My American Duchess (7 page)

“You, who have all those facts at your command, can’t remember more than two lines of poetry?”

“Not even that. ‘Ye little birds that sit and sing amidst the shady valleys . . .’ something, something . . . ‘Go pretty birds about her bower, sing pretty birds, she may not . . .’ something . . . followed by a lot of warbling.” She wrinkled her nose.

For a second, she saw a gleam of laughter in his eyes, but then it disappeared. “Yet Cedric’s use of poetry was persuasive. Were your other fiancés similarly literary?”

Merry was wrestling with herself, because it seemed that, contrary to her previous conviction, she did like muscular men, at least the one standing before her. The mere sight of the strong column of his throat as he drank had sent a shiver straight through her. She’d never felt
that
before—not with Bertie, nor Dermot, nor Cedric. She tried to banish the thought the moment it surfaced, but panic spread through her like black oil across a puddle.

What’s more, the duke was close enough that she could smell wintergreen soap again, and it was intoxicating.

Far more than Cedric’s musky cologne.

The evidence was inescapable. She truly was an awful person, fickle in every way. She was attracted to her fiancé’s brother, which probably broke some sort of ecclesiastical law.

She could control these disgusting urges. It was simply a
matter of taking her marriage vows. After she and Cedric were wed, it would all be different.

Avoiding the question of literature—Bertie’s “red wagon” spoke for itself—she answered his real question. “As I mentioned on the balcony, I believed myself to be in love before, but it feels very, very different this time.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Do look at my betrothal ring,” she chirped, lifting her hand so that the diamonds caught fire from the chandelier. “Cedric—
darling
Cedric,” she amended, “chose it for me because he said I remind him of—well, of some duchess who was given a diamond ring by an archduke.”

The duke’s large hand lifted her small one toward the candlelight. For a moment they both stared at the sparkling cluster of diamonds she wore. “It was the Archduke Maximilian of Austria.”

“You know the story?” She was surprised. Cedric was interested in objets d’art, jewelry, and fashion, but His Grace didn’t seem to be that sort of man. She’d assume him to be an expert about horses, politics, science . . . things of that nature.

“Our father gave a diamond ring to our mother, and so he liked to tell the story of the first such token.”

Merry felt her lips curl into a genuine smile. “You see how romantic Cedric is? He must have bought me this ring because your father did the same for your mother. My mother died when I was born, but . . .” She trailed off.

“But?” The duke shot her a look.

“My father buried my mother with her wedding ring. He told me that she was so happy on their wedding day that he knew she would haunt him if he took it away from her, even to give it to me.”

His Grace said nothing, so Merry gave him a crooked grin. “Theirs was a love match, you see. A mésalliance.”

“How so?”

“Oh, my mother was from a respectable English family, visiting her cousins in Boston when she met my father. His ambitions were not small, but he wasn’t wealthy when they wed.”

The duke’s eyes were intent on her face, making her heart skip a beat.

“I would guess that your father became highly successful,” he observed.

“He was a member of our Constitutional Congress.” Merry raised her chin, as proud of her father as she was of her country’s fledgling republic, where there was no House of Lords, and no one was born into power.

“If he was anything like you, I suspect he would have become president.”

Something about the duke was turning her into a woman she wouldn’t recognize. A dishonorable woman, who thought it would be a good idea to smile at her own fiancé’s brother.

Not just smile, but
smile
.

“I like to think so,” she said briskly. “Your Grace, it is nearly time for your dance with Miss Portmeadow. I haven’t seen your brother in some time, so I must find him.”

She tried to infuse her voice with adoration for Cedric but ended up sounding like a bleating goat.

The duke’s mouth tightened, then he said, “Of course. It is hard for lovers to be apart for long.”

There was definitely a rough edge to him. It was as if that Mohawk warrior had put on a coat and strode into a London ballroom. He didn’t belong amid all these polished gentlemen. Cedric was right about that, at least.

“Do you know,” the duke said conversationally, “that no one except yourself has gone head to head with me in years?”

She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. “That
is all too apparent, Your Grace. Clearly, you have been shamefully cosseted. Your mother is likely to blame.”

His mother must have adored having little twin boys. Merry could just imagine what they had been like, with hair like shiny golden coins, blue, blue eyes, and sweet smiles.

To her surprise, the duke’s expression turned bleak. A footman came past, offering a tray with glasses of lemonade. Merry shook her head.

“You don’t care for lemonade?”

“No, thank you,” she said cautiously. Something had changed in the very air. His Grace looked as if he’d come to a conclusion—one that didn’t please him, but one to which he was grimly resigned.

“Your choice of beverage, canary wine, is not customary for English ladies, as I suspect you are aware.”

He was cooler, distant. She hadn’t realized his eyes were warm until they were . . . not.

“I find lemonade unsophisticated,” Merry said, managing a careless smile. “I prefer something stronger.”

“I wasn’t aware that Lady Portmeadow offered a choice.”

“She doesn’t. But Cedric brought me a special drink. He is most thoughtful.”

“‘A special drink,’” the duke echoed, his voice neutral.

She was starting to feel nettled. “Do Englishwomen restrict themselves to lemonade? Because my English governess unaccountably neglected to teach me that rule.”

“Am I to take it that American ladies drink fortified wine on each and every occasion?”

“What if we do?” Merry retorted, raising her chin. “What possible reason could you have to condemn or approve the practice?”

His eyes drifted over her, and not in an agreeable way, not in the appreciative manner that he’d looked at her
before. Something was different about him now. He looked every inch the aristocrat.

“As you mentioned earlier, Miss Pelford, you are clearly in need of instruction about how to comport yourself in English society. Permit me to note a rule that your governess overlooked: young ladies do not drink spirits. You will have to take care not to display inebriation.”

“I have never been inebriated,” she said hotly.

“I am relieved to hear it. I have one more point to make, and then I’ll escort you to my brother.”

Merry ground her teeth. “Please do,” she managed.

“My brother is overly fond of brandy.”

For a moment Merry couldn’t imagine whom he referred to. Was there another Allardyce brother, one whom Cedric had neglected to mention? No, of course not. The duke meant Cedric. It was slanderous, and proved that this estrangement was far worse than she’d believed.

She had to defend her betrothed. “You are mistaken,” she said, letting her voice have a distinct edge. “I have never even seen Cedric tipsy.”

His gaze was rock-steady. “You will.”

To her dismay, Merry realized that the duke’s stubborn insistence meant that one of her fiancé’s claims about his brother was indeed true. Cedric had once told her that the duke spread lies about him throughout London, including a fantastic tale about how Cedric had once almost shot a bishop.

And now His Grace was telling her that his brother—her fiancé—was an inebriate. She made a silent apology to Cedric, resolving to say as much when she saw him next. She was ashamed that she hadn’t entirely believed him.

“His claims are absurd,” Cedric had told her, “but you know how it is. Some people will believe anything.”

She couldn’t abide underhanded men, not after Dermot
had sneakily borrowed against his expectation of marrying her.

She let some of her disdain creep into her eyes. His Grace shouldn’t be allowed to think that everyone would believe the lies he told about his own brother. She, if no one else, would always take Cedric’s side.

“I gather you do not believe me,” he said.

Merry didn’t know how to answer. She could hardly inform the duke that Cedric had warned her that his brother would try to ruin his reputation.

The duke’s eyes rested on hers for a moment and then he looked past her at the crowded ballroom. It was remarkable that no one had interrupted them, but the ball seemed to be swirling on, taking no account of the two of them. Of course, everyone knew they would soon be family members, and there was nothing very interesting in the chatter of a brother- and sister-in-law.

“Has he told you how our parents died?” he asked, with an abrupt change of subject.

“He has not.”

“Then I shall tell you. Seven years ago, on a fine spring evening, my father took my mother out for an airing in a light phaeton.”

Merry felt a trickle of dread.

“Phaetons require deft handling and can be dangerous even in the best of circumstances.” His voice was even, but something flickered in his eyes that could only be pain. “And easily fatal, if the driver has consumed the better part of a bottle of brandy before taking up the reins.”

The implication was plain. “Tell me your mother didn’t die in that carriage accident,” she whispered.

“They both did.”

Her stomach clenched. “No,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sadly, my father often drank to excess, and Cedric
takes after him in that respect.” His voice didn’t invite pity; without question, he would damn the pretensions of anyone who offered sympathy.

Her fingers twitched with a ferocious wish to put her hand on his cheek and soothe the pain that he felt. No wonder His Grace was so worried about Cedric’s drinking. The family had experienced a terrible tragedy, all of it springing from one evening of Bacchanalian excess.

But it wasn’t her place to offer the duke consolation. All she could do was try to mend the breach.

“You are mistaken about Cedric,” Merry said, gentling her voice. “I assure you that he will not cause an accident like your father’s, because he does not overindulge. He has been courting me for well over a month, and I’ve never seen a sign of dissipation.”

He had been looking at the floor, but now his eyes cut to her. “I must ask you to not drink even canary wine around my brother. Your future husband needs his wife to help curb his worst habits rather than join in them.”

Before she could respond, she heard Cedric’s welcome voice coming from behind her. Merry whirled in relief. Even though they were surrounded by people, somehow this conversation had become more improper, more intimate, than the one she and the duke had had on the balcony.

“Lord Cedric,” she said brightly, “your brother and I have been acquainting ourselves.”

“I’m sure that has been a charming experience,” he said.

“It has been most interesting,” His Grace said blandly. “You have made an excellent choice. The future Lady Cedric will make us all proud.”

“I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to have your approval,” Cedric replied.

“There was no question of my refusal,” the duke said. “I know you are eager to set up your own household.”

Merry felt as if small knives were flying around her head, slicing through the air so quickly that she couldn’t see them.

“Miss Pelford showed me her ring,” His Grace continued. “A diamond cluster for a diamond of the first water.”

Cedric’s lips widened. No one could call his expression a smile, though there was something satisfied about it. “I gather you applaud the wisdom of my decision?”

Merry frowned. Another, silent, exchange was taking place, which she couldn’t begin to interpret.

“As pertains the ring,” the duke said. “Certainly.” He shrugged.

“What on earth are the two of you talking about?” Merry asked.

“Your ring,” Cedric said. “You are wearing a ring that belonged to our mother, the late Duchess of Trent. But as the duke well knows, she would want my wife to have it, not his.”

Merry looked at the duke, whose face was utterly expressionless. “
What?
” she cried. She turned to Cedric. “But—but you said—”

“I said I chose it for you,” he said silkily, “and I did.”

“I assumed you bought it for me.” She caught herself. She didn’t want to sound like a disappointed child. With a swift tug, she removed the ring. “This ring is meant not for me, Your Grace, but for your bride. You must keep it for her.”

“My brother is rich enough to buy his wife any number of rings.”

Merry dimly registered that she did not like Cedric’s tone. He sounded vaguely spiteful, which she didn’t like in women, and even less in men.

That wasn’t important at the moment.

The duke had shifted position. He was leaning against
the wall and staring down, as if there was something fascinating about the floorboards at his feet. “I believe my mother would be quite happy to see her ring on the hand of the future Lady Cedric,” he agreed.

Well, spit. There was something she didn’t understand here, something about the duke and his mother.

His Grace looked as calm as a fishpond, but she saw through him. There was a secret attached to the duchess’s ring.

“You two may dislike each other,” she said, giving first one, then the other, a pointed frown. “But I would be grateful if you could stop this childish game of insulting each other in my presence. I feel as if I’m breaking out in hives.”

“Hives?” Cedric repeated with palpable distaste.

“Hives, or boils?” the duke murmured, sounding amused.

Merry revised the image of their mother smiling lovingly at her sweet little boys. The poor duchess had likely found herself in the midst of a pitched battle from the moment they spoke their first words.