by Eloisa James
But now she understood that the old saying had come true: the third time really was the charm.
She couldn’t imagine changing her mind about Cedric. He was as handsome as her second fiancé, Dermot Popplewell, but he was a good man, which was far more important than a pleasing profile. Directly after meeting him last month, she had learned that Cedric was instrumental in raising funds for a charity hospital being built in Spitalfields, in East London.
What’s more, he was unfailingly gracious. He noted her Americanisms but never scolded her for them. Every word he uttered was eloquent. By contrast, after her first fiancé, Bertie, proposed, he’d told her that she was “as pretty as a red wagon.”
A red wagon! She should have known from that very moment he was unsuitable, but she’d been infatuated.
Cedric, however, had just compared her to a “darling bud of May.” Would Bertie have sworn that he loved her to distraction?
Inconceivable. The only thing that distracted Bertie was a new rapier in a shop window.
Cedric didn’t give a flip about her money, either. He was a duke’s son, for goodness’ sake. Her uncle Thaddeus had told her that very afternoon—while noting that Lord Cedric had his permission to propose—that his lordship had no need of her fortune.
Honestly, Cedric was almost too good to be true. She felt a twinge of worry, but she pushed it aside.
He was perfect for her.
As she watched, rapt, he caught up her left hand, delicately removed her glove, and slid a diamond ring onto her finger. Emotion was pressing so hard on the back of Merry’s throat that she hadn’t even croaked “yes” before he touched his lips to her fingers, and rose as gracefully as he had knelt.
Cedric smiled at her and ran a finger down her cheek. With a thrill, Merry realized that he was about to kiss her for the first time. He leaned forward, and a shiver ran through her.
“I’m morally opposed to kissing young ladies to whom I am not affianced, Merry. Will you say yes?”
He was so ethical, so unlike the lecherous boys she had known back home. “Yes,” she breathed. He bent toward her again and Merry’s eyes drifted closed. His lips brushed hers, once, then again.
She swayed toward him, tilting her head to receive another kiss, a real kiss this time, one where he would draw her into his strong arms and kiss her as if he was scarcely able to contain himself.
No kiss came.
She opened her eyes. Her fiancé had turned toward the library table, and was picking up the glass he had carried with him from the ballroom.
With a start, Merry remembered her governess’s instruction. An English lord would never be as indecorous as Bertie, who stole kisses every chance he got. Even worse, if Bertie managed to catch her alone, he would caress her in most inappropriate ways.
She wouldn’t like Cedric to behave in such an unseemly fashion. Well, perhaps she would like it, but it would never happen because Cedric was a true gentleman, as principled as he was handsome.
“I don’t suppose you ever imagined as a little girl that you would marry into the English peerage,” Cedric said.
“No, I hadn’t,” Merry admitted. After a brief encounter with a Mohawk warrior at age eleven, she’d always imagined herself as the adored bride of a man with high cheekbones and the touch of wilderness in his eyes—most assuredly not an English peer.
That girlish foolishness had led directly to her acceptance of Bertie’s proposal. Obviously, Cedric was as unlike Bertie as a swan to a potato.
Lord Cedric epitomized British aristocracy. If she was a summer’s day, he was the glitter of sun on snow.
As dazzling as the ring he had slipped onto her finger. “Did you know that the first diamond ring in honor of a betrothal was given by the Archduke Maximilian of Austria to Mary of Burgundy?” Cedric asked, nodding at her hand. “I chose this ring because you are as lovely as that lady.”
“I’m honored,” Merry breathed. As much as she had loved Dermot’s hair, his woven-hair ring was revolting when compared to this. “It is exquisite. I love rose-cut diamonds.”
“Your ring finger is as perfect as the rest of you.” He smiled down at her. “Just imagine what your friends will think when they learn of Lady Cedric Allardyce. Surely to be a lady is the dearest wish of every schoolgirl in America.”
Merry bit her lip. She was certain he didn’t mean to condescend. But before she could offer her opinion about the ambitions of an entire nation of schoolgirls, Cedric added, “I say, have I put my foot in it? Did you have a governess rather than go to school? I have no idea whether there are governesses in the United States, what with the wilderness aspect and all. I do apologize.”
His worry about insulting her was typical of Cedric’s sweetness. His knowledge of New England was very limited, but that was true of everyone she’d met in London.
Earlier that evening, for example, Lady Prunella Smithers had been astounded to learn that Bostonians drank tea. “For some reason, I thought you threw it all in the harbor,” she had said, puzzled. “I distinctly remember my governess telling me that Americans abhor tea.”
“Boston is quite civilized,” Merry informed Cedric. “Though as it happens, I had an English governess.”
“Indeed? Ah, that explains your charming manners. She must be very proud of her charge,” Cedric said, returning her glove.
In fact, Miss Fairfax would likely faint from shock when she heard the news.
Back in the summer, her governess had vehemently protested Aunt Bess’s decision to take Merry to London for the season, arguing that no English gentleman would want to marry her charge, whom she deemed entirely deficient in ladylike graces.
“Let me be the first to admit that I have failed, after a lifetime of instructing the very finest young ladies,” she told them shrilly. “I have failed!”
“Merry’s reputation has suffered from two broken engagements,” Aunt Bess had pointed out. “Mr. Pelford and I both believe that it would be advisable to go farther afield.”
It wasn’t as if Merry had left Bertie and Dermot at the altar. She’d ended things as soon as she’d recognized her mistakes, although regrettably she hadn’t been certain about Bertie until the day before she was due to marry him.
Gossips back home were calling her “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary” behind her back. What sensible man would trust her to keep her promise?
“Well, this is a thirsty business, proposing,” Cedric said, as Merry carefully drew the glove over her newly bejeweled hand. “Why don’t we find you some lemonade?”
Merry had discovered earlier that evening that the lemonade on offer looked like piddle and tasted like water. Not that she had voiced this observation, because—thank you, Miss Fairfax!—she was perfectly capable of tact.
The lemonade served at balls in London never tasted like much, which suggested it was a taste peculiar to the English, or at least to the refined segment of London society in which she found herself.
Cedric was likely drinking something other than lemonade; gentlemen usually had different, and presumably better, drinks than did the ladies.
“May I try yours instead?” she asked, reaching toward the glass he held.
Cedric fell back a step. “Snatching a drink from a man’s hand is simply not done, darling. But don’t fret; I shall guide you through the thickets of English decorum, pointing out your little faux pas before anyone else notices them.”
Merry felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I shall be very grateful for your advice.”
“British ladies do not imbibe brandy, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic. I’m sure I can find you something better than lemonade.”
He turned and headed for an array of decanters that stood on the sideboard. “I can’t imagine why people believe that the lemon is an adequate substitute for the grape.” Just as if he were a son of the house, he started pulling the stoppers from the decanters and sniffing them.
“I believe you’ll enjoy this,” Cedr
ic said, handing her yet another pale yellow drink.
She thanked him and took a tentative sip. It was like wine, but sharper and more flowery. “This is lovely,” she said, beaming at him.
“Canary wine looks just like lemonade, so no one will know,” he said conspiratorially, clicking his glass against hers. “Here’s to your health!”
He refilled his glass and then ushered her to the sofa, respectfully seating himself at the opposite end. Merry could hardly believe that this was actually happening to her.
She was betrothed to an English lord, who was telling her in his delicious accent where they would live once they were married. Naturally, he owned a house in one of the city’s most genteel areas. Too dazzled—and frankly, too ignorant of London geography—to contribute to the conversation, she finished her wine in silence.
Cedric bounded up and refilled it for her. He settled himself back into his end of the sofa and began telling her about the previous day, when he had wagered against the Prince of Wales at cards, and won.
“I informed the prince that I was thinking of marrying a granddaughter of Lord Merrick,” he said. “I told my brother the same, last evening.”
“I have yet to meet your brother,” Merry said, seizing an opportunity to change the subject. “I always wished I had had a twin sister.”
“Later, I shall introduce you. His Grace is rarely seen in a ballroom,” Cedric said, sighing. “The duke isn’t at home in refined surroundings. He wasn’t lucky enough to inherit . . . shall we say, my aplomb? I’ve already told you how resentful he’s always been of me. The fact I have won the hand of such a beautiful woman will make him more petulant than usual.”
A beautiful woman! Merry generally thought of herself as pretty, but never beautiful. “Beautiful” was a word reserved for women with yellow locks and emerald eyes.
Merry’s hair was thick, unfashionably dark, and curled too much to grow past her shoulders. Her eyes weren’t starlike, her lips weren’t rubies, and her height meant she often looked straight into a man’s eyes—so being told she was beautiful made her feel a pulse of pleasure that went right to her toes.
Bertie’s red-wagon remark had dealt a blow to her self-esteem. But Cedric’s compliments were in an entirely different realm—gracefully delivered, with such deep sincerity. She couldn’t stop smiling.
“I feel I must warn you: you mustn’t expect His Grace to greet you with open arms,” Cedric was saying. “My brother dislikes both America and Americans, I’m afraid. He always votes against you in Lords.”
Oh dear. Well, it was better to be forewarned. Merry made up her mind on the spot to avoid the duke whenever possible. The last thing she wanted was to cause Cedric any strife owing to her nationality.
“His opinion is unimportant,” Cedric said, sliding closer, a debonair, rakish look lighting his eyes.
Merry’s heart instantly beat faster. He was going to kiss her—really kiss her. Pull her into his arms and . . .
He pressed a kiss on her lips.
“You look quite flushed,” Cedric said, pulling back. “Perhaps the wine is a bit strong for you?”
“Oh no,” Merry cried. “I love it. I love canary wine!” She hastily drained her glass, set it down, and snatched up her fan. He probably thought she was a country bumpkin. “Did you know that laudanum is sometimes made with a base of canary wine?”
Too late, she remembered that her governess had deplored Merry’s tendency to rattle off facts when she was embarrassed.
“If a gentleman doesn’t know something,” Miss Fairfax had said over and over, “it is not for one such as you to mend his ignorance. Besides, facts are boring.”
Cedric raised an eyebrow, but tactfully ignored her inept question. “Permit me to refill your glass,” he said, and stood.
“I shouldn’t drink any more wine,” Merry said, not wanting to admit that her head was spinning. But, well, it was. Spinning, that is.
She felt distinctly tipsy.
“But we must share a private toast to our betrothal,” Cedric said, turning around with a decanter in his hand. With his wavy locks falling over his eyes, he was heart-stoppingly handsome.
She nodded, wondering if she ought to simply confess how gauche she felt. They were going to be married, and he would be her most cherished friend in the world. And he was so sweet that he would instantly understand. She opened her mouth—
Cedric said, “You must be feeling terribly out of place.”
He knew.
He understood her!
“Americans often feel out of place when they first come here to London,” he continued, seating himself again.
Merry frowned. She didn’t think it was a question of nationality.
“The prince said it best,” Cedric went on thoughtfully. “Prinny noted just the other day that the spirit of Englishmen is entirely different from that of Americans. You can perhaps see it most readily in the servant class; ours are not only more obliging and industrious, but better pleased and happier.”
“Well,” Merry began, hardly knowing where to start.
“You are a natural inhabitant of my country,” Cedric said. “Prinny was most reassuring about that. You may be American now, but in short order, your mother’s blood will prevail, and you will find yourself refined by the very air of England.”
Merry felt as if she’d lost track of the conversation sometime ago. “By the air?” she echoed.
“You will quickly learn all the little things that characterize an English gentlewoman. The habits of mind that bespeak gentility without words. For example, I have heard that in America, a man might eschew tongs entirely and pick up a lump of sugar with his fingers.”
“A pair of tongs is certainly more proper,” Merry ventured, beginning to wonder how much she should defend her countrymen.
“Yet Americans are innocent of a charge of nastiness,” Cedric said earnestly. “Where there are no rules, one cannot be wrathful about such an abomination, but in England, things are quite, quite different.”
Merry knew very well—because Miss Fairfax had informed her again and again—that she didn’t possess a proper delicacy of mind. Obviously, this was a sign of it, because she often snatched up a lump of sugar and dropped it into her tea without a second thought. In fact, she had occasionally done the same when serving her uncle.
Panic fluttered in her stomach. Hopefully, the air of England would start working on her before Cedric realized what she was truly like. What if London’s civilizing effect didn’t work its magic?
She couldn’t—she simply could not—break off another engagement.
“Merely by living in this great city, a person acquires elegance of manners,” Cedric concluded, setting his empty glass to the side. “Shall we return and announce the happy news that you have accepted my proposal?”
As they reentered the ballroom, Merry saw at once that there was no need to make a formal announcement of their betrothal; twenty or more heads swiveled expectantly in their direction. She glanced up to find her fiancé smiling tenderly at her, for all the world as if she were Juliet and he her Romeo.
Her heart thumped again.
The third time truly was the charm. Cedric was ideal.
All she had to do was make herself as perfect as he was.
Chapter Four
Returning to the present . . .
Nigel Hampster, Merry decided, bore a tragic resemblance to his furry little namesake. His nose twitched when he was excited, and since Lady Caroline was encouraging his dull stories by giggling, he was practically wiggling with excitement.
She kept trying to listen and then finding herself succumbing to yet another wave of anxiety about her forthcoming marriage.
Her doubts surely stemmed from the fact that Cedric had proposed and then abandoned her for the card room. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the pleasure she’d felt after coaxing a stranger on the balcony to laughter.
That was foolishness, a symptom of the fickle nature she
had developed in the last few years. What sort of woman had she become? One who could never keep a vow? A capricious flibbertigibbet?
Her father would be so ashamed.
She was ashamed.
After she’d returned Bertie’s ring, eight months had passed before she’d met Dermot; then another thirteen between her disengagement from Dermot and meeting Cedric. This time, she was scarcely betrothed to one man before thinking about another. She shuddered, thinking of her own inconstancy.
A momentary foolishness on a balcony was forgivable. But she refused to be a flighty, vacillating little fool who would consider ending things with Cedric for such a stupid reason.
With that thought, she made up her mind to find her fiancé in the card room or wherever he was and demonstrate how much she cared for him.
No, adored him. How much she adored him.
A lady wasn’t supposed to express affection in public, but he would simply have to endure it. She glanced at Lady Caroline and Mr. Hampster, but they were paying no attention to her. She walked a step or two away so that she could set her wineglass down on a small table. Then she tugged off her left glove, followed by her betrothal ring, and replaced them, this time with the diamond ring outside the glove.
She didn’t care for the look, but there were women who did. Some had four or five rings crammed over their gloves.
Her ring sparkled in the light thrown by the chandeliers. It really was beautiful. A woman who wore a diamond engagement ring, she reminded herself, did not throw over the fiancé who had presented her with that ring.
“Miss Pelford.”
Merry picked up her drink and turned to greet her hostess with a sigh of relief. Itemizing the defects in her character was making her head ache.
“Miss Pelford,” Lady Portmeadow said, “I am honored to introduce you to the Duke of Trent, who expressed a wish to meet his future sister-in-law. Your Grace, this is Miss Pelford, who hails from Boston, originally. In America, you understand.”
Merry looked up. And froze.
She should be curtsying. She should be saying something—anything! Instead, she stared silently and then, as if she were assembling a puzzle, his face began to look familiar.
