An American Duchess

Julia rolled her eyes. Then she smiled—an impish smile that made his heart ache—and she waved her hand airily. “Then perhaps Miss Gifford has well-to-do American friends for you. I shall ask her—”

“I would not go near any woman who claims friendship with Miss Gifford.”

“That won’t stop me from asking her, unless you give your reasons.”

“I assure you that Miss Gifford would not attempt to marry me to any woman she calls a friend.”

The gong rang again—the final summons after the warning shot. He offered his arm. “Let us go for dinner.”

Julia sobered. “I am not looking forward to this, Nigel. Grandmama is appalled by Sebastian’s choice, and she has not been hiding her displeasure. Mama has been attempting to put it all in the best light, but you know how stubborn Grandmama can be. I think dinner is going to be a disaster.”

“It will not be,” he said darkly. But he could easily imagine the battle over dinner between the dowager and Miss Gifford. And he could readily guess how Miss Gifford would behave. Much like he had when he’d had to race through bullets to save one of his soldiers—too stubborn to duck.

Strangely, Nigel found he was actually looking forward to seeing how she handled herself.

What was he thinking? When he’d come home, he hadn’t wanted any more battles or confrontation. Brideswell had been the promise of normalcy after four years of living hell, albeit a far poorer normalcy than before the War.

Yes, he was a relic of an older age—of the way the world was before war had ravaged it. And he wanted his dinner in peace. There would be no wars tonight at his dining table.

* * *

“Zoe, you really must wear jewels tonight.” Mother sailed through the door. Encased in a formal gown that displayed her thin figure, her mother surveyed her with narrowed eyes. “That dress is all wrong. It’s too modern for the occasion.”

Zoe had dismissed the maid sent to help her dress—her maid and Mother’s were arriving later by train. The girl’s jaw had almost struck the carpet when she’d adjusted the skirt and discovered it went no lower.

“I like it,” Zoe said. “There’s no point in trying to make it look as though our family goes back to Henry VIII, Mother. We don’t.” She touched her neck. “I was thinking a string of white beads—”

“Diamonds, Zoe.” Lifting her gloved hand, rings sitting on top of the satin, Annabelle Gifford counted off the pieces that had been shipped by trunk and were now in the duke’s safe.

“Mother, it’s dinner, not a ball at Buckingham Palace. If I wear all of that I will look like a walking sandwich board for Tiffany & Co. Anyway, I want to look modern. I am modern,” Zoe added, suddenly aware of how coldly she said it.

Mother looked pained. “The duke himself is quite handsome, you know. Once you ignore his scars. He looked at you, my dear, with a great deal of interest.”

“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?