To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  Why was Pierre here? Simply to put pressure on Marion? Or was he here to look over the estate he hoped to inherit?

  Entering her room at last and closing the door behind her, Sophia began to unbutton her bodice. How was she ever going to convince Marion to trust James and tell him about the blackmail? Sophia despised the fact that she was keeping something from her husband, something dreadful, when she wanted his complete trust and love, and she wanted to trust and love him openly in return.

  But she had promised Marion, and she felt she was close to bridging the gap between them. She couldn’t possibly betray her now.

  Why had this happened, when she and James were finally moving forward?

  Sophia hugged her arms about herself. She needed time. Time to comprehend what all this meant, and how she could best serve this family.

  In the drawing room where the guests gathered before dinner, Sophia mingled through the crowd toward Monsieur Billaud. Marion had not known why he had come here, for he hadn’t revealed himself to her or voiced any demands, nor had he told anyone that he had a previous connection with this family. Pierre simply attended the luncheons and dinners, made light conversation with the other guests and took long leisurely walks alone while the men were out with the guns.

  “Monsieur Billaud, how are you enjoying England now that you’ve had a few days to explore it?” she asked when she joined him.

  “Very well, Your Grace,” he replied in his thick French accent.

  He was a handsome man, but there was little resemblance to James, except for his dark coloring, which was exactly the same. But how many men have dark hair, she wondered. Almost half the male population, surely.

  Lily approached and smiled dazzlingly. “Monsieur Billaud, you didn’t stay for the entertainments last evening. You must stay tonight. Musicians from London arrived this afternoon, and I do believe there will be dancing. Isn’t that right, Sophia?”

  “Yes, we’ve opened the smaller ballroom in the east wing.”

  Pierre raised his eyebrows. “Dancing, you say? Well, I suppose I shall have to attend, with the promise that you will do me the honor, Lady Lily?”

  Lily’s eyes beamed. “I would be delighted. Will you excuse me?” She turned to go and mingle with other guests.

  Sophia caught a glimpse of Pierre watching Lily walk away.

  No…not just watching her. He was devouring her with his eyes.

  Sophia felt momentarily sick at the sight of his expression. Did he not realize that Lily was his half-sister? Sophia supposed he didn’t think anyone else knew.

  Then she wondered if he knew it himself. Could that be true? Could his mother have kept the truth from him and sent him here simply to make Marion anxious, without even knowing his true purpose?

  Sophia pasted on a smile. “Tell me about your home, Monsieur Billaud. What part of France do you come from?”

  For the next few minutes, she asked him other questions about his life, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He never mentioned a mother who operated a brothel, nor a father who had abandoned him before he was born. He said his parents were successful merchants.

  Other guests joined them, and Sophia remembered her duties as hostess. “If you will excuse me.”

  Feeling no more confident about what was truly going on, she turned away and spotted James just inside the door of the drawing room, staring at her. They met a few minutes later by the fireplace.

  He raised her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it. “Madam, your beauty astounds me.”

  “Shameless flatterer,” she replied with a grin, and strove to push thoughts of Monsieur Billaud from her mind as she and James mixed and laughed with the guests until the dinner gong rang out. Then with strict adherence to the order of precedence, everyone filed into the dining room for dinner.

  The following day, James waited in Sophia’s bedchamber for her to return after the usual stroll with the guests before dinner, but even after most of the others had come in, she still did not arrive. Weary after a long day on the moors, James fell asleep on his wife’s bed, then woke an hour later, only to discover that she had still not returned. Growing concerned, he rose from the bed and went to the window.

  There, outside on the lawn, returning from a stroll through the secluded south garden, was his wife and the French fellow. Sophia’s arm was looped through his, and she was laughing at something he had said.

  James experienced an instantaneous pang of jealousy, even as he told himself that jealousy was not rational. He trusted his wife, truly he did. He did not for a moment believe that Sophia would encourage a flirtation with Monsieur Billaud. But still, James did not enjoy seeing his wife out walking with another man, holding his arm in the golden twilight, when he did not entirely trust the gentleman in question.

  He pulled on his jacket and decided it would be best not to be there when she returned. He did not want her to know that he had been watching her, nor did he wish to ask prying, accusing questions about where she had been and why she had been gone so long.

  That was something his father would have done—while smashing a piece of furniture to bits—and James was not his father. He would not allow himself to be overly suspicious. Regarding the murderous temper he might have inherited from the man…. Well…that, he had crushed a long time ago when he’d crushed so many other things in the deeper reaches of his soul.

  Why, then, did he feel the need to avoid seeing Sophia just now?

  As he walked back to his own bedchamber, a memory came to him. He recalled a day in his childhood, when he had been five or six years old at best, and his mother had found him at the window in tears because some visiting children had gone out to play and had not invited him to join them. His mother had thrown him into the trunk and told him not to cry or his father would hear of it. He supposed that day, he had learned to conceal his feelings. Not to show weakness.

  James pushed his own bedchamber door open but stopped at the sight of a male visitor sitting in front of the fireplace.

  It was his younger brother, Martin.

  James lowered his eyes briefly, for there had not been sufficient time to decide how he was going to manage Martin’s awkward homecoming.

  “Martin,” he said, speaking vigorously and lifting his gaze. “Welcome home. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

  His younger brother quickly stood. His eyes wavered back and forth between confident rebelliousness and absolute terror. “I’m here today, as planned.”

  James moved more fully into the room and closed the door behind him. Thompson, his valet, was in the dressing room brushing lint off one of James’s suit jackets. “Thompson, if you will excuse us please.”

  As soon as the man was gone, Martin flopped onto a chair and slouched very low.

  James could see that his younger brother’s guard was up, even though he was trying to convey a carefree appearance. It reminded James of all the times he had faced his own father in situations like these, clinging to his dignity when he knew it was about to be crushed.

  He’d never imagined himself on this side of the fence.

  “I suppose you want to exact some form of punishment now,” Martin said, lazily. “Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

  James crossed to the window and looked out. His eyes scanned the garden below for Sophia, but she was gone now. “I understand that you have some debts that must be paid,” he said.

  “No more than any other man my age.”

  Martin was barely a man, James thought, turning to face his lanky younger brother, sprawling in the chair.

  “What your friends are up to is no concern of mine,” James said flatly. “There is responsible behavior, and there is recklessness. I would prefer to see you living your life in the first category.”

  Martin swiped a hand across his knee and got up. “You would like to see me bored to death, here in the count
ry with nothing to do but wander around or go fishing.” He turned a cautious, uncertain glance at James—no doubt to test the waters of his brother’s anger—then continued. “If I recall, you were no better at my age, you and Whitby. I know about the trouble you got into. I know how often you were suspended from school.”

  James breathed deeply, searching for calm. “Indeed, I was suspended. That, unfortunately, was the least of my punishments.”

  Martin dropped his gaze to the floor, knowing well enough what James was referring to. “Nevertheless, I am no worse than you,” Martin said. “Yet you look at me like I am a great disappointment, like I should know better, when you didn’t know better when you were my age.”

  James paced the floor. “What are you suggesting? That I should simply let it go? If we are comparing the two of us, I assure you, no one let any of my misdemeanors go without punishment.”

  Martin raked a hand through his hair. “It’s bloody dull here, James.”

  “In what way?”

  “There’s no one my age.”

  “Lily is less than two years older than you.”

  “Lily’s my sister, and all she talks about are dresses and fairy tales.”

  James closed the distance between himself and his brother. “That may be true, but surely you know there must be consequences for your actions, Martin. You were caught a second time with brandy and a woman in your room at Eton, and your aunt has been completely unable to steer you back on track.” James turned away again. “You will have no increases in your allowance for the rest of the year, nor will you be permitted to leave Wentworth until I deem it appropriate.”

  Martin frowned. “You’re going to lock me up?”

  “Nothing quite so dramatic as that. I will hire a private tutor so you can continue your studies, and when I am convinced you’ve turned a corner, I’ll consider your wishes. Until then, I suggest that you take a liking to the country air.”

  Martin tipped his head back and groaned. “This is dashed cruel of you, James.”

  James whirled around to face him. “Cruel of me? Would you prefer I take a stick to you instead? Or hold your hand over a burning candle until you screamed an apology and promised never to do it again?”

  Martin’s lips fell open with astonishment and understanding, for he knew the tales. Quietly, he said, “No, James.” Then he straightened his shoulders. “May I go now?”

  “Yes. You’re welcome to join the guests at dinner if you like.”

  Martin paused at the door. “I’m rather tired after my journey. I’d prefer to have something sent up to my room.”

  “Fine. The guests will be gone by tomorrow, so I only ask that you plan to join the family tomorrow evening. I’m sure Lily and Sophia will wish to see you.”

  Martin nodded and walked out.

  James went to dress for dinner.

  Chapter 23

  James watched his wife converse with some of the guests on the other side of the ballroom. He couldn’t get over how brightly she sparkled as a hostess. She had a way with people—a radiant glow that brought smiles to the faces of everyone in the room.

  Everyone except his mother, who was sitting along the far wall with some of the other matrons, fanning herself. Not enjoying herself one bit. But that was nothing new.

  He glanced at the door when an impressive young gentleman entered, and with some surprise, he realized it was Martin. Strange, how a black suit with tails could mature a young man so instantly. Martin stood tall and confident, his white gloved hands at his sides while he surveyed the room.

  James went to greet him. “You decided to join us.” They began to walk together around the dance floor.

  “I couldn’t help it. I was trying to fashion a water bomb to explode over Lord Needham’s door when he opened it later tonight, but the music and noise was dashedly distracting. I couldn’t concentrate.”

  Appalled, James halted on the polished wood floor. Martin halted, too, shaking his head cynically. “I’m joking, James. What do you take me for?”

  Just then, Sophia approached. Her face lit up with a smile and she held her gloved hands out to greet her brother-in-law. “Martin. How wonderful to see you. I haven’t seen you since the wedding. James told me you’d returned. I’m so pleased you decided to join us.”

  Martin’s cheeks flushed at the warm welcome as Sophia looped her arm through his and walked beside him.

  “How was your journey?” she asked. “The train trip wasn’t too tedious, I hope?”

  Martin described how tedious it was, in fact, and Sophia agreed with everything he said, nodding and telling her own little stories about similar experiences. Before long, Martin was smiling and laughing, and James wondered how it was possible he could have been so blessed to have found such a wife, who was not only obscenely rich but brilliantly charming. A woman who could create miracles—like making his cynical younger brother smile.

  They continued to walk together around the perimeter of the room.

  “There are a few single young ladies here,” Sophia said. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

  “That would be splendid,” Martin replied.

  They found a group at the far corner of the ballroom. They all smiled at Sophia, unable to take their eyes off her while she engaged them in some light pleasantries, and James realized that the whole world seemed to be enchanted by his beautiful wife.

  “Lady Beecham,” Sophia said, “may I present my brother-in-law, Lord Martin Langdon? Martin, this is Lady Beecham and her daughter, Lady Emma Crosby.” Martin bowed cordially, then requested the next spot on Lady Emma’s card. When the music began, he escorted her onto the floor.

  “You are a remarkable woman,” James whispered to Sophia, as they ventured off to steal a few minutes alone together outside on the balcony. They found an empty corner near a potted baby elm. It was a warm evening for October, without a hint of a breeze. An autumn fragrance of freshly fallen leaves floated in the air.

  “How so?” she replied flirtatiously. “And spare none of the details.”

  He grinned. “You make people feel appreciated and esteemed, as if you have been waiting all day just to talk to them. Everyone adores you.”

  Sophia rested her graceful hands on the balustrade and smiled modestly. “Me? An American? Who would ever have thought?”

  He covered her hand with his own. “That’s sadly true, my darling, but you have won everyone over. You have conquered England.”

  She laughed. “Oh, James, I never meant to conquer anything, only to find happiness.”

  “And have you?” He was ardently surprised at his desire to know her answer, for he had never intended to care one way or another if she was happy. He hadn’t wanted to feel anything where she was concerned. Yet, he had found joy with his wife these past few weeks. He would not wish to give it up.

  Sophia laid her warm palm on his cheek. “Yes. I have never been happier. I am pleased that we have been able to enjoy each other.”

  Enjoy. He remembered using that word a month ago—the night before he left for London without saying good-bye to Sophia. He had told her there was nothing wrong with enjoying each other, but that he’d never intended to love her.

  She, in turn, had claimed that she loved him. He had not believed her that night. He had not thought it possible. Love could not be so easy to feel, nor could it advance so quickly. He had been certain she’d married him for his title.

  Yet, this rapture he felt now as he gazed into her eyes.... It had come upon him like a great tidal wave, the force of it compounding with every night spent in her arms and every morning he woke to the glorious warmth of her sweet company beside him.

  Was this love?

  If it was, when had it begun? The first time he’d seen her in London? Had it been growing and deepening all this time?

  He remembered a night not so l
ong ago in his bedchamber, when she’d asked him questions about his childhood. He had made love to her afterward and a small door inside him had creaked open. Perhaps that had been the turning point. He had felt an unfamiliar tenderness that night, and because he had not banished it, it had grown into something more.

  “You were very good with Martin, just now.” He raised her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it. “I appreciate that, Sophia. Thank you.”

  “You have nothing to thank me for,” she replied. “I was truly happy to see him. I hope he will know how much we care about him, James, and that we genuinely want him to stay.”

  James felt a tremor of sentimental emotion deep down inside himself. Completely enraptured, he stared at his wife. “I’ve never known anyone like you, Sophia. No one has ever been so willing and unafraid to express their affections.”

  She gazed directly into his eyes. “Perhaps you should try it sometime.”

  He basked in her warmth and beauty, then leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. It was the only way he could express how he felt at that moment, for he wasn’t sure he understood it enough to articulate.

  Later that night, he went to her room. Sophia was sitting by a roaring fire, waiting for him.

  As he approached and she stood up to walk into his open arms, he knew without a shadow of a doubt, that the tidal wave had crashed upon his shore.

  This, God help him, was love.

  Late the next morning, Sophia looked out her window and saw Monsieur Billaud heading toward the gardens with a large group of ladies and a few of the husbands.

  If only she had been able to squeeze some information out of him, or a clue about his intentions, when she went walking with him the previous day. He had said nothing the least bit incriminating, which continued to bother Sophia, for what kind of blackmailer had no secret plots? Perhaps he was not as dangerous as Marion believed. Or maybe he was more so.