An American Duchess

by Sharon Page

  “Sebastian,” he began, but his brother jumped neatly over his leg, snatched the Château Cheval Blanc out of his hand and vaulted up the stairs.

  Nigel stalked after Sebastian, down the corridor and through the green baize door that separated the servants’ part of the house from the family’s living areas.

  He caught Sebastian in the gallery. Lit lamps bathed the length in a golden glow that shone on three hundred years of Hazelton ancestral portraits in heavy gilt frames. Rain slammed against the windows.

  He grabbed his brother’s shoulder and hauled him around. “The answer to your problem is not a marriage where the woman has no idea what she’s getting into, Sebastian. I won’t let you woo this woman under false pretenses.” He knew his brother was bitter and in pain, but that was no excuse to hurt Miss Gifford.

  Sticking a screw into the cork, Sebastian shrugged. “I need to marry her. You aren’t going to stop me, brother. Short of marrying her yourself.”

  “I could marry her myself,” he said, without emotion.

  His brother’s blond brows shot up. The cork came free with a pop. “She doesn’t want your blasted title, Langy, which is all you have to offer.”

  Even before his brother’s insult, he’d dismissed the idea. But he hated that nickname. “This woman is too clever to be fooled. Once she knows she’s been duped, she won’t meekly remain your wife. And you can’t imagine she’ll be discreet. Every sordid detail of your life will be paraded by the muckraking press.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Sebastian poured two glasses of wine and set them on the floor. “I can fool her. My blessing and my curse is that women tend to fall in love with me. It’s the irony of my life—a smile, some sweet words, my full and devoted attention, and women swoon. Zoe will be as easily convinced as the rest of them. Though it may take some time with her, as she just lost her fiancé in an aeroplane crash—”

  “What? What in the bloody hell did you just say?” Icy coldness shot through Nigel’s body.

  “That’s what precipitated the whole scheme. She needed to marry, but could not face the idea of finding a husband while her heart was broken by the loss of her fiancé. I proposed a marriage of convenience. She took me up on the offer. Obviously, this wooing business will be a slow one.” Sebastian drained half his wine and refilled the glass.

  “Her heart was broken,” Nigel repeated.

  “I guess it was. But she’ll get over it—”

  “Julia is mourning a lost fiancé.” Everything seemed strangely, eerily still. He remembered moments like this on the front. As if everything had stopped, and the only sound to be heard was the breathing of other men before they went over the top, and at the moment they did, guns would fire, shells would explode and most of those chests would stop sucking in air forever. “Have you not seen how much that loss has devastated your sister?” Nigel asked slowly.

  “Yes.”

  Nigel struggled to breathe. “Miss Gifford must be feeling just as much pain. You are taking advantage of a woman in mourning. No gentleman has the right to behave this way.”

  “Who says I aspire to be a gentleman?”

  “You are a Hazelton. You will aspire to be a gentleman if I have to beat you until you do.”

  “I won’t hurt her, damn it. I’ll be circumspect in my...affairs.”

  “If you marry her, you will be faithful to her.”

  “Bugger off.”

  The next thing Nigel knew, his gloves were split at the knuckles, his hand hurt like the blazes and Sebastian was sprawled on his arse on the floor. Had he really punched his brother?

  But like a bobbing puppet perched on a spring, Sebastian jumped to his feet. Blood dribbled down from his nose.

  Nigel didn’t move as Sebastian’s left fist hit his cheek, broke scarred skin and sent his head reeling back with the force of the impact. Absorbing that blow, he took another to his gut without complaint. Sweat poured off his brow, leaking like a stream of salt into his eyes. Ragged breaths tore at his chest.

  He didn’t lift his fists.

  He couldn’t. He had fought hand to hand, when rifles had jammed, when pistols had been spent. Once, with a twist of his arm, he had broken a man’s neck. He knew how easy it was to kill—

  He didn’t dare hit his brother again.

  Sebastian’s fist slammed into the right side of his face, twisting him around. Nigel spat blood. It landed just in front of a dainty, silvery-white satin shoe.

  “Is this what brothers do in this civilized country? Beat each other senseless beneath portraits of their ancestors?”

  “Zoe!” Panic in his green eyes, Sebastian lowered his fists. He jerked out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood, then chased after his fiancée, who had spun on her heel and was swiftly retreating across the floor.

  His brother’s foot hit the precious ’04 and sent it rolling across the parquet, spilling wine.

  Gushing and dark red, it made for a sickening sight. Nigel’s hand shook. As if he were controlled by strings, his arm started to tremble, then his shoulders and his back.

  His brother had to marry—it was the only way to avoid scandal. But right now all he could see was red.

  * * *

  “Who in blazes did this?”

  “Weren’t me. I don’t ’ave a sweetheart. My money’s on Lord Sebastian.”

  Zoe got out of bed and pushed open the drapes to see what was happening under her bedroom window. She stared down, unable to breathe. A stocky, gray-haired gardener and a young, fair-haired one stared at the lawn. On it, hundreds of petals spelled out the message: I adore you.

  “Bleeding ’eck,” the older gardener grumbled. “’Alf the flowers in the greenhouses must have been be’eaded. The dowager will want someone’s ’ead. And it’ll be one o’ ours. Not ’is.”

  Zoe let the drapes fall back and paced in her room. This was carrying the ruse too far. She would go and tell Sebastian, except he’d warned her he rarely woke before noon. She’d intended to tell him last night, until she had seen the duke and him knocking each other about.

  A knock sounded at the door, and then her maid, Callie, who had arrived in the evening, hurried in carrying a silver tray on which sat a pot of tea and a plate of what appeared to be plain toast. “They gave me this tray to bring up to you. Your mama said to keep your breakfasts small.”

  Zoe rolled her eyes. Mother had instructed her to maintain a dainty appetite. If Mother had her way, she would be measured every morning to ensure she was maintaining a sufficiently svelte figure. It wasn’t necessary. Eating was not an occupation that kept you busy. When you chewed, you had too much time to think.

  “Do you want me to open your window, miss?” Callie went to the window, opened the drapes and stopped dead. “Ooh, miss, how romantic! He’s so very much in love with you—” Callie broke off. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s not my place to say such things.”

  “It’s all right, Callie.” Zoe sat on her bed. Sebastian didn’t have to make gestures like these to fool his family...

  But what if it wasn’t just to con his family?

  Father had told her to look for an angle when a man was too smooth. Father had wanted to protect her of course, but his words had hurt. Was there any man who would overlook her trust fund and see her?

  Even with Richmond, she hadn’t been sure. She’d never told him where she’d come from. Men might claim they would love you even if you had grown up barefoot in a dirt-floor shack, but she’d never wanted to put one to the test.

  Could Sebastian be falling in love with her?

  She didn’t want love anymore. She’d told Langford she wanted to live—that she had an obligation to do it, and she believed she did. She just didn’t want to risk her heart ever again.

  “I must get dressed, Callie.”

  In the d
rawing room Julia had approached her and whispered, “I can go riding in the morning, before my meeting. Please say you will. I should like to give you a tour of Brideswell.”

  * * *

  Nigel sat at the head of the dining table, a cup of coffee in his hand. A newssheet was propped in front of him so he could hide his bruises behind it.

  Last night it had taken a long time to gain control over his body and the strange ways it betrayed him: the trembling and sweating. The raw, nonsensical panic. The nightmares.

  Maybe he was weak and mad, because why else was he such a physical wreck? But he would be damned if anyone else would know about it. Nigel knew what happened to men who were diagnosed with shell shock. The hell that was inflicted on them to “cure” them.

  Heels clicked on the stone tiles of the hall outside the door, a hint of exotic perfume assailed him and he had just pushed to his feet when Zoe Gifford strode into the dining room, lit by sunlight pouring in the two-story windows.

  She was wearing trousers. Beige trousers, tall leather boots and a trim-fitting leather jacket that nipped into her waist and swelled out around her bosom.

  Miss Gifford was not fashionably flat-chested.

  But he should not be looking at her curves. “Good morning, Miss Gifford,” he grunted. He intended to skirt around her and escape. He assumed she had as little desire to speak to him as he did with her.

  She stood in his path, hand on her hip, barring his way while his coffee cup burned against his palm.

  “You will soon learn that your brother denuded half the flowers in your greenhouses, Your Grace,” she said, in her firm, husky American voice. “The gardeners had nothing to do with it. They’d better not be punished. I won’t stand for men being wrongfully abused, simply because one group of people considers them to be of a lower class.”

  Could they not spend a moment together without an argument ensuing? He had not even finished his coffee. “I assure you, I do not punish either blindly or unjustly—” Then her words filtered in. “For what purpose did my brother do this?”

  “Something pretty foolish,” she began. Then she peered at his face, a gesture that made him step back and twist away from her. “You have a stunning set of bruises, Your Grace.”

  “And you are dressed like...like a gardener.”

  “I often wear trousers when I’m tinkering with an airplane engine. Or riding.”

  He had started to walk away, but he found his steps slowing. Last night, she’d been glossy and beautiful, with scarlet lips and a glimmering silver dress. “You tinker with aeroplane engines? In the grease and oil?”

  “That’s what an engine requires to run smoothly.”

  He frowned. “Isn’t that what mechanics are for?”

  She walked with smooth, confident strides to the buffet and picked up a plate. Taking the silver lid off the eggs, she glanced at him. “I like to know how my plane is going to perform when I’m betting my life on her. Have you never fiddled with an engine?”

  He wouldn’t know where to begin. That was why they had chauffeurs. In houses where they had electrical generators, a man was employed full-time to wrangle with the contraptions. Yet now Nigel hated admitting he did not tinker. “No,” he said abruptly. He had cursed any number of seized machine guns and bogged-down tanks, but he had not the skill to deal with the blasted things.

  Miss Gifford bent to spear a sausage, and her trousers pulled snugly against her derriere.

  Nigel was equally speared with an image of how she would look, bent over an engine, her heart-shaped bottom the only thing visible beneath the hood.

  “I could teach you,” she said.

  He had the distinct impression she was making an attempt to scare him away. Dukes did not scare easily. “Thank you, Miss Gifford. I would love the opportunity to have you teach me how to tinker. Let me know when you would find it convenient to begin.”

  With that, he tossed back a slug of coffee. Too hot, damn it, but he refused to flinch as he swallowed. Then he left the breakfast room, dignity intact.

  * * *

  Zoe approached the stables prepared to shock first, then defend herself. It was how she negotiated New York society, and her first night at Brideswell had shown her that stuffy English society behaved in the exact same way.

  She could refrain from being shocking. But since she would never fit in and it would hurt too much to try and fail, she was determined to stand out.

  Lady Julia was already atop a black Arabian mare. Her eyes widened, but before Zoe could speak, Lady Julia smoothed her pretty features into an expression of elegant calm. Perched in a side saddle, Julia wore a long skirt of blue velvet, a snug jacket, white silk at her throat, a black hat and veil on her sleek jet-black hair. Smiling politely, she said, “Good morning, Miss Gifford. Your trousers look so much more comfortable and easy for riding.”

  Zoe hadn’t expected this. Unflappable manners. “Thank you. I do find them that way.”

  “O’Malley,” Lady Julia called, “you will have to change Miss Gifford’s saddle.”

  “Wot’s wrong with the one that’s on Daisy, m’lady?” A broad-shouldered, redheaded man emerged from the stable, leading a pure white mare by the bridle.

  He stared at Zoe as if Lady Godiva herself had strolled down nude to select a horse. “Trousers? Ladies use the side saddle, miss.”

  “I would prefer not to since I am not wearing skirts.”

  The groom gave a desperate look to Lady Julia. “Don’t know if this is right, m’lady.”

  “It’s a saddle,” Zoe pointed out firmly. “Hardly the end of civilization as we know it. I am sorry if it is additional work, but in the future, you will know how to saddle my horse.”

  “Yes, O’Malley. Let’s change the saddle and be done with it.”

  Lady Julia’s polished, smooth tones gave the final word. The groom unbuckled the saddle on the mare and carried it back to the tack room, muttering under his breath all the while. He continued to mutter while fastening an English saddle intended for trouser-wearing gentlemen.

  The servants were every bit as supercilious and snobby as the duke and the dowager. Maybe more so.

  “Let’s go, shall we?” Lady Julia flicked her reins.

  Zoe followed. They set off along the gravel path together, and she had her first view of Brideswell that was not obscured by rain.

  The lawns stretched endlessly, a carpet of lush green and bluebells, dotted here and there with stone benches and statues. In the distance, water rippled on a small lake. Deer grazed at the edge of a forest, and in the distance, the spires of a church struggled to be noticed over the trees.

  Her father, Thaddeus Gifford, had built his own country house outside New York. He’d filled it with everything she could see around Brideswell, as if he’d asked a duke to give an inventory for his grounds. But these statues were evidently much, much older than her father’s.

  “I am being derelict in my duty,” Lady Julia said. “I promised you a tour. You look as though you’re an accomplished rider, Miss Gifford. Can you take jumps?”

  Zoe liked Lady Julia. There was an air of reserve about Sebastian’s sister, but also of genuine welcome. She could count on one hand her female friends, and that made her say impulsively, “Call me Zoe, please, my lady. I rode like a fiend when I was younger, but it’s been years since I last did it. Once I learned to drive I spent most of my time in my car. Then when I learned to fly... Well, I find it dull to keep my feet on the ground now.”

  “You can fly?” Lady Julia pulled up her horse. “An aeroplane, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve seen them. Goodness, they look as if they are made of paper and string, but they are marvelous. I should be absolutely terrified to go up there—” Lady Julia broke off. Her face became as still as a pond, as colorless, too.
“No, I would never be able to do anything so brave.”

  “Lady Julia, I am certain you would. You’ve lived with your two brothers and I should think that has given you a lot of courage.” Lady Julia looked at her in surprise. Zoe’s heart sank—she’d intended the words as a joke. “If you would like to fly,” she offered, “I’d be happy to take you.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Lady Julia declared, but she bit her lip and looked up at the sky with such longing in her eyes that Zoe’s heart twisted.

  Zoe suspected Lady Julia was refusing because of some kind of social stricture. Perhaps one that said a lady couldn’t aspire to be more than a drawing-room ornament. “Wouldn’t you like to touch the clouds?”

  “You are teasing me, Miss Gifford. Clouds are just water droplets in the sky. If I tried to touch one, my hand would go right through.” She gave a graceful smile. Mother would approve of it, Zoe thought—it was the sort of smile that would never add a wrinkle to a lady’s brow.

  “Now, I promised you a tour,” Lady Julia said quickly. She pointed toward the edifice that was Brideswell, a square building of beige stone, paned windows and ironwork; with towers and spires that made it look like a castle. Zoe knew the house contained forty major rooms on the ground and first floors, along with eighty so-called lesser rooms. Gold gates were set in the outer wall, and inside them were oak doors with handles as big as her arm.

  “The house itself was built between 1560 and 1603, during the reign of Elizabeth I,” Julia said, “though it’s been added to many, many times over the years. The east wing was added in the late seventeenth century and the west wing is Georgian. Unfortunately, that made it into a bit of a dog’s breakfast. It’s why the corridors inside are an absolute maze. I shall show you the chapel later—Father built it for Mama shortly after their wedding, and it is my favorite place of the whole estate. Down there—” Lady Julia nodded toward ornate buildings made of glass “—are the greenhouses. Though the flowers within are not quite as spectacular as they were yesterday.”

  “You know about Sebastian’s message.”

  They cantered along a gravel path that wound toward large evergreen hedges, sculpted into spheres and rectangles and columns.