by Sharon Page
“I think it was Isobel,” she admitted. “She was with me when I talked to Reverend Wesley about the vows.”
“She scribbled in a book of scripture.”
“She doesn’t agree that women are property of men. She’s a modern girl.” Zoe cocked her head. “You had better not punish her. I won’t allow it.”
“Ah, you want me to obey you.”
She was about to protest, but he held up his hand. “I am teasing, Zoe. I will not punish her.”
“Thank you.”
“But I will talk to her,” he continued. “It was still wrong to deface the reverend’s property.”
Zoe giggled. That, he hadn’t expected. Then she laughed. “Nigel, I love you. When you talk like that it makes me want to—”
She slid across the seat and pressed against him, crushing the yards of tulle in her dress, and she kissed him. As passionately as she could.
Hungrily, he kissed her back. He wanted to give her the kiss of a lifetime.
He heard applause from the people lining the road and he drew back. He could not do this—kiss with abandon so publicly.
Zoe waved, bubbling with joy. To him, she said, happily, “I can’t wait until our honeymoon. The time at our wedding breakfast is going to be agony, you know, waiting until we can get away. I am so excited to see Monte Carlo.”
Nigel cleared his throat. Guilt was surging again, and he couldn’t seem to forget all the young men he’d known who had died—who had wives and sweethearts and had given up their chances for love. “Zoe, I cannot go to Monte Carlo. I cannot face traveling across France. It is too filled with memories for me. I will not leave Britain, Zoe. I cannot. Instead, we will go north, to my hunting seat.”
* * *
“Where will you be taking your honeymoon? The south of France is a popular choice. Hot, of course, but to be on the coast of the Mediterranean—quite lovely.” Knocking back champagne, the tall, thin countess had cornered Zoe. Zoe wanted to find Nigel, and this irritating woman wanted to find her soft underbelly and stick a fork in it.
Julia looked panicked. A lot of people had heard the countess’s carrying voice. “There are lots of lovely places one would want to go.”
“Nothing compares to the south of France. I adore Monte. Anywhere else would be uncivilized.”
Mother had told her to go to Monte Carlo or Nice for their honeymoon and she’d thought it would be fun. But Nigel refused to leave Britain and hadn’t told her until they were already wed.
It hurt to have a decision made without including her. But she wasn’t going to give Lady Chawley-Lampkin, or Crawfish-Lumpy—whatever her name was—the satisfaction of knowing she was unhappy. “His Grace did not want to return to France,” Zoe said coolly. “Not so soon after the War. He feared it would dredge up unpleasant memories and he chose to remain on British soil.”
“Pshaw. You should have insisted, my dear.”
“I didn’t want to make the duke unhappy.” And what business was it of this woman’s?
Was it really true that Nigel had been afraid his shell shock would affect him at the wedding? And why would it—if the day really was a happy one?
She’d never dreamed she would feel unsure on her wedding day.
Nigel said he loved her. She loved him. It was enough.
Lady Lumpfish was still speaking. “I thought perhaps the arrangements would have already been made,” she said in a cutting tone. “The duke’s brother is a frequent visitor to Nice and Monte—it’s well-known Lord Sebastian loves the tables.”
So that was what this was about. A chance to claw at her about shifting from Sebastian to Nigel.
“I wondered if the duke simply decided to pick up where his brother left off,” the countess continued. “Though I suppose you felt you could do better.”
“Who cares where you go?” Zoe said coldly. “I thought honeymoons were supposed to be spent indoors. Even in the south of France, we’d never see more than the bedroom.”
Food slid off Lady Chawley-Sourpuss’s plate and landed with a squish on the woman’s shoes.
Zoe smiled and walked away. Couldn’t they leave yet? Toasts had been made. The good wishes had long vanished, and now, fuelled by Brideswell’s champagne, the women were showing their claws.
A hand touched her arm. Zoe hoped it was Nigel’s, but Julia stood there, lovely in her pale blue bridesmaid’s dress, the scalloped hem dancing around her slim legs.
“Can I hug you?” Julia breathed.
Zoe felt her nerves ease their grip. “Of course.”
They embraced. “You should have caught the bouquet,” Zoe said. “I tried to make sure you got it. Since I’m quite sure you are going to be the next one to wed.”
Julia blushed. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of such a thing if it wasn’t for you. I would have been locked away in Brideswell, still deeply unhappy. Anyway, I did try for the bouquet, but Lady Chawley-Lampkin’s daughter elbowed me out of the way. Look—there is Nigel.”
Julia pointed down the lawn. Zoe saw Nigel with his nephews. He saw her and began to run toward her.
Zoe’s heart stuttered. Nigel wore a smile—a brilliant smile of joy. Seeing her had made him smile.
“I haven’t seen him this happy since before the War,” Julia said. “You have changed him, and I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.”
It was proof a modern, determined American girl could accomplish anything. Including winning the man she loved.
14
WEDDING NIGHT
Near Berwick-Upon-Tweed
“My little girl, a duchess!”
Zoe had barely got into her mother’s room when she was snared in Mother’s perfumed embrace. Mother beamed. Zoe wasn’t sure if it was happiness—or the champagne at the reception.
“Well, we did it, dear. I’m so very happy.”
“Happy for me for marrying the man I love.”
Mother rolled her large violet-blue eyes. “Happy for you for securing your future.” She lowered her voice to a determined whisper. “I remember what it was like to have an empty larder, a dirt floor and the despair of not knowing where the next meal would come from. I vowed you would have so much more.”
“Mother, I grew up that way.”
Mother waved logic away. “You must barely remember it. Your children will never know that kind of a life, Zoe. And neither will you or I. Ever again.” Mother’s expressive eyes narrowed. “And you must keep our past quiet, Zoe.”
“We don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”
“You remember what things were like when we first came to New York. Do not give anyone anything that can be used as ammunition.”
Mother let her go and strode back to the door that led to her dressing room. From the doorway, she wagged her finger at someone in the room. “Now, be careful with those dinner gowns. Have you no idea how to pack a trunk? Those things are the height of fashion in New York and I don’t want them ruined.”
Zoe peeked around the corner. Two trunks stood open, and Mary, Mother’s maid, was rushing to and fro, trying to transfer Mother’s dozens of outfits to the cases.
“Mother, are you leaving already?” Of course she would be, Zoe realized. She must be returning to New York. Silly, but she’d expected her mother to be here when she returned.
Homesickness washed over her with such strength she could barely stand.
She was twenty. For all her bravado, she’d never been on her own before.
She was married. She was crazy about Nigel, but when she thought about it, she really barely knew him. Her husband was still a stranger.
“Of course we are leaving, dear. I have been told the train leaves at three o’clock. Now, darling, I’d love to talk, but my maid has packed my trunks all wrong and they have to be redo
ne in the next hour, and that’s not going to happen unless I’m standing over them.”
“Your train leaves at the same time as mine?” It meant she could have one very last hug with Mother before they went separate ways: Mother to Southampton to sail home, and her to the north with Nigel.
“It’s the same train, darling. Of course it leaves at the same time.”
Then she understood. “Mother! You are not thinking to come on our honeymoon?”
“Zoe, a lady does not raise her voice.”
“Stop trying to act like the dowager.” Was the dowager still the dowager now that she was the duchess? Zoe had no idea. And it didn’t matter. “Mothers do not accompany daughters on their honeymoons.”
“They do.” Her mother lifted her fingers to count the instances.
“No! I’ve heard the stories. Every single time the bride was miserable.”
Mother’s expression was pained. “Then where am I to go? I doubt I’ll be welcome here, if you aren’t here.”
“Go back to New York. With Uncle Hiram.”
Mother looked obstinate. “If I’m alone with Hiram, he will harp on that check. Endlessly. I can’t face a transatlantic voyage with Hiram.”
Now she could understand Mother’s fear. While Mother had caused her own disaster, she understood. But she could not have Annabelle Gifford on her honeymoon. She couldn’t do the things she wanted to do with Nigel with Mother hanging around.
“I will speak to Nigel’s mother. I see no reason you couldn’t stay longer and let Hiram travel ahead of you. Remember, Mother, if you go back, you can crow to every leader of Manhattan society that I am now a duchess. Brag about the wedding. Rub it in a little.”
Mother did look happier. But she feigned shock. “We do not brag, Zoe.”
“You brag all the time.”
“That is not bragging. There is nothing wrong with informing people of our family’s accomplishments.”
Zoe rolled her eyes.
“But if I go back to New York, what will you do? You’re going to the ends of the earth for this honeymoon. You’ll be bored stiff, honey.”
“Mother, I really don’t think so.”
* * *
On the train, Nigel read the newspaper while Zoe watched the countryside go by. It was warm in the compartment. Rain started outside, making the sky dark, and Zoe fell asleep, curled up against Nigel. She awoke as the train pulled into a station—gray clouds and showers made it almost like night. They hurried to a car and set off north.
“Finally,” Zoe murmured. “I can kiss you.”
Nigel gave her one kiss—a quick, proper one. Then he drew back with a quick glance toward the chauffeur. “Wait until we arrive,” he said softly.
Zoe pressed up against the glass, but couldn’t see into the dark of early evening and the windswept sheets of rain. Finally, the car stopped before a house. She could barely make out stone walls, a tall roof and pinpoint spots of lights burning here and there behind windows. They had passed tall, craggy hills and black lakes. Lightning forked through the sky now and thunder boomed so loud it seemed to rock the car.
“Are we in Transylvania?” Pressing her face to the window of the car, she peered out.
“Still in England,” Nigel said. “We are near Berwick-Upon-Tweed, the northernmost village in the country.”
The northernmost place? It was even more rain drenched than anywhere else she’d seen in England. Zoe pushed down a sense of disappointment. If Nigel feared he would remember the War if he stepped on French soil, she didn’t want him to go through such pain.
The car door opened and a footman in livery stood by the door, holding an enormous black umbrella. Zoe slid out, and as Nigel joined her, she turned to him, got on her tiptoes and whispered, “Why don’t we go right upstairs to bed?”
She said it quietly so only he would hear.
“Now?” Nigel frowned. “It’s dinnertime.”
“You’re joking, right?” She was so frustrated. She rested her hands on his broad shoulder. She moved so close her lips brushed his ear and said, “Isn’t it glorious to think we can make love whenever we want? It’s no sin. No scandal. And I’d like to start now.”
His footman stared impassively ahead.
“That would be impossible,” Nigel said in a low voice.
“How can it be impossible?” How could she be the only one eager to go to bed?
“Quiet, Zoe. We cannot just run in the door and run upstairs to bed.” He gazed at her as if it were obvious.
“I don’t see why not.”
“The staff will be presented to you. We will be required to change for dinner. Cook will want to display her prowess to you tonight. After dinner—after coffee in the drawing room—we will be able to slip away.”
He was being staid and annoying. She felt a funny kind of panic. She’d thought once they were married and the wedding was over, and they were free of duty, he would be that man who’d made love to her in an airplane again.
“I don’t care about any of that. Can’t we just go upstairs then get something sent up if we get hungry later? Like room service?”
“The staff would be offended,” he said softly. “And Cook does not do...room service.”
“Have you forgotten what you bargained for when you married me? Remember the airplane?” Nigel really could drive her mad. No man had ever annoyed her like this.
Zoe slipped out of her coat and stepped out from the shelter of the umbrella. In only a few moments, she was soaked. Her dress clung to her. It stuck to her bosom, held up by her bra, stuck to her stomach, her bottom and her legs.
“What in blazes?” Nigel growled. He grabbed the umbrella from his footman. Zoe giggled as she saw that both Nigel and the servant’s sangfroid had shattered like glass.
Nigel stormed toward her and held the umbrella over her head. She brushed her wet bob back from her face and gazed innocently at him.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, but quietly, so the footman wouldn’t hear.
“Now I have to go up to my bedroom and take off all my clothes to change into dry ones for dinner.” It was summer, June, but the rain was cold. Still, she would be damned before she’d shiver. “It’s up to you if you want to join me.”
The footman took the umbrella from Nigel. Her husband put his coat around her. “I will never forget the aeroplane, Zoe,” he said softly. “Both times we were in it together.”
* * *
He didn’t come upstairs. So Zoe gave in, changed into a silk dress of pale blue, with strings of beads and a feathered headpiece.
She’d dreamed of a honeymoon spent in bed. Of waking up with Nigel, utterly naked between tangled sheets. Of nibbling strawberries and cream from a tray, drinking champagne, then rolling on the bed and making love all over again.
But at this moment, she didn’t know where her husband was.
In his deep, gorgeous voice, he’d told her he would never forget the time they’d flown in her airplane. And the time they made love. She had quivered with desire as his husky voice flowed over her. As she breathed in his scent imbued in his warm coat.
But he hadn’t taken up her invitation!
He wasn’t in his bedroom—she’d checked. He’d dressed for dinner apparently after she’d given up on him and decided to have a warm bath. There was no plumbing at this house either. Buckets of steaming water had been brought up from the kitchen. She’d felt sympathy and had them stop with just enough water to make herself wet and wash her hair.
She ended up wandering down the same large corridor twice. Even though this house wasn’t as large as Brideswell, it was still enormous. When he had called it a “hunting seat” she had pictured something small. This was a mansion. And with the rain and few lamps lit, it was a dark and rather gloomy one.
> “Are you lost, Your Grace?” A woman materialized from the shadows. “I am the housekeeper here, Mrs. Folliat.”
“I am looking for the drawing room. And my husband,” Zoe said. She was certain there was already talk about her downstairs. She had waved at the servants gathered in the foyer and announced, “Lovely to see you all gathered here. I’ve gotten wet and I would love a bath.” She’d swept upstairs—and paused at the landing. “Would someone show me which bedroom is mine?”
No doubt she had scandalized the staff. But they would be, no matter what. She wasn’t going to be what they would expect in a proper duchess. So she might as well get them accustomed to it.
Mrs. Folliat looked as if she’d sunk her teeth right into a lemon. But she gave directions and Zoe sashayed into the drawing room moments later.
Nigel was already there. Along with a tray of drinks—and a footman.
“You should have brought a wrap,” Nigel said. “It gets chilly in the dining room.”
“I wouldn’t have expected anything else.” She sipped a gin cocktail. “How many houses do you have?” She’d known true poverty in her childhood. And she couldn’t help but point out, “Funny what passes for hard times in different parts of the world.”
“We keep it for shooting. It and the London house are the last of our houses besides Brideswell. The others are long gone. I know I really should have sold this house, but my mother loves it dearly. As does Grandmama. After my brother’s passing, I did not have the heart to get rid of this house.”
She had been flip. But she saw pain in his eyes and felt guilty. He did that to her—goaded her to say something sharp, and then he showed vulnerability, made her heart ache and made her feel terrible for teasing him.
“You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“No. Thank you, Zoe.”
“Don’t thank me.” She smiled wickedly. “But how about you show your gratitude after dinner?”
