An Ideal Duchess (16 page)

             
“If—” He cleared his throat of its hoarseness. “If I were to kiss you now, I would never stop until we disgraced ourselves in this carriage.”

             
“Oh.” She narrowed her eyes.

             
“Yes, ‘oh’,” He repeated, lifting her arms from his neck as the carriage came to a stop. “Wait until we leave for the honeymoon, and then I will kiss you until you turn blue.”

*          *          *

              Viola Townsend possessed a lifetime’s worth of breeding and training in making herself inconspicuous, but right now, she wished she could create one of the loudest and most ridiculous of scenes imaginable. Though, she thought rudely, these Americans were already so loud and ridiculous, her display might not arouse even the slightest attention. She turned away from the ghastly display of oysters, shrimps, and other assorted hors d’oeuvres offered by a passing footman, stubbornly determined not to allow one morsel of that dreadful American girl’s food to pass through her lips. She retreated to the corner of the drawing room nearest the window overlooking the busy street, and stared briefly at the unceasing current of people, carriages, motorcars, and horses moving rapidly up and down Fifth Avenue like streams and streams of mindless ants.

             
Give me the English countryside any day over this
, she shuddered in horror, turning away from the window. She shuddered once more, this time from loathing rather than horror, when that American girl fell into her direct line of vision, laughing and smiling, her golden hair and white gown shimmering in the light from the chandeliers hanging over the room. The trim, red-faced older gentleman she knew was the girl’s father stepped from the crowd to kiss her brow, followed by a hoard of other men, rushing to kiss her chastely on the cheek or forehead, or, if daring, boldly on the lips. Her eyes moved automatically to Bron’s silent, dark-clad figure beside the American, reading utter disinterest in the proceedings in his cool smile and relaxed stance.

             
The American girl reached out to him, her hand resting possessively on his arm, and Viola closed her eyes on a stab of jealousy so visceral, she felt the only way to end this wave of agony was to dash her brain on the walking pavement below.

             
Bron, why? Why?
She clutched her midsection.
Why had he broken his promise?

             
The sound of feminine squeals broke through her pain and she opened her eyes to see a group of American girls cluster around Amanda, hands outstretched, fingers wiggling with glee.

             
“Shouldn’t you be joining them?”

             
Viola cut her eyes to Anthony Challoner, who juggled two glasses of champagne with a plate of
hors d’oeuvres
. He quaffed one of the glasses in a feat worthy of a circus performer, and then took a large bite of shrimp.

             
“I don’t know what they’re doing.” She looked away with a shrug of indifference. “And I’m sure that if I did, I wouldn’t be interested.”

             
“According to Mrs. Vandewater, it’s the custom of American brides to distribute bits of the ribbon from her bouquet to her friends.”

             
“Miss Vandewater and I aren’t friends.”

             
“I’m sure Bron hopes you and the Duchess of Malvern will rectify that oversight.” Anthony said equably. “After all, you will be neighbors—unless the Dowager has decided against moving into the Dower House?”

             
“I am not privy to Her Grace’s plans over her living arrangements.”

             
“My apologies; I assumed you were on more intimate terms with the Dowager,”

             
“You’re prying, Mr. Challoner,” Viola said coldly.

             
“Am I?” He raised his brows. “I assumed I was making polite conversation with an old friend about a mutual acquaintance.”

             
She narrowed her eyes at Anthony. She had never liked him, even when they were children. He was too noisy, too unruly, and too arrogant for a mere squire’s son. She only tolerated him for Bron’s sake, though she loathed the fact that he had never shaken off their friendship when they went their separate ways after leaving Balliol. Unfortunately, Anthony Challoner remained a fixture in their lives and at Bledington Park, his permanency assured when Alex killed himself and Bron became the duke, thus ensuring that this jumped up squire’s son remained in the rarefied sphere of the aristocracy.

             
She switched her gaze to Bron, who had begun to make his way towards them. Her heart thumped with pleasure at the sight of his tanned, lightly freckled face, and she instinctively moved towards him, hands outstretched in welcome. He took them with a start, a cool smile curving his lips as he looked at her, and then tucked one of her hands into the crook of his arm.

             
“You look like a dandy, Bron,” She teased. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a proper suit and tie for this long.”

             
“Well, rest assured, I can’t wait to tear all of this off.” He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably beneath his black tailcoat.

             
“Where is the duchess?” Anthony interrupted.

             
Viola resisted glaring at him.

             
“She’s upstairs with her mother, changing into her traveling suit.”

             
Viola’s eyes shot to Bron’s face, feeling the tension in the muscles of his arm.

             
“You aren’t leaving so soon?” She asked plaintively. “I haven’t had much time with you since I arrived.”

             
“Sorry Vi,” His mouth twisted wryly. “But I’m sure we’ll spend plenty of time together once Her Grace and I settle at Bledington.”

             
“That is, unless the Dowager curtails her entertaining now that she’s in the Dower House.” Anthony said.

             
“I doubt my mother will do any such thing, Bim.” Bron said tersely. “She enjoys ruling the roost too much to life in retirement simply because I’ve married.”

             
“One never knows,” Anthony replied mysteriously. He then peered over their heads. “Here comes the duchess.”

             
Viola felt Bron slide from her grasp even before he turned away from her, extricating his arm from her hands. She fought back a flinch, trembling from the effort to conceal it, as Bron reached for his American wife, surprising her by the intimacy in his intonation of her name. “Amanda.” Viola’s breath caught in her throat as their eyes caught and held, the curve of Bron’s mouth expressing his pleasure and affection as he looked at his wife. The duchess flushed rosily, her lips parting as she stared up at him, and the subtle lowering of Bron’s head, as though he were reckless enough to kiss her in the middle of the drawing room, was like a bitter knife twisting in Viola’s heart. They seemed to realize where they were a second later, and Viola stared accusingly at Bron, who did not look in her direction.

             
“Why hello Anthony—and Miss Townsend,” The American duchess greeted them cheerfully, blue eyes bright, matching the color of her hat and smart traveling suit.

             
“Your Grace,” Anthony bowed.

             
“Oh goodness, I don’t think I’ll grow accustomed to that. Please continue to call me Amanda. And don’t bow!”

             
Viola forced her lips to curve in a semblance of smile when Bron’s wife turned to her.              

             
“I saved a piece of my ribbon for you, Miss Townsend,” The American held the piece of pink ribbon between a gloved forefinger and thumb. “You were clever to avoid the fray.”

             
Viola grimly took the ribbon cutting, aware of Anthony’s sardonic gaze and Bron’s impassive one.

             
“Thank you,” She said stiffly. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

             
“I’ll be honest and admit it was my brother Lulu who reminded me that you hadn’t received a piece,” She smiled with chagrin. “I was so incredibly anxious to get out of my wedding gown.”

             
“I feel the same,” Bron murmured. Then he flushed, and Viola realized the enormity of what he had implied. “That is, I’m anxious to get out of this suit. It’s rather hot, don’t you agree, Bim?”

             
“Sure, old chap. Always feel the same way in these togs.” Anthony replied cheerfully. “It seems Vi is the only one comfortable in her attire.”

             
“Miss Townsend is fortunate in that she is able to dress simply, being a guest.” The American gave her a most superior smile.

             
Viola clenched her teeth in resentment. She was well aware of the contrast she made with the American, her plain, three-year old gray suit and white shirtwaist no match for the vivid magnificence of the Duchess of Malvern and everyone else in the drawing room.

             
“Shouldn’t the two of you be on your way? A train to catch?” Anthony filled the awkward silence.

             
“Oh no, Papa has given me his yacht as a wedding present!” The American chirped. “Bron and I are going to the pier of the New York Yacht Club, where we’ll set off for our cruise.”

             
“How cozy,” Anthony nudged her. “Isn’t it Vi?”

             
“Yes,” She forced herself to say. “And how original, isn’t it Bron? I’m sure you and Miss Vandewater were thrilled to plan a cruise for the honeymoon.”

             
“It was a pleasant surprise, to say the least,” Bron replied neutrally. “The Duchess and I hope to return to England within a month.”

             
“Don’t allow social niceties to keep the two of you putting off your start to chat with Vi and I. We’ll see plenty of one another back home.”

             
Viola’s eyes widened in horror when the duchess folded her into a brief, impulsive embrace and her eyes met Bron’s veiled expression over the duchess’s shoulder. She released Viola and then held her at arm’s length.

             
“I do hope we’ll be friends!”

             
“Of course,” She replied brusquely.

The duchess then turned to give Anthony a swift hug, and Viola raised an eyebrow at Bron, who leaned forward, his mouth cool and dry against her cheek. She turned her face as he pulled away, and their lips brushed. Bron jerked away, the veiled expression dropped to reveal gray eyes stormy with some uncontained emotion. Viola didn’t care if the duchess witnessed the accidental kiss or Bron’s reaction, and she kept her eyes on him as he reclaimed his new wife and turned to walk her from the room. He was still hers, she thought triumphantly. He was still hers.

Nearing the English Channel, November 1903

             
The lamps strung along the promenade deck of the SS Duchess swayed gently in the breeze, their glow faintly illuminating the funnels, ropes, benches and chairs, and lifeboats along the deck. Bron leaned his elbows against the railing on the starboard side, one foot between its brass spokes as he watched the fiery ball of the setting sun, the sea where the circle married the line shimmering in purples, pinks, and oranges.

             
According to their captain’s calculations, they were half a day’s journey away from England and the berth reserved for Amanda’s yacht at Cowes. Half a day closer to the end of the fragile chrysalis of his time in America and on this boat. His ability to compartmentalize his life into two pieces—Bron and Duke of Malvern—had been shaken briefly during his wedding, but the past two months of their yachting honeymoon had given him a reprieve from taking the irrevocable step to being just the Duke of Malvern.

             
He felt a pair of arms slide around his waist and gave himself one moment to relax in the easy, open intimacy Amanda displayed towards him. There was not a time when she failed to touch him, holding his hand, straightening his tie, or moments like this, when they were completely alone, and she did not have to conceal how much she desired him. Having her in his bed every night with no need to shield a housemaid’s modesty, or bear up under the scrutiny of the household when they would retire for the night, devastated, frightened, and disarmed him. He desired her intensely—almost too intensely, he worried—but her gestures asked something of him he was not sure he could or knew how to give.

             
He tensed when her hands began to slide away when he failed to reciprocate, and pushed away from the railing to turn to her. She looked pensive in the dusk, and he refrained from touching the tendrils of hair drifting free of her chignon tucked beneath her straw boater.