An American Duchess (3 page)

“If by interest, you mean dislike, then yes, he showed a lot of it. When the duke looks at me, it’s down his nose. He’s obnoxious and rude.”

“I am sure if you were to get to know him—”

“I would be even more likely to want to run him over with my car. Every word exchanged with that man feels like shots fired in a war.”

She would not think of that moment when their lips had almost touched. When she’d
wanted
their lips to touch. It had been a moment of insanity.

A modern girl kissed men—she had kissed a few. She’d known sizzling kisses. Her lips hadn’t even touched the duke’s, and the air had crackled like the aftermath of a lightning strike.

Yet the man was insufferable.

“Zoe, you must not antagonize the duke.” Mother’s large violet-blue eyes widened in panic. “Think of your father—it was his fondest dream that you be accepted in New York society. No one will turn up their noses if you have a title. No ballrooms will be barred to us; there will be no invitation list that does not feature our names.”

The things that drove Mother seemed so trivial. They had been through a war. The world was a place of manufacturing, of making things—airplanes, telephones, motion pictures.

That world had made Father a rich man—Zoe had grown up in Manhattan, after Father had made his money in steel. Columns and beams and rivets from his mills were used in most of the brand-new buildings that reached into the sky, and she knew a little of the ruthlessness that coup had taken.

What did it matter that Zoe, as a debutante, had been purposely excluded from most balls or that when her family hosted them, people took malicious pleasure in not showing up?

All that had mattered to her was following her heart. She’d fallen in love with Richmond DeVille, the famous and daring aviator. Richmond had taught her how to fly a plane. With him, she had touched heaven with silver wing tips. Every moment with Richmond had been filled with excitement and challenge. But they’d kept their relationship a secret, because Richmond had just got a divorce.

On the day of his departure, flashbulbs had popped everywhere, but she and Richmond had found treasured private moments. He’d slipped a diamond ring on her finger. With tears of joy and excitement in her heart, she had wished him a safe voyage. She had waved at his airplane until it had disappeared over the ocean into the early-morning sky like a silver star winking out. Then she had sat by the wireless for hours and hours, waiting for the word he’d arrived.

He hadn’t made it. Days later the wreckage of his plane was found. His body never was.

Zoe snatched up a brush and smoothed her hair. “I don’t care if they do snub us. Daddy might have come from a shack with a dirt floor, but he made something of himself. The duke hasn’t even earned his advantages. He has them because of the luck of his birth. I don’t need to wear diamonds, Mother. Everyone in the dining room knows I have a fortune. Money gives us the only things worth caring about in the world now—”

She was about to say the words
freedom
and
independence,
but in the large cheval mirror, she suddenly noticed how pale her mother was. She whirled.

Mother put her hand over her heart and took shallow breaths. “I know why you are doing this, Zoe. I know you are marrying to help me.”

Zoe rushed to her mother, suddenly feeling helpless. “It will be all right—”

Mother trembled. “Oh, Zoe, I am so afraid. Those letters I received...they got downright threatening. If your uncle were ever to find out about that check, I’d be ruined. He would never forgive me. Brother-in-law or not, he would prosecute to the full extent of the law. I might end up in jail. I meant no harm by it. I was so certain I would be able to put the money back right away—”

“He’s not going to find out. I’ll have access to my funds long before Uncle Hiram comes back. You made a mistake, Mother—” She said it softly and reassuringly, though she could not understand her mother. How could Mama have forged a check? How could she not have seen that would obviously lead to disaster? But recriminations would get her nothing but maternal hysteria, and that she couldn’t bear. “You will not go to jail,” Zoe said firmly.

“But I want you to be happy married to Lord Sebastian,” Mother said.

“Of course I’ll be happy,” Zoe lied smoothly.

“You aren’t in love with him.”

That startled her but she tried not to show it. “I will make the best of this, Mother.”

“If you don’t love him, there’s nothing to stop you marrying his brother. You could have him, Zoe, if you just try. The deal’s not done yet. You could still change your mind. And if you sew up the duke first—”

“Mother, no.”

Her mother took quick, fluttery breaths and her hand trembled over her heart. “Dear Zoe, I’ve been having such pains. I’m so worried about you. It would ease my heart to know you had married the right man.”

“Mother, you’ve been as healthy as a horse your entire life. This may have worked for Mrs. Vanderbilt, but I’ve heard Consuelo’s story, and it’s not going to work on me. You’re not dying, and I’m not going to be pressured to chase a duke because of a fictitious bad heart. I will never be a duchess.”

“What are you talking about? If the duke does not marry, you will.”

Zoe shook her head. Mother might use quivering breaths, batting eyelashes and tears to get her way, but she was as strong and formidable as the steel her father had been famous for producing. The duke knew the truth and he had probably told his family. Mother might as well know it, too. “I won’t be married to Sebastian long enough.”

* * *

Nigel escorted Julia to the south drawing room, where it was customary to gather for cocktails before the meal. They reached the open doors just as their grandmother, the dowager, exclaimed, “Good heavens, are those her knees? Is she in her shift? Where is her skirt?” Then, her voice higher pitched, “Sebastian, what are you doing on
your
knee? Are you rehearsing for a play?”

Julia looked around the doorway and gasped, “Oh, how romantic.”

Nigel saw the scene in the room and his gut twisted with anger. He agreed with his grandmother: What in hell did his brother think he was doing?

In front of his fiancée, his hair soaked from the rain, his tuxedo jacket obviously thrown on in haste, Sebastian had dropped to one knee. He held a small velvet box in the palm of his outstretched hand.

Smoothing her skirt with nervous hands, Miss Gifford sparkled like a handful of stars in the glow of the candles and lamps. A white-and-silver dress with delicate straps fell from her slim shoulders, coasted over her slender figure, ended in gauzy, floating bits of fabric that swirled just above her knees. She stared down at Sebastian with huge, surprised violet eyes.

Whatever Sebastian was doing, she was not in on it.

Sebastian took her hand and bestowed a kiss on her fingertips, his gaze focused on nothing but her. But pure shock registered in her eyes...and in the dropped jaws and gaping mouths of his mother, Grandmama, his sister Isobel and Mother’s two male guests—Quigley, a writer, and Sir Raynard, an older local squire.

“We did it over the telephone before, and I knew you deserved more, Zoe,” Sebastian said, his expression deceptively earnest. “I’m sorry I’m late. I hopped off to town this morning and picked this up. I had it made especially for you. Took me a deuced long time to come up with the right inscription, then get it engraved. But you deserve a proper proposal of marriage.”

It was satisfying to watch Miss Gifford squirm with embarrassment as Sebastian flicked open the box with a twist of one hand. In white velvet sat a heart-shaped ruby the size of a quail’s egg, surrounded by diamonds.

“Marry me, my beloved Zoe,” his brother said huskily. “Make me the happiest romantic fool in England. Now kiss me, love.”

Nigel wanted to haul his brother to his feet. There was no need for a proposal. Sebastian should have been proposing the date for the blasted divorce.

But in one swift movement, Sebastian jumped to his feet and pulled Miss Gifford into his arms. In front of horrified guests, Sebastian sealed his mouth to his fiancée’s lips.

A hot red flush of embarrassment rushed up the back of Nigel’s neck. As duke, he had to put a stop to the scandalous display—

A cane sharply struck the floor. The dowager duchess’s voice soared to fill the drawing room. “Good heavens, Sebastian, desist. How will I face my dinner with this image burned on my eyes?”

 3 

DINNER AT BRIDESWELL

What did he mean by
proposing
to her?

They had a business agreement already. What more did they need beyond an intent to sign a contract and a handshake to seal it?

A footman bowed at Zoe’s side, presenting a silver tray filled with oysters, redolent with garlic and lemon. Her appetite had evaporated but she plopped an oyster on her plate to be polite, alongside two wafer-thin slices of cucumber topped with cream cheese and caviar, also taken to make it appear she was not at all troubled, that she was thrilled Sebastian had made her a gushily romantic offer of marriage.

He had kissed her. Not just a sweet peck, suitable for viewing by his mother and grandmother. He’d swept her into a flamboyant, passionate kiss, long and intense. But she hadn’t felt anything except surprise.

Sebastian sat across from her, down the table from his brother. Zoe couldn’t read Sebastian’s heavy-lidded, cool and jaded gaze. They were a small, intimate party housed in a gigantic dining room. There was the duke; the dowager, who had found Sebastian’s romantic proposal shocking; the duchess; Sebastian; his sister Julia; his fourteen-year-old sister, Isobel; two older gentlemen friends of the duchess; herself; and Mother.

Zoe glanced down at the ostentatious ruby ring. The proposal and the kiss must have been gestures to distract his family. To make them believe this marriage was the real thing. But it wasn’t, and the Duke of Langford knew it.

He hadn’t told the rest of the family. Why not? Why not try to turn them all against her, if he was so against this marriage?

She applied a fork to the oyster, drawing out the plump treat and swallowing. Tart lemon, rich cream, the bite of garlic exploded on her tongue. Exquisite, but she was too startled to really think about the food going down her throat. Champagne was poured into her glass.

Conversation droned around her. The dowager—a tall, thin woman in a dress of the prewar style—was making an emphatic point. She knew how to make her voice cut through all others. Sebastian was talking to Mother, and Mother, who now knew the truth of the arrangement, was determined to change their minds about ending the marriage. She appeared transfixed by Sebastian’s every charming word.

Zoe had been just like that on the first night she’d met Sebastian.

She’d thought jazz music, dancing and cocktails would help her think up a solution to her problem—her need for a marriage when her heart ached for Richmond. Lord Sebastian Hazelton had spent the entire night trying to coax the sorrow out of her eyes. In the end, she had poured the whole story out to him. He’d given her his story: an estate in ruins, a way of life crumbling, and his need to marry for money—something it offended him to do.

It wasn’t supposed to be about love. She’d made that very clear. Yet that proposal had seemed so sincere. So had his kiss. What was he doing?

She bit into a cucumber-and-caviar canapé and chased it down with a sip of champagne.

Langford was staring at her over his champagne flute, with an intensity that burned brighter than the candles struggling to illuminate the room. He had not said a word to anyone yet, but in white tie and an elegant black tailcoat, with his severe black hair and arresting blue eyes, he dominated even this massive dimly lit room.

Lifting her chin with pride, Zoe raised her glass slightly in a subtle, defiant toast to him. The duke put his glass to his lips, and his mouth softened as they touched his glass. An inappropriate shiver rushed down her spine, and her tummy dipped again.

A gilt-rimmed bowl was set in front of her, and soup of a soft, spring green was ladled into it. She smelled a light watercress soup.

Lady Julia was also presented with soup, but didn’t dip in her spoon. Despite all the sumptuous food, she had not touched a bite.

Julia Hazelton was what must be meant by an English rose—ivory skin, rose-pink cheeks and huge blue eyes. A graceful, demure beauty. Julia had the sort of haunting gorgeousness that was made for austere, lovely Brideswell and the incessant rain, the ordered gardens, the rich green lawns. Sebastian’s sister had been welcoming—the only one in the house who had—but in unguarded moments she looked sad.

Zoe knew all about being sad. She beamed a bright smile at Julia. She ignored the sharp glance from the dowager, who had the air of the
Olympic
bearing down on a harbor, if that liner had been dressed in throat-high purple silk with an anchor of amethysts around the neck.

“Lady Julia, I would like very much to go riding,” Zoe said. “Would you be interested in a morning ride? If the weather lets us. I’m beginning to fear England is located beneath a permanent rain cloud.”

Julia looked startled. “Oh—oh, I should love to.”

“I am afraid that will be impossible,” declared the dowager. “You have a meeting with the Women’s Institute.”

Zoe had known loneliness in New York society and in Julia’s slightly hesitant, then ebullient tone, she sensed a girl happy with the idea of making a new friend.

She wanted a friendship with Julia. It probably wouldn’t survive the divorce. But she wanted to try, and no ocean liner of a British matriarch was going to stop her.

“I should be happy to go with you to the Women’s Institute meeting,” Zoe said to Julia. “And see how these things are done.”

She felt Langford’s glare, but ignored it.

The dowager harrumphed. “Sebastian told us some nonsense that you plan to be married in America.”

“That is correct. In New York.”

She pursed her lined lips. “You should be married here, in England. Sebastian, why did you not insist?”

Sebastian did not answer. He finished his champagne and touched his glass. At once, the young footman refilled it to the brim.

“I think it’s perfect that my darling will marry where she’s grown up,” Mother gushed, “where all her friends can be witness to the happy event. We’ll have a huge reception and the wedding will be at—”

Thump.
Even at the table, the dowager slammed her cane on the floor. “Mrs. Gifford—”

“Every June bride hopes for sunshine,” Zoe broke in cheekily. “I don’t think I could guarantee that here.”

The two footmen hurried in with another set of silver trays bearing two fish dishes. Their presence did not even slow the dowager as she snapped, “Marrying Sebastian will make you British, Miss Gifford. This will now be your home. It is preposterous to think of holding your wedding elsewhere.”

“Then I shall embrace being preposterous.”

“No granddaughter-in-law of mine shall be so poorly behaved. You will listen to me.”

“I will do as I wish.”

The dowager’s cane clattered to the floor. Utter quiet fell. Even the servants ceased to move, though the dowager needed her cane back. For a crazy moment, Zoe thought the bubbly pouring into Mother’s glass had stopped in midstream.

The youngest girl, Isobel, stared in openmouthed shock at Zoe. Mother was apparently attempting to keep pace with Sebastian’s champagne consumption. Sebastian’s mother, Maria, the duchess, was putting all her attention on her dinner and did not even look up. The duchess looked exactly like him, slender, exquisitely beautiful, with golden hair. She was frail and pale, and had said nothing more to Zoe than a stuttered greeting in the drawing room, where they’d had cocktails before Sebastian’s unexpected and dramatic proposal.

The dowager’s lips moved, but no sound came out, as if she had been robbed of her voice.

“That is a careless and selfish attitude to take, Miss Gifford.” The slow, deep drawl was the Duke of Langford. “If soldiers had taken such an attitude, our respective countries would be in smoldering ruins.”

“We are speaking of my wedding,” Zoe said brightly. “Not of war.”

He stared at her with open dislike, and the dowager said sharply, as a footman jerked into motion and retrieved her cane, “You seem determined to launch a war, yet I thought Americans liked to keep out of skirmishes until all the dangerous work was done.”

Zoe’s chin went up. “If you are speaking of the War, we arrived just in time to help win it.” She thought of her brother, Billy, and a cold anger settled around her heart. She knew about pain, loss and sacrifice, but it was as if the British thought they were the only ones who had experienced suffering, and everyone else should be condemned for having it easy.

She was not a criminal here. She had promised Sebastian a substantial amount of money as a settlement, and his family could use it. Brideswell obviously needed repair—and electricity, not to mention indoor plumbing.

As for scandal—really, divorce was not so horrifying anymore.

But the duke had pegged her as a scarlet woman, the dowager was determined to find fault with her, and Sebastian’s mother appeared to want to ignore her.

Defiantly, she went on, “The War was in the last decade. Time has marched on. You should install electric lights, Your Grace. Perhaps, twenty-two years in, it is time to embrace the twentieth century.”

The dowager sniffed. “The rooms are best suited to display by candlelight.”

“The rooms are best suited to being gloomy?” Zoe asked. Langford glared at her with brooding intensity, so she sweetly asked, “What about plumbing or central heating, Your Grace? Surely you would wish some modern convenience.”

Sebastian laughed. “Langford has no desire to be modern, my dear.”

“Then I will make him more comfortable and speak of the past.” She resented him calling her selfish. She was not doing this for herself, but for her mother. And the duke was going to benefit a great deal. “In what regiment did you serve in the War, Your Grace?”

Lady Julia’s fork clattered to the table. The dowager gasped and pursed her lips, looking distinctly like a fish. Isobel stared at her brother, a bite of food balanced on her lip.

Everyone stared at the duke, waiting for something to happen.

“We don’t— We can’t—” Lady Julia began, but she stopped abruptly. Her face was pale, her eyes wide.

The duke cleared his throat. Cold anger radiated from his gaze. “We will not discuss war at my dining table. It is not done. My family have all suffered a great deal because of the War.”

“It’s something we all have in common, isn’t it?” she argued. “I’m quite happy to field all the awkward questions you can throw at me. I’m not marrying Sebastian for his title, and I don’t give a fig for social strictures. We’ve all suffered loss, life is short and I’m in it for the fun and the happiness now. I don’t see there’s any sense at all in pretending there’s no world beyond those rain-streaked windows of yours. You cannot pretend the world is not changing around you. My goodness, even Britain now has the vote.”

“Two years before America,” Langford shot at her.

“But with so many strings attached, even an intelligent woman like your sister cannot exercise what should be her right.”

“Zoe!” Mother gasped. She looked as if she might faint into her fried filleted sole in anchovy sauce.

“I can see you paid a horrible price for war, Your Grace. I lost a brother. I can’t just not talk about it. I can’t act as if he never existed. We Americans did fight in the Great War, after all.”

“Zoe, no,” Mother breathed.

“Are you quite finished, Miss Gifford?” inquired Langford stonily. “If I visit your home, I shall expect to be required to pour the contents of my soul onto your dining table. Here, at Brideswell, I will ask you to follow
my
social strictures.”

She had opened up her heart. How could he continue to snap at her after what she’d said about her brother? “All right then, Your Grace. What do you speak of at dinner, then? So far I’ve heard you utter barely a word, while I’ve been condemned for wanting to wed in my native country, for daring to ask the name of your regiment and for suggesting intelligent women should vote.”

The doors opened, the footmen strode in wordlessly and everything stopped while plates of fish were traded for larded fillets of rabbit. More wine was poured. This time, red.

“A lady should be taught how to engage others in conversation. In the
proper
sort of conversation.” The dowager snapped the words to the room in general.

“I prefer meaningful conversation.” Tears welled beneath her words, and Zoe fought to hold them back. All she could think was how she wished she were dining at the Waldorf with Richmond, instead of here. “If I’m going to endure a whole lot of anxiety at the dinner table, I would rather it be over something worth caring about.”

“If we are going to dissect our lives at the dining table,” Langford returned, “I would begin with yours, Miss Gifford. Tell me where you were born, what life is like in America. How did you meet Sebastian? I believe it was at a speakeasy. And I believe it was after you had broken up another gentleman’s marriage.”

The dowager gasped and the duchess threw a mortified glance at Sebastian.

“That last part isn’t true, Your Grace,” Zoe said. “I’ve broken up no one’s marriage. But I did meet Sebastian at an underground club in Harlem. Sebastian and I indulged in rather too many cocktails, and we ended up dancing in a fountain. Of course, it was April, and much too cold. But bathtub gin will do that to you. And lo and behold, we decided to marry.”

They expected her to shock them. The Hazeltons all seemed so grim or restrained—it was as if they were all preserved beneath glass.

“But we did fall in love,” Sebastian added quickly. “Her charming American ways swept me off my feet.”

“Perhaps they would not have done so had you been sober,” the dowager said tartly. The lady turned to the duke in a flash of purple. “Langford, this is your fault. What were you thinking to allow Sebastian to travel alone? You should have accompanied him.”

“Accompany him?” Zoe echoed. “Sebastian is a grown man.”

“He rarely behaves like one,” the dowager snapped. “His brother knows it is his duty to keep Sebastian out of trouble.”

“Well, Langy refuses to leave Brideswell,” Sebastian threw in with a careless smile. “And I refuse to be trapped here. When Zoe and I are married, we’ll set up house in London. I know she will take good care of me and keep me out of trouble. Perhaps you can visit us. Certainly, you’ll want to come after we begin to fill our nursery.”