An American Duchess (26 page)

“This is what
I
want to feel.” Her dance partner’s hand slid down to her bottom and he gave a hard, fast squeeze. “I was feeling that I might fancy a bit of a tussle.”

She hauled his wayward hand back up. “I want to dance. I want to enjoy the music. But that’s
all
I want.”

“Nothing wrong with some horizontal dancing. A bit of the rumpy-pumpy, what?”

His hand strayed down again. She moved it back up, then tried to pull away. But his meaty hand was clamped around her wrist and she couldn’t break free.

A silver tray soared past, carried by a waiter in black tie. Zoe grabbed a bright green drink that sloshed in a martini glass. In one neat motion, she threw it in her dance partner’s face.

Shock made him recoil and shut his eyes, but the strength of his fingers didn’t change. If anything, his hand clamped harder into her skin.

“You little bitch.” Roughly, he pulled her with him and pushed her up against the wall in a shadowy corner, near an abandoned table and a limp potted palm. He shoved her so her head rebounded into the wall. Pain exploded in her skull.

He was huge. A hulk of a man and he had her pinned against the wall.

She spat at him. “I’m not a bitch. I’m a duchess.”

His hand was raised to strike her. At the word
duchess,
his hand sank down. “Well, I’m a duke,” he sneered and leaned in toward her, fleshy lips smacking.

“Goddamn you, get off!” she shouted.

The wild music was winding down at that moment and her shout pierced the room. Julia let out a cry and was rushing toward Zoe, followed by her dance partner—

Suddenly the brute was pulled off Zoe. He was shoved roughly aside and another man stepped forward. Equally tall, but his size came from muscle. He had black hair, as dark as Nigel’s, and piercing black eyes. A small mustache graced his thin upper lip and a scar forked down his right cheek. “The lady has made it clear she’s not interested,” the man growled.

The obnoxious duke staggered toward him, but suddenly halted, then shrugged. “Frigid woman. Not worth my time.” He stalked off.

Julia reached her. “Zoe, goodness, what happened?”

“Nothing bad.” The dark-haired man’s eyes sparkled at Zoe. “Safe and sound. I’ll take my leave, Your Grace. Unless I could interest you in a dance. I keep my hands to myself.”

Julia’s eyes were wide.

Zoe knew it was time to leave. There was always that moment when the night changed from fun to dangerous. Even though she liked risk, she had never been completely stupid. She knew this was the moment to leave.

But what was she running to? A hotel room with a vast empty bed. Or back to Brideswell, to another vast empty bed. She would be running to pain—the sheer agony of wanting to be with Nigel, when, ever since Christmas night, he had been even more distant from her.

She had no intention of letting any other man than Nigel in her bed. But she just couldn’t face going back to a room that was empty save for herself yet.

“I’d love to dance,” Zoe said. To Julia, she instructed, “Why don’t you dance some more?”

Julia’s partner needed no further encouragement. And Zoe’s dark-haired man whirled her onto the floor. The band started up again, this time straining to soar over the babble of voices with “Aggravatin’ Papa.” Her run-in with the disgusting, groping duke was the gossip of the night.

“So who are you?” she asked as she had to stop and catch her breath once the song finished. Plucking a feather from a table setting, she fanned herself with it. The dark-haired man took out two cigarettes and lit them both. She took one. “You came to my rescue, and I don’t even know who you are.” She took a long draw on the cigarette and blew a floating smoke ring.

She knew she had better not sound and act too flirtatious. If only she could be here with Nigel. She could flirt all she liked with him. She could dance daringly. She could be seducing him with every move she made right here in the club.

But he would never come here with her. He’d made that clear.

Her partner gently touched the middle of her back and led her to a table. He seated her, then bowed. “British Army Major Lanceton Quigley. You probably don’t know that name yet. But you will—when I’ve flown around the world.”

“You’re planning to fly around the world?” Her heart sped up.

Quigley took a seat beside her. “Aye. Two more blokes and I are going to do it in May. The last lot had to abandon their attempt last year, but we know we can prevail.”

“I take it you were an ace in the War?”

“Twenty-five confirmed,” he said. He waved his hand to summon a waiter. Zoe ordered the club’s special drink, the Bottled Sin, and Quigley ordered Scotch.

“That’s very impressive.” Zoe had hung on to Richmond’s tales of duels in the air. She found it thrilling enough to fly a plane—filled with excitement and danger—but she’d never have the courage to do it while getting shot at.

“I lost a friend when he attempted to fly across the Atlantic,” she said softly. “Richmond DeVille.”

“DeVille? I know him. American ace. Forty victories, though he claimed forty-two. Tragic loss, that was.”

“Yes.” She felt sorrow thinking about Richmond. But not that aching pang she used to feel, the one that declared she had lost the love of her life. Richmond was not that love anymore. He was a man she had once loved and he was thoroughly in her past now.

She remembered Julia admitting she felt guilty for falling in love again, when the man she’d lost had been cheated of so much.

Zoe did understand that feeling. But she now saw she could never have preserved her heart for Richmond forever. Now when she let her eyes close, it was clear California-sky blue eyes she saw. Eyes filled with mysterious memories and pain; eyes that haunted her. A handsome face that bore more scars than the British Army major and was simply stunning to look at. Once you really let yourself look at the Duke of Langford, you couldn’t stop.

A drink in a champagne flute was set in front of her—it was peacock-blue and bubbling. It was sweet and tart and decadent and she downed half of it. “How are you planning to do it? Crossing the ocean is dangerous. Pretty much suicide.” She swallowed hard. If only Richmond could have seen into the future. But then, would he have looked? Would he have wanted to know he was going to fail? She doubted that, even if he’d seen it, he would have believed it.

If she had known she was going to miscarry a child, would she have wanted to never be pregnant at all?

She pushed those thoughts away. “What’s your airplane?”

Quigley took a sip of his Scotch. “I am probably going to bore you to tears.”

“No, I’m on the edge of my seat. This is so exciting.”

“We’re planning to fly a modified Airco DH-9. Known now as the de Havilland DH-9.” His dark eyes lit up as if a fire burned inside him. “That’s the plane used by the three men who had to abandon their attempt, but we’re confident we can do it. That leg will take us from England to Calcutta. From there, we’re crossing the Pacific, so we’ll use a floatplane to get us to Vancouver, Canada. Then we’ll use another DH-9 to get us to Montreal. After that, we broach the Atlantic, back to England. We’ll cover about twenty-three thousand miles.”

His passion was addictive. More so than sweet cocktails.

She yearned to feel the same excitement. To have a reason to leap out of bed. To have a real goal. Not a dream, but something tangible and real that she could grasp in her hands.

One of the musicians struck a bell slowly, and then the band began to play the strains of “Three O’Clock in the Morning.”

“This is my favorite.” Quigley got to his feet and bowed. “Dance with me, Your Grace?”

She liked this man, the joy that radiated from him, the passionate fire that burned inside him. He had been through war, but it hadn’t broken him inside.

Nigel was broken. She saw that. She wanted to fix him—just the same way she knew a broken airplane engine could be fixed. But he wouldn’t let her.

Quigley led her in a graceful waltz. She’d danced to this song with Richmond. It had seemed beautiful then. Now it brought tears into her eyes and her throat.

If only—

No, she had to go
forward.
Go forward or she would go mad.

He whirled her around as the tempo rose in the middle of the song, and as the speakeasy spun around her, she saw a tall, black-haired man in white tie. She came to an abrupt stop.

Nigel stalked up to her. He tapped Quigley on the shoulder. “You will unhand my duchess.” Pure fury radiated from him. He stepped between her and the army major.

Zoe began to laugh. It must have been the potent liquor in the cocktail. “For heaven’s sake, Nigel. You’re rescuing me from the wrong man.”

Nigel turned abruptly and a fire glowed behind his eyes. The passion and anger in his face took her breath away.

“I don’t bloody well care,” he said. Then he pulled her onto the floor and waltzed with her. Electricity seemed to crackle around his body. His hand was firm on her lower back. “You will not dance with anyone else but me.”

“That’s all I ever wanted to do,” she threw back at him.

Before he could answer, Julia rushed up. Zoe’s sister-in-law pointed to the opposite end of the room. The band had struck up the next tune, a primitive, grinding beat. Curtains rustled and a woman with bleached blond hair fought her way through them. She moved awkwardly on high heels. And as the drummer hit his cymbals, the woman pulled her skirt apart and let it fly.

Julia’s eyes were huge with shock. “Zoe, that woman is taking off her clothing!”

* * *

“Here we are again: back at the Savoy and you’re annoyed with me.”

Nigel watched his wife as she lay on the large bed on her tummy, heels kicked up in the air. She lifted the white-and-gold telephone receiver and ordered champagne to be brought to the room.

“What in God’s name were you doing in a place like that?”

“Dancing and enjoying the music. I had no idea it was a strip club. The waiter in the restaurant downstairs didn’t mention that. Anyway—both Julia and I are females. That girl didn’t possess anything both of us haven’t seen before. She just had more of it.”

“Zoe, for God’s sake—” Nigel stopped talking. He would say something he would regret. “You could have been in danger. That place is filled with vice. There were people taking cocaine. Half the rest of them were saturated with alcohol. Stinking drunk. As for that man—”

“I told you that British Army Major Quigley was the perfect gentleman. He rescued me from a duke with groping hands. Apparently a position on the British peerage doesn’t guarantee class.” She rolled on her side, playing with her beads. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Zoe, did you really need to go dancing so much you would end up in such a hellish, dangerous place?”

She sat up. Her lighthearted expression vanished. “You pushed me away, Nigel. You told me to come here without you. Where did you think I would go? And since you shoved me away, why do you care?”

“I do not mean to push you away—”

“It is what you do every time I try to be close to you. The only times you didn’t push me away were the times when we made love. I thought that proved you had passion for me. Maybe I was wrong.” She launched up and paced, twirling her beads like bold flappers did in silent films. “Was that just about duty, too?”

“That was
not
about duty.” He couldn’t talk to her. Where could he start?

But he had been too short and abrupt with her the other day. He had to make it up to her. That was why he’d come to London at all. Knowing Zoe’d go back to the Savoy, he went to the restaurant for dinner. A very helpful waiter had informed him where to find his wife and sister.

“I danced with Major Quigley and he told me he is going to attempt to fly around the world. He and two other men are planning it for May. It was so thrilling to listen to him.”

“Wonderful,” he said sourly. “There was a failed attempt last year. I doubt it is possible.”

“But we won’t know unless someone tries it—and succeeds.”

“They won’t succeed, Zoe. I saw those flimsy aircraft in battle. It would be impossible to cross the—” Nigel broke off.

Now he understood.

Zoe’s violet eyes glowed with excitement. She had been in love with aviator Richmond DeVille. Quigley must have reminded her of all the things she had loved in the daring aviator and flying ace.

DeVille represented the glamour of the War. He was a hero.

Nigel knew he represented the hell of it—the muck of trench life, the futility of sending thousands of young men out to be cannon fodder.

Who would Zoe rather be in love with? The answer was obvious. But he was tired. He had come here because the dowager had smacked her cane into his back until he had taken the train after Zoe had left.

“Go in pursuit of her,” Grandmama had said. “You cannot allow the girl to run amok in London. There will be scandal. I’m sure everyone assumes she is already having affairs.”

“Why?” he’d demanded. “Because I’m scarred and half-mad?”

His grandmother had recoiled. But she had answered, “Because she is American and she wears short skirts and flies an aeroplane. We are British, Nigel. She is different, and to an Englishman that is akin to being in league with the devil.”

“Rubbish,” he’d snapped. “People are saying it because I am a mess.”

“You are not. But this is the modern world, Nigel. She may go to London and not come back.”

That had stunned him. When he thought of losing her—

Hell, he’d known at that moment he couldn’t bear life without her. He had run for the damned train and had come to London as fast as he could.

He had to be contrite. “Can we stop allowing the War to come between us? It changed me and I am sorry about that, Zoe. But I—I love you.”

The champagne arrived at that very moment.

* * *

Zoe let her cigarette burn down to her fingers as she stared at her husband’s back while he opened the hotel-room door to the waiter carrying the bucket of champagne. Nigel had stripped off his coat. He wore his white waistcoat, his white tie, and his white shirt stretched over broad shoulders.