My American Duchess (22 page)

The question hung in the air.

“Yes,” she whispered. “You may.”

He slipped the ring over her ring finger. “Will you remain my duchess? For better, for worse, and all the rest of it?”

The question hung in the air of the carriage, silence broken only by the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones.

Then she nodded. “I shall keep my vows, Duke. I will be your friend and you will be mine. You will take me to see the pineapple stove, and I. . . .” She gave him an impish smile. “I will not fall in love with you.”

The carriage rocked to a halt; they had reached Trent’s townhouse and Merry added, “I have to admit that it’s amusing to realize that you believe you’re so irresistible that you have to warn women not to become besotted with your beauty.”

The doorway swung open and a footman appeared. His wife descended in a cloud of lace.

And a giggle.

M
erry walked into the entry of the duke’s townhouse and stopped short. Not the duke’s house:
her
house. She was the duchess.

These were her footmen, gawking at her under their lashes. Her townhouse, her front door.

Her husband.

The word sent a thrill through her that was very different from the dread with which she’d pictured being Cedric’s wife.

Trent came up behind her, putting a warm hand on her lower back. “Your maid is waiting for you in your bedchamber, if you would like to change your gown.”

Merry was tired of dragging around mounds of lace, but she couldn’t simply walk into a strange bedchamber and explain to Lucy . . . what? She felt as if her life had splin
tered into a million pieces and she was desperate to glue parts of it, at least, back together.

She knew what English people always did in moments of indecision. She smiled at Trent’s butler—
her
butler. “Thank you, but I should like a cup of tea first.”

Two seconds later, she was seated on a couch in a small sitting room, her train wadded up at her feet and her husband seated at her side.

The very sight of him struck her like a blow. Trent wasn’t pretty. He had the look of an angel cast out for the sin of arrogance, but at the same time, he was all man, from head to toe.

She cleared her throat. “What am I to call you?”

He looked confused for a moment. Then he said, “My mother addressed my father by his title.”

“I address you as Duke?”

“Actually, she addressed him as Trent, as in, the Duke of Trent. I would prefer it, but you are welcome to use one of my personal names, if you like.”

“Trent sounds like a river,” she observed. “And I am not fond of Mortimer.”

The side of the duke’s mouth drew up in a crooked smile, and he moved close enough to drop a kiss on her neck.

Merry shivered involuntarily.

He kissed her again, on the chin this time. “My first name is Octavius.” His arms came around her and pulled her close. “I am the sixth duke, but the eighth Mortimer.”

“I couldn’t be married to an emperor,” Merry said, trying to keep her voice even although her heartbeat had quickened. “I’m an American, and we do not kowtow to royalty.”

A wicked smile lit deep in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to kowtow. But would you submit, Merry?” His voice deepened. “Would you submit to your very own emperor?”

A shiver broke over Merry’s skin. How did he make that word sound so alluring? “No,” she breathed, because no matter how delectable her husband was, she would not submit to anyone.

He broke into a crack of laughter. “This marriage is going to be interesting.”

Merry discovered her fingers were curling into his hair and she was fighting the impulse to melt against him. She was fairly certain that ladies didn’t do that sort of thing—at least not in sitting rooms. “I am having trouble believing that you decided to marry me the first time we met,” she said. “I could hardly see you in the twilight.”

“You spoke to me as if you were already a duchess.”

“You liked the way I spoke?”

“Yes. And your facts, and your laugh. Your gown may have also played a role.”

She frowned, trying to remember what she had worn the night they met.

“It was dusky on the balcony, but your skin glowed in the poor light there was.” One finger trailed down the line of her neck, then lower over the swell of her breast. “Especially here. You were spilling out of the dress. There wasn’t a man in the ballroom who didn’t want you.”

“They wanted my fortune,” she corrected him. “My bosom may have been a welcome second.” The duke’s hands were callused, presumably from riding, and his caress felt so good that she shivered.

“I don’t need your fortune. And I have to admit that it gave me some pleasure to know that you had no ambitions to become a duchess.”

“I did not,” she said. She wasn’t being completely honest. There had been moments when she’d dreamed of marrying him—and becoming his duchess was the unavoidable side effect of that—but a woman has to keep her dignity. Her
husband already had far too much self-confidence for his own good.

“Your fortune
and
your bosom are welcome seconds to
you
, to Miss Merry Pelford, an American from Boston.”

His answer sent a streak of happiness through her. An aching hunger had sprung into being between them, a kind of madness that made her legs quiver so that she could easily imagine sliding onto her back, his weight and raw hunger following her down . . .

He pulled her tightly into his arms, crushing her breasts against his chest. Then he bent his head and kissed her for the first time since they stood before the altar. Even the touch of their lips together made tingles go down her legs.

Trent was a bossy kisser, moving her head into just the right position. But did it matter, when his lips were so firm and sweet, and he was so good at it? He wasn’t pushy and wet, either. It was like a conversation, alternately devouring, then gentle and sweet.

When he finally pulled back, he said huskily, “So Octavius won’t do, and neither will Mortimer?”

“What?” Merry asked, sounding like a breathless fool.

“Mortimer.”

She shook her head. “Mortimer sounds like an uncle whom you wouldn’t invite to dinner.”

“I hesitate to tell you that, following tradition, our sons will be Mortimers.”

“I might have to think hard about annulment,” she said demurely. That brought a reaction. Her breath caught as he leaned forward, a wicked light in his eyes, and kissed her so deeply that pleasure flashed down her limbs.

“What about John?” he said a while later. “It’s my third name.”

Merry tried it out in her head. She could be married to a John. Though it would be better . . .

“Jack,” she said decisively.

Her husband’s brows drew together.

“Do you not like it?” she asked.

“Cedric used to call me Jack,” Trent said, his voice emotionless. “It sounds childish. I would much prefer John.”

Merry had only heard Cedric address his brother as “Duke,” and always with an edge of sarcasm. She reached up and slid her fingers into his hair. “Jack makes you sound American.”

“Have you any notion how disturbing that is to me?”

“Precisely. Please? If only in private? You may call me Merry.”

“I would like to take you to Hawksmede, Merry,” Trent said. Surely that was tacit permission to call him whatever she liked.

“Your house in the country,” Merry murmured. His hands were wandering over her back, leaving delightful heat in their wake. Was she supposed to pretend his caresses didn’t make her feel like collapsing to the floor like a marionette without strings? She leaned into the hard lines of his body, flirting with his tongue, tasting him and feeling him.

“My home,” Trent said, a while later. “Have you ever visited a great house?”

“My father lived in a large house in Boston. My uncle’s house in the country is even larger. But I have the feeling that Hawksmede is quite different.”

“It’s older, for one thing.”

“There aren’t many very old buildings in Boston,” she agreed. “Do you live in a crumbling castle, the kind described by Mrs. Radcliffe?”

“No. But my mother called it, not fondly, an ‘old heap of stone.’ There are few conveniences.”

Merry nodded. “No water closets, I suppose?”

“Water closets?” Trent looked taken aback. “My mother put in a bathing chamber, which was seen as progressive in the extreme. Between the watermen and the footmen, we manage to stay clean and warm.”

“But there are gardens,” Merry said simply. “How far is it from London?”

“Only three hours, if the roads are clear. I thought we might ask your uncle and aunt to pay us a visit in a few days. The chapel is said to be haunted by an angry monk; I’m sure it would be inspiration for a thousand lines at least.”

That was very thoughtful of him. She did want to see Bess, if only because her aunt had some explaining to do, as Nanny used to say when Merry was naughty.

“What about George and Snowdrop? Can they come?”

“Of course. Though if you don’t mind, I’d prefer that they travel with your maid and my valet. I assume that this will be George’s first carriage trip.”

“He will learn,” she said a trifle defensively. “He’s already much better.”

Trent dropped a kiss on her mouth. “He is an intelligent puppy. I have no doubt of it. What would you think of leaving for the country today?”

He wanted his bride there, in the old sprawling pile of stone that felt
his
, as opposed to this shiny London townhouse that Cedric had been living in.

“Very well,” Merry said easily. “I will need a half hour or so to put on a traveling dress and pack a small bag.”

His mouth almost fell open.

“Is that too much time?” she asked.

“My mother always required hours, if not days, to ready herself for a trip.”

“I do not,” Merry said, keeping her explanation simple so as not to further baffle her husband. “I like to travel.”

Trent’s arms went around her again. “Merry,” he said, in
that husky voice that melted her inside. “We are not going to consummate our marriage in a moving carriage.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck. “We’re not?” she breathed. Her eyes grew wide as a smile shaped his mouth.

“Though it is—”

“A consummation devoutly to be wished?” she suggested, laughing.

“‘Devoutly’ does not convey my feelings on the matter,” Trent replied, his lips ghosting over hers. “I shall take you home to the place where my ancestors bedded their wives for the first time. This townhouse is too new.”

“New?” she managed. “How old is it?”

“My great-grandfather built it in 1720.”

“Just so you know,” Merry said, pulling back so she could meet his eyes, “you and I have very different ideas of ‘new.’ My
country
is
new
. It is twenty-seven years old.”

“This house is new,” he replied with a crooked grin. “It is eighty-three years old.”

A
n hour later, Merry climbed into the ducal carriage with a net bag containing two novels she had borrowed from the townhouse’s library. She never opened the bag, though, because she and Trent started arguing about the treasure of the Mycenaean kings, which Trent had read about in the paper, and Merry had heard about from a friend of Lord Elgin’s wife.

“Lady Elgin had to crawl through a hole on all fours to reach the inner chamber,” Merry told him. “And later she saw a city built by the Cyclopes! Would you like another piece of chicken?” They were sharing an excellent hamper containing enough food to feed at least three pairs of newlyweds.

“She may have seen a city,” Trent said, accepting the chicken, “but I doubt very much that there was any evi
dence it was built by Cyclopes. Just how would that fact be demonstrated through its architecture?”

Merry cocked her head and laughed, acknowledging the point. “Half windows?”

She was seated opposite him, but Trent pulled her over to his side. “I suppose the houses might be on one level. I’ve heard that stairs can be difficult without both eyes.”

“Homer is a better writer than Shakespeare,” she said, snuggling against him. “Obviously he believed in Cyclopes, since he wrote about them.”

“Yes, well, Shakespeare wrote about fairies dancing around in the woods,” Trent said, offering her a lemon tart.

“No, thank you. I read somewhere that the Cyclopes built a magnificent civilization on an island off the coast of Greece. Oh! And they are credited with giving Zeus his thunderbolt.”

“That proves my point, don’t you think? They’re products of someone’s imagination. It’s not as if the prime minister goes around handing out thunderbolts.” He pulled her a little tighter. “You look sleepy.”

“I will admit that the last two nights were wretched,” Merry admitted. She gave him a mock scowl. “No thanks to you, allowing me to believe that I was about to become Lady Cedric.”

Even hearing that made Trent’s blood run cold. He moved along the seat until his back was to the corner, and pulled her into his lap. With his free arm, he felt under the seat and drew out a blanket, which he shook over her.

“This is so soft,” Merry said drowsily. “We don’t have cashmere in Boston. Do you know where cashmere comes from?”

She felt, rather than heard, his chuckle. “Tell me later,” he whispered.

“I think I’ll take a nap, if you don’t mind.” Her head was leaning on Trent’s chest, and her hand had come to rest lightly on his stomach.

He was wearing a waistcoat, and a shirt beneath that, but all the same . . . Merry surreptitiously spread her fingers. His skin was so warm that she could feel it through the layers. She felt safe for the first time since Cedric had threatened her at the Vereker ball.

“Do you wish to loosen your corset?” he said, his voice low. “I could assist.”

She opened an eye and peered up at him. “What do you know of corsets?”

“Enough.” Trent’s eyes had a hungry gleam.

“Humph,” Merry said, slumping back against his shoulder. “I am perfectly comfortable, thank you. I never wear a corset while traveling.”

He made a strangled noise, but her eyes were already closing. It seemed only a few minutes before she heard, “Merry,” and then, louder, “
Merry
.”

“Yes?” she asked groggily.

“Time to wake up.”

“I’d rather not,” she said, from the depths of a dream. “Thank you very much, though.”

Trent’s laugh woke her.

Merry pushed herself upright. Outside the windows, the sky was black, but flickering torches threw an unsteady light around the carriage. They had arrived.

Trent climbed out. When she appeared in the door after him, he effortlessly plucked her from the carriage.

“You seem to be sweeping me off my feet frequently,” she said, her eyes searching his.

“I like holding you.” His arms tightened. “My American duchess,” he whispered, his breath warming her forehead. He set her down, but he kept her hand in his.

When Merry looked around her, she saw that the carriage had drawn into a large courtyard. Torches were bolted to the walls at regular intervals, but even so, she couldn’t make out much more than stone walls, rising into the darkness.

A dignified man advanced out of the murk and was introduced as Oswald, the Hawksmede butler.

“The groom you sent ahead noted that the market fair would likely slow down your journey,” Oswald said, after greetings had been exchanged.

“Yes, we’ve been some five hours on the road,” Trent replied. “If you would make the duchess’s maid and her dogs comfortable, Oswald, I shall take my wife indoors.”

Merry was squinting to see if there were possibly turrets—she hoped so, because she dearly loved the idea of a haunted turret—when Trent turned back to her, flashed a naughty grin, and picked her up in his arms.

Merry gasped and lost her grip on her reticule and net bag, which fell to the flagstones with a soft thud.

Trent paid no attention, striding on toward the lighted door to the house.

“This is very romantic of you,” she said, after an awkward moment.

“It is expedient. You slept on the journey, but I spent hours trying to think of anything other than your lack of a corset. And frankly, if the household thinks I’m in love, it affirms the idea that I stole you from my brother due to passion.”

Before Merry could reply, he was walking in the door. In the entry, footmen stood ready to receive directions, but she scarcely saw them because Trent went straight for the stairs, carrying her up two at a time without apparent effort.

Top of the stairs, to the left, through a pair of magnifi
cent doors attended by another footman, who closed the doors behind them with a quiet click of the latch.

Her new husband tipped her onto the bed and leaned over her, so close that she could see the curl of his sooty lashes. They were long—as long as hers, probably.

She had judged Cedric handsome, but Trent had a raw masculine beauty that put his brother’s prettiness to shame. Together with the gleam in his eyes, he was pure, wanton temptation. His eyes slid over her body as if he were starving and she a banquet, lingered on the curves of her breasts, on the swell of her hips.

“Hello, Jack?” she asked, unable to stop herself from smiling. “I’m up here.”

It took a moment for his gaze to return to hers. Without answering, he bent his head and his tongue plunged into her mouth. He kissed her just long enough to make desire riot through her bloodstream, before he lowered his body onto hers.