An American Duchess Read online

  “Yes, we are even. There are no winners or losers in a marriage, Zoe. There are no wagers. You made me understand that I am not to shoulder responsibility for you. We are a partnership. Now let’s go back to the house for dinner.”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him. “And you do know what tonight is? Our scheduled night for sex.”

  “Shh,” he warned. He actually looked around nervously.

  “You do know that making love to me is your duty?” she whispered teasingly. “So you are doing what you are obligated to do—because you are the duke.”

  She left him then, walking ahead to the vehicles as the servants gathered up the food, the shotguns and the bagged birds.

  But he caught up with her, his voice grave when he said, “It’s not a duty, Zoe. It’s my greatest pleasure.”

  Thinking of those words, she could barely stand waiting through dinner—with almost thirty people in the dining room. She waited until Nigel rapped on the connecting door to her bedroom.

  Zoe sat up as he walked in, letting the covers tumble off her naked body. “I want you to come more often, Nigel,” she said.

  “Zoe—I cannot.”

  “We’ve been together since June. Surely you don’t need to find that much control with me now. And why should you—I know the truth. You have nothing to hide from me.”

  “It’s more than that,” he said. He undid the belt of his robe. “The summer and fall will be extremely busy. There are improvements to the tenant farms and cottages that have to be finished before winter. I want work to proceed as quickly as possible.”

  “But we’re here, where you can’t worry about any of that. There’s nothing keeping you out of my bed.”

  He flushed. “Zoe, I am doing what I can. I am sorry if I’m not as passionate a man as you need.” To her shock, he began to retie his belt. “Maybe tonight I should leave—”

  “No, you don’t.” She got out of bed naked and she undid his belt and opened his robe. “I think you are just as passionate as I want.”

  She led him into bed, but as he got into it with her, he extinguished the lamp. They were plunged into darkness. The bed creaked as he settled beside her.

  He could be so scorching with her. So tender, too—sweet and romantic and utterly unlike a cold, autocratic man. But she still felt a distance between them. A wall between them.

  She wanted to tear it down.

  * * *

  After that night, Zoe went out on the rest of the shooting days. There was the challenge of gauging the shot, the excitement of finding if her aim was true. She enjoying the shoot, but each day was the same routine. Nigel refused to change their schedule for lovemaking. She knew he was tense from having a house filled with guests, so she conceded.

  She yearned for the wild passion he had shown in her airplane. But having people around seemed to make him withdraw more. Now not only did they have standing appointments for sex, but Nigel wanted the lights off.

  Their lives were routine; sex had become routine.

  When they returned to Brideswell, she was going to make changes—the first one would be that she wanted him to sleep in a room close to hers.

  But back at Brideswell, when she woke the morning after they’d returned, she felt sicker than ever.

  After a knock on the door, her tray was brought in by her maid, Callie. “It’s a lovely fall day, Your Grace, and I’ve brought your breakfast and your morning papers—” Callie broke off and stopped, clutching the tray. “What’s wrong? You look so ill—”

  Zoe tried not to breathe. But she couldn’t avoid it. One breath sucked in the heavy, intense smell of food—bacon, kidneys, eggs. It smelled of fat and salt and spices. Oh, golly. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

  Zoe got out of bed, dropped to her knees on the rug—two hundred years old, the dowager had said—and she grabbed her chamber pot and threw up in it. Once she’d drunk too many cocktails and she’d been sick. She’d hated that feeling. This was worse. There was nothing inside her to come up. And it hurt. Worse, as she sat up and leaned back against her bed, she still felt queasy.

  Callie was on her knees, fear in her huge blue eyes. “Are you all right, miss? I mean, Your Grace?”

  “I keep feeling nauseous,” she muttered.

  Callie said, “Oh.” Then “Oh! You know what that means, Your Grace. My mother told me that when you’re expecting a baby, you can be awfully sick. That’s why you don’t want any boy getting you in the family way.”

  Her stomach felt it was sloshing from side to side, and she struggled to follow Callie’s flow of speech.

  “Maybe you’re expecting, Your Grace?”

  Zoe wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she wondered if duchesses did that.

  “I can’t be. I had my monthly flow last week.”

  “Not very much, Your Grace,” Callie said pragmatically. “And it’s not unusual to have light courses at the beginning when you’re expecting.”

  Apparently, Callie knew more than she did. But then, Mother wanted her to act like a lady, and ladies didn’t talk about throwing up when you were pregnant.

  Zoe groaned and pushed her tangled hair back with both hands. “Maybe I am pregnant.” Or knocked up, as some of the boys at home—her original home—used to say.

  The dowager had been right after all. Zoe looked at the chamber pot. Had the dowager vomited into one of these every morning when she’d given birth to the previous duke? That thought almost made her giggle. “Do I have to go through nine months of this?”

  Callie looked startled. “Oh, no, Your Grace. This morning sickness usually only lasts three months. My mother had twelve of us, and eight came after I was seven years old.”

  “So you know what happens. That’s going to be helpful.”

  “His Grace will be very happy.” Callie blushed a little.

  “I guess he will be,” Zoe said. This was what everyone had been waiting for. This was supposed to be her job, giving the duke an heir.

  If it was a girl, they’d probably all be disappointed. Well, if it was a girl, she was going to bring her daughter up to be courageous and strong.

  Zoe put her hands on her tummy. Still flat. It was so impossible to believe there was a life growing inside her. She was going to be a mother. Thrilling. Frightening. Exciting.

  But at the same time, what would it be like to be pregnant? Mother had worried her whole life about feeding her and Billy when they were poor, and once they had money, what she’d wanted was for Zoe to move up the social scale and marry well.

  Zoe refused to be a controlling, dictating mother. She wanted her child to have choices. To have the whole world.

  But all the things she loved to do—dancing, flying, driving—she was determined to do them. Being pregnant, becoming a mother, wasn’t going to change her.

  “Get me dressed quickly,” she said to Callie. “I have to tell my husband.”

  * * *

  She had to go in search of her husband.

  Nigel had breakfasted early and was somewhere on the estate, but no one knew where. Zoe tried his study and the estate office, then the stables. The groom thought His Grace had ridden to Ashbury Park, one of the neighboring estates.

  Armed with directions to Ashbury Park, Zoe drove out of the gate at Brideswell and turned onto the main road, anxious to tell him the news right away. Her car swallowed up the miles to the other house quickly, and she turned in that gate, followed a curving drive. Unlike Brideswell, where a straight drive brought you closer and closer to a huge house, the lane curved around masses of bushes.

  She drew up to the house—a regimented house, with a Grecian-style pediment and columns. Not as old as Brideswell, she would guess. Nigel was walking out of the house. He turned back to a tall, slender woman who had bobbed black hair.

&nb
sp; For a moment, she thought the woman was Julia.

  No, it wasn’t. It must be Lady Mary, Nigel’s former fiancée.

  Lady Mary Denby walked up to Zoe’s husband, and he clasped her hands. Lady Mary smiled at him, laughed at something he said. Zoe saw the closeness between them—they had known each other since they were children. They stood there, on the front step, wrapped up in each other.

  They had common ground, he and Mary. Probably Mary would let him be the husband he had been raised to be.

  Or was there more? Was he still in love with Mary? Was this why Nigel was withdrawing from her?

  Her healthy American sense of competition was sparked. She wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  Zoe smacked the heel of her hand against her horn and sent out a loud blaring sound. Nigel jumped and turned. Lady Mary Denby was the one to pull her hands away, Zoe noted. What did that mean? That he didn’t feel guilty?

  He saw her, and his lips parted in a brilliant smile.

  She rolled her car to a stop by the step. Instead of opening the door, she stood, put her shoe, heel and all, on her leather seat and vaulted over the door. Like to see you do that, Lady Mary.

  Zoe leaned against her car. “I’ve got some important news, Nigel.” She probably should call him Langford in front of Lady Mary. Too bad she didn’t care. “I thought I’d come here to tell you.” She glanced toward Lady Mary. “Good afternoon. Did you invite my husband to come and talk about old times?”

  “I suggested my husband speak with Langford,” Lady Mary said, her placid, cool ladylike smile on her lips. “Running an estate is a new business to him, and I thought he might appreciate some advice.”

  “Well, I need a few minutes with my husband. Then your husband can have him back.”

  “Actually, I was leaving to ride home, Zoe,” Nigel said.

  She realized he was looking only at her. His gaze didn’t leave her and go back to Mary.

  She suddenly felt terrible for feeling jealous, for feeling...inadequate. “I’ll walk with you to the stables.” She hadn’t planned to give him her news on another woman’s turf, but maybe this would be good. Nigel wasn’t looking at Mary, but her ladyship couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Zoe could see the blatant hunger in Mary’s eyes. Apparently she regretted letting him go.

  But the next time he came to Ashbury Park, he would remember this was where he’d learned he was going to be a father.

  They walked down a gravel path together and she got to the point just as they reached the stable. “Nigel, I haven’t yet seen a doctor, but I’m pretty sure that I’m pregnant.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  Why not? Suddenly, Zoe realized he was not keeping step with her. She stopped and turned. He was rooted to the path, looking utterly stunned.

  “Is it such a surprise?” she asked teasingly. “You Englishmen do know how girls get pregnant, don’t you—”

  He clasped her waist, lifted her in the air, and she gasped as he dazzled her with the largest grin he’d ever given her.

  Then he gently but quickly set her down. “I shouldn’t have done that—”

  “I’m fine. I’m not going to break, Nigel.”

  He gathered her in his arms. He held her tightly. “I am so happy, Zoe.”

  In front of the grooms, Nigel pulled her into a kiss that could have boiled the North Sea. Zoe closed her eyes as she caressed his lips with hers. Tears fell down her cheeks—tears of joy. She was so happy. A baby! And Nigel was so happy, he didn’t care about kissing her passionately in public.

  This was the most wonderful, wonderful thing.

  * * *

  The next day, Zoe went up to the nursery to assess how it would need to be redecorated.

  It was a sunny morning—sunlight spilled in through the paned windows. In the doorway, she stopped.

  Nigel was there. Even in the house, he dressed formally—in his suit, waistcoat, tie. But he had taken off his coat and he stood in the light in his shirtsleeves. In his hands, he held a doll, of all things—one with a painted porcelain face. On a small table stood a jumble of toys.

  “Have you been searching for toys for our baby?” she asked softly.

  He turned and gently put down the doll on one of the cots. There were six of them in two columns, running along the walls. “Yes. I have not been up here for years. It brings back many memories. But you must change the room as you want, Zoe.”

  “I won’t change anything that is filled with good memories for you,” she said softly.

  “Soon our baby will be in here. We will be making new and wonderful memories of our own.” He came over to her and embraced her. “Zoe, thank you for making me so happy.”

  “It’s not all due to me,” she said. “You had a very big part in this, too.”

  “I am nervous about becoming a father. My own father was a typical duke—he cared only about his own pleasures, left us in the hands of nurses and governesses. Then, when Sebastian and I were getting old enough to be sent away to school, my father decided to toughen us up with punishments.”

  “I’m sorry. I loved my father very much. I love Mother, too, though she drives me crazy.”

  Nigel smiled at her. “You were very lucky. Your mother obviously adores you. I wish I could have had the chance to meet your father.”

  “Thaddeus would have liked you very much. He would have admired your sense of responsibility, your bravery in war, the way you care so much for family.”

  “You make me sound like a very noble man, Zoe.”

  She giggled. He was blushing. “That’s what you are.”

  “You make my heart soar every time I am with you,” he said. She kissed him. His hand touched her hip, lightly brushed her stomach.

  “There’s nothing to feel yet,” she told him. “But there will be soon.”

  “There are bassinets over there,” he said.

  She walked over to them—three, with ivory satin lining and delicate lace trim. She couldn’t picture Nigel—over six feet tall, strong, grizzled, so very handsome and ducal—in a tiny bassinet. “I will need clothes for the baby.”

  “We have a christening gown in the family,” he said. “Used by all the children, since my grandfather’s day.”

  Laughing, she kissed him again, ready to burst with joy.

  She was excited—but over the next two months, her life changed. Nigel wanted her to take care of herself. She attended balls with Nigel, though as a married woman she was expected to just sit and gossip. He didn’t want her to fly. He didn’t want her to drive. Or ride. He fussed over her. He was not at all austere, but he drove her just a bit mad. He treated her like an invalid and brought her stools to prop her feet on.

  But Zoe still wanted to live—whether her husband approved or not, she still rode, drove her car, took Julia to London—just largely in secret.

  The worst change of all? For fear of hurting the baby, Nigel wouldn’t make love to her.

  * * *

  Like every morning so far in November, Zoe woke to somber light. But there was something different today. She woke to a house filled with exotic, spicy scents.

  Callie came in with her tray, which she could now face without nausea, thank goodness.

  Callie put the tray over Zoe’s knees. “They’re cooking something downstairs, Your Grace. It’s a big production. Two kitchen maids are chopping dried fruit, and Mrs. Creedy, the cook, is making something mixing flour and preparing suet. I asked if it was something from India, like when she made curry, but Mrs. Creedy told me off. Said it was the most English thing she could imagine.”

  It was Sunday, so after breakfast, Zoe dressed for church. Zoe wore tweeds, but not as an Englishwoman would wear them. Her skirt reached just below her knees—modest for her—but it fit trimly to her curves. She wore a tight-
fitting jacket with a neckline that plunged and a man’s shirt underneath, with the neck open. She wrapped a long fringed scarf around her neck. The country gentry liked to see what the American duchess was wearing, so she liked to dress the part.

  In church, Zoe sat beside Nigel, in the Hazelton family pew at the very front. Of course, he sat looking proper and respectful, and though she let her fingers stray and gently touch his thigh, he didn’t acknowledge her touch. Which made it all the more fun to do.

  After church, she wandered through the aromatic house until she found Nigel at his desk, in his study. Ever since she had announced her pregnancy, he smiled whenever he saw her. But she knew he was restless and wakeful at night.

  A week after she’d told him the good news, she had got up to use the chamber pot. She’d heard gruff sobs from Nigel’s room. She’d tried the door. It had been locked.

  She’d heard the sounds night after night. It had to be over the War. Why couldn’t he put it behind him? There was no point asking him—he continued to refuse to speak of it. But she was always aware of it.

  She walked up to his desk. “What is Mrs. Creedy cooking that smells so wonderful?”

  Nigel looked up. “It’s Stir-Up Sunday.”

  “What is that? It sounds naughty.”

  “It isn’t. This is the day the Christmas puddings are made, on the Sunday before Advent, so they have time to mature for Christmas Day. The reverend spoke of it in his sermon this morning.”

  She hadn’t noticed the sermon since she had been touching Nigel’s leg.

  “You’ll stir it, too,” Nigel said.

  “The pudding? In the kitchen?”

  She didn’t believe him. But soon he led her downstairs, where they joined the rest of the family, including the dowager, Nigel’s mother, Julia and Isobel.

  Zoe had never been in the kitchen before. The walls were stone, the ceiling low. There was the servants’ dining room, then an arched opening that led to the kitchen. Along one wall stood an enormous metal oven and stove that gleamed like a mirror. A huge ornate buffet was opposite, filled with china dishes. The two new kitchen maids hurried around—with the money from her inheritance, they had been able to acquire more staff.