An American Duchess (4 page)

Sebastian’s easy lie speared her with guilt. Suddenly she hated all this. She had been wrong to throw their expectations at them in bold defiance. She should treat them with respect at least, even if they did not return it. That meant she had to be up front about their arrangement. “There is something all of you must know about this wedding—”

“That can wait until later, Miss Gifford,” the duke interrupted. “I, for one, would much rather talk about dancing in fountains. Tell me more.”

His lips mouthed more words to her.
Do not tell them.
For a moment, his icy demeanor dropped, and he faced her with an almost pleading expression.

That stunned her.

But she recovered as swiftly as she could. “I don’t think I should, Your Grace. I suspect discussing such a topic would be improper.”

“Then we have come to an agreement,” he said sharply. “Neither of us will plumb the depths of anyone’s soul. I, for one, would like to finish my meal in an atmosphere of peace.”

His tones could have frozen the dinner right to the table. Langford did not say one more word, and neither did anyone else. But at the end of four more courses, as the other men left for port and Zoe and her mother were directed to follow the ladies, the duke appeared at her side and he touched her wrist.

The brief contact made her stop in her tracks. The others filed out, and for a moment, she and Langford were alone, their faces close, just as they had been on the road, when their lips had almost touched.

His fingers curled around her wrist, holding her in place. Strangely, the air felt thick and heavy around them, as if lightning might fork through the shadows of the dining room.

“Please do not tell the ladies about your deal with Sebastian, Miss Gifford,” he said.

“I would rather be honest, Your Grace. I don’t regret my arrangement with Sebastian, but I do think now it is wrong to fool your family and pretend this marriage is real.”

“There is something you have to know.” When he spoke softly and low, his voice changed. No longer did it sound sharp with frost. It was smooth and rather caressing. “Our mother will never accept a divorce.”

“It’s not going to make much of a scandal, Your Grace,” she stated. “In America, it is said that over fifteen percent of marriages now end in divorce, as people choose to find happiness rather than endure in misery.”

“Our mother is a Catholic,” he said. “This goes against her faith. She is already gravely weakened by our father’s death, the War and losing William after that. The scandal would destroy her.”

This was why he’d said nothing to his family. Zoe’s stomach dropped away. “Who is William?” Her older brother’s name had been William. They always called him Billy.

“He was my youngest brother. The Spanish flu epidemic claimed him, after the War.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

The duke’s expression remained hard, as if carved of granite. But was it not because he felt no emotion, but because he was fighting to keep his feelings contained?

She was really sorry. Sorry for him, for his lost brother, his grieving mother.

His blue gaze bored into her. “You see, what you propose to do is not so harmless after all. Perhaps it is time you thought of more than yourself, Miss Gifford.”

“It might surprise you, but I am. I am sorry you lost your brother. I know what that’s like. But I know we also have to go on living. That’s what I intend to do. Grasp life and live it as much as I can, so I can do his living for him as well as mine. I think we have an obligation to do so.”

The duke glared at her. “Live how you please, but do not tell them of the arrangement tonight,” he said. Then his fingers released her wrist. He walked away from her, just as he had on the road, but this time he did not look back, and he left her all by herself in the cavernous dining room.

 4 

THE JAZZ CLUB

From the arched stone doorway of the wine cellar, Nigel watched as Sebastian jauntily drew out a bottle of Château Cheval Blanc and tossed it from hand to hand.

“What in hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded.

Sebastian spun on his heel. A smug grin spread over his face. “Courting.”

“No. You are not.”

A guffaw met that. Sebastian scooped up two crystal goblets he had left on the floor and whistled his way to the cellar steps, where Nigel barred his way with an outstretched leg.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Hell, you should be helping me, Nigel. If I can woo Miss Gifford, we won’t divorce, thus the family will be spared the scandal and notoriety. I’ve arranged to meet her in the gallery at midnight. What woman can resist an ’04 Bordeaux and a suitor who praises her beauty to the stars?”

“Miss Gifford, I expect. I saw her face when you proposed. This game ends now, Sebastian. I have devised a solution.”

“I’m supposed to drop to my knees and supplicate before you, oh great duke?”

Nigel glared. “I am adopting an American business strategy: making you a counteroffer.”

“You want to marry me? It’s illegal and you don’t come with a trust fund.”

Nigel gripped the doorway so hard he was amazed he didn’t break off stone. “I will find a bride who comes with a substantial dowry. Once Brideswell is taken care of and Julia’s dowry restored, you will receive an allowance. You can continue your dissolute London lifestyle, drinking and gaming. For Mother’s sake, I’ll keep you happy.”

God, he hated this. He had vowed not to marry. Now he had no damned choice.

Sebastian prodded him in the chest with the bottle. “But on a short leash. Even if you could snag an heiress, I would have to refuse your proposal.”

Nigel grabbed the bottle out of his brother’s hand. He felt the dull throb in the back of his skull. Sometimes the pain started this way: building slowly until it exploded. Other times it hit him like a bursting shell. “You have a duty and an obligation to this family—”

“For once, I
am
putting this family before my personal desires, Langy. I need a way out of trouble, and marriage is it.”

“What kind of trouble?” he asked slowly.

“The sort of trouble that gets a man dunked in fountains at Oxford by mobs of brawny, drunken louts. But I suppose you don’t want to talk about it. No one in this family speaks openly of anything. No one does in any family of the bloody British aristocracy. That’s what we do—adopt a stiff upper lip, pretend there is no rot in the foundations and carry on. But I can no longer do that. There are rumors, and I don’t want to be rumored into a prison sentence. If I produce a lovely, rich bride and eventually an heir, I can sweep the gossip away. You’re bloody worried about a scandal? The family will have a hell of a bigger one if I don’t wed.”

He had never understood Sebastian—not because his brother was drawn to men, but because Sebastian had been filled with a burning rage all his life. Underneath the charm, he was a powder keg that often exploded. He looked for trouble, just like their father had.

“Sebastian,” he began, but his brother jumped neatly over his leg, snatched the Château Cheval Blanc out of his hand and vaulted up the stairs.

Nigel stalked after Sebastian, down the corridor and through the green baize door that separated the servants’ part of the house from the family’s living areas.

He caught Sebastian in the gallery. Lit lamps bathed the length in a golden glow that shone on three hundred years of Hazelton ancestral portraits in heavy gilt frames. Rain slammed against the windows.

He grabbed his brother’s shoulder and hauled him around. “The answer to your problem is not a marriage where the woman has no idea what she’s getting into, Sebastian. I won’t let you woo this woman under false pretenses.” He knew his brother was bitter and in pain, but that was no excuse to hurt Miss Gifford.

Sticking a screw into the cork, Sebastian shrugged. “I need to marry her. You aren’t going to stop me, brother. Short of marrying her yourself.”

“I could marry her myself,” he said, without emotion.

His brother’s blond brows shot up. The cork came free with a pop. “She doesn’t want your blasted title, Langy, which is all you have to offer.”

Even before his brother’s insult, he’d dismissed the idea. But he hated that nickname. “This woman is too clever to be fooled. Once she knows she’s been duped, she won’t meekly remain your wife. And you can’t imagine she’ll be discreet. Every sordid detail of your life will be paraded by the muckraking press.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Sebastian poured two glasses of wine and set them on the floor. “I can fool her. My blessing and my curse is that women tend to fall in love with me. It’s the irony of my life—a smile, some sweet words, my full and devoted attention, and women swoon. Zoe will be as easily convinced as the rest of them. Though it may take some time with her, as she just lost her fiancé in an aeroplane crash—”

“What? What in the bloody hell did you just say?” Icy coldness shot through Nigel’s body.

“That’s what precipitated the whole scheme. She needed to marry, but could not face the idea of finding a husband while her heart was broken by the loss of her fiancé. I proposed a marriage of convenience. She took me up on the offer. Obviously, this wooing business will be a slow one.” Sebastian drained half his wine and refilled the glass.

“Her heart was broken,” Nigel repeated.

“I guess it was. But she’ll get over it—”

“Julia is mourning a lost fiancé.” Everything seemed strangely, eerily still. He remembered moments like this on the front. As if everything had stopped, and the only sound to be heard was the breathing of other men before they went over the top, and at the moment they did, guns would fire, shells would explode and most of those chests would stop sucking in air forever. “Have you not seen how much that loss has devastated your sister?” Nigel asked slowly.

“Yes.”

Nigel struggled to breathe. “Miss Gifford must be feeling just as much pain. You are taking advantage of a woman in mourning. No gentleman has the right to behave this way.”

“Who says I aspire to be a gentleman?”

“You are a Hazelton. You will aspire to be a gentleman if I have to beat you until you do.”

“I won’t hurt her, damn it. I’ll be circumspect in my...affairs.”

“If you marry her, you will be faithful to her.”

“Bugger off.”

The next thing Nigel knew, his gloves were split at the knuckles, his hand hurt like the blazes and Sebastian was sprawled on his arse on the floor. Had he really punched his brother?

But like a bobbing puppet perched on a spring, Sebastian jumped to his feet. Blood dribbled down from his nose.

Nigel didn’t move as Sebastian’s left fist hit his cheek, broke scarred skin and sent his head reeling back with the force of the impact. Absorbing that blow, he took another to his gut without complaint. Sweat poured off his brow, leaking like a stream of salt into his eyes. Ragged breaths tore at his chest.

He didn’t lift his fists.

He couldn’t. He had fought hand to hand, when rifles had jammed, when pistols had been spent. Once, with a twist of his arm, he had broken a man’s neck. He knew how easy it was to kill—

He didn’t dare hit his brother again.

Sebastian’s fist slammed into the right side of his face, twisting him around. Nigel spat blood. It landed just in front of a dainty, silvery-white satin shoe.

“Is this what brothers do in this civilized country? Beat each other senseless beneath portraits of their ancestors?”

“Zoe!” Panic in his green eyes, Sebastian lowered his fists. He jerked out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood, then chased after his fiancée, who had spun on her heel and was swiftly retreating across the floor.

His brother’s foot hit the precious ’04 and sent it rolling across the parquet, spilling wine.

Gushing and dark red, it made for a sickening sight. Nigel’s hand shook. As if he were controlled by strings, his arm started to tremble, then his shoulders and his back.

His brother had to marry—it was the only way to avoid scandal. But right now all he could see was red.

* * *

“Who in blazes did this?”

“Weren’t me. I don’t ’ave a sweetheart. My money’s on Lord Sebastian.”

Zoe got out of bed and pushed open the drapes to see what was happening under her bedroom window. She stared down, unable to breathe. A stocky, gray-haired gardener and a young, fair-haired one stared at the lawn. On it, hundreds of petals spelled out the message:
I adore you.

“Bleeding ’eck,” the older gardener grumbled. “’Alf the flowers in the greenhouses must have been be’eaded. The dowager will want someone’s ’ead. And it’ll be one o’ ours. Not ’is.”

Zoe let the drapes fall back and paced in her room. This was carrying the ruse too far. She would go and tell Sebastian, except he’d warned her he rarely woke before noon. She’d intended to tell him last night, until she had seen the duke and him knocking each other about.

A knock sounded at the door, and then her maid, Callie, who had arrived in the evening, hurried in carrying a silver tray on which sat a pot of tea and a plate of what appeared to be plain toast. “They gave me this tray to bring up to you. Your mama said to keep your breakfasts small.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. Mother had instructed her to maintain a dainty appetite. If Mother had her way, she would be measured every morning to ensure she was maintaining a sufficiently svelte figure. It wasn’t necessary. Eating was not an occupation that kept you busy. When you chewed, you had too much time to think.

“Do you want me to open your window, miss?” Callie went to the window, opened the drapes and stopped dead. “Ooh, miss, how romantic! He’s so very much in love with you—” Callie broke off. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s not my place to say such things.”

“It’s all right, Callie.” Zoe sat on her bed. Sebastian didn’t have to make gestures like these to fool his family...

But what if it wasn’t just to con his family?

Father had told her to look for an angle when a man was too smooth. Father had wanted to protect her of course, but his words had
hurt.
Was there any man who would overlook her trust fund and see
her?

Even with Richmond, she hadn’t been sure. She’d never told him where she’d come from. Men might claim they would love you even if you had grown up barefoot in a dirt-floor shack, but she’d never wanted to put one to the test.

Could
Sebastian be falling in love with her?

She didn’t want love anymore. She’d told Langford she wanted to live—that she had an obligation to do it, and she believed she did. She just didn’t want to risk her heart ever again.

“I must get dressed, Callie.”

In the drawing room Julia had approached her and whispered, “I can go riding in the morning, before my meeting. Please say you will. I should like to give you a tour of Brideswell.”

* * *

Nigel sat at the head of the dining table, a cup of coffee in his hand. A newssheet was propped in front of him so he could hide his bruises behind it.

Last night it had taken a long time to gain control over his body and the strange ways it betrayed him: the trembling and sweating. The raw, nonsensical panic. The nightmares.

Maybe he was weak and mad, because why else was he such a physical wreck? But he would be damned if anyone else would know about it. Nigel knew what happened to men who were diagnosed with shell shock. The hell that was inflicted on them to “cure” them.

Heels clicked on the stone tiles of the hall outside the door, a hint of exotic perfume assailed him and he had just pushed to his feet when Zoe Gifford strode into the dining room, lit by sunlight pouring in the two-story windows.

She was wearing
trousers.
Beige trousers, tall leather boots and a trim-fitting leather jacket that nipped into her waist and swelled out around her bosom.

Miss Gifford was not fashionably flat-chested.

But he should not be looking at her curves. “Good morning, Miss Gifford,” he grunted. He intended to skirt around her and escape. He assumed she had as little desire to speak to him as he did with her.

She stood in his path, hand on her hip, barring his way while his coffee cup burned against his palm.

“You will soon learn that your brother denuded half the flowers in your greenhouses, Your Grace,” she said, in her firm, husky American voice. “The gardeners had nothing to do with it. They’d better not be punished. I won’t stand for men being wrongfully abused, simply because one group of people considers them to be of a lower class.”

Could they not spend a moment together without an argument ensuing? He had not even finished his coffee. “I assure you, I do not punish either blindly or unjustly—” Then her words filtered in. “For what purpose did my brother do this?”

“Something pretty foolish,” she began. Then she peered at his face, a gesture that made him step back and twist away from her. “You have a stunning set of bruises, Your Grace.”

“And you are dressed like...like a gardener.”

“I often wear trousers when I’m tinkering with an airplane engine. Or riding.”

He had started to walk away, but he found his steps slowing. Last night, she’d been glossy and beautiful, with scarlet lips and a glimmering silver dress. “You tinker with aeroplane engines? In the grease and oil?”

“That’s what an engine requires to run smoothly.”

He frowned. “Isn’t that what mechanics are for?”

She walked with smooth, confident strides to the buffet and picked up a plate. Taking the silver lid off the eggs, she glanced at him. “I like to know how my plane is going to perform when I’m betting my life on her. Have you never fiddled with an engine?”

He wouldn’t know where to begin. That was why they had chauffeurs. In houses where they had electrical generators, a man was employed full-time to wrangle with the contraptions. Yet now Nigel hated admitting he did not tinker. “No,” he said abruptly. He had cursed any number of seized machine guns and bogged-down tanks, but he had not the skill to deal with the blasted things.