To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  “James, I hope you don’t intend to come between me and what I saw first. If you do, I assure you—you will regret it.” His anger hardened his features.

  James felt his blood begin to simmer. “You of all people, Whitby, should know I don’t respond well to threats.”

  Whitby thanked him for the ride and stepped out.

  A moment later the carriage was on its way again, rolling down Green Street, and James had to work hard to control his fury, for he did not appreciate intimidation tactics. Not from a friend. Not from anyone.

  He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he rationalized what had just transpired. Just because Whitby had called on the countess a half hour earlier didn’t give him any prior claim to anything. It could have been the damned traffic that let him get there first. Whitby knew that James was expected to take a wife—he had even tried to talk him into it—and the heiress, as yet, was unspoken for.

  Five hundred thousand pounds! In light of the state of James’s finances, he suddenly wondered if ignoring a sum like that would be bordering on negligence. Wouldn’t it be a disservice to his family and tenants to resist marriage simply because there was a possibility that he might become like his father? Surely, he was stronger than that. He was capable of fighting whatever violent impulses he might have in the future. He was sensible enough to see it coming and thwart it. Wasn’t he? For pity’s sake, he’d spent his whole life training himself to control his passions.

  James decided to view the present situation with logic and rationale from this moment on. Opportunity was presenting itself almost shamelessly. One could even call it farcical. Fate was dangling the heiress in front of his face like a solid gold carrot, baiting him with her beauty and money. Perhaps it was time that James reached out and took a bite of that carrot. He was prepared for this. He’d learned to have self-control. He was disciplined. Passionless when he wanted to be.

  Perhaps there was a reason for all that training after all. Now it was time to test it.

  Chapter 4

  It was just for the money, James said to himself as his valet dressed him for the Berkley assembly. Learning that the heiress was worth five hundred thousand pounds had changed everything. He now had to think of the ducal estate and his tenants and Martin, who should study at Oxford when the time came, and Lily, who was out this year and would one day require a dowry of her own. At the moment, thanks to their father’s careless living, there was nothing to offer a suitor—not a single farthing—and James knew that he had to turn this unpleasant idea of a wife into a business decision or risk losing more than just the French tapestries.

  He also had to put aside his preference for the idea of a quiet, plain English wife, for one didn’t usually come with five hundred thousand pounds in her trousseau.

  His valet held out his black jacket and James slipped his arms into it. Perhaps it was better this way. Knowing that the task was merely a matter of commerce eased his mind. He needn’t worry that he was attending this assembly tonight because he was infatuated. Which he was not and would not ever be. Yes, he found Miss Wilson attractive—what man wouldn’t?—but before he’d had that unpleasant conversation with Whitby, he hadn’t the slightest intention of actually following through with a marriage proposal, to her or anyone else. For that reason, he could rest assured that he was still as levelheaded as ever.

  An hour later, he was strolling into Berkley House. He entered the crowded drawing room and conversed with the aging Marquess of Bretford. Perhaps this dowry quest could turn out to be a bit of an adventure. Life had become monotonous lately, when all he ever thought about were bills and rising expenses and long lists of repairs.

  It did not take him long to ascertain that the heiress was there. She, her mother and the countess were making their way around the room, flashing their jewels, charming the gentlemen and measuring said gentlemen’s ranks while planting their feminine seeds of success. What a transparent game it was. But who was he to criticize when he was about to step into the match?

  Sophia spotted the duke the moment he walked through the door, dressed in the proper black-and-white formal attire—the same as every other man, but looking ten times as arresting.

  The countess had mentioned in the carriage that he never went out two nights in a row, let alone three. No doubt, this irregular appearance on his part would throw Florence and her mother into a wild frenzy of high hopes and calculations before the night was out.

  She watched the duke greet the other guests and work his way around the room with confidence. A few times, he glanced in Sophia’s direction, and each time their eyes met, her heart quickened in response. She wondered if he had learned of her exact worth yet, as it must surely be all over fashionable London by now.

  “Miss Wilson, what a pleasure to see you,” the Earl of Whitby said, appearing beside her.

  She faced him. “Lord Whitby. You’re looking well.”

  “I believe it is the fresh spring air. It does wonders for the disposition.”

  They spoke for a few minutes, saying nothing of any great importance, then the earl clasped his hands behind his back. “Perhaps you might take a walk with me through Hyde Park one day this week? I would be pleased if your charming mother and the countess accompanied us, of course.”

  Sophia smiled. “I would be delighted.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday it shall be,” she replied. “Oh, I see Miss Hunt, of the Connecticut Hunts. Will you excuse me?”

  He made a slight bow and stepped away. After a brief dialogue with her American acquaintance, Sophia caught the eye of the duke, and with the common objective to speak to each other, they met in the center of the room.

  “Your Grace.”

  His smile was seductive and heart-stopping, aimed at her and her alone. “You look fetching this evening, Miss Wilson.”

  “How kind of you to say so. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “More and more with each passing moment. You?”

  A fluttering began in the pit of her belly. “Very much so, thank you.”

  She wished the fluttering would stop, yet she was feeling greatly invigorated by it.

  “Would you care to take a look at the art in the gallery?” he asked. “There has been a steady stream of admirers all evening.”

  “I would be delighted.”

  He offered his arm and she accepted it. Together they proceeded through the adjoining drawing room and into the large, long gallery where guests slowly made their way down the length of it.

  Sophia and the duke moved with ease along the wall, admiring large family portraits and marble busts displayed on pedestals between potted palms. Farther down, they came to some great works of art—a Titian, a Giorgione, a Correggio. His Grace was knowledgeable and full of information, and their conversation never faltered or grew forced or tedious. He was indeed an intelligent man beneath the physical allure.

  “May I ask about your impressions of London?” he enquired, stopping to pause in front of a Rembrandt.

  “I am in awe,” she replied. “I look around and see centuries of life, love and art. You have so much history here, and you place such a wonderful value on it. I would like to see more of England. Much more of it.”

  “Then you must.”

  She stole a curious glance at him, searching for the purported “danger” she’d been warned about, but all Sophia saw in him was a genuine and polite interest in her company and conversation. She supposed she had never put much faith in drawing room gossip.

  They strolled to another painting.

  “What about the society?” he asked, studying her eyes as if fishing for something. “It must seem a great labyrinth for you.”

  She gazed up at an enormous portrait of a nobleman on a horse. “Rest assured, American society is equally as mystifying. We call ourselves a classless society, but we are far from that.” />
  “How so?”

  “In a country without titled nobility, people are ambitious. They want to better their situations and rise to the top, and money is the means to do so. Sometimes I think that certain rules of etiquette were invented just to make the barriers more visible and difficult to circumvent, for we do not have aristocratic rank to make the lines clear in America.”

  He gazed up at the portrait as well. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that society in your country is simple. I only meant to say that I, myself, find London society like a labyrinth on some occasions, and I had the benefit of being born and raised here.”

  “I appreciate you saying that, Your Grace.” They wandered along to the next work of art. “And I am grateful for your honesty with me, and your openness. It is the thing I find most difficult here—how very reserved Londoners are, at least those I’ve met so far, in the upper echelons. I’m never sure what they are truly thinking. Then I get my hand slapped for asking personal questions.”

  “Like Whitby the other night,” he replied. “Allow me to apologize on his behalf. He meant no offense.”

  She smiled appreciatively and moved on. “I have two sisters.” She knew she was breaking the rules again, but she didn’t care. She wanted to show a little of herself to the duke. A little of the real Sophia Wilson. “I miss them very much. I long for our carefree talks and easy laughter. We tell each other everything.”

  “And what would you tell them if they were here now?” A glimmer of something curious flickered in his eye, and she wondered what he expected her to say.

  She took her time before answering, thought carefully about what she was feeling. Excitement? A sense of adventure? Hope?

  “I would tell them that I prejudged someone I should not have prejudged, and that I would like to begin again with that person.”

  They stood in the gallery facing each other. His expression revealed very little, but she suspected he approved of her reply.

  “I am a great believer in new beginnings,” he finally said as he moved on.

  She followed, feeling buoyant.

  “And I, too,” he continued, “have a sister I like to confide in, but I don’t think I will tell her anything about our conversations this evening. She is eighteen and romantic, and if I know Lily, she will have it all over London by teatime tomorrow that I have met the great love of my life.” He grinned at Sophia. “I don’t appreciate being the subject of gossip. Even if it is true.”

  Sophia nearly stumbled over the edge of the carpet. Had the duke just suggested that he had feelings for her? Or was it merely a hypothetical remark? She scrambled to fill the silence with a question while she recovered from her stupefaction. “You have a younger sister?”

  “Three, actually. Two are married. One lives in Scotland and the other in Wales. Wonderful young women, all of them. I’ve even been blessed with two delightful nieces and a nephew.”

  Sophia felt her heart soften with every additional word he spoke. He was not devilish at all, she decided. At least not tonight.

  “You like children, Your Grace?”

  “I adore them. Every country house should be filled to the brim with laughter and the pitter-patter of little feet—to coin a tired old phrase.”

  If he was trying to impress her, he was doing an excellent job of it.

  They began to talk about art again, discussing the latest trends and what the public galleries were displaying. They came to another Rembrandt, Young Woman Bathing, and the duke stood before it, admiring it.

  “Notice the broad, creamy strokes there on the camisole,” he said, leaning close, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. “And the flat, opaque glaze of the pool. Such flawlessness in the reflection. And here…” He reached out. “The directional shaping of the legs.” The duke’s hand moved about, almost as if he were caressing the woman’s bare skin.

  A rather shocking little shiver coursed through Sophia’s veins, and she wondered what it might feel like to melt into this man’s arms, right there in the gallery.

  She had to work hard not to sound breathless. “He is indeed a master.”

  Did the duke speak this way to everyone, she wondered with a racing heart. Or was he trying to seduce her? If he were, she would feel quite certain that he—with his own personal style of brushstrokes—was the true master this evening, for he knew exactly what he was doing. He was turning her into a sticky puddle of warm honey.

  They reached the end of the long gallery and started up the other side.

  “Would you like to take a stroll through Hyde Park with me one day this week?” the duke asked. “The weather has been splendid. Wednesday perhaps?”

  Sophia thought of Lord Whitby and wished he had not spoken to her first, for she could not accept the duke’s invitation when she had already accepted the earl’s. She began to feel a slight sense of panic, as if all her future happiness depended upon this singular moment.

  “Wednesday, Miss Wilson?” he pressed. “Or perhaps that is an inconvenient time.” Oh, dear, he is retreating.

  “It’s not that,” she replied. “Or rather...yes, it is that, exactly. An inconvenient time. Another day, perhaps?”

  “Thursday?”

  “Thursday would be most pleasant.” She exhaled with relief.

  “Excellent. Shall we return to the drawing room? No doubt your mother is wondering what has become of you.”

  Sophia strolled into the room and met her mother. The duke exchanged pleasantries with her, then moved to join a group of gentlemen discussing politics. Sophia watched him with an odd feeling of apprehension, realizing that with her heated attraction to this man, the warnings about him, which she had at first taken to heart, were fading from her consciousness. Tonight, she had all but dismissed them, and it worried her, for she did not normally permit a fire in her blood to gain control over her intellect.

  A few days later, hearing the clinking of plates in the dining room downstairs, Sophia took note of the time and realized how late it was. Her mother and Florence were eating breakfast without her. With the help of her maid, Sophia quickly donned a late-morning gown of dark blue merino, rolled her hair up into a fashionable twist and made her way downstairs to the breakfast room to join her mother and Florence.

  She stopped just inside the doorway. There on the table in the center of the room was a large bouquet of red roses.

  “Where did these come from?” Sophia walked slowly toward the bouquet, gently pulled a single bloom to her nose and inhaled the enchanting scent.

  “Open the envelope and read the card,” her mother replied in a slightly smug voice.

  Sophia made her way to where the card lay on the tabletop. If these had come from the duke, she would not go weak in the knees or squeal like a lovesick fool. She would be calm and sensible. He would have to know that, unlike these flowers, she would not be so easily plucked.

  She read the card silently to herself: Delicate roses for a delicate rose of a woman. Whitby.

  She blinked slowly at her mother while trying to mask her disappointment. “They’re from the earl.”

  Sophia handed the card to her mother, who was holding out her arm, wiggling her fingers with impatience. She read it, then handed it across to Florence. “Look what it says!”

  The countess read it, then stood up to hug Sophia. “Red roses. How wonderfully aggressive of him. It is a clear message indeed. Congratulations. You’ve hooked an earl. Though was there ever any doubt that you would be a success here?”

  Sophia forced herself to smile. She didn’t want to dash their hopes quite yet—for she had very little interest in the Earl of Whitby. Nor did she want them to know the truth inside her heart: that she was dreaming about a man who made her feel nervous and uncertain.

  It would be best, she decided, to keep her cards close to her chest until she could better understand her feelings for the duke.


  “Well, what do you think of him?” Florence asked. “He’s one of the best catches. He’s already inherited his title, and he is quite handsome.”

  Sophia nodded dutifully. “Yes, he is very handsome, Florence. No one could argue that.”

  Whitby had fair hair, a strong jaw and friendly eyes, and bore not a hint of the duke’s darker, more sardonic qualities that she had observed that first night. Perhaps she was wrong to discount the earl so quickly.

  Just then, the butler appeared in the doorway. “Lady Lansdowne. There is a gentleman here to see Mrs. Wilson.”

  Florence turned to Beatrice. “It’s hardly the time for calls.”

  “The gentleman claims it is a matter of particular importance, and he did not wish to wait, my lady.”

  An unsettling silence ensued. “Who is it?” the countess asked.

  “It is the Earl of Manderlin.”

  They all turned to Florence who was considering what to do. “Show him in,” she finally said. “Sophia, come with me. You and I will speak to Mrs. Carson about having Cook prepare those German sour cream twists that you like so much.”

  Sophia hurried out, leaving her mother to receive the Earl of Manderlin in the drawing room.

  A short while later, the butler entered the kitchen and summoned Sophia to the drawing room. As she followed the butler up the stairs and into the room where her mother sat across from the earl, she felt a rush of dread.

  Lord Manderlin rose when Sophia entered the room. He was not a handsome man. He was small and slender, almost fragile in his appearance. He was not a warm man. He did not smile.

  “Miss Wilson,” he said, “thank you for receiving me this morning. I have something very particular I wish to discuss with you.”

  Her mother stood. “Perhaps I will wait outside.” Looking pale, she scurried out.