An American Duchess Read online

  She pursed her lips. “America has some bad roads, I’ll admit, but your roads are horrible. There are sheep everywhere. I had to pull off to avoid a flock as I came around a corner, and then we ended up stuck.”

  “Then perhaps next time you will know to slow down.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Your Grace. And while we’re discussing how things are done over here, doesn’t a gentleman tip his hat?”

  The farmer let out a muttered sound of shock, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter to her where the duke believed he was positioned socially—she put no stock in that kind of thing. If he chose to be cold and austere, then she would choose to point out where his behavior was at fault.

  “My apologies, madam. I am no longer in the habit of doing so—the War left me with scars and my face is not pleasant to look at.”

  The farmer let out a sharp whistle and both she and the duke jerked to stare at him. The man tipped his cap, then lumbered away across his field. Again he whistled and a small black dog raced to his side, scampering around him as he walked.

  Suddenly she and the duke were alone, surrounded by a patchwork of small, sloping fields and a wind that threw misty rain on them. “I think I will survive,” she said gently. “I don’t faint.”

  With an elegant sweep of his long leg, the duke dismounted. Holding the reins in one large hand, he lifted his hat and gave her a bow that spoke of a lifetime of dipping his torso in this old-world greeting. She had to admit: experience and schooling could make a man’s bow positively dreamy.

  It was her invitation to respond with a curtsy, but Zoe found she just couldn’t do it, despite the training she’d received before leaving New York. The duke’s bow was not really intended to show any respect. It was a perfunctory thing, offered only after she’d insisted on some basic courtesy.

  She watched as he straightened, curious now. She’d seen the ravages of war on young American men. Boys who’d come back with missing limbs, or some who were what they called shell-shocked; who shook all the time and jumped at loud noises.

  The duke was not all that bad. Scars marred the left side of his face. But it wasn’t enough to horrify her.

  He had Sebastian’s features, but on Langford, every plane and line was harsher, more angular, as if his face had been sculpted with hard slashes—abrupt cheekbones, a blade of a nose, straight, dark brows and a strong chin with a deep cleft in its center. His eyes were a brilliant blue and his lashes were thick and black.

  He obviously expected her to look away or gasp with shock.

  Sympathy rose. Perhaps it wasn’t disgust with his brother’s inappropriate American fiancée that had led the duke to keep his distance. He put his hat on quickly, and for one second, he’d looked awkward and unhappy instead of condescending and annoyed, and she knew revealing his injuries had made him vulnerable.

  “I lost a brother to the War,” she said simply. “It was a horrible thing.”

  He said nothing for a moment. It was amazing he could look at her so directly without feeling any need to respond, as one would in conversation. Though, she had to admit—what could he say? She changed the subject. “What do we do now, Your Grace? Is it far to walk to Brideswell?”

  “I will escort you back to your automobile,” he said stiffly. “You may wait there with your mother, and I will send the Daimler for your persons and your belongings.”

  His expression was that of a man who had bit into a lemon.

  Her heart sank. She was going to be trapped in a house with this man for a month. Perhaps the house was enormous and she wouldn’t encounter him very often. Hopefully, he had a dining table the size of one of the Olympic’s decks and he sat at the opposite end of it.

  They walked in silence along the uneven, muddy road, stepping around piles of manure left by the sheep. Then Langford stopped, and she halted, too. The duke cleared his throat and glared down at her. He intended to say something but, just as with the farmer, it seemed to take forever for an Englishman to speak.

  “Is there something you wished to discuss, Your Grace?”

  “Sebastian tells me you are marrying so you can have access to your trust fund.” His words came in a rush, as if they’d burst out on a geyser of emotion he could no longer contain. “That you plan to divorce immediately after you have achieved that goal.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good God, Miss Gifford, have you no breeding? Only the most appalling women get divorced. As for planning to end a marriage before you have even wed...this I will not allow.”

  Zoe squared her shoulders, ready to do battle just as her father would have done when dealing with a cutthroat business opponent. What had Sebastian been thinking? They’d agreed not to explain their plan to either family, knowing it would just cause trouble.

  “I have better breeding than you are displaying, Your Grace,” she answered coolly. “Sebastian is a chivalrous gentleman. He’s saving me from a disaster, and he’s happy with the terms of our agreement. I have the contract drawn up, ready for his signature, and I don’t believe your consent is required at all. I assure you I’ll become Sebastian’s wife, just as we’ve planned. The settlement I am giving him is money he said your family desperately needs. We’re making a modern version of a transatlantic marriage—I need a marriage, he needs money, and we don’t need to make matrimony last.”

  “You have no idea what you are doing, Miss Gifford,” he snapped.

  If the Duke of Langford thought his scowls could make her retreat, he was wrong. “Sebastian intends to use the money to help your family. My trustees, who are solid financial men, are going to work with him to invest it. I think your brother is being very noble.”

  “I refuse to allow you to drag my family into scandal—”

  “A little scandal is a small price for financial rescue, is it not?”

  His eyes narrowed. His eyes were vividly blue—like the sky over the beaches of California. The Duke of Langford had the same smoldering gaze as Valentino, who had once crept into her girlish fantasies about passionate lovemaking. From the right side, with his dark hair, slashes of black brows and glittering eyes, the duke looked so much like the seductive movie star, she almost forgot to breathe. “A decent young woman avoids ignominy. She does not embrace it,” he growled.

  That shattered the mesmerizing spell of his sapphire eyes. “You’re a relic from medieval times. Sebastian and I both need a marriage of convenience. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

  “No bold, calculating American heiress is going to disrupt my family.”

  “Your Grace, my arrangement will help your family. But it’ll be a pleasure to disrupt you.”

  He glowered. “You are exactly what I expected of an American woman. Americans set my teeth on edge with their explosive, vulgar emotion. You gush, you flaunt and you have no idea of proper restraint. Your behavior in this is both vulgar and repugnant, madam.”

  She yearned to slap him. But with his scars, she could not bring herself to smack her palm against his face. Apparently, she’d been misled on another aspect of the British. They were more blunt and straightforward than she’d expected.

  Taking a step closer to him—her eyes were on level with his lips—Zoe lifted her chin with pride. “You set my teeth on edge. You are the most irritating and prejudiced man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. I’m visiting my fiancé’s home. It’s unfortunate you happen to be in it. And I suppose you don’t intend to send a car for my mother and me now.”

  He bent toward her. A warm, exotic aroma clung to the duke—sandalwood, she believed it was, and he smelled of leather. For a moment, they traded breaths, his scented with tooth powder and smoke.

  “I will, Miss Gifford. What sort of host leaves guests stranded in the countryside?”

  She almost laughed. “Good.” She flung back her arms
and stretched, as if thoroughly bored with the whole conversation. “I am looking forward to a long, luscious, hot soak.”

  “A what?” the duke asked sharply. His boot twisted in a rut on the road and he fell forward an inch, his mouth almost bumping against hers. Up close his lips were full and sensual, and she was suddenly, breathlessly waiting for their mouths to collide. But before it happened, he jerked back and she did, too, and in a heartbeat they were two awkward steps apart, each standing at the edge of the cart track that was called a road.

  Her stomach felt as it did when her airplane hit wind shear and suddenly dropped.

  She had to be out of her mind. She hadn’t let a man kiss her since Richmond had, just before he took off on his flight over the Atlantic. She hadn’t even done it with Sebastian. She was hardly going to let it happen with an obnoxious, insulting duke.

  Zoe jutted out her hip. “What I meant was a bath. You know: turn on the tap and fill a nice big tub with a lot of hot water and then soak in it. You do have baths over here, don’t you?”

  Abruptly she was looking at the duke’s back. Without a word, he had swung away from her. Then he stopped and motioned for her to follow. “We do, indeed, have baths, madam. What we do not have are taps.”

  2

  DRESSING FOR DINNER

  The first dinner gong sounded.

  Nigel Hazelton, the seventh Duke of Langford, stood in front of the mirror of his dressing room as his valet adjusted his collar and white bow tie, then gave one final tug to the shoulders of his coat.

  “Very good, Your Grace,” Higgins said.

  Even dressing for dinner had become a battle—a clash between the old ways and modernity. He wore full dress for dinner, which meant a tailcoat, white waistcoat and white tie. Sebastian usually appeared for dinner in the style of the Prince of Wales: a tuxedo jacket, once considered too vulgar for female sensibilities, and a black tie...and he slouched around with his hands stuck in his pockets.

  Sebastian would look effortlessly elegant and laugh at his brother for being overdressed.

  “A relic of an antique age,” Nigel muttered.

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” Higgins assured him. “Such classic attire is always correct.”

  Since Higgins had been his father’s valet, and now approached eighty, Nigel merely said, “That will be all, Higgins.”

  With a bow and another respectfully murmured “Very good,” Higgins disappeared through a connecting door like a shadow into darkness. Nigel ran his hand over his now-smooth jaw, having been shaved within an inch of his life in preparation for dinner.

  He believed in formality. He believed in the old ways, the old standards, in showing respect to one’s class and position.

  But facing the mirror, he had no doubt Miss Gifford thought like Sebastian, considering the fashionable hat crammed on her short, sleek blond hair, the bright red mouth that smirked at him, the astoundingly short skirt she wore. When she’d swung her leg over the wall, the skimpy skirt had flown up, showing the entire length of her shapely legs, right up to the garters securing her stockings at her suntanned thighs.

  He’d done the gentlemanly thing and looked away—at everything but those stunning legs. As a result, he’d jerked on Beelzebub’s reins and almost unseated himself.

  He had almost embarrassed himself again when she’d stretched like a seductive houri and he’d stumbled and almost fallen against her vibrant, scarlet-painted mouth.

  It had been a misstep, not an attempt at a kiss. With his scars, he wouldn’t think to kiss any woman.

  “I should have known I would find you skulking in here,” chided a soft female voice, “when you should be in the drawing room.”

  No American accent flattened the words and drew out the vowels, and he smelled the subdued scent of ladylike lavender. Not Miss Gifford. Nigel knew it was Julia, even before he saw his sister’s reflection in the mirror.

  “I am not skulking, I am dressing.” He turned, and his eyes almost popped out of his head.

  Julia had his silver cigarette case open in her hand. She took out a Turkish cigarette and put it between her lips.

  “What are you doing?” He stalked toward her.

  His sister picked up his lighter. “Attempting to smoke. Miss Gifford does it. She claims that smoking calms nerves. She also claims it keeps a woman thi—”

  He relieved Julia of her unlit cigarette, plucking it from her lips. “Smoking is a man’s habit. A lit gasper has no place near a delicate lady’s mouth.”

  “Really, Nigel?” Julia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “So? What do you think of her?”

  Julia was never so direct or blunt. Nor had she ever considered raiding his cigarette case before. Good God, were American ways contagious?

  At least their manner of dress was not. His sister wore a demure gown of dark blue silk and it reached the middle of her calves. Her hair was long and rolled into a chignon. She was very like their mother, though her hair was jet-black, not gold, but she was just as beautiful with her oval face, her curling dark lashes and her wide pale pink mouth that she never touched with paint.

  “Since you have seen her, I don’t think I need to say more.”

  “Nigel, you can be hopelessly stuffy.” Julia sighed and walked to the windows of his dressing room, pulling back the faded velvet curtains.

  He followed. The rain had blown in hard. It ran down the windowpanes, turning the world beyond into a blurry palette of subdued color. Sheets of it sliced through the dark skies and slammed into the stone terrace and the green lawns.

  “I showed her and her mother to their rooms,” Julia said, arching a brow, “since you appeared to have abandoned them.”

  “I instructed Mrs. Hall to take her and her mother to their apartments. It is customary for the housekeeper to do so.” He frowned. “Sebastian is nowhere to be found, of course. I have no idea what to say to either of them. The mother was chattering on about the paintings and fixtures as they went upstairs—it sounded as if she were cataloging the contents of the house to auction them off. Miss Gifford finds me both prejudiced and irritating. However, she is determined to say things that both irritate me and prove my prejudice well-founded. The woman is Sebastian’s fiancée. He should be here to keep her entertained.”

  He felt Julia’s stare and he turned to her.

  His sister regarded him with an amused expression. “I thought you’d only spent a short time in her company, Nigel. It sounds as if you had a lot to discuss.”

  “American women are not backward in coming forward.” He raked his hand through his hair. He couldn’t tell Julia the whole truth about this damnable, scandalous business. “She told me she proposed to him.”

  “Nigel, women in America—”

  “Are not ladylike.”

  Julia laughed. And that was a rare treat these days. She was usually quiet, somber, troubled. He wished she would fall in love again. Yet he could not do his duty as head of the family and ensure she was presented to eligible men. Her dowry was quickly evaporating, along with the rest of the money.

  “I thought she looked very ladylike,” Julia argued. “Even you can’t deny that she is very lovely.”

  “Her skirts are too short. She paints her face. Her hair is cut like a boy’s.”

  “It is the fashion now, brother dear. It is called the Eton crop.”

  “That’s because schoolboys have their hair cut that way. It’s hardly feminine.”

  “I do love you, Nigel,” Julia said. “Miss Gifford has what the Americans call ‘it.’ You know—sex appeal.”

  He did know what was meant by “it.” But the word sex on the lips of his sister brought a strangled cough from his chest. Nigel sputtered, unable to catch his breath. He had to stalk to the chest of drawers, where he’d set a glass of brandy, and down a mo
uthful before he could stop choking. Suddenly, he saw what Miss Gifford was already bringing into his household.

  The bloody modern world.

  He didn’t want it here.

  He’d come back from war to find that, while he spent four years in mucky trenches, the world had changed—it was as if he’d stood still while the planet had revolved around him at top speed. There had been too much change, enough to upheave the world. At his home, at Brideswell, he’d planned to ensure change never breached the ancient walls.

  Instead it had slithered in wearing an abbreviated skirt and scarlet lips and carried with it an absolute fortune.

  “Julia, you cannot speak like that. You are an—” Another sharp cough. He had been about to say “unmarried woman.” What in God’s name was he thinking, to remind her of how much she’d lost?

  “So you still disapprove of the marriage?” Before he could answer, she added quickly, “The thing is, Nigel, I think I disapprove. I think this is wrong. You know what...what Mother was like. How terribly unhappy she was with Father.”

  Here, Julia wasn’t being blunt. She was being careful with her words, but he knew how miserable their mother had been because of their father’s infidelities.

  “I like Miss Gifford,” Julia rushed on, almost defiantly. “I think I will like her even more as I grow to know her better. I don’t want to see her unhappy.”

  He had wanted to dislike Miss Gifford, and the woman had given him every reason to do so. She intended to disgrace his family because it was convenient to her.

  But he also could not forget how she had looked him in the face without a gasp or flinch after he’d doffed his hat. Or the composed way she had told him she had lost a brother to combat.

  There had been no gushing, no display of emotion at all. Just a cool acknowledgment she had experienced the destruction and loss that came with war, and in her direct American gaze, he’d felt she understood something of what he’d been through.

  It was a moment in which he’d respected Miss Zoe Gifford. A very brief moment.