An American Duchess Read online

  Once he reached New York, a cab dropped him off at the front gate of Zoe’s family home on Fifth Avenue.

  He did something Zoe would do—he let out a whistle. His eyes bulged at the sight.

  An ornate French château had been re-created, with turrets that soared to the sky. The house took up half the city block and was surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence, with a gate inset with a gold coat of arms.

  An archly correct butler opened the door. “Good afternoon, sir. Is the mistress expecting you?”

  “I am the Duke of Langford. The mistress of the house is my mother-in-law. At this point, I cannot speculate if she is anticipating my arrival.”

  “Your G-Grace.” The butler bowed deeply. “Good afternoon. Please follow me.”

  Nigel was led to an enormous drawing room. Mirrors with heavy gilt frames ran the length of one side of the room, reflecting the arched windows on the other, along with gilt trim and the two enormous chandeliers.

  He heard the clatter of heels on the floor and smelled gardenias by the bushel. Mrs. Gifford swept into the room like Marie Antoinette entering the Hall of Mirrors.

  He bowed and she curtsied, rang a bell, then waved him to a large Queen Anne chair.

  She took her seat. “Your Grace. I had no idea you were coming to America.” She licked her lips, an anticipatory gleam in her eye.

  “Zoe didn’t tell you? I sent a telegram informing her I was coming.”

  “You did? Oh, dear.” Now she looked at him with terror in her large eyes. She wore a dress of silk that swirled around her thin legs and a headdress with diamonds and three white feathers. It startled him, considering it was the afternoon.

  He found he couldn’t stop looking around the room. Light was reflected everywhere and kept dazzling him.

  “I see you are admiring this drawing room. It’s one of a half dozen in the house. It is far nicer than Alva’s. Her house is so dark and gloomy and oppressive. I thought I should like a drawing room that looked just like the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles.”

  He shuddered. She’d achieved that. But then he realized she’d mentioned a name. “Alva?”

  “Alva Vanderbilt. The one who married her Consuelo to a duke.” She gave a smug smile. “Well, I did just as well.”

  “That marriage ended in divorce, I believe.”

  The smile vanished. “It did. I do not intend the same thing to happen to Zoe. The girl is being an absolute fool. I was pleased to see that you told her you wouldn’t accept a divorce.”

  “No, I will not.”

  “Zoe is determined to have one, though. She can be stubborn.”

  “Then I shall have to reclaim her affections.”

  The teacup almost dropped from her fingers. Tea sloshed to the rug. “That is why you are here? To win my daughter back?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Zoe knew you were coming? That girl! She’s gone to California.”

  His heart stuttered. Why had she left? To avoid him?

  “She said if anyone wanted to see her, that person was welcome to go to Hollywood and see her there. Looking back on it, I guess she meant you, Your Grace.” Mrs. Gifford looked worried. “That girl is playing silly games.”

  “No, she is not,” he said softly. “I hurt her.” But it was hopeful, wasn’t it, that she wanted him to come after her? “Mrs. Gifford, I want to repair my marriage. I made a great many mistakes, but mainly it is tragedy that came between Zoe and me. Zoe escapes tragedy with adventure and excitement. I can’t do that. Losing the babies hurt me a great deal. I understand it also hurt her. But our pain built an impenetrable wall between us. I need to breach that wall, but I don’t know how. I have to make amends to Zoe. What do I need to do to make her believe I can change?”

  “You shouldn’t have to do anything at all!” she declared. “Zoe needs to see sense. I have lectured the girl six times to Sunday that she had no right to leave you. She should have listened to you and done her duty.”

  “Mrs. Gifford, while I would love to agree with you, I recognize that lecturing Zoe, insisting she do her duty, won’t work. I’m asking you now—what will work?”

  “Zoe is unfortunately very wild.” Annabelle Gifford heaved a great sigh. “We were not wealthy at the beginning. Um...not at all. When we came to New York, despite my husband’s position in business and his success, the rulers of New York society snubbed us. They liked our new money—they were smart enough to know they needed it—but they didn’t like us. The women were the worst, of course. There wasn’t much they could do to me—poverty gives you a thick skin. But it hurt Zoe badly. She was young, impressionable. To be sneered at and ignored and mocked hurt Zoe very much. She said it didn’t affect her. That she didn’t care. But she did.”

  He had always thought Zoe was supremely confident. How else could she fly an aeroplane, drive so fast, grasp life with both hands if she didn’t believe she had the right to?

  “Tell me more,” he said. “Tell me about Zoe.”

  Mrs. Gifford patted her hair. “Well, that’s all said and done and in the past. We’ve come a long way since those days and I don’t see any sense in raking them up—” She broke off, tugging the ropes of pearls around her neck.

  He was about to speak, but he had to stop as a silver tea tray was brought in, and Mrs. Gifford served him carefully, obviously having studied how to do it.

  He set down his cup. “I don’t care about your past or Zoe’s origins. I want to know more about her. To understand how to win her heart.”

  “No mother knows how her daughter’s heart really works, Your Grace. If we did, we’d get the marriages we wanted out of them every time. And those marriages would stick.”

  23

  CALIFORNIA

  Nigel had traveled the Atlantic by boat and Manhattan in a hot, ripe-smelling taxicab. Now he had crossed the entire, vast, endless expanse of America in a Pullman sleeping car attached to a locomotive. After five days on a train, he was restless, frustrated and anxious.

  The brilliant blue California sky stretched over him as he was driven to Zoe’s rented mansion. He was driven down flat roads lined by palm trees. Open cars motored by him. They passed by sprawling mansions of white stucco. Behind the houses stretched the blue water and pounding surf of the ocean. The ocean around England was darker and fiercer. This ocean was an inviting blue, with rolling white-capped waves.

  As they drove, his cabdriver rhymed off the names of the owners.

  “Who are they?” Nigel inquired.

  “Movie stars and directors!” The man twisted to stare at him as if he were crazy.

  Zoe’s house was white with a Spanish look, like most of the others. His driver opened the gate and pulled up in a circular drive by a fountain.

  Zoe had found a very British butler for her rented California home. “Yes?” the man inquired.

  “The Duke of Langford. Here to finally see my wife, the Duchess of Langford.”

  The butler’s jaw dropped open. “No foolin’?” he gasped. Then he straightened and adopted his proper pose. “Her Grace is not in—”

  “I am growing tired of hearing that. I will wait for her. She is still in California, is she not?”

  “Indeed, Your Grace. Actually, Her Grace is outside, on the beach. I will show you where to go down to the sand.”

  He was taken to a long room, with a low timbered ceiling. The white stucco wall had a pattern of shells. There were ornate brown and blue tiles and masses of palm trees outside. But one thing grabbed Nigel’s attention and kept it there.

  It was a portrait of Zoe—an enormous painting with a heavy, ornate silver frame. It hung on the wall at the opposite end of the room. Nigel walked to it, staring at it.

  Bold brushstrokes of wild, vibrant colors leaped out. It was a modern impressionist portrait
fashioned of bold shapes. In the picture, Zoe was seated on a velvet stool in front of a vanity table. She had been painted in the nude.

  Her long, slim back was rendered in pink, white, ivory, touches of blue and gold. Her face was turned away from the mirror, so her profile was shown to the observer and shown in the mirror. The mirror also reflected her bare breasts, done with loose, dashed brushstrokes.

  This was Zoe being modern and daring. But she was also his—his precious treasure.

  Her butler stopped and turned. “If you care to wait here, Your Grace—”

  “What I care to do is to have that picture removed from this wall.”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  Nigel pointed at the picture. “That portrait will come down.”

  Consternation showed on the man’s face. “I have been given no instruction by Her—”

  “You will have it moved now. You will rehang it in whatever bedroom you are having prepared for me. As for Her Grace, I will explain the change to her.”

  Two gardeners were summoned and had taken the portrait down when a thin young man with slicked-back dark hair strolled in, wiping paintbrushes with a rag.

  Nigel stared at the man—he looked bohemian and disheveled. Black stubble clung to his cheeks and jaw. A cigarette dangled from his lips. A white shirt spattered with paint hung on him, the sleeves rolled up, the neck open, shirttails hanging out. He was the man from the photo in the newspaper.

  “Hey, what’re you doin’ with my picture?” the painter asked.

  Nigel gave an icy ducal stare. “You painted that portrait of my wife?”

  “You must be the duke.” The man stared insolently. “What did you take it down for?”

  “I am having it moved to my room. It is only for a husband to see his wife in a state of undress.”

  The artist blinked. “She was right about you. You are a stuffed fish.”

  Nigel’s heart hurt. That was how she saw him? Of course—how else had he behaved with her? He couldn’t argue he had behaved badly because he loved her. The last time they had fought, after she’d lost the second baby, his anger had been selfish.

  “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought she was getting a divorce.”

  “That is what I have come to discuss.” He narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Zoe lets me use part of her garage as my studio.” The artist smirked. He continued to clean his brush. “You’re going to lose her, Duke. I intend to convince Zoe to marry me.”

  “I have no intention of losing her. You have an hour to pack up your belongings and leave. Now,” Nigel growled. “And how in hell do I get down to the beach?”

  The artist pointed to a row of French doors sullenly.

  Nigel passed through them onto a sun-drenched concrete terrace. He took the stairs down to the sand, which was soft, pale and blazing hot. His boots sank into it as he trudged along, searching for Zoe.

  Girls lay on towels or reclined on deck chairs. Skimpy, skintight bathing costumes revealed acres of skin.

  Then he saw her—her lovely profile. Her eyes were closed, lashes touching her cheeks. Her face was tipped up to the sun. Her hair glowed like gold. She was wearing a beige robe of a light fabric, belted at her waist. She looked so young.

  He’d forgotten how young she was. Only twenty when they got married. They both had so many bad memories behind them, acquired in so little time.

  He walked around in front of her so his body blocked out the sun.

  Finally, she opened her eyes and she squinted at him. “Nigel? You found me? You came all this way? Why?”

  He’d had days to plan this moment—his journey to this point had taken him more than two weeks. But he didn’t know what to say. I want you back. “I told the artist who is living in your house to leave.”

  “It’s my house. I can collect any artists in it that I like. I think I’m going for a swim. I’d invite you but I don’t think you are dressed for it.”

  She stood from her chair and fastened the strap of her flower-trimmed bathing cap.

  “Zoe, stay here. Stop running from me. Talk to me.”

  “You don’t want to talk. You want to issue commands.” She undid her belt. Her robe fell to the sand.

  Nigel gasped, choked, sputtered.

  She was beautiful.

  Zoe gazed at him, her face filled with defiance. Every instinct told him to forbid this. His brain warned he could prove he’d changed by letting her do this—letting her parade her bare midriff, her long legs, her curves on the beach.

  Hell, he hadn’t changed that much.

  Snatching up her robe, Nigel hauled Zoe to him and wrapped the robe around her. “I don’t give a damn how wild you need to be to blot out pain. I want you. I love you. You belong to me—”

  “No, I don’t. I’m nobody’s chattel.” Her eyes were blazing. “I have my own house. My own friends. I can do what I want. I can fly if I want. I bought myself a car. I might even start making movies. Why not? I could do it, you know. I don’t want your world, and you don’t want me, so let me go.”

  “I do want you. Do you no longer love me, Zoe?”

  “I—” Her violet eyes flicked over his face. She met his gaze, then looked away.

  “Zoe, I behaved badly. I hurt so much. You are right. I behaved like I was angry when you flew and your plane crashed—”

  “I make you angry, Nigel. Can’t you see it’s no use between us?”

  He reached for her hand. When she didn’t snatch it away, he felt a flare of hope. He stroked her fingers. “This is what I should have done after you lost the child. I see that now.”

  His voice cracked and he tried again. “The truth was that I wasn’t angry. I was afraid. In battle, there were so many times I was afraid. And sick with guilt, knowing most of the men under me wouldn’t survive. I had to lie to them. Keep their spirits up. I was not allowed to show fear. I was so afraid I could have lost you. I reacted badly—I had no right to lash out at you, to sell your aeroplane and your car. It was fear, Zoe. I thought the only way I could fight that fear was to ensure I kept you safe. But I don’t want to make you unhappy.”

  She turned toward the ocean. The crashing waves framed his view of her. His gaze went down, and when he looked at her bathing costume again, he got hard, aroused and shocked all at once. The bathing costume summed things up rather nicely, if he thought about it.

  “We are two very different people, Zoe. You crave adventure. I had my fill of risk and daring. I want peace, comfort and happiness.”

  “Nigel—”

  “Maybe you are right,” he said, his voice low because his chest was so tight. “We don’t belong together. Even now, I can’t honestly tell you I want to see you fly again. You want to do daring things. I wanted to think I had changed and had opened my mind. But in my soul, all I want to do is keep you safe. Maybe I should do the decent thing...and let you go.”

  Zoe stared up at him. “That’s what you really want? You know, I never dreamed you would leave Brideswell and cross an ocean and a country to get to me. Nor did I ever expect you to reach the conclusion you should let me go. I thought I would have to fight and fight. I—”

  “Ready, honey? Let’s shake things up and go for a swim.”

  Nigel took a step back as a tall, dark-haired girl came up and linked her arm with his wife, interrupting them. He could not speak about their private relationship in front of others.

  Then his eyes bulged as he took a good look at the young woman. She wore a brief bathing-costume top of a shiny gold fabric. Like Zoe’s, it was twisted at the cleavage of her breasts, the fabric artfully arranged to cover her bosom—just barely. It looked like something a chorus girl would wear. A long, gold fringed skirt encased her legs. Then he realized it was a piece of fabric, tied at her
waist. The dark-haired girl tugged the knot and the skirt fell down. She kicked it away. She wore a skimpy pair of gold underpants.

  Nigel couldn’t stop himself. He picked up the wraparound skirt and held it up to shield both the woman and his wife.

  The dark-haired woman laughed. “Darling, you are too sweet.”

  “I am making you both respectable.”

  “Honey, this bathing costume is no briefer than the one I wore in the movie where I’m captured for a sheikh’s harem. That’s the point I want to make. I can wear this on-screen, but not out here on the beach. What’s wrong with women showing a bit of healthy flesh? We’re not hurting anyone. Come on, Zoe!” With that, the woman ran, laughing, toward the water’s edge and she raced into the waves.

  “Who is that woman?”

  “That’s Lily Leigh. The actress.”

  “You are consorting with actresses?”

  Zoe glowered at him. “She is a friend. A good friend. And she is struggling to carve her way in the world. She started with absolutely nothing, but everything she’s done she accomplished herself. I am in awe of her. And I promised to go swimming with her in this bathing costume to make a point.”

  He went to grab Zoe’s arm, but she darted away. And raced out into the waves.

  The next thing he knew, a policeman was running toward his wife and Lily Leigh, blowing a whistle and shouting something about indecent exposure. A bunch of men with cameras were coming from the other direction.

  “That Lily. She’s a genius,” shouted a man who had suddenly materialized beside Nigel. “Lots of girls have been arrested for wearing shocking bathing costumes, but this publicity stunt will put her on every newspaper in the nation. Clever of her to convince that duchess to do it, too.”

  The actress had set up the whole thing. Only she wasn’t the only female being locked up with shackles.

  The sun beat down, making sweat drip into Nigel’s eyes.

  He was watching his wife get arrested. For being indecently exposed. While flashbulbs went off and a bunch of lean, wolfish-looking reporters took photographs.