An American Duchess (9 page)

Langford pulled back. His face looked agonized. Moonlight glinted on the long scars that ran down the side of his face. “No, this has to stop.” He slid to the driver’s side, lifted her off his lap and placed her down so she was in the passenger seat.

He turned the key—the engine sputtered, then roared. “I cannot seem to resist you. But this isn’t right.”

Pressing the clutch and the gas, he turned the car and drove back out to the highway. Langford drove well, his right gloved hand on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, his left scrubbing his jaw or rubbing his temple.

When they reached Brideswell, he stopped in front of the house. “You can get out here. I will take your car back to the garage.”

“I’ll go with you.”

His gorgeous blue eyes looked so haunted. “No, you will not. You do not like me, Miss Gifford. I would advise you to stay far away from me in the future.”

“Langford, this is ridiculous. There’s no harm in a little kissing.” She was lying. When she was with him, she felt a hunger she never had before. She wanted a lot more than kissing.

She got out of the car, wrapped her coat tightly around her and walked back to the house. How could she want this man so much?

And after that, Langford did a good job of avoiding her, and she avoided him. Mother continually talked about plans for the wedding, but Zoe managed to avoid that, too. Whenever Mother brought it up, she managed to pit the dowager against Mother and distract them both.

She had never shied away from anything in her life. But right now she was avoiding her upcoming marriage to Sebastian. And avoiding Langford.

Until a few mornings later, when she came downstairs for breakfast. Over the past few days, Langford had always been finished eating when she arrived. This time he was seated at the head of the table, reading a telegram. His hand contracted fiercely, crumpling the telegram into a tight ball.

She couldn’t just pretend he wasn’t in the room. “Is it bad news?”

He jerked his head up. “Nothing,” he said abruptly.

He looked badly shaken. When he sat for breakfast, he dropped the crumpled telegram beside him, picked up his newssheet. He didn’t notice her take the telegram. She smoothed it out.

When he realized what she’d done, it was too late. She’d already read it.

Langford bolted out of his seat. “You had no right to read that, Miss Gifford.”

Now she could see the raw grief in his eyes. “I wanted to know what had made you so upset. I would be happy to drive you to London.”

“That is not necessary. I will take the train this morning.”

“I’ll at least drive you to the station.”

“I’ll have Carter drive me in the Daimler.”

“No, you won’t,” she said. “The duchess already took the car. Let me give you a lift, please.”

* * *

“All right.” Then Nigel said, hating that it sounded reluctant, “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Miss Gifford said, “that your friend is dying.”

The telegram had come from the sister of his friend Rupert Willington. After struggling for years to recover from his battle wounds, Rupert was dying, had only days left.

It would not be a good idea to be alone in a car with Miss Gifford. At this moment, he could understand what she’d meant when she’d said she wanted more. He didn’t want to think about the death of a friend. The pain was crippling. He wanted to lose himself like he had in the seat of her car.

If he were to kiss Miss Gifford, he might be able to forget the pain—

No, he had no right to do that. Not to her. Not to Rupert, who deserved to be grieved. He arranged to meet her in an hour. He had his valet pack a small valise, met with his secretary to leave instructions for Brideswell.

He met Miss Gifford outside the garage. She waited for him behind the wheel, scarf fluttering behind her. She drove down the drive to the highway at breakneck speed. He was accustomed to her driving now, and he was glad of the speed. He wanted to get to Rupert’s side as quickly as he could.

She pulled in at the station in the village. Plumes of smoke streamed over the roof of the depot, and the train to London puffed into the station as he said, “Thank you.”

“What is wrong with your friend?” she asked, direct as always.

“Nothing should be wrong with him,” he said bitterly. “He should have been healthy, happy, married, a father. But he was a tank commander on the Somme, in the first tank battle. A direct hit crippled his tank, killing all of the men inside except Rupert. He was so badly injured, surgeons had to put him back together as if they were assembling a jigsaw puzzle—” He broke off. “I am sorry—I should not have let you know about all of that.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I don’t do this with anyone but you. Talk of the War. I should not do it.”

“Your friend survived, at least. For a while,” she said softly.

“He’s been bedridden, in continual pain. He’s struggled for years to stay alive. Now his body is giving out.”

“Is he in a hospital?”

He fought not to start shaking. “He has a married sister, but the family has no money. She wanted to look after him, but she couldn’t take on such a task. To care for an invalid is backbreaking work, and he needed the care of efficient, competent nurses. After the War, I had him kept in a convalescent home and had the best physicians in London treat him. But that was four years ago, and as Brideswell’s money ran out, I couldn’t do that for him anymore. He’s now in a London charity hospital.”

“You are a very good man, Langford.”

His heart was tight with pain. “No. No, I assure you I am not.”

She didn’t ask him any more questions and he exited the car silently. He felt empty and cold as he took the train into town, then took a taxi to the hospital in London. One of the nursing sisters opened the door to him, led him through the hushed hallways to Rupert Willington’s room. The place smelled of antiseptic, but also a stale, shut-in smell.

The sister said brightly but gently, “Mr. Willington, you have an esteemed visitor. The Duke of Langford has come to see you today.”

Nigel’s heart lurched. Rupert didn’t move in the bed. His face was turned to the side and pale where it wasn’t scarred. He had lain in this bed since Nigel had him brought here from the home. Despite his condition, Rupert normally managed to smile, to talk. Today, he lay with his eyes closed.

The nurse approached, then turned to him. Nigel’s heart tightened. Was he too late? She walked into the corner and Nigel followed. Her face was placid but serious.

“He is not asleep, Your Grace, but he is failing now. His sister, Lady Eveshire, has been with him day and night, but she was so exhausted, we prepared a room in which she could rest.”

Nigel nodded. Rupert’s younger sister, Madeline, had been beside herself when Rupert returned so badly injured. He had helped the family as long as he could after Eveshire had gone bankrupt and they’d sold the estates.

Nigel took a chair and put it beside the bed. He held Rupert’s hand.

For hours, he stayed there. Once Rupert’s eyes opened. He murmured, “Nigel.”

He’d thought Rupert would slip away quietly, sleeping. It was nothing like that. Rupert began to convulse. His frail body shook.

“Nurse!” Nigel grasped Rupert’s shoulders, then remembered how frail his friend was and held him gently. Rupert was having a seizure. His eyes rolled back. Blood frothed at his mouth. “Nurse, come at once!” Nigel bellowed.

Hurried footsteps sounded and a panting woman reached his side. “I must fetch the doctors.” She raced away, looking frantic.

“Fight, Rupert. Fight to live,” he begged. Why? This was a hell of a life. But he could not bear the thought of losing Rupert. Not one more friend dead. Not one more person he cared about.

Doctors rushed in and Nigel retreated to a corner. Rupert died, but it was a vicious fight.

Nigel looked up at the door. Rupert’s sister, Madeline, stood there, white with shock. She pushed past him and looked down at Rupert. His eyes had been shut by one of the doctors, but he didn’t look at peace. She broke down and sobbed.

Nigel went to Madeline, held her in his arms. “I’m so sorry. But he was a hero.”

Her fists hammered against his chest. “I wish he hadn’t been!”

He let her hit him and cry and sob. “Maddy, shh. He had to go. We all had to.”

She collapsed against him. “I wish I could have kept him home and safe. Look at us all—we’ve lost so much. Rupert held on for me. He knew he was not going to get well. He never cried in front of me, but I know, at night, when he thought I had gone, he cried for his lost life.”

Nigel embraced Madeline and he kept thinking of what Miss Gifford said—that if you were left alive, didn’t you have an obligation to live the lives they were cheated out of?

Her husband walked in then. Eveshire caught his eyes. “I am so sorry, Langford.”

Nigel turned Madeline over to her husband’s arms. “I will give any assistance you need with arrangements,” he said, then discreetly left to see his lawyer and man of affairs in London, Charles Fortescue, to see what could be done for them.

He was in pain, grieving, and Fortescue looked as bloody morose as he did. Fortescue had just informed him of how badly his investments were doing.

“So much for my bloody plan,” Nigel muttered. In his gut, he knew he was facing his family’s ruin. “Look, Fortescue, this is why I said it was a bad idea to invest so heavily in American companies that did not have solid grounding.” There were companies who had indeed made a fortune with new developments in railroads, television, motorcars. But there were far more companies with high hopes and dreams and no real business acumen.

“British companies are not faring much better,” Fortescue pointed out.

“True. But with British ones, I got a whiff of disaster early enough to get out the capital. Damn it, man.”

Fortescue winced.

“I presume you are telling me,” Nigel went on, “that Brideswell has to go?”

“Not yet, Your Grace. And it would be possible to save the estate, if you were to sell off some of the property.”

This time Nigel winced. He’d said to Miss Gifford that war had created change, but it had been coming for a long time. He’d known Brideswell was going through financial crises in his grandfather’s time and his father’s time. He knew the old ways were struggling, but he’d thought they could survive. War had precipitated the change so fast no one could stop it.

“You mean if I turn Brideswell into nothing but a large house with a lawn, I can potentially save it. If I turn my back on the estate’s tenants. I won’t do that.”

“You may not have a choice,” Fortescue said.

“Brideswell has to survive.”

“These large estates are no longer viable, Your Grace. Money is made elsewhere now—”

“I’m a duke. This is my job, Fortescue. To protect Brideswell and its people. I might fail in that job, but I won’t give up on it.”

* * *

A telegram came for Zoe the next morning.

Zoe took it with her heart pounding. What if it was from her uncle Hiram about Mother’s forged check? Maybe he’d returned to New York early....

Thank God, it wasn’t that. But she read it in Brideswell’s foyer and reeled backward, gripping one of the Queen Anne tables.

Her brother, Billy—before he’d been killed—had been in love with a young woman named Daisy, the daughter of a steel magnate. Zoe had last seen Daisy at Billy’s memorial, where the girl had been practically inconsolable. Now Daisy was gone, too. She had taken a bunch of pills, had washed them down with bourbon, and she was now dead.

Daisy would have been twenty-three. And she had given up on living.

Numb, Zoe walked through Brideswell’s salon, the vast space overlooked by the gallery. She went blindly through the library onto the terrace. Why had Daisy done it?

Zoe started running. She ran down the gravel path that cut across the lawns. Ran until she reached the edge of the meadow where her airplane was parked, among bluebells and violets.

Zoe wiped away tears. And saw another solitary figure standing in front of her airplane.

Langford. His head was bowed. His hand gripped a strut as if to hold himself up. She hadn’t realized he’d returned. He must have taken a late-afternoon train.

If he was back, his friend must be gone.

Right now, her insides felt as if they’d been all twisted up. She should be alone—but she went toward him, running away from her emotions.

* * *

Nigel looked up as Miss Gifford walked over to him. “I am sorry. I will not be good company now,” he said. “Rupert is passed away this morning.”

She wore her flying costume—the snug-fitting trousers and leather jacket. But her face was stricken. She was in deep pain, and it wasn’t from his words.

“I’ve just lost someone, too,” she said hoarsely.

“Who?” It came out more abruptly than he’d wanted.

Her story spilled out. Of her brother, Billy, and the girl he loved named Daisy. The girl had taken her own life.

“I wish I could have done something—something to help her,” Miss Gifford whispered.

“There was nothing to do,” he said. “Some people can take the loss and the grief and bear up to its weight. Some cannot. You can.”

“I
don’t
know
if I can,” she said desperately. “I thought the end of the War would be the end of loss. I remember dancing and drinking champagne at an extravagant party in New York on the night after peace was announced. I did it so I didn’t have to think about Billy. I was so naive.”

She knew—as he did—that the end of the War was not truly the end.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Langford. I don’t want to be crushed by pain. I don’t.”

God, neither did he. He didn’t know if he kissed her first or if she kissed him. All he knew was he had her up against the side of her aeroplane and his mouth was on hers.

He pulled back, breathing hard. “I have no right to do this. You’ve lost someone you cared about. I lost a man that I couldn’t save. If I’d had enough money for a home for him... Damn, I should have done more—”

“You tried. How many men did you save in the War?”

“I don’t know. Not enough.”