To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  She sat motionless, unblinking. Had she heard him correctly? Had he said he was bewitched?

  Naturally, doubts came hurling at her from all angles. “Did you speak to my mother about a settlement?”

  He stared at her for several seconds, then cupped her cheek in his warm hand. The intimacy of the gesture made her head spin.

  “Is that what you think? That I want you for your money?”

  She searched his eyes for the truth. Was this planned? Had he seduced her the night before to make sure she would accept his proposal? She did not know him very well. Perhaps he was like all the rest—feigning interest in her as a woman, when all they really wanted was her dowry. She could see it in their eyes.

  But James.... What did she see in his eyes? She wasn’t entirely sure. She believed she recognized genuine desire, but was she seeing only what she wanted to see? Was she blinded by her own attraction, which was perhaps based on lust?

  If only she had more experience in such matters. She’d never felt like this before, so she did not feel capable of judging its integrity. What if the feelings passed in a week’s time? What if she discovered later that he truly was as dangerous as all the gossips claimed—that he was an accomplished rake who knew exactly how to seduce a young innocent?

  “I don’t know what to say,” she replied at last. “Surely all of London must know what I am worth. Whitby knows.”

  “Ah, Whitby.” He lowered his hand to his side and looked away, back toward the house. “Are you thinking of him now?”

  “No!” she blurted out. “It’s not that. It’s just that…I thought because Mother told him, everyone must know.”

  His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “I am here, Miss Wilson, because I cannot accept the idea of taking any other woman as my wife. It must be you.” He met her gaze directly. “And that is the truest thing I have ever said to you.”

  What she wouldn’t give to have him hold her now.

  She lowered her gaze. “James, I’m not sure. This seems sudden.”

  He rubbed her hands again and kissed both of them. “Please, Miss Wilson. Marry me and make me the happiest man alive. Come to my home in Yorkshire and be the greatest duchess my family has ever known. You told me once that you were in awe of England for its history. Come and be a part of it. You can, if only you will say yes.”

  Sophia sucked in a breath. Was this really happening? Could she truly walk into a fairy tale and marry her very own prince charming?

  With no further deliberation, she gave him a clear and fixed response, using his given name for the first time. “Yes, James. I will be your wife.”

  The whole world disappeared for a shimmering moment, then it returned with a rush of blissful anticipation, for he was going to kiss her. He pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers, and she felt transported to the clouds. She was going to be his wife! They would spend the rest of their days together, loving each other, living happily ever after!

  Sophia drew back and glanced up at the house. She couldn’t help but laugh, for her mother was watching from an upstairs window, jumping with joy.

  Chapter 9

  There. It was done. James was betrothed to an heiress.

  He returned to his coach, got in and ordered the driver to set off immediately. Sitting alone, hands folded over the ivory top of his walking stick, he listened to the sound of the horses’ hooves clopping over the cobblestones as they drove slowly through Piccadilly, which was clogged with traffic.

  Why did he not feel more satisfied, he wondered with apprehension. He had been determined to win the race, to acquire the dowry every other man in London was coveting, and this morning he had triumphed. He had secured the prize. Yet still, he felt displeased with himself when there was no logical reason to feel displeased. Why?

  Perhaps because everything he’d said to Sophia that morning was true. In all honesty, his proposal had not been about the money. Not when he was looking into her eyes and telling her that he wanted to make her his duchess, and that if she said yes, she would make him the happiest man alive.

  Imagine that. Him, the happiest man alive. Good God, he had been carried away on a gigantic wave. He had blathered on and on to her about how much he adored her. He’d sounded like a damned schoolboy. He had never intended to be so romantic about it. This was supposed to be a business arrangement.

  But she truly was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and it was exactly as he had said—he simply had to have her. Bloody hell, he wanted her right now. He wanted her here in the carriage beside him. In his arms.

  Perhaps that’s why he felt a lack of satisfaction. He knew deep down that he had not really triumphed. In truth, he had lost the fight against his impulsiveness, given in to his desires and there was nothing he could do about it now except to live with what had suddenly become his future—and somehow survive it without descending into hell.

  What a morning. And he still had to break the news of his engagement to his mother.

  James squeezed the handle of his walking stick tightly while the carriage continued to clatter through the noisy London streets.

  A half hour later, he was entering his own London house.

  Her Grace, his mother, was sitting in the morning room, sipping tea. Her harsh gaze lifted when she sensed his presence in the doorway. “James,” she said, somewhat startled.

  He moved into the room and took a seat on the chintz sofa, deciding that there was no point putting off the inevitable. No need for idle chatter. He would be direct.

  “I have news, and I thought you should be the first to know before you read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “Tomorrow’s paper. Oh, James, what have you done?” His mother leaned back and rested a hand over her heart. “Please.... Not the American.”

  James crossed one leg over the other. “As a matter of fact, yes. The American.”

  Her face reddened, and she stood up and walked to the fireplace. “No. No. I don’t understand. You’ve been so difficult to move on the matter of marriage. But wait....” She faced him. “Is this some kind of childish rebellion against me? To hurt me? Because if it is, you have succeeded.”

  “It’s not a rebellion.”

  “What is it, then? How in the world could this have happened? This American girl—in barely more than a fortnight—managed to lure you away from any number of lovely English girls from excellent families. There must be a reason. If it’s not to hurt me....” She glared at him. “Surely James, you have not given this adequate thought.”

  “I have given it more than enough thought, Mother, and even if I hadn’t, the machine is in motion. There is no turning back now. I’ve already placed the announcement in The Times.”

  Strange. He never imagined he would experience such perverse pleasure from this moment, but there it was.

  “Good heavens.” She sank onto a chair. “She’s not in the family way, is she?”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Well....” She waved a frivolous hand about. “You never know with these Americans. I told you her grandfather was a bootmaker, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “And the other grandfather slaughtered pigs.”

  James watched her for a few more seconds, then he stood. “I beg your pardon, Mother, but there is business I must attend to this morning.”

  He started toward the door, but she stopped him with another question. “Have you set a date?”

  He faced her. “August 10.”

  “Of this year?”

  “Yes, there is no point in prolonging the engagement. Sophia’s mother will be returning to New York at the end of the Season. Rather than send her home with her family, I would prefer that she accompany me to Yorkshire.”

  His mother laid a hand on her heart again. “I cannot bear to think of the g
ossip when the servants see her. She dresses like an actress, James.”

  “She has style, Mother, and that is the last time you will insult her. She is the next Duchess of Wentworth.” With that, he left the room.

  He went upstairs to write to his agent, Mr. Wells, and instruct him to arrange at once to have the roof over the state room fixed, and to spare no expense. While he was at it, he could finally, at long last, have the lake dredged.

  “You bastard,” Whitby said, halfway up the stairs, just outside the House of Lords. He grabbed hold of James’s arm.

  James turned to look down at his old school chum, on a lower step. “Get ahold of yourself, man.”

  “Ahold of myself? I think you are the one who should have gotten ahold of something. You forced your hand on her, and you know it.”

  James straightened his tie and resumed his ascent up the stairs. “I know no such thing.”

  Whitby followed beside him. “Where were you at the assembly the other night? You disappeared with her for half an hour.”

  “We were with Lily.”

  “Not the entire time. I saw Lily later, and you weren’t with her.”

  “I returned Sophia to her mother.” He stopped at the top of the stairs and met Whitby’s heated gaze. “Why am I even explaining myself to you?”

  “Maybe because you fancy that you are an old friend of mine, and you feel guilty for stepping in on a woman I was openly pursuing.”

  James pointed a finger at Whitby. “She was not spoken for.”

  “I had spoken! Privately to you, of course, but I thought we were friends. I thought you understood that I was asking you to back off.”

  James shook his head at the ridiculousness of this conversation. He started walking again, down the long Gothic corridor of the building. Their angry footfalls echoed off the arched ceiling. “You had no right to ask that.”

  “But you assured me at the Bradley assembly that you were not looking to marry. That you would never marry. How did that change so completely in a matter of weeks?”

  “I hadn’t met the right woman.”

  “You mean you hadn’t met a rich enough woman.”

  James stopped. He stabbed a finger on Whitby’s chest. “Do not cross that line.”

  “I think it is you who has crossed the line.” Whitby lowered his voice. “You can’t do this.”

  “I would oblige you to make your point.”

  “I know you, James, and you’re a cruel fellow if you think you can take her to Yorkshire and toss her at your mother to look after. That woman will have her for breakfast.”

  “Sophia can take care of herself,” James assured him.

  “Yes, of course. And that’s exactly why you proposed to her—so that she can take care of herself, and you can forget that you’ve ever been married. You said it yourself. That’s what you wanted in a wife, for her to be invisible.”

  James started walking again. He had the distinct feeling Whitby was looking for a fistfight, but he would not get one. Those days were over. If not for Whitby, at least for James.

  “I would have known how to love her!” Whitby shouted after him, his voice full of fury.

  James felt the words like a knife shooting through the air and puncturing his back.

  Nothing less than a wedding gown by Worth would do for England’s newest duchess—for Monsieur Worth did not just sew a dress for a woman, he created a whole new persona. Therefore, Sophia and her mother packed up and left for Paris. They met her sisters there, accompanied by an aunt, for they, too—being Sophia’s bridesmaids—required Worth gowns for the ceremony.

  Clara and Adele were astute enough to bring stacks of New York newspapers with them in their trunks, for news of the upcoming nuptials had reached headlines in America. Sophia and her mother were anxious to read them.

  The stories dripped with delicious details of the couple’s romantic first encounters at London assemblies and balls. The Wentworth family tree, illustrated with coats of arms and portraits, and augmented with sketches of the castle in Yorkshire, filled column after column of every society page. As well as flattering misinformation about the bride’s family history.

  Even in Paris, journalists scurried out from behind shrubberies and parked carriages outside Sophia’s hotel, hoping for a chance to ask her questions and have her pose for a picture. She had become an overnight sensation in the papers, and she could still barely believe any of this was happening. She found it all quite distressing and tried to remind herself that life would soon settle down, once the wedding was over, and she and James could retire to his country estate for the winter, where they would finally be alone together as man and wife.

  Late one evening, Sophia sat up in her bed in the Paris hotel, wearing a white nightdress and reading the inside pages of a New York paper by the light of a gas lamp. She rose from the bed, however, when she came across a disturbing editorial piece.

  “Clara, Adele, listen to this.” She began to read aloud: “It is an affront to our flag that so many hard-earned American dollars are leaving our country to fill the bare bank accounts of British nobles, who know nothing of proper work ethics or proper morality for that matter. Our wealthy American brides are victims of greed and laziness. The girl’s value is appraised only by how much she can do to restore the decaying castles of a decaying England. It is no secret that the English nobles squander their rent-roll money in the gambling houses of London with careless abandon, for they have never had to lift a finger to earn it.”

  Feeling a sickening lump take form in the pit of her stomach, Sophia lowered the paper. She looked beseechingly at her sisters, who had been combing each other’s hair. They were staring blankly at her now.

  “Have you heard this sort of thing before?” Sophia asked them. “Is this what they’re saying in New York?”

  Clara rose from her chair to take Sophia’s hands and reassure her. Clara had always been sensitive to everyone’s feelings. She seemed able to recognize the emotions of others and understand mental torment. In all honesty, sometimes Sophia suspected her sister of actually enjoying it. She liked melodrama in any form.

  “Oh, no, Sophia,” Clara said. “Everyone’s thrilled for you. It’s like a fairy tale. You’ve read the headlines.”

  “Yes, but this person seems to think that James is some kind of wicked scoundrel, when in actuality, he’s a responsible caretaker of a large estate with tenants who depend upon him. He is a well-respected man.”

  “Of course he is,” Clara said. “He’s a gentleman! This writer, whoever he is, is just jealous. Some people are always looking for things to complain about, and they hate seeing anyone else happy. They have to spoil it somehow. Don’t they, Adele?”

  It seemed a simple, almost childish way to cheer Sophia up, but she appreciated it all the same.

  Her youngest sister nodded. Adele, unlike Clara, despised the melodramatic or scandalous—anything the least bit out of the ordinary. Clara sometimes called Adele a prude, but Sophia knew Adele was just a proper young lady who wished to please her parents and follow the rules. There was nothing wrong with that. Probably, when she was out, she would marry a Mr. Peabody. Someone acceptable. Someone who wouldn’t surprise anyone or cause any friction or gossip.

  Clara strolled back to the dressing table and sat down. She picked up her brush and ran it through her long chestnut hair. “I’m sorry, Sophia. If we had noticed that article, we would have burned it before we gave you the paper. Like Auntie made us do with the other one.” She grinned mischievously at Sophia in the mirror.

  “What other one?” Sophia asked.

  Adele spoke with a warning tone. “Clara....”

  “Tell me,” Sophia demanded, grabbing the brush out of her sister’s hand.

  Clara swiveled around to face her. “All right.” She sounded pleased to have something juicy to relate.

 
The three of them in their nightdresses leaped onto the bed.

  Clara spoke dramatically. “Poor Auntie nearly swooned on the train when she read it.”

  “Read what?” Sophia asked, growing impatient.

  “There were illustrations and everything. I don’t know where they found such sordid details!”

  Sophia grabbed hold of her sister’s arm. “Tell me!”

  Clara paused a moment to draw out the suspense, then said, “There was an entire column all about your wedding day underclothes!”

  “My what?”

  “Which, of course,” Clara added, “only the duke will ever see in real life.”

  “Clara!” Adele scolded. “You needn’t be so vulgar about it.”

  “They said the ribbon on your chemise came from Queen Anne’s own trousseau, and that your corset hooks were made of gold.”

  “And there were illustrations?” Sophia asked in dismay.

  “Yes!” Clara laughed and flopped backwards onto the bed. “You should have seen Auntie’s face! She looked positively beastly!”

  Sophia stood up and went to the dressing table to look at her reflection in the mirror. “I hope James doesn’t hear of that. Imagine. Corset hooks made of gold. As if any of that matters.”

  Meanwhile, back in London, James’s mother—claiming she was unwell—packed up in a huff and left for the country, while his solicitor and the Wilson family lawyers haggled over the finer points of what was to become the largest marriage settlement in English history.

  Chapter 10

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  The sound of her fiancé’s deep, seductive voice from behind her, his breath hot and moist in her ear, sent delightful waves of gooseflesh dancing down Sophia’s spine. Standing next to her mother in a stuffy, overcrowded ballroom at a mansion not far outside of London, she smiled and turned to face him.