zoe said cheekily.

* * *

The housekeeper, Mrs. Hall, led Zoe upstairs later that day. “At the duke’s instruction, we prepared apartments in the south wing. The wing has not been used for several years. It has been aired, repairs have been made, and decorating has been done per His Grace’s request. I trust you will find it satisfactory.”

Zoe sensed the housekeeper’s tension. Tall and thin, with iron-gray hair pulled back in a no-nonsense style, Mrs. Hall could have been Mrs. Folliat’s grumpy sister.

Zoe had watched Father deal with workers, so she knew to take charge. “I will review it now,” she said, “and see if anything needs to be changed.”

She was led through two corridors. The housekeeper stood respectfully by the door, her hands clasped while Zoe toured her bedchamber and the attached rooms. Her bedroom had large French doors that opened onto a balcony. This view was off the meadows and fields, stretching toward farmland dotted with sheep. She could see a bright yellow spot—her airplane.

A room filled with wardrobes and drawers was attached to hers, decorated with old paneled wood and fading wallpaper. There was a sitting room with a writing desk. She opened a door she expected would lead to Nigel’s room. Instead there was another parlor, more sparsely furnished.

Mrs. Hall came up to her from behind as she stood staring.

“His Grace did not want the connecting bedroom prepared for him,” the housekeeper intoned. “He insisted you should use it as a sitting room, Your Grace. He chose the next suitable bedroom, farther down the hall.”

For one moment the woman betrayed herself. She stared at Zoe with avid curiosity, waiting for her response. Of course the servants wondered why a newly married man would not want the convenience of being beside his wife’s bedroom.

In front of the servants, she could not talk about Nigel’s nightmares or his shell shock. To do so would be to betray him—she knew he wanted to hide it. “Perfect,” Zoe said calmly. “That is exactly what I wanted him to do. I do need heaps of space.

“Everything will be fine for now.” She closed the door. “I’ll redo that dressing area when I have the bathroom installed.”

“Bathroom?” Mrs. Hall stared now, her jaw dropping.

“Yes,” Zoe said. “Brideswell is about to get plumbing and electricity.”

And a week later, workmen were pouring into Brideswell. The house filled with the sounds of hammers and saws and men shouting to each other.

“Zoe, what is going on?” Nigel came into the morning room while she was writing correspondence.

“I’ve hired men to put in electric lights.” She smiled seductively at him. “And we will now have taps. You’re going to be able to take a real bath. We could even take one together.”

He looked so stunned, then so pained, her heart lurched. And she leaped to comfort him. “Of course, I’m only teasing, darling. When you’re ready.”

* * *

They stayed to their schedule of lovemaking—Nigel came to her room on Wednesday and Friday nights. Each time was exquisite, though the waiting between felt like forever. Until late August, when the entire family traveled north to the hunting box for a shooting party. Twenty additional guests were to arrive, including the Earl of Carleton’s family, other cousins of the Hazeltons and friends. Mother sent letters, telegrams and constantly telephoned Zoe, advising her that she had to put the Gifford family on the map. She had to carve out her place as the premier hostess in England.

When they arrived at the house in Berwick-Upon-Tweed, Zoe made a tour of the house and Julia came with her.

“I want to do something more meaningful with life than being a good hostess,” Zoe confided to Julia as they walked together through the bedrooms. Zoe was checking to ensure they were ready—she trusted her housekeeper, but knew to make clear that the final approval was hers.

“But I know this house party is important,” she added. “It will be the first time Nigel has had so many people in the house for such a long period of time. I know he’s nervous—nervous of people seeing his scars.” She knew he was afraid of having an episode of his shell shock in front of them. “I need this to go well.”

“It will,” Julia promised.

Zoe went over the house from top to bottom, ensuring every room looked perfect. She reviewed every menu with Mrs. Folliat. For two days, she spent most of her time outdoors on the drive, greeting guests as they came. Nigel stood with her. She saw his tension in the hard set of his shoulders, the stiff way he stood, the way his hand clenched and unclenched.

Her nerves were on edge.

The first dinner with the house full was a success. But the next morning, when Zoe woke up, she was terribly sick. She grabbed the chamber pot, thankful for once that she had the archaic porcelain pot in her room, and she threw up. Except for when she’d lost Billy, she’d never done that. She was so nervous it was chewing her up inside.

For those first two days she felt brittle every moment.

The afternoon of the second day, the men went out to the shoot in a vehicle called a “hunting brake,” the likes of which Zoe’d never seen before. Traditionally the women stayed at the house. Several played bridge. At tea, in the drawing room, Zoe poured, the vision of the perfect hostess.

The dowager took her cup. Zoe felt that horrible spurt of nausea. Why now? Her stomach gnawed with hunger and she picked up a biscuit and nibbled at it. She wanted to eat, but the thought of doing it was awful.

In a group of women, talk inevitably turned to children. Zoe relaxed—in this she had nothing to say.

“Girls these days are so flighty. It is the duty of every bride to ensure there is an heir. Really, some of these girls are more worried about their slender figures than they are about duty!” The speaker was Lady Chawley-Sourpuss, of course. Zoe felt the woman’s gaze drop to Zoe’s belly. “Of course, it would be
early
for signs of a child on the way.”

Zoe opened her mouth to say something sharp—the woman was determined to find fault with her. Either she was not pregnant and not doing her duty. Or she was expecting and had probably got married because she was pregnant.

But the dowager jumped in before Zoe could say anything. “When a duke marries, there is one question that consumes everyone,” the dowager said, lifting her teacup to her lips. “And that is: Is the duchess expecting yet? Of course, no one but the duchess will know—until she is ready to make an announcement.”

Every woman in the room—her mother-in-law, Julia, Lady Sourpuss and all the others—all paused. They didn’t peer at her, as that would be gauche. But everyone was holding their breath.

“I’m not,” Zoe said. “But it isn’t because we aren’t trying.”

Every woman in the room gasped in shock. Zoe felt defiant. They’d wanted her to say something scandalous—and she had.

The dowager’s brow rose. She leaned over and whispered so only Zoe could hear, “I am afraid you might be mistaken, my dear.”

“I think I would know,” Zoe said. “Just as you said.”

Zoe poured more tea. She knew she wasn’t pregnant, for she’d had light spotting from her courses yesterday. The problem was she and Nigel weren’t trying
enough.
She wanted to make love to him every day. Damn this blasted schedule.

At that moment, horns were heard outside. The women rose all at once, for the men had returned from the shoot.

Zoe made a decision—enough of this tension and empty chatter. She wasn’t going to sit with the women tomorrow. She was going to go shooting.

And tomorrow night—the second night of the week he was scheduled to come to her—she was going to convince Nigel to make love to her more often. When they were in bed, and he was kissing her and being intimate with her, she felt closer to him than at any other time. She needed that closeness—especially here, where she felt surrounded by people who didn’t like her just because they didn’t like watching an American girl take one of their dukes. She was done with the walls between them.

* * *

In the morning, they loaded into several shooting brakes, with shotguns and a picnic luncheon loaded in the backs of the vehicles. Nigel hadn’t been pleased with her decision, but recognized she was going to come no matter what he said.

They rattled up a rough, rocky track. Zoe wore trousers and her slim-fitting tweed coat. When the cars could travel no farther, they got out and tramped up a path, carrying the shotguns. The hunting group set up by a pile of boulders. Beaters went ahead, flushing out the birds—thousands were raised on the estate by the gamekeepers for shooting parties. The whir of wings filled the air, followed by shotgun blasts.

In her poor days, Zoe had learned a thing or two about hunting.

She dropped in her cartridges, flicked the shotgun closed and took aim. Two quick blasts brought down two grouse.

She became aware of murmurs among the gentlemen as they watched her shoot. Her skill surprised them. They admired it, but she felt that snobby tension developing. She shouldered her gun and found Nigel. For several moments she watched him shoot.

“You have very good aim,” she said to him when he took a break.

His eyes wore the haunted look. “I have had too much practice with shooting. I find I do not have the taste for it anymore, but grouse shooting is tradition.”

She walked up to him. Impulsively, she slipped her arms around his waist and kissed him.

“Langford,” shouted his cousin, the earl. “There are birds to be bagged. This is why women should not be on the shoot. Too distracting.”

“I’ve come to challenge him,” she called out. “To see who can shoot the most.” She threw a bold glance at Nigel.

They continued to hunt, each bagging several birds. She was going to be beaten—which she didn’t mind because she didn’t want to show up Nigel in front of his friends. But then her husband deliberately missed two shots, making their score even. That, she hadn’t expected.

Nigel opened his shotgun. His loader—a young local boy—reached for it, but Nigel shook his head. “I think I will stop now.”

Zoe did the same. The sun was dropping in the sky. “We’re even,” she said. “You could beat me with one more shot—and I do know that you missed on purpose.”

“Yes, we are even. There are no winners or losers in a marriage, Zoe. There are no wagers. You made me understand that I am not to shoulder responsibility for you. We are a partnership. Now let’s go back to the house for dinner.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “And you do know what tonight is? Our scheduled night for sex.”

“Shh,” he warned. He actually looked around nervously.

“You do know that making love to me is your duty?” she whispered teasingly. “So you are doing what you are obligated to do—because you are the duke.”

She left him then, walking ahead to the vehicles as the servants gathered up the food, the shotguns and the bagged birds.

But he caught up with her, his voice grave when he said, “It’s not a duty, Zoe. It’s my greatest pleasure.”

Thinking of those words, she could barely stand waiting through dinner—with almost thirty people in the dining room. She waited until Nigel rapped on the connecting door to her bedroom.

Zoe sat up as he walked in, letting the covers tumble off her naked body. “I want you to come more often, Nigel,” she said.