by Jane Goodger
“Do you truly dislike dancing then?” he asked, surprised that any young girl would.
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I actually adore dancing and parties. I disliked the idea that they didn’t truly want to dance with me. They much rather would have preferred to dance with my father’s bank account.”
He would have laughed if she hadn’t looked so very serious. “So, you felt sorry for yourself. And I imagine you told yourself that you should not, because a hundred girls, a thousand, would have taken your place in a second.”
She looked at him as if surprised he would have even the smallest understanding of how she felt.
“It is the curse of the privileged,” he explained. “Don’t you think that everyone in this room has met eyes with some poor beggar on the street and felt guilty that we thanked God we were not that beggar?”
“That is exactly how I feel. But I think you are far too charitable with the others. I don’t think they give a single thought to anyone outside their small circle. And if they do, it’s to throw money at it to make themselves advance only in the eyes of their peers. Or to say it is the beggars’ own fault that they are in such a situation.”
Rand examined her solemn face as she watched the others in the ballroom and couldn’t help wondering if anyone else knew how very intelligent she was. “You are quite cynical for one so young,” he said.
“I do try not to be,” she said, laughing a bit. “I wish I were more like Maggie. She’s never morose about anything. Or angry or bitter. I must be growing quite tiresome to you.”
“I cannot take another minute of your company,” he said, and laughed when she looked as if she believed him. “I see that hope springs eternal in your soul.”
“You can be quite awful,” she said with mock sternness. The orchestra began playing the first waltz and he gallantly held out his arm.
“I believe this is our dance, Miss Cummings,” he said formally.
“And all the other waltzes?”
“I don’t think I could bear to see you in another man’s arms,” he said lightly, and an uneasy feeling hit him that what he said was all too true.
Edward decided after the first dance with Miss Pierce, that he would make it his mission to crack through her happy facade before he left with Rand on their travels. For some reason, he found provoking the girl remarkably amusing. She chattered incessantly about nothing, something that normally would have bored him into a coma. But she had a way of observing others’ idiosyncrasies that had him laughing more than he had in years.
“There’s Mr. Belmont,” she said, tilting her head in the direction of a handsome man talking to Elizabeth’s mother. “He’s terribly infatuated with Elizabeth’s mother and doesn’t leave much secret about it. He lives alone above his stables and treats his horses better than most humans. I sometimes skip over there when I’m hungry and gnaw on some of the fresh vegetables he stores there for his mounts.”
Edward raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“I can see you think I’m lying, but the tastiest carrot I’ve ever had was pilfered from his horse’s bin.”
Edward looked down at her as if she were quite mad. “If you are that desperate for food, I can arrange to have carrots delivered to your door.”
She smiled impishly up at him. “I was five and being punished for not eating my lunch. I can’t remember what it was, but I’m certain it was something very objectionable. We went to visit Mr. Belmont and his horses that afternoon and I was quite starving. I was a plump little thing, you see.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, just to watch her reaction. She did not disappoint him. She laughed.
“You are overly fond of trying to antagonize me, are you not? Well, I can say for a fact that I will not allow it.”
He got the most wicked idea then, one he knew he would follow through on because if there was one thing about him, it was that he was often unable to stop his wicked impulses. “These balls are unbearably warm. I’m afraid I long for the cool English countryside. Shall we walk about the garden?”
“Let me ask my mother, first,” she said primly.
When she returned, clearly holding in a bubble of laughter, he placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “What has you so giddy?”
“Oh, my poor, poor mother. I’m afraid we have her nearly in a swoon of happy delirium. She practically pushed me toward you. I think she is the one who will need a new gown to mend a broken heart when you leave, not me!”
“We have her fooled well, have we?”
“Completely, poor girl. I suppose I’ll have to make it up to her by marrying one of those onerous Wright brothers,” she said, laughing.
Edward didn’t think her jest was funny. Certainly Maggie could do better than those rowdy boys, whose admittance into society was dictated only by their stepmother’s great social status. He simply did not understand these Americans and their strange rules of status. England had a wonderful order. One knew where one belonged, which was an extremely comforting thing. Members of the peerage married members of the peerage. At least that is how it used to be until things became disastrously tied to economics. He had a sudden recognition of how Rand must feel, throwing away generations of tradition in an ironic mission to save his legacy.
“Surely you can do better,” he said, feeling anger for her.
“I don’t know if I care to,” she said lightly.
He couldn’t see her eyes so could not determine whether she was jesting or not. He couldn’t tell from her tone, from her body, from the way she held her head. It was damned irritating not to be able to read her. As an officer, he’d made a study of men—and women—to see if they were being completely honest in their words. He’d gotten quite adept at ferreting out transgressors simply by asking a few simple questions. “So you truly don’t care who you marry?”
“It seems to end the same way no matter if it’s a love match or a business arrangement. Which is why, as I’ve told you, I haven’t any interest in marriage at all.”
“And how is it that all marriages end?”
“Badly. I suppose there are a few old couples out there still holding hands and enjoying one another’s company. If they are out there, they certainly aren’t members of the Four Hundred.”
“What, precisely, is your ‘Four Hundred’?” Edward asked, steering Maggie down a shadowed path lined with sweet-smelling beach roses, whose incessant blooms perfumed the air from May to October.
“It’s a made-up list of names of prominent people,” she said. “As far as I can tell, it’s a list of people with a lot of money or great connections. It is only my friendship with Miss Cummings that has our family skating on the fringes of society, for we are definitely not on that list.”
“What do you think of the list?” he asked, trying to provoke her.
“I really don’t think of it at all,” she said, turning to smile at him.
It struck him that the more she smiled, the more she was lying, and he thought he’d test his theory. “I’m going to kiss you as soon as we are alone,” he said matter-of-factly.
Maggie stumbled the tiniest bit before recovering, clinging to his arm to stop herself from tumbling to the ground. “What?”
He almost laughed at her expression, which she hadn’t managed at all to school into a smile. “I said, I’m going to kiss you.” He looked casually around, then, before she could utter a single word or bring her panicked facade into a false smile, he kissed her, and God above knew the moment his lips touched her soft, pliant ones, that he wouldn’t be able to stop with just one. She let out a small sound that might have been a protest or might have been surrender, but he didn’t care. He found he liked Maggie just as much when she was talking as when she was not. And not talking at the moment seemed infinitely better.
Slowly, he drew back and gazed down at her upturned face. “There,” he said softly. “There is an honest expression.” She immediately scowled before she could catch herself.
He watched a
s she carefully schooled her features. “Is your experiment over?” she asked politely.
“For now.”
“That was not part of our game’s rules,” she said. “I am afraid if you continue on in this amorous way, you will be in danger of falling in love with me. I do not wish to be a party to breaking your heart when you leave for England. I must ask, then, for the sake of us both, for you to never kiss me again.”
He smiled, trying with all his might not to laugh aloud. She was, quite simply, the most delightful girl he’d ever met. “I see I’m a far better kisser than I believed,” he said, and was rewarded by the faintest flare of her nostrils.
“I’ve experienced far better,” Maggie said, smiling brightly. “And far more sincerity. If you would please escort me to the ballroom, I believe Arthur Wright has reserved one of my waltzes. Arthur is the least onerous and least boisterous of the Wrights. He fancies himself an expert on Egypt, a subject that fascinates me entirely.” Not waiting for him, she turned and walked back to the Vanderbilt mansion, with the dignity of a queen. He found himself smiling at her back as he followed her.
Elizabeth was leading the poor duke on a merry chase. Or not so merry, she thought happily. Since that first waltz, two more had sounded in the Vanderbilt’s grand ballroom, but Elizabeth had mysteriously been unavailable. Now that they were engaged, no one seemed to think it at all odd that they were not spending any time together.
“Where is the duke?” Alva asked, turning away from Oliver Belmont. The two had been talking incessantly about a home Mr. Belmont was planning to build in New York. Nothing was of more interest to Alva than construction. In fact, she had already made plans to visit the newlyweds within the first year so that she might supervise improvements to the duke’s Bellewood.
“I haven’t the slightest idea where the duke is,” Elizabeth said, stifling a yawn. “I believe I saw him going off in the direction of the billiard room.” In fact, she knew precisely where he was because she’d asked one of the Wright brothers, Albert, to show the duke the room. It was a manly haven of cigar smoke, fine brandy, and gambling. Once there, she knew it would be near impossible to get him away. The only men left in the ballroom were either too young to enter the billiard room or too old to care where they were. Or those who were completely smitten by someone, as was the case with Mr. Belmont, who continued to hover near her mother.
“I do wish Father were here,” Elizabeth said pointedly.
“Whatever for?” Alva asked, clearly understanding her daughter’s question and just as clearly pretending ignorance.
Elizabeth had no notion how her mother and father had ever gotten married. It had not been an “arrangement” as so many marriages had been, and yet it also had not been a love match. Her parents, who were so completely different, rarely agreed on anything—except, perhaps, that she should marry the Duke of Bellingham. In her memory, it truly was the only thing upon which she could remember her parents presenting a united force.
Elizabeth watched the dancers in a polka, spying Maggie dancing with Arthur Wright. She seemed to be having an uncommonly good time, she thought, feeling just a bit sorry for herself. How she wished she could be carefree and happy as Maggie always was. It seemed her friend never had a care in the world, which is what made it so easy for her to unburden herself on her friend, Elizabeth thought with a twinge of guilt. She looked around and found Maggie’s mother frowning heavily at the pair who seemed to be having such a grand time, and Elizabeth let out a giggle.
“What is so amusing?” Alva asked.
“I believe Mrs. Pierce has her heart set on the earl for Maggie and is none too happy with her at the moment,” Elizabeth said lightly.
“She’s daft if she thinks to elevate herself to that degree,” Alva said acerbically. “I will have to speak to her before Maggie makes a complete fool of herself over Lord Hollings.”
Elizabeth felt her entire body heat with anger, but she held it in check as she so often had to with her mother. “I don’t think she’s doing anything of the sort,” she said with a calm she did not feel.
“You are not to think at all. Leave the thinking to your mother and father. Maggie would be wise to do the same.”
Cheeks tinged red, Elizabeth stared unseeingly at the dancers. She would never understand her mother and she wondered when she would stop trying.
“I’m going to the powder room,” she said, because she was so used to telling her mother every move she made.
“I see His Grace. I believe he is looking for you,” she heard her mother say as she continued walking away. “Elizabeth! The duke!”
She kept walking, her fists unknowingly clenched, her teeth set, her mind raging. She walked past the powder room, down a long hallway with its gleaming marble floor, past a library, a sitting room, her eyes on a set of French doors at the very end of the dim corridor. She walked until she reached them, then stopped, hanging her head down as if walking that short distance was almost too much for her. Then, lifting her head, she pushed open the doors, letting them fly and bounce against the wall, letting them fall closed with a bang as the cool night air touched her heated cheeks.
“I can’t even relieve myself without permission,” she whispered. She found herself on a small terrace on the side of the house. It was empty of everything but a single chair set in one corner. Perfect. She sat down in it, brought her knees up and hugged them against her, not caring at the moment that she wrinkled her gown terribly. She sat there for a few minutes before setting her feet flat on the stone surface, letting out a long sigh as she smoothed her skirts. Before long, the duke would be gone on his sightseeing trip and she would shop for her trousseau and then Christmas would come and her wedding. Her wedding. A baby. A boy. Please let the first child be a boy so she could be free. Elizabeth wasn’t even certain what she would do with such freedom. She knew only that should she have a girl she would never force her to marry or even sit up straight or wash or eat with utensils. She would raise her to be wholly wild. Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed at her own thoughts.
The muted sound of a waltz came to her through the night air, as well as the closer sounds of a mosquito. She waved her hand in front of her face, grimacing. The bugs would force her inside where she would find the disapproving look of her mother and perhaps the disappointed look of the duke. She stood and gave a deep curtsy. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Bellingham,” she said, trying to match the lofty tones of a footman. It simply felt silly and wrong. She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Henry Ellsworth.”
A small furrow formed between her brows, because that didn’t sound quite right either.
“Miss Elizabeth Cummings.” She gave a wistful smile, because finally she found a title she felt comfortable with.
Chapter 11
His fiancée was avoiding him. She obviously did not care if she knew him when they married. They had spent only a small amount of time together before he’d proposed, and that had only been because her parents were sick with worry that she’d elope with a fortune hunter. He wondered if Miss Cummings were foolish enough to try to elope anyway. God help her if she did.
Rand found this entire thing humiliating enough, he refused to chase after a woman who clearly did not want to be found. For the past week, he’d attended balls, picnics, concerts, and lavish dinners and exchanged no more than a few polite sentences with the girl. It was damned irritating. What was more irritating was that he could not get her out of his mind. It was almost as if he were infatuated with her, something that had not happened in years. When he was in the Guards, women were so easily obtained it had been more sport than romance. Married women, he supposed, knew better than to fall in love with a young officer and a second son at that. He kept remembering that kiss, brief though it had been. He’d kissed a hundred women, why couldn’t he get that one less-than-satisfying one from his mind? Perhaps that was it. He’d never in his life kissed a woman who hadn’t wanted him to. It bothered him, wondering whether or not she found him lacking.<
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Rand dragged a hand through his thick hair in frustration. He did not want to marry a stranger, but it appeared he was going to. He had but one week left before he and Edward left on their small tour of America and would return to New York just days before the planned wedding. And she knew it, damn her.
Rand decided that in order for his future bride to stop avoiding him, he would have to confine her to a very small space. They were going for a ride and it was not going to be down Bellevue Avenue where everyone would be spying on them. He would drive her to Portsmouth, to the pretty New England farms that stretched out along the Atlantic. He and Edward had ridden out there not two days ago, finding it pastoral with gently rolling hills and sturdy stone walls, and reminding him very much of the Yorkshire countryside. Riding out among green fields he understood for the first time why the first settlers had dubbed the area New England.
He drove up to Sea Cliff with a rented horse and phaeton to find Elizabeth waiting for him near one of the grand classical pillars that adorned the front of the grand house. With her was a maid, for her mother was a stickler for propriety.
“A beautiful day for a ride,” Rand said, looking up to a sky filled only with puffy white clouds, the kind one could see shapes in.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, stepping forward and taking his hand to be put up into the phaeton. She smiled, but it was only polite, not welcoming and certainly not joyful. The poor maid struggled with a basket, so Rand took it from her, raising his eyebrows at its weight. He placed it on the boot, then helped the maid onto the narrow cushion seat there.
“Are we expecting company?” he asked Elizabeth lightly and stared in disbelief when he saw her cheeks blush.
“I thought that instead of riding to Portsmouth, we could go to Bailey Beach. It’s so much cooler there and I do belief Miss Pierce and Lord Hollings were planning an outing—”
