To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  James closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his mother’s lap. “Thank you for saying that.”

  After a short while, James rose to his feet and looked down at his mother. “The letters now, if you please. I must see them. For Lily’s sake.”

  She nodded and pointed across the room. “They are in that box over there. They are yours to do with what you must.”

  “I must meet this woman for myself,” James said to Whitby and Sophia, later in the drawing room.

  “But Madame La Roux is in Paris,” Whitby said. “Can you risk the time? What if Lily is with Pierre somewhere nearby?”

  Sophia sat forward on the sofa. “Wait—I remember the first time I mentioned Pierre to Lily. She was desperate to see Paris. Perhaps they might have gone there together. I doubt they would remain here. They would know we would look for them.”

  “That is precisely what I was thinking,” James replied. “From what Mother has told me, she made no payments to Pierre. She was always instructed to send the funds directly to Genevieve, which leads me to believe that Pierre will wish to return home to reap the rewards of his journey.”

  “But why take Lily?” Whitby asked, his tone reeling with fury. “You don’t suppose he meant to kidnap her for ransom, do you?”

  James sat forward. “It is a possibility. He might have seduced her only to lure her away. But why do that, when the blackmail was working?”

  Whitby leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together. “Maybe he truly did fancy her. But if he is a relation.... Upon my word, James, if that is the case, I would like to wring his neck.”

  “There are too many questions,” Sophia interjected, trying to calm everyone down, “and the only people with answers are Pierre and Genevieve. I believe you are right, James. We must go to Paris and speak to Genevieve in person. If nothing else, we can find out where Pierre lives and search for Lily there.”

  James held up a hand. “I did not suggest that you should come, Sophia. I intend to take Whitby. You must stay here in the event that Lily returns.”

  “But your mother will be here,” she argued, “and Martin is at the house in London, doing everything he can there. You cannot leave me behind in Yorkshire, James. You will need my help.”

  “Absolutely not,” he argued. “I cannot be sure that—”

  Whitby stood up and attempted to leave the room.

  “Sit down, Whitby,” James said forcefully. “I need you here to help me compose a plan. Perhaps, Sophia, you should go and check on Mother.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she replied. “I am a member of this family, and may I remind you that Lily has confided in me, and me alone. You will need me with you in Paris, if for no other reason than to speak the language and be there for Lily when you find her. I believe she will need a...a feminine shoulder to lean on, or cry on.”

  James stared at her for a moment. “You do seem to have an intimate rapport with her. And if things have progressed to an...”—he paused—“to an inappropriate level with Pierre, she might not wish to face me. She might bolt. It’s settled then. You will accompany us.”

  James and Whitby unfolded a map of Paris and began to make plans, while Sophia sat in silence, listening, working hard to slow her pulse. What a tremendous relief it was—that she would be going with him to Paris, not only to help search for Lily, but to find a way to mend the broken feelings between them.

  She decided she would do her best to utilize any time alone with him—to reach into his heart again, where she was sure he needed her the most.

  The waters were calm across the English Channel, but as Sophia stood alone on the deck of the ship with her gloved hands on the rail, the cold mist biting into her cheeks, she wondered if this was in fact the “calm” before a more serious storm.

  Would they find Lily in Paris?

  What if they did? What would be done?

  She turned to see James approaching, his strides long and slow and relaxed on the damp deck. He looked every inch the aristocrat. An exceptionally handsome man he was. Dressed in an expensive wool greatcoat and elegant hat, he carried himself with confidence, as if he believed without question that he would succeed in this quest to rescue his sister.

  His face was clean-shaven. He must have unpacked his razor and used it in the cabin while Sophia was on deck watching England disappear into the fog.

  His piercing, blue-eyed gaze met hers, and he came to a slow stop beside her, then faced the sea. “It’s a damp afternoon, Sophia. Would you not prefer to be belowdecks?”

  “I was craving the fresh sea air,” she replied.

  He stood beside her, watching a gull soar and swoop down near the gray water. Sophia sighed heavily.

  “You enjoy the sea,” he said.

  “I do.” She leaned out to look over the rail. “Who knows what’s down there in those dark depths? Sometimes I wish I could dive in like a mermaid and find out.”

  For a moment, he watched her. “You look at people the same way, Sophia, always wanting to know what’s beneath the surface.”

  His comment caught her off guard. She turned to gaze up at his exquisite profile, his full lips, the strong line of his jaw. “I suppose I do want to know what’s in people’s hearts,” she said. “But only if they want to show me.”

  Slowly, he brought a finger up to stroke under her chin. The caress was tender, and her heart ached with yearning. It had been far too long since they’d been alone and intimate with each other. How she wished their world was normal at this moment, so she could clear her mind of everything but the joy of his touch.

  “I have shown you very little, haven’t I?” he said softly.

  “And I have promised not to ask for more than you were willing to give,” she replied.

  He nodded with understanding and faced the sea again. Sophia faced it, too.

  “I have reconciled with my mother,” James told her. “There were things that needed to be said.”

  Sophia wondered why he was telling her this. She clung to the hope that he was trying to reveal something of his own heart to her. “That’s wonderful, James.”

  “We spoke about Genevieve, the woman my father loved—if he ever truly knew how to love—and Mother told me why, all her life, she kept the truth from me. She believed that she was never strong enough to protect me from my father, but that she had the power to protect my title and to protect me from scandal. That was her only consolation when she felt weak and ashamed of herself for what occurred in our home.”

  Sophia reached for James’s hand, raised it to her lips and kissed it. “She loved you, James. She still loves you.”

  He nodded meaningfully. “I spoke to Martin as well. I believe we have found the beginnings of a friendship. He is very much the same as I was when I was his age. He reminded me of that.”

  “I’m glad you finally found the opportunity to talk to him.”

  James shook his head. “It was not opportunity I lacked, my darling. It was understanding. Empathy. And courage. I feared things that might make me angry or feel pain, and so, I distanced myself from everyone. But you have shown me, by merely talking to me and drawing me out, how to open up to my family. Sophia, I owe you a dept of gratitude.”

  A warm glow alighted within her. If there had not been others milling about on the deck, Sophia would have wrapped her arms around James’s neck and thrown herself into his embrace. But there were others, and she was still cautious with her husband. She was learning the English way....

  “That means a great deal to me, James.”

  “I was hard on you,” he continued, “when you told me about Lily, and for that I apologize. You must understand that it was difficult to hear. Difficult to know that I had not taken adequate care of my family.”

  “It was not your fault,” she said. “You are here now, doing everything in your
power to bring your sister home, and that is all you can do. You are only human, James, and you have suffered a great deal yourself. You once told me it was not up to me to fix what was broken in your family. I shall say the same to you, now. You cannot be expected to fix everything either.”

  He touched her cheek. “You told me at home that you wanted to be accepted by my family. I came out here now to assure you that you are. We would not wish to lose you, Sophia.”

  Did he truly think he would?

  Never.

  “I don’t wish to lose you, either,” she replied.

  The ship sliced through the calm waters below, and a whistle blew from somewhere on deck.

  James gazed down at Sophia and spoke in a quiet, sultry voice. “Come now, back to the cabin with me. I’ve been without you for too long, and I am weary. I cannot bear to think about what has become of Lily. I want to feel your warmth. I need to hold you.”

  A passionate fluttering arose within her.

  He held out his hand, she placed hers in his, and followed him down the companionway.

  Whitby, James and Sophia registered in a tiny inn on the outskirts of Paris under false names, to hide their purpose in France and prevent anyone from knowing that Lily had possibly eloped to Paris with her alleged half-brother.

  After a quick meal at the inn, they hired a coach to take them to the return address on Madame La Roux’s correspondence, and the location James had for years known was her place of business. This was, however, the first time he would pass through its doors.

  The coach rattled noisily along the cobblestone streets, down narrow, twisting avenues lined with decrepit old buildings and littered with refuse. James reached for Sophia’s hand and held it tightly. If not for her, no one would have known where Lily had gone. His mother would never have told him the truth about the blackmail. He would have been lost.

  More importantly, he would not have found solace anywhere. That was Sophia’s gift to him, after all—over and above the pleasure she gave him in bed.

  Comfort. Solace. Love.

  He had learned a great deal about her these past few weeks, and he had discovered that she possessed integrity, devotion, and compassion. She would walk through fire for those she loved and thank God in heaven for making him one of the people in this world she loved with that enormous, healing heart of hers.

  He turned to look at her and she gazed raptly into his eyes.

  A thousand questions were written on her face. She deserved answers. He owed her that much, and more. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. Apologies. And promises, too.

  The coach rumbled to a halt in front of Madame La Roux’s brothel. Neither Whitby nor Sophia had voiced their concerns that Lily might have been brought there, for it did not need to be said. They all knew it was a distressing possibility.

  James moved to climb out of the coach. Whitby tried to follow, but James held him back. “Remain here with Sophia, if you will. I do not want her left alone anywhere near this place.”

  Whitby nodded and sat back.

  “Good luck, James,” Sophia said, before he closed the door behind him.

  He ascended the steps on the outside of the stone building and was admitted by a porter. James glanced around at the lavish furnishings in the front hall—a crimson carpet to match the red-and-gold wallpaper, a red velvet settee, a glittering crystal chandelier overhead. To his right, a large portrait of a nude woman lying on a riverbank hung on the wall.

  James requested a meeting with Madame La Roux, and was ushered into a back room, where he waited.

  A moment later, a brocade curtain lifted, and a slim, impeccably dressed woman appeared. Her hair was naturally golden, pulled into an elegant twist on top of her head. She wore no face paint, and her complexion was flawless, her bone structure likely the envy of any woman past twenty. She was, he had to admit, a striking beauty for her age, and not at all what he had expected.

  As soon as their eyes met, her face paled and she laid a hand over her heart. “Oh, mon Dieu.”

  Remaining silent, James made a slight bow.

  Madame La Roux collected herself and fully entered the room. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I had not expected the resemblance to be so striking. You look exactly like your father, thirty years ago. It’s your eyes…”

  “I assure you, the resemblance ends there,” he replied.

  She studied him for a moment, then went to the side table and picked up the decanter. “May I pour you a drink?”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  She turned over a glass for herself. “I hope you won’t think it rude if I take one myself.”

  Judging by the way her slender hand was shaking as she poured, he suspected she needed it.

  Genevieve took a long sip from her glass, then crossed the room to the mantelpiece. “What brings you to Paris, Your Grace?”

  “I should think, madame, that you would have been expecting me eventually.”

  She gave him a devious look. “You wanted to meet me?”

  He regarded her shrewdly. “I will admit to a certain curiosity about the woman my father married in an act of rebellion against my grandfather, but that is not why I have come.”

  “Ah, oui…your grandfather. That man was a…how do I say it? A son of a bitch. But I’m sure you must know that.”

  Odd, he thought, how a woman such as herself could exude such feminine sophistication while spouting profanities. Quite unexpectedly, he understood why his father—given his wild, defiant nature—would have been attracted to such a woman all those years ago.

  “Did you wish to know more about your father’s secret private life?” she asked with a flirtatious, teasing tone. “Did you come looking for a memento of him?”

  To his surprise, James was indeed curious about his father, but there were more important issues to discuss presently.

  “I do not have time for games, madame. I understand that you have been corresponding with my mother, the Dowager Duchess.”

  Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “Ah, oui, she is the dowager now. I heard that you took a wife. An American. She was rather famous while she was here, James, shopping for her trousseau.”

  The woman’s knowledge of Sophia infuriated him. Her use of his given name only added to the flame.

  He was through with idle pleasantries.

  “I will have you understand, madame, that you will send no more letters to Wentworth Castle. If you dare to make another request for payment or try to contact any member of my family, I will return to Paris myself and crush you. Do you take my meaning?”

  Her shoulders heaved with a sigh. “What makes you think I have requested any kind of payment? I swear,” she said casually, “I have not thought of your family since...almost forever.”

  “Stop the lies, Genevieve.” He strode forward and tore the opal pendant from her neck. “I recognize this, and I will return it to its proper owner.”

  With a look of shock and horror, Genevieve clutched at her throat. “How dare you!”

  “How dare you, madame. Your secret is out, and there will be no more of it.”

  He could see her bosom heaving with indignation, a look of defeat finding its way into her eyes, but James was not yet finished. “And now, madame, you will tell me where I can find Pierre Billaud.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “I believe you do.”

  She called out to someone. “Armand! Come here!”

  A hulking Frenchman in a suit came bursting into the room. James reached into his coat and withdrew a pistol. He aimed it at the man’s chest. “You will remain outside the door, sir, until I am through with your employer.” The man held firm, so James withdrew a second pistol and pointed it at Genevieve. “Or I swear I will shoot you both.”

  After a tense few seconds, Genevieve
waved her servant away.

  James lowered both pistols but kept his finger on the trigger of one. “I need an address.”

  “Why? He is nothing to you.”

  “Nothing? The man you claim is your son? The man who is allegedly my half-brother and rightful heir to my title? He means a great deal to me, madame, and I will have one of two things. A birth certificate, or his address. Now.” He raised the pistol again to point at her heart.

  Genevieve stared at the pistol and considered her options. “I don’t have a birth certificate to show you, but that does not prove or disprove anything.”

  James raised the pistol higher to point at her face.

  “All right, all right,” she said, holding a hand up. “He lives on rue Cuvier. But good luck finding him. I haven’t heard from him since he left Paris. For all I know, he’s still in England.”

  James turned to leave, but Genevieve called after him. “You’re wrong about something, you know! The resemblance doesn’t end with the way you look. You’re just like your father, in every way!”

  James pushed through the front door and descended the front steps. He did not look back.

  Twenty minutes later, the coach pulled up in front of a shabby, broken-down boardinghouse across the city.

  “Good heavens,” Sophia said, looking out the window of the coach.

  Whitby slid across the seat. “I will not stay behind this time, James, not if there’s a chance Lily is in that detestable place with that worm. We will both come with you, Sophia and I.”

  “Yes,” James replied. “If she is there, she might require some convincing to leave with us, especially if she fancies herself in love with that worm.”

  Whitby made a wry face.

  They all stepped out of the coach and entered the boardinghouse.

  “Madame La Roux said she has not heard from Pierre since he left for England,” James said. “I am not hopeful.”