To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  After a time, the heiress nodded cordially toward him. He inclined his head in return, then she calmly returned to her conversation with Lord Bradley.

  That was all.

  She touched her host’s forearm, reacting to something he had said. Lord Bradley glanced down, quite evidently shocked at her informality. He recovered fast, however, with an ardent blush and a new sparkle in his eye that made him look ten years younger.

  James felt the corner of his mouth turn up slightly.

  Indeed. He could not recall the last time a woman had stirred the long-buried embers of his susceptibilities.

  For a fleeting, reckless moment, he ignored his principled inner voice—the voice that told him to look away—and thought he might like to meet her after all. To be properly introduced that is, and to see where a casual acquaintance might lead. He had been complaining of boredom lately.

  But was it really boredom, he wondered with some unease. He wasn’t altogether certain. He’d become so adept at strangling his desires that he couldn’t really remember what they felt like anymore.

  Better that than the alternative, he thought, further reminding himself that he was still the son of a hot-tempered beast of a man and the grandson of a paranoid killer, and to unleash his passions—passions of any kind—would be perilous.

  With that, he quickly crushed the impulse to meet the heiress and instead joined a group of gentlemen in the gallery discussing politics.

  Mrs. Beatrice Wilson watched helplessly from across the crowded drawing room as the handsome Duke of Wentworth walked out. She glanced up at her daughter, Sophia, conversing attentively with an aging marchioness, blissfully unaware of anything going on around her—in particular, the departure of the most prestigious and difficult catch in all of England. Hadn’t Sophia noticed that he was leaving the room?

  When the marchioness excused herself, Beatrice led Sophia to a quiet corner. “Darling, let us go and find the countess. You must be presented to the duke. What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Sophia pressed a hand to her forehead. “Mother, I’m afraid I don’t feel well.”

  “You don’t feel well? But the Duke of Wentworth is here, and from what I have heard, he rarely attends drawing rooms. We cannot let this opportunity pass us by.”

  It had been a long year of struggles for her mother, Beatrice Wilson, who was growing tired and weary of the exertion. She often said that Sophia, in her innocence, did not appreciate the importance of her marriage—how crucial it was that she marry well. She did not understand that romance and passion would not last throughout the years. Sophia still believed that she should marry for love and love alone, and nothing else mattered.

  Beatrice cherished her daughters too much to permit them to make poor choices and be forced to live unhappily with those choices. Beatrice wanted security and safety for her girls. She knew how easily money could come and go, and how easy it was to be cast out of good society when the money went.

  British titles, however—there was something that would last. Here in the aristocracy, all a woman had to do was birth her babies, and her child’s social position would be guaranteed forever.

  “Are you ill?” Beatrice asked, touching her daughter’s forehead.

  “I might be. I don’t think tonight is a good time to meet the duke. Can’t we just go home?”

  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed, for there it was again—that immovable resistance. Sophia had always been strong-willed.

  “Didn’t you like the look of the duke? I thought he was very handsome.”

  Her daughter considered the question. “To be honest, Mother… He is not the sort I’m looking for.”

  “But how can you make that judgment without even speaking to him? It will not do any harm to be introduced. Then you can decide whether or not you like him.”

  “I don’t want to be introduced.”

  “Sophia, you must give the man a chance. You cannot afford to be so picky. The Season will not last forever, and your father has invested a great deal to—”

  “Mother, you promised that if I took this trip you would let me make my own choice.”

  Beatrice’s heart squeezed painfully at the reminder. Yes, she had promised. It had been the only way to convince Sophia to come.

  Feeling drained and in no mood for a battle, Beatrice cupped her daughter’s chin. If she wasn’t feeling well, she wasn’t feeling well. What could be done? “Let’s get our cloaks then.”

  She walked out with her daughter, wondering if she should have stood her ground and insisted upon an introduction to the duke. Once again, she felt the uncomfortable weight of her shortcomings. Her husband had always said that she was too easy on her daughters, that she spoiled them. But how could she help it, when she loved them so very much?

  The next morning, James went thoughtfully to his own study to read The Morning Post and deal with correspondence. As he settled into his chair and leaned back, his gaze fell upon the oak-paneled wall, and for some reason he thought of the American heiress.

  He wondered what she would accomplish in England—what chubby little impoverished lord she and her mother would snare. They certainly wouldn’t have any problem charming the ones they wanted. Lately, the American women were putting the average country squire’s daughter to shame. The Americans, after all, were traveling the world, learning science and art and languages from the best tutors money could buy and seeing for themselves the beauty of the Tempietto or the Sistine Chapel, while the English girls were being educated by a governess or two in a drafty, second-floor schoolroom in the rural English backwaters.

  James was suddenly angry with himself. He was probably one of many gentlemen sitting in his study that morning, staring at the wall and thinking of her.

  No more.

  Efficiently, he dealt with the first letter on the pile, then reached for the second. It was from one of Martin’s instructors at Eton—the headmaster in fact.

  James read the note. Martin was in trouble again. He’d been caught with a bottle of rum and a laundry maid in his room. The headmaster intended to suspend Martin and wished for instructions as to where the boy should be sent.

  No, not Martin.

  Tipping his head back in the chair, James contemplated how best to handle this. Martin had always been a quiet, well-behaved child. What was this all about?

  Perhaps it was simply the natural recklessness of youth. “Boys will be boys,” some said.

  James, who had always kept his distance from his family and had no intentions of altering that habit, knew he was not the person to provide guidance to Martin. James had been the victim of harsh discipline all his young life, and he would not put himself on the other side of that line. Nor did he know of any other alternative methods, for he knew only the example set by his father.

  After some consideration, he decided to send Martin to their aunt Caroline in Exeter—his mother’s sister—who would be better equipped to deal with this sort of thing. James penned the necessary letters, then firmly swept that problem from his mind and reached for the paper folded on his desk, still warm from the butler’s iron.

  He had just glanced at the front page when a footman knocked and entered, carrying the gold-trimmed salver. He held the tray out to James. “Your Grace.”

  James picked up the letter and recognized the handwriting. It was from his agent, Mr. Wells. The footman departed and James broke the seal.

  My Lord Duke,

  I regret to inform you that there has been some damage to the roof over the state room. A few days ago, it sprung a leak, causing some unsightly stains on the carpet and furniture. The carpenter I sent for was a rather portly fellow, and the roof collapsed quite violently under his weight. We now recognize that the roof was thoroughly rotted, which leads me to wonder how the rest of it will fare over the coming winter.

  As yo
u are aware of the state of the finances, I will refrain from repeating the gravity of the situation. I only hope that you will make a decision regarding the sale of the French tapestries in the west wing, as well as the works of art we discussed in the gallery.

  James closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to fight the tension that was suddenly throbbing in his head. He wondered why all these problems were accruing now, like some sort of test.

  He squeezed his left hand, making a fist to ease the pain of a childhood injury that still ached after more than twenty years. He stared intently at his palm, then turned his hand over, remembering the impossible weight of the trunk lid, then—as he always did—he pushed those memories away.

  Should he sell the French tapestries? They would probably bring in enough to cover the roof repairs.

  His mother would not weather the gossip well, however.

  But even if James did sell them, what after that? The lake needed to be dredged, and his mother’s and Lily’s pin money had been cut back to almost nothing. On top of that, they were slipping further and further into debt each year. Expenses were rising, revenues were falling. Land simply didn’t provide the profits it once did, on account of the worst agricultural depression of the century.

  He’d already raised the rents. He would not do so again.

  James inhaled deeply and let his thoughts return to the American heiress. He remembered the ostentatious diamond that dangled just above her lovely cleavage. That alone would clear up last year’s entire deficit.

  He stared unseeing at the lace-covered window beside his desk and thought about what Whitby had said about taking a wife—that it could be a matter of business if one handled it properly.

  Wouldn’t it make sense, then, to marry a woman who was as determined as he to marry for something other than love? A title for instance?

  But it was the one thing he’d always despised—that hungry, desperate look from women who wanted solely to elevate themselves to the rank of duchess.

  That’s what his mother had wanted when she’d married his father. She’d been blinded by the pomp and ceremony that followed him everywhere and look where it took her. To hell and back.

  He leaned forward in his chair. Most likely, the vivacious American heiress was nothing like his mother. He suspected that girl could take care of herself. She had a certain independent quality about her.

  Would that be a good thing or a bad thing in a marriage, he wondered. He’d always wished his mother had been stronger against his father....

  Perhaps he could go to the Weldon House ball this evening after all. The American was sure to be there. Not that he’d made any firm decision of course, or because he was fancying her. He was not so easily swept away, nor did he ever plan to be. He would never allow it. He’d spent his entire life training himself to avoid passion and the loss of one’s senses that accompanied it. He was fixed and unyielding as a rock.

  So, what was there to worry about? He wasn’t capable of any kind of true, deep love for a woman. Not with his upbringing.

  He decided then that his attendance at the ball would be a reconnaissance mission. A matter of business, for the fact remained that he had to save the estate and the dukedom from financial ruin, for if he didn’t, not even Martin would be able to solve the family’s deeper, more ancient problems.

  Perhaps if James could fix what was wrong in the short term, the next generation might provide the heir to end the madness. Perhaps a loveless marriage to a wealthy, socially ambitious heiress would be a means to tread water. If James didn’t lose his head, like his father and his other ancestors had, he would be doing a great service to his family. Something that could turn out to be the saving grace they all so desperately needed.

  It was decided then. He would see her again and shield himself from her beauty and charm. What she looked like or how she behaved would not be part of his criteria. For the good of all—the heiress included—his motives would remain mercenary.

  Chapter 2

  Sophia’s stomach flip-flopped with nervous anticipation as the carriage approached the grand Gothic Weldon House. All the windows of the stone mansion were lit up in the night, and gentlemen with top hats and ladies on their arms strolled up the long red carpet to the front door.

  Across from Sophia in the dimly lit carriage sat her mother, wearing yet another brand-new Worth gown of pink satin and gold lace, and Florence Kent, Countess of Lansdowne, who wore a deep blue silk gown trimmed in galon d’argent and glass pearls, adorned with a striking embroidered sunburst on the skirt.

  “Now remember,” Florence said as she pulled on her gloves, “the Marquess of Blackburn will be in attendance, as well as the Earl of Whitby and the Earl of Manderlin—all unattached and looking. They are your first priority this evening, Sophia. There’s also a baron...from Norfolk. I can never remember his name.”

  Sophia’s mother interrupted. “What about the duke? Will he be there?”

  Florence gave Beatrice a surprised look. “He rarely comes to balls. And I wouldn’t set your sights that high. I’m beginning to think he’s made of stone. No one has been able to move him. Oh, look, it’s our turn.” Relieved that the countess had dismissed the duke as a potential groom, Sophia remembered what the English girl had said about him: ‘Avoid him unless you want to marry into a nightmare. They say his family is cursed.’

  Cursed in what way? she couldn’t help but wonder.

  The coach pulled up in front of the house, and the door swung open. A liveried footman assisted the ladies down onto the walk, and together, they made their way up the long red carpet, crowned by a striped awning, all the way to the front door.

  They had to pause in the doorway behind another couple, while they waited to move into the hall and greet their hosts. The lady in front of them turned her head and smiled, then faced forward again, leaning into her escort to whisper, “It’s the American.”

  Sophia felt a sudden rush of anxiety, as if she were floating away, into deep waters. For a moment, she wanted to turn around and run back to the coach and tell the driver to take her straight home. Not just to Florence’s house, but to America. To her sisters. To the easy way they were with each other, and the way they laughed and giggled and humored their mother. What were the girls doing now? Were they sleeping in their beds? Or were they awake and telling tales in front of the parlor fireplace?

  The line finally moved, and Sophia greeted the hosts on the curved marble staircase, then made her way up to the withdrawing room to remove her cloak and tidy her gown and hair.

  Her mother tugged on her arm, and Sophia—so much taller than her mother—leaned down.

  “Remember, if you discover the duke has come, tell me immediately. I will spare nothing to have you presented to him and get you a dance with him. Just one dance. You owe me that much, Sophia.”

  Sophia fought to control her displeasure at the thought of her mother “sparing nothing.”

  “If you could just leave it to me and stay out of it and let things happen naturally—”

  “Stay out of it?” her mother whispered. “How can I stay out of it when I am your mother, and I want the very best for you? I know you want the fairy tale, Sophia, but sometimes fairy tales in real life….”

  She stopped at that, and Sophia was glad, for the thought of her mother trying to “hook” that devilish duke tonight made her want to sink through the cracks in the floor and not come out until morning.

  She decided then that she would not allow herself to be “presented” to him like a raspberry custard on a platter, there for him to sniff and taste, to see if he liked her flavor. Tonight, if she decided she wanted to meet the duke, she would only meet him when she was good and ready—with her head steady on her shoulders and her feet planted firmly on the ground.

  As was becoming of a duke, James arrived at the dance late and strolled into the ballroom with h
is dancing gloves on. His cool gaze swept the room, which sparkled with massive brass chandeliers hanging low and the glitter of gold lace on richly colored gowns. The floor was polished smooth, shining like a reflecting pool, and couples swirled around the room, turning and dipping to the magnificent flow of a Strauss waltz.

  James felt the gazes follow him as he meandered through the crowd, past eager-looking young ladies with dance cards and short pencils dangling from their wrists, their fans swaying languidly in front of their flushed faces. Whitby spotted him from across the room and, with a flourish, raised his champagne glass in salute. Within moments, the earl was making his way past leafy palms and ferns, around the perimeter of the room.

  “You came after all,” he said, arriving at James’s side. “This is a change for you, out two nights in a row. Reminds me of the old days.”

  Whitby and James went back many years, their friendship beginning at Eton and peaking when they were both expelled for building a giant slingshot that sent a stone smashing through the headmaster’s office window.

  James thought back to those days. He’d had a lot of anger in him then, and so had Whitby. That’s what had brought them together, he supposed.

  “You came to see her again,” the earl said.

  “Who?”

  “The American, of course.” At least Whitby had the presence of mind to lower his voice.

  “She’s making the rounds tonight, is she?” James replied in a disinterested tone, wondering if he should request a spot on her card.

  “Naturally.” Whitby raised his glass toward the dance floor. “Over there. In burgundy. Dancing with that baron from Norfolk.... Oh, what’s his name? I can never remember it.”