My American Duchess (6 page)

“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.

Returning to the present . . .

N
igel 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.

Before her stood the austerely dressed man from the balcony. Or, as he had been introduced, the Duke of Trent.

Cedric’s twin brother.

His hair was dark and gold, the color of winter wheat, whereas her future husband’s hair was lighter, like chaff in the sunlight. She hadn’t see his eyes clearly in the dusky light outdoors, but now she discovered they were blue—not Cedric’s lazy, sweet blue, but a dark, demanding hue.

He was more muscled than Cedric—she disliked exceptionally muscled men, she reminded herself—but she would guess that he was the same height, to the half inch.

She should curtsy.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed without thinking. “Did you know who I was?”

“You’ve met,” Lady Portmeadow cried, her head swiveling between them. “Your Grace, why did you—”

“We had not been formally introduced,” the duke bit out. “And no, Miss Pelford, I had no idea who you were.”

He appeared unamused. Merry’s heart sank to the
bottom of her slippers. Likely he thought that Cedric should have introduced the two of them. Merry had to admit that she agreed.

But he bowed, so Merry responded with a hasty curtsy. As she straightened, she glanced around, hoping to see Cedric. Her mind was reeling with the fact that she had unwittingly engaged in a tête-à-tête with her fiancé’s brother.

It was unthinkable. How could the laughing stranger on the balcony, the man who made her feel witty and desirable, be the brother whom Cedric had described with such disdain?

There was something very unsettling about having had a flirtatious conversation with one’s brother-in-law.

Almost brother-in-law.

“I look forward to dancing with your daughter later this evening, Lady Portmeadow,” the duke said, his tone strongly suggesting that their hostess withdraw. The lady’s eyes were eagerly darting between the two of them as if she were taking notes for the twopenny press.

There was no need to be impolite to their hostess merely because she was a bit nosy, so Merry gave the duke a look that said as much. “I expect you’ll wish to ask Miss Portmeadow for a minuet, Your Grace. She is one of the most accomplished young ladies of my acquaintance, and she dances beautifully. ”

“Spoken like the sister you shall soon be!” Lady Portmeadow exclaimed. “Now that your brother has found a wife, Your Grace, you must look for a duchess. Why, we scarcely see you in society!”

“I do not enjoy dancing,” the duke stated.

“Ah, but Miss Portmeadow is divinely graceful,” Merry insisted. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that she didn’t want the duke to think that
she
had any interest in dancing with him.

“Miss Pelford, when will you marry Lord Cedric?” Lady Portmeadow asked brightly.

Merry winced inwardly. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that her third engagement would be her last.

“We have yet to make plans.” She forced her mouth into a smile.

The duke’s expression darkened as if he might explode. Apparently, he disapproved.

Cedric had described his brother as dictatorial, not to mention ill-disposed toward Americans. As head of the family, he might believe that he had power over his brother’s decisions.

If that was the case, His Grace would have to learn differently. American women did not allow themselves to be pushed about by a man simply because he was titled.

Merry straightened her shoulders and turned to their hostess. “You must put the duke down for Miss Portmeadow’s supper dance,” she said sweetly. “As part of the family, I shall make it one of my first tasks to see that His Grace finds a wife.”

Lady Portmeadow seemed surprised by the suggestion, but as Merry surmised, she was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the Duke of Trent took Miss Portmeadow in to supper, eligible gentlemen would take notice. She smiled, waggled her fingers, and slipped away before His Grace could say yea or nay.

They stood looking at one another silently. The duke had a cross look on his face. Even so, he was wickedly handsome—as handsome as Cedric.

In that instant she realized exactly why he didn’t care for the idea that Cedric was marrying her. It had nothing to do with her nationality or his right to approve of his brother’s spouse.

It was their conversation on the balcony. The duke thought she was a trollop, a woman who accosted utter strangers and flirted with them in the near dark.

It was unfortunate—indeed, it was humiliating—that they had met under such improper circumstances. But it had happened and there was no wishing it away. They had to acknowledge it and move on.

With that in mind, she pushed her untouched glass of wine into his hand. He took it, looking faintly surprised.

Then she put her hands on her hips, just as Aunt Bess always did when she was vexed. “Why on earth are you dressed so plainly? You don’t look like a duke.”

“How would you possibly know, Miss Pelford? I can assure you, if you didn’t grasp it yourself, that the Duke of Villiers’s sartorial foibles are not representative of those of his rank.”

“I cannot be the first person who has misconstrued your rank. You look like a Quaker—certainly not ducal.”

“I needn’t dress to advertise,” he said dryly. “People give me the same admiration as a five-legged calf without prompting.”

Well, spit. He was a living example of why people bowed and scraped in front of dukes. There was something so powerful and just plain imposing about him that even she had the impulse to try to assuage his temper.

She took her hands off her hips, because the posture wasn’t natural for her.

“May I return your lemonade now?” he asked, a sardonic look in his eyes.

The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was as impressed as everyone else. As a member of the peerage, His Grace was used to being fawned over. He would need some time to grow accustomed to a sister-in-law who
treated him as though he walked on the ground with the rest of humanity.

Merry put her hands back on her hips, the better to show off her indifference to his title. “You don’t appear to be happy that I’m joining your family,” she observed.

“I am not.”

His voice was a growl.

If Merry’s voice were capable of that register, she would have growled right back. He was making her a little nervous, so her breath felt tight in her chest and her voice was a near whisper. “You don’t feel your brother has made a suitable choice?”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply.

It had to be said. “I much enjoyed our earlier conversation, Your Grace. I should be sorry if you feel I am an inappropriate spouse for Lord Cedric in light of it. Let me assure you that I do not make a habit of conversing with strangers.”

“You misunderstand me.” Something almost violent, a kind of controlled fury, colored his words and ran over Merry’s skin like the touch of his finger.

“I am aware that you and your brother are not on good terms,” she observed, taking the bull by the horns.

The duke was again silent.

“I expect you underestimate him,” Merry suggested. “He does the same of you.”

His jaw tightened. Perhaps the duke didn’t know that Cedric’s characterizations were so harsh. “I’ve noticed that siblings are often blind to each other’s best qualities,” she added hastily. “But surely you are aware that your brother is a very kind and thoughtful person.”

The duke just stared at the floor for a long moment. Cedric was right; bitter jealousy had divided them. What
a shame. A drop of confusion slid down her back like icy water. The duke was so very different from Cedric’s description of him.

But it was true that they were opposites. If Cedric dazzled, his brother was dark, and possibly dangerous.

Well, that was overstating it.

“I suppose that is possible,” the duke said finally, lifting his eyes to hers.

“I was an only child, but I gather it is quite common. In time, you will come to recognize each other’s good qualities,” she said encouragingly. “Why, I expect you have no idea that Lord Cedric is deeply romantic.”

A moment of silence followed. “You are right about my ignorance of that trait,” His Grace said.

What did it say about her own character that she could scarcely recall why she had agreed to marry Cedric? At this very moment she was having trouble remembering to breathe properly; she found the duke’s glower absurdly thrilling.

She wanted to make him laugh again. She wanted to lean forward and tempt him into looking at her breasts.

She wanted . . .

“I think I fell in love with him when he compared me to a summer’s day,” she cried, rushing into speech. “A summer’s day,” she repeated firmly. For some reason, it didn’t sound quite as romantic as it had when Cedric, kneeling at her feet, had first murmured it.

Another silence. Then: “I certainly didn’t know my brother was capable of quoting Shakespeare,” His Grace drawled.

Of course, Cedric had been quoting poetry. How stupid of her not to have recognized it. The English were forever trotting out a line or two of the Bard and then waiting for her to applaud. She was getting sick of the man’s name.

“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’” the duke recited in a flat monotone. “‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’”

His intonation made it clear that he found her neither lovely nor temperate, whatever that meant.

“Cedric’s poetic nature makes it easy to understand why I fell in love with him so quickly!” The sentence came out in a chirping voice that didn’t sound in the least believable.

“‘Cedric’?” His Grace repeated.

“We are not so ceremonious in America,” she said, defending her informality. “Indeed, as we will soon be family, you may address me as Merry, if you wish. Not Mary, as in Mary, Queen of Scots,” she added, “but Merry, as in Merry Christmas. My mother was a rebel.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“She was English, and Christmas was not well regarded in Boston when she first arrived,” Merry explained. “Observing an English holiday was considered rather inflammatory at that time. I never knew my mother, but my father told me that she wanted me to have a name that reminded her of home.”

“I gather she would have approved of you marrying an Englishman.”

Merry nodded. “I think so. It was one of the reasons that I—that I came here. Besides the reason I told you about, I mean.”

The duke had forgotten that the glass he held was actually hers, because before she could warn him, he took a swallow, then sputtered. “Bloody hell, what is this?”

“Canary wine,” Merry said hastily. “But I hadn’t yet tasted it, Your Grace. You may drink the rest.”

He put the glass down on the table. “You were telling me that you fell in love with my brother after he quoted some lines from Shakespeare.”

“I must confess that I didn’t recognize the quotation. I
could never bring myself to read poetry, let alone memorize it.”

“Shakespeare wrote that poem for a young man,” His Grace observed.

Merry wasn’t sure what to make of that. “My governess despaired of me,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I can’t make poetry stick in my head. I managed to memorize only a line or two, and those badly.”