My American Duchess (21 page)

T
rent was prepared, if necessary, to catch his swooning wife when she discovered whom she had married. When he entered the cathedral, he had not expected Merry’s veil to be so thick that he couldn’t even make out her features—which made him doubt that she had seen his face.

In short, she might think she had married Cedric. He had a shrewd idea that her aunt had depended on just that.

He lifted her veil and met Merry’s eyes. Sure enough, they widened in shock. She opened her mouth, perhaps to scream.

Instinctively, Trent took a step forward and covered her mouth with his own.

He meant to merely brush her lips but he deepened the kiss instead, willing her not to protest. Sensation shot all the way down his body.

Merry was his wife now. He hadn’t stolen her; he had
only taken what his brother had tossed aside. His hands circled her waist and he bent his head, memorizing the shape of her lips, and when she gasped, her taste.

No matter how it had come about, she was his now.

M
erry’s veil had disappeared, and instead of Cedric . . .

The duke.

Her husband?

Impossible.
Impossible
.

Yet the duke was kissing her, and Cedric was nowhere to be seen. His Grace’s kiss felt unhurried, as if there was nothing else that either of them should be doing. There was no self-consciousness about it, either, even though a church full of onlookers sat before them and a bishop stood behind them.

He didn’t pull her improperly close, but she could feel the strength in his hands through her gown.

Merry felt her eyes closing. The duke made no sound but his approval shimmered through her. For one second, their kiss became something completely different: sensual, daring, scandalous.

The congregation! The bishop!

Her eyes popped open and she pulled away.

The man she had unwittingly married was looking down at her, his eyes unreadable. “My brother relinquished his claim to your hand,” he said, in a voice only she could hear. Her hands came up without her volition, grasping his forearms.

“He did what?”

“We shall give it out that I fell madly in love with you, and my brother gave you up from the goodness of his heart. People expect that sort of thing from twins.”

“He gave me up,” Merry repeated.

Well, obviously he had, because Cedric was not stand
ing in front of her. The relief that abruptly flooded her body was so acute that her knees trembled.

Alarm crossed the duke’s face. “You’ve done so well. Please don’t be the first woman to faint in my presence.”

“I shall not,” Merry said, willing her knees not to buckle.

“I forgot that Americans never swoon,” he murmured, and she saw a flash of amusement in his eyes.

Somehow, her prayer had been answered. She had not opened her eyes to discover that she had become Lady Cedric Allardyce.

“Where is he?” she whispered.

Her husband turned them to face the assembly—which caused a commotion that would have counted as a roar in a Roman amphitheater—and leaned over to speak in her ear.

“He embarked for the Bahamas on last night’s tide.”

Merry could scarcely hear him through the tumult. She curled her fingers around his elbow. Her breath was coming quickly . . . From the shock? From the kiss?

She told herself to smile, and began the return journey down the aisle. Their marriage must be legal. The scandal would be far too great otherwise.

Beside her, His Grace was nodding to people as he walked. Just as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in marrying his brother’s intended.

Merry had the queer feeling that she had toppled straight into a novel, one of those that appeared in three volumes with special bindings. Miss Fairfax had always pointed out sourly that life wasn’t like a novel.

Miss Fairfax, it seemed, was wrong.

In more than one way.

The girl who was too tall, who had no manners, whom no Englishman would want to marry . . . that American girl was now a duchess.

T
haddeus Pelford met Trent’s eyes with a knife-edged nod that said as clearly as a cocked pistol that Trent had better make his niece happy.

He would.

He hoped.

He glanced down at Merry. Yards of billowing lace set her off like a jewel, emphasizing her silky hair, wide eyes, rosy mouth. Her train was long enough to sweep the widest path in Hyde Park. Like a peacock dragging its tail on the ground, she looked magnificent, if slightly ludicrous.

They emerged from the great doors into May sunshine to be met by a shout of excitement from the crowd gathered outside. A cluster of journalists from the gossip rags sprang forward screaming questions. Clearly, news of the bridegroom swap had spread.

Footmen clothed in the ducal livery stood shoulder to
shoulder in two rows, creating an aisle to the carriage door. The crowd stretched as far as Warwick Lane, jostling shoulders and craning necks to see the beautiful heiress from America whom a duke had stolen from his own brother.

Merry made a little sound, and her hand tightened on his arm. But then she smiled and raised her right hand in a wave.

A romantic gesture was clearly called for, so Trent scooped her up. The curves of Merry’s body fit his arms as if she’d been designed for them. In the sunlight, the violet in her eyes was the color of forget-me-nots.

The crowd roared with approval.

He nodded at a footman, who sprang forward and gathered up the yards of lace spilling on the ground behind them. At the carriage door, Trent leaned in and placed his bride on a seat, then climbed in after her, and sat down opposite.

Any man would be moved by Merry’s curves. Any man would feel a possessive thrill. It was probably a requisite part of the wedding ceremony, invoked by the vows that had bound her to him.

The footman pushed an armful of lace through the door and closed it. The coachman instantly loosed his reins, and the throng parted as the carriage started slowly forward.

As if they’d been alone together a hundred times, Merry reached up and began pulling out her hairpins, creating a little pile on a seat until she was able to pull her veil free.

Trent watched silently, feeling a throb in his groin. He wanted to pull her onto his lap, take out every single pin, and watch her ink-dark hair fall around her shoulders. Hell, he’d like to start unbuttoning that gown, baring creamy flesh that no man other than himself would ever see.

She seemed to be in lace from head to foot. Could she
be wearing only lace under her gown? He’d never seen a lace chemise, but he could imagine it playing hide and seek with rosy nipples.

He’d like—

“Duke,” she said.

Their eyes met.

“Should I say, husband?”

“Is that a genuine question?”

“Was that ceremony a farce? How can it possibly have been a lawful wedding?”

“It was a legitimate ceremony. You are now the Duchess of Trent by special license.” He hesitated. “I realize that your veil obscured your vision, but the bishop did say Octavius Mortimer John Allardyce, rather than Cedric Mortimer Allardyce.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your names are quite similar.”

“Every male in my family is named after Mortimer, the first duke.”

“I had no idea that you were standing in for your brother,” she said, confirming his impression. “Does this mean you have won the competition, or has Cedric won, and I’m the consolation prize?”

Competition?

“There was no competition,” Trent said, adding honestly, “but I will admit that by marrying you I consider myself a victor.”

A moment of silence followed, in which Merry bundled her veil into a reasonably neat pile on the seat. “Cedric told me all about the conversation you had with him on the steps of your house,” she said finally.

Trent frowned.

“In which you discussed the fact that Cedric had not bedded me,” she clarified. “I believe that is the term he used. I might add that I find it reprehensible that the two
of you would talk about me, or any other woman, in such a manner.”

He must have a streak of perversion, because the fact that his new duchess was scowling at him just made Trent desire her even more. “I entirely agree with you.”

“I suppose Cedric brought it up,” she said, jumping to the right conclusion when he didn’t say anything else.

“Did he tell you that we were competing for your hand?” Trent asked, wondering exactly what his brother—who had a positive genius for delivering half truths—had told her. “As I recollect, Cedric announced that he had refrained from kissing you in order to keep your interest.”

She flinched, and looked down at her lap. “I can’t believe I thought I was in love with a man who is so coarse and cold-blooded. I am such a fool.”

Trent didn’t like the humiliated ache in Merry’s voice; his words came out more fiercely than they might have. “It was the opposite of a competition. I was trying to convince myself that I had no right to woo my brother’s fiancée.”

Her head swung up.

“It wasn’t working,” he said, watching her closely. “The only thing I remember of the conversation was gratitude that he hadn’t touched you.”

“Cedric told me that you only kissed me at the ball in order to score a point against him.”

He felt a prickle of irritation. “Do you really think that I give a damn about
scoring points
? I have never kissed a woman for any reason other than the obvious.” He gave her a hard stare that had so much lust in it that his American, innocent as she was, had to know exactly what he felt.

Sure enough, her cheeks turned a little pink. But her expression didn’t soften. “I would have thought that you would never discuss bedding a lady. But I was wrong.”

Trent’s jaw tightened. He felt as if he’d spent his life wading through muck that his brother had spread at their feet.

“So yes,” Merry said fiercely, “I found it
entirely
possible that you and your brother would engage in a form of sibling rivalry involving a scoring system of one type or another.”

“You are incorrect.” Despite himself, his voice turned a bit chilly. Merry had come to a fair assumption, given that she didn’t know him well. But it rankled. “Cedric was deliberately untruthful. An honorable man considers his brother’s intended out of reach, and that’s not taking into account the fact that you told me you were in love.”

“You wanted—you thought about wooing me?”

He nodded.

“Why?” she asked, her American bluntness coming into play. “You have no need for my inheritance. Cedric thought that my nationality and lack of gentility would tarnish his title; just imagine what it will do to yours. Or did your brother force you to the altar?”

Damn it, most young ladies would love to marry him. Apparently he’d ended up with the one woman who would prefer disgrace to being a duchess.

“If the wedding had been called off, especially after Cedric’s behavior at the Vereker ball, the natural assumption would be that you had jilted him, just as you did Bertie. Your reputation would never recover.”

“So you sacrificed yourself for my good?” In a heartbeat, she’d gone from angry to utterly furious. She pulled off the wedding ring he had slid over her gloved finger in the cathedral. “Hold this a moment, please.” She dropped the ring into his hand and began removing her gloves—with the help of her teeth.

“What?” she said, catching his eyes. “Have you any idea how much lace gloves itch?”

“I’ve never seen lace gloves before.”

“You’ll never see me wearing them again.” She tossed the gloves on the seat beside her veil. She had every right to be so angry. Hell, if someone lured him to the altar under false pretenses, he’d be livid.

“In the midst of your concern for my reputation, why didn’t you just tell me?” she demanded. “Forgive me, but what sort of man thinks it’s acceptable to marry a woman without asking her beforehand?”

He’d known this moment would come. He just hadn’t pictured the pain in her eyes. Damn it, he should have followed his instincts, not listened to her aunt.

“I asked to speak to you yesterday. But Mrs. Pelford felt—”

“Aunt Bess knew all this?” Her voice rose. “I realized my uncle had to have known, but my aunt as well?”

“Mrs. Pelford felt strongly that you would not marry me if I approached you yesterday,” Trent said flatly. “She was convinced that the wedding had to be presented as a fait accompli, or you would return to Boston. She refused to allow me to speak to you.”

Her mouth tightened. “That sounds just irrational enough to be possible.”

“She takes your reputation very seriously.”

“In Boston, a person’s word is his bond.” Merry pulled a fold of her veil into her lap and began pleating it. “My aunt is quite pained by my lack of constancy. My family . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“
My
family—Cedric—also played a part.”

“So why did Cedric amuse himself by writing me all those letters at the same time that you were presumably acquiring a wedding license with your name on it?”

“He felt that your quarrel at the Vereker ball destroyed his chance of a respectable marriage.”

“That is the reasoning he used to force me to the altar,” she said, eyes kindling.

“He argued that there were only two ways to preserve both your and his reputations. Either the two of you would marry—which I would not allow—or you and I would marry in a cause célèbre, and Cedric would become famous for having sacrificed himself on the altar of my true love.”

“You wouldn’t allow the marriage,” she said slowly.

“Of course not.”

“Why didn’t you simply send me a message saying, ‘So sorry, my brother has done a bunk, and you won’t be Lady Cedric after all. And by the way, I’ll stand in as groom, if you wish’?”

Trent curled his fingers around Merry’s wedding ring, surprised by how fierce his impulse was to replace it on her finger.

“Mrs. Pelford said you would return to Boston. I didn’t want to chase you across the ocean. I wanted to marry you.” His voice came out low, rough. “I wanted to marry you from the moment I met you, but I fought it because you belonged to my brother. And when the chance came to marry you, even in an underhanded way, I seized it.”

Her mouth fell open, clearly in astonishment. “From the moment you met me on the balcony?”

Hadn’t she noticed that he had nearly kissed her?

“Had you any idea who I was?” she asked.

“None, nor did I know that you were betrothed to my brother. You were a complete stranger. But I made up my mind to marry you.”

“That is so odd,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead. “I thought this sort of thing only happened in books.”

He felt a flash of alarm. “Perhaps I should clarify that I’m not talking about love at first sight,” he said, a touch of apology in his voice.

“I think we both agree that there’s been enough talk of ‘love’ in my life,” she said wryly. “I did not fall in love with you at first sight, either.”

“I decided to marry you for far more rational reasons. You are very beautiful, and even better, intelligent and funny.” He hesitated and then added, “I also find it appealing that your experiences have taught you the true nature of romantic love: to wit, that it is a shallow emotion.”

A reluctant smile curled the edges of her mouth. “I do not believe that love is shallow. But I do agree that it is unreliable.” Merry shook her head. “I would never trust myself to choose another fiancé, for example.”

“I am deeply hopeful that there will be no need to put yourself to the test,” he said.

“Why are you so afraid of love?” she asked.

“I’m not afraid. But I consider love temporary by definition. Our marriage will proceed on the basis of our affinity for each other, our compatibility. Hopefully we will form a lifelong bond based on mutual respect, not a feckless emotion that evaporates like a puddle in summer.”

“That is a persuasive argument,” she said slowly.

In the back of his mind, Trent couldn’t believe that he was having to argue with a woman about the merits of being a duchess. He’d known from the time he was twelve years old that he was one of the most desirable men in England.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? He had decided to marry an American woman because she overlooked his title for his own merits. He just never thought that his merits might not be enough.

Trent leaned forward, but he didn’t touch her. If he picked up Merry’s hand, he might burst into flames, pull
her into his lap, and ravish that plump mouth of hers. “I will give you an annulment if you wish. But I would prefer that you remain my duchess.”

He cleared his throat. “You told me in the library that you consider us friends. I believe we could have a very good marriage. I find you far more captivating than any other woman I’ve met.”

“I am honored,” she said, a trifle awkwardly.

Despite himself, he took her left hand, turned it over, and kissed her palm. “We both understand that romantic love is bollocks. We will have a solid marriage, a rational, respectful, happy marriage.”

He watched as she thought about it. “I have two questions,” she said. “First, would you allow me to venture to the East End of London, if I wished?”

“Certainly, not that I would wish you to go anywhere dangerous without me. Why—”

She raised a pink fingertip. “Second. Will you accompany me to the Chelsea Physic Garden to see the pineapple stove?”

What the hell was that? “I should warn you that my cook is a bit elderly. I put a Rumford stove and a hob grate into the kitchens in Hawksmede, my country seat, and she refused to make supper for a solid week.”

“This particular stove is not for food,” Merry said, her dimple appearing. Damn, but he liked that dimple.

“What is it for?”

“Growing pineapple plants.”

He judged it a quixotic endeavor, given England’s climate, but he didn’t care. “My house has nineteen acres of woods and gardens. You could have a pineapple stove on every one, if you wish.”

“Bribery,” she muttered. But Trent knew her well enough to recognize the light in her eyes.

He kissed her palm again. “May I return your wedding ring, Merry?”