My American Duchess (8 page)

The problem was that they were both stubborn, willful, and English. There was something to being English, she was discovering, just as there was something to being American.

She understood the inherent character traits of Americans: they were open-minded, ambitious, independent, and brave—sometimes to the point of foolhardiness.

The British, however? Perhaps it was a hallmark of their nationality that these two men were so stubborn that they could choke on it.

Feeling a wave of exhaustion, she tucked her hand into the crook of Cedric’s arm. “I’d like to go home, please. Aunt Bess mentioned that you would accompany us, because the axle on your carriage is broken, isn’t that it?”

If she hadn’t been looking straight at Cedric, she wouldn’t have seen his eyes fly to his brother’s and then look down. “Something like that,” he murmured.

“Miss Pelford,” His Grace said, and swept her a magnificent bow.

“Your ring,” Merry said, and held it out to him.

“Oh for God’s sake, just keep it,” her fiancé said sharply.

“This is the future duchess’s ring,” Merry stated. “While I appreciate the sentiment with which you chose it for me, Lord Cedric, I cannot wear a ring that will, by rights, belong to my sister-in-law.”

“I am giving it to you, Miss Pelford,” the duke said. “You are in love with my brother. It will serve as my wedding present.”

“No, thank you,” she said. Proving that an American could be as stubborn as any Englishman, she held out the ring once again.

“We could sell it,” Cedric put in—most unhelpfully, she thought.

The duke muttered something under his breath and accepted it back.

Merry just wanted to go home. A part of her wanted to go all the way home to Boston, where brothers didn’t growl at each other like bears sharing a too-small cave.

Lady Portmeadow appeared. “My butler will be calling the supper dance in a few minutes!” she said brightly. “May I say that it has been such a pleasure to see the three of you chatting so cheerfully? I know that my dear friend the late duchess would have been very happy.” She beamed at Merry. “Our sex serves as nature’s peacemakers, don’t you agree?”

Her ladyship hauled the duke away before His Grace could express his opinion about Merry’s peacemaking abilities, though not before he threw her a glance that re
minded her it had not been his choice to sup with Miss Portmeadow.

“We need a drink,” Cedric said, breaking the silence. “I always need a drink after spending more than five minutes with my brother. Though I must say, you did quite well with him. I thought I’d find the two of you at each other’s throats.”

“Why?” she asked, startled. “Surely you don’t believe me capable of such incivility.”

“The duke despises Americans. Told you that before. Oddly enough, I got the impression he actually likes you. I’ll fetch you a glass of wine from the library.”

“I’d rather go home.” She’d had enough of the ball, the betrothal, and all these exhaustingly fraught exchanges.

“One more drink,” Cedric insisted, taking her by the wrist and drawing her toward the door. “I couldn’t possibly face the ride to Portman Square in a closed carriage with your aunt without first cushioning the blow.”

Merry had felt worry before; when, for example, she’d come to see that life with Bertie would mean watching her husband hack his way through forty or fifty duels, if he even survived to his third decade. Later, she’d fretted over the depth of Dermot’s attachment to money—and the depth of his enthusiasm for spending hers.

But it was not until this moment, hearing her fiancé refer scornfully to the person she loved most in the world—the person who had raised her, and had sacrificed so much to ensure her well-being—that she experienced true panic.

She started to say something—
You don’t really mean that!
—but stopped herself. He
did
mean it. He’d met Bess only a handful of times, but he’d clearly made up his mind.

“My aunt is very dear to me,” she said forcefully.

Her tone of voice obviously sank in.

“She’s very colorful,” Cedric offered. “It’s just that colorful can be so exhausting in large doses. All that poetic fervor . . . not very good ton.”

“My aunt
is
the very best ‘ton,’” she said, rattling the word off as if she hadn’t had to ask their butler what it meant. “Her decency and kindness are infinitely more meaningful than any pedigree.”

“I do realize that your aunt is representative of the best people to be found in America,” Cedric said hastily.

Her fiancé could be a real dunderhead sometimes, Merry thought. But wasn’t every man like that on occasion?

She was glumly certain that she knew the answer to that. Her uncle Thaddeus had an alarming propensity toward belligerence for the sake of it; he and Bertie had been hens of the same color. Indeed, either of them would have challenged any man who labeled him a hen.

Her aunt was always pulling Uncle Thaddeus away just before he could throw down the gauntlet. It was part of marriage, putting up with men and soothing over their foolish quarrels.

Merry saw the duke again about an hour later in the foyer, after she had finally persuaded Cedric to leave. His Grace bowed so stiffly that her aunt bridled visibly, and announced in the carriage that Merry’s future brother-in-law didn’t appear to be a nice man.

“I apologize for being overly forthright about a family member,” Bess told Cedric, “but there’s no reason for His Grace to be ill-mannered. I cannot like it. Is he always like that?”

Cedric was lying back in the corner of the carriage, his legs stretched out between them. “Have you heard of Jaquet-Droz’s automaton?” he inquired, by way of response.

Merry’s uncle had been drowsing in his corner, but
he opened his eyes at this. Like her father, Thaddeus was an inventor, and there was no well-known machine that he hadn’t investigated. “Made entirely of bits of wire and the like, and yet it can write with ink and a quill pen.”

“My brother’s just like that,” Cedric said. “A man of wire and brass. Except I think I’d compare him to John Dee’s wooden beetle. The beetle could actually fly, you know.” He chuckled to himself.

If Merry hadn’t already realized it, she’d know it now. Cedric liked his brother about as much as the devil likes holy water: to wit, not at all.

“I don’t know about auto-men,” Bess said, “but the duke was not very nice, considering that he was meeting his future relatives.”

Merry bit back an instinct to defend His Grace. The duke wasn’t mechanical or unfeeling, as Cedric had implied. Indeed, Merry had the idea that he was all raw flame underneath his chilly exterior.

What would have happened to her if there had been such a breach in the family that her uncle and aunt had refused to open their home to an orphan after her father died? The tension between Cedric and his brother was unacceptable, if only for the sake of the children she hoped to have.

“You won’t see much of him,” Cedric reassured her aunt. “He departs tomorrow—apparently he’s planning to spend upwards of three weeks mucking about in a slate mine he’s bought in Wales.”

That was just as well. Out on the balcony, she had responded to the duke in an entirely inappropriate way, and it was even worse when they talked of his parents’ death. This was the best of all solutions.

In the next three weeks, she would grow closer and fall
more in love with her fiancé. By the time the duke reappeared in London, she would be able to greet him without a trace of self-consciousness.

That balcony foolishness would be forgotten, and they could forge a relationship as brother and sister, just as they ought.

7 Cavendish Square, London

Residence of the Duke of Trent

T
rent walked up the stairs to his bedchamber in the hours just before dawn, weary to his bones. He’d stayed out half the night the better to avoid his brother, which was a damned foolish reason.

Over the years, he’d grown used to the peculiarities of being a twin. He and Cedric were as dissimilar as two people could be—and yet they often hit milestones at very nearly the same moment. They’d taken their first steps together; spoken their first words to each other; lost their virginity on the same day, albeit in different counties.

But nothing like this had ever happened before.

It had to be some odd alignment of the planets. Or per
haps it was because the Allardyce brothers were particularly suited to American women. Aye, that was likely the answer.

He merely had to find another American, one who hadn’t already accepted a ring from Cedric.

If only a man could go to a horse fair and pick out a wife. Then it occurred to Trent’s exhausted brain that, in fact, Almack’s was the human equivalent of that horse fair. Unfortunately, he detested the bloody place.

He entered his bedchamber and came to a halt. Cedric was lying in wait for him. Literally.

His brother was asleep in an armchair next to the fireplace, a boozy mess. His mouth hung open and he was listing to the side like a fir tree heavy with snow. His cravat was crumpled and his yellow curls were closer to a tangle than an elegant tumble.

“Cedric,” Trent said wearily. “Wake up.”

He dropped his coat on a chair and wrenched off his neck cloth. In telling contrast to his twin’s fawn pantaloons and rose-colored coat, his coat was black, his pantaloons plain, and his boots hadn’t a single tassel.

He had to repeat himself a few times, and had stripped to the waist and was washing at the basin before his brother finally stirred.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Cedric drawled behind his back, “don’t tell me you’re still washing behind your ears every night, like a good little boy.”

Trent straightened and turned as he toweled off his shoulders. “What are you doing in my chamber?”

“It pains me to say it, but you are verging on burly,” Cedric said, his eyes resting on Trent’s chest with distaste. “You would present a far more fashionable silhouette if you took a carriage around London like every other peer. Clearly, you are exerting yourself too much.”

Cedric affected a shudder that set Trent’s teeth on edge. His brother had never been like this when they were boys. These days it was as if he concocted new mannerisms every day just to irritate.

“I have no interest in debating the merits of a slender physique,” he replied, “especially after spending the entire bloody afternoon listening to arguments about the failure of the Peace of Amiens, followed by that charming incident at the ball. What the hell was that about? You had to steal Mother’s ring behind my back?”

“A nobleman ought to at least make an effort,” Cedric said, entirely ignoring his question. “You represent the family,
Duke
—though God knows, you don’t bother to play the part, or even look it.”

Trent always used to be Jack to his twin, if to no one else—until their father died. Since he’d inherited the title, Cedric had addressed him only as Duke, the term uttered with obvious distaste.

Cedric scowled when he didn’t respond. “Forget the diamond. I had to catch you before you left for Wales. Lady Portmeadow has sent you no fewer than five missives regarding the East End Charity Hospital, and you haven’t paid her the courtesy of a response.”

“What does she want?” Trent bent over to pull off a boot. The letters must be in the stack that his secretary deemed personal—which he never bothered to open. Years ago, he and his twin had neatly divided the responsibilities of an English lord, and Cedric had appropriated all those involving social events—particularly those at which strong drink flowed like water.

“You never looked at them, did you?” Cedric asked with a sniff. “Did you even realize that you hosted tonight’s ball in honor of the hospital with her ladyship?”

Trent straightened, boot in hand. “What?”

“You know, two hosts, one party. She’s as stingy as they come, so she leapt at the idea. You paid for the champagne.”

“How did that come about, given that I know nothing of it?”

“I’m certain I told you weeks ago. Or perhaps I forgot. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, that you and Lady Portmeadow should share the expenses, if not the duties.”

Cedric pushed himself out of the chair and walked unsteadily to Trent’s dressing table, where he propped himself on one hand and leaned close to the mirror. “Now the ball is over, Lady Portmeadow would like you to release funds for the wing of the hospital. They’re going to break ground next week.”

Trent dropped the boot with the thump. “I’m building a hospital wing?”

“I’ve put a year into ensuring that hospital breaks ground. You didn’t really think that our family wouldn’t contribute, did you?” Cedric turned, a sardonic twist on his lips. “The Duke of Trent is building a wing on the hospital in memory of his oh-so-beloved parents. It’s only a few thousand pounds.”

“You have no right to promise thousands of pounds to anyone,” Trent stated.

“Lord Portmeadow,” his brother drawled, “is the head of that precious Committee on Standing Orders that you are always complaining about.”

An all-too-familiar frustration rose in Trent’s throat. After inheriting the dukedom seven years before, he’d succeeded in turning his impoverished ancestral estate into a flourishing concern that employed hundreds, but the one person he had been unable to master was his twin.

“You should be glad that your hoard is going to good use,” Cedric said, with a squinty-eyed smile. He was happiest when he managed to provoke Trent—and he knew
exactly how to do it. He apparently devoted his sober hours to dreaming up new ways to force Trent to fall in with one of his schemes.

Trent picked up the dropped boot and tossed it in the general direction of the wall. Cedric was right: it was too late to withdraw his sponsorship without offending the lady and her husband, who was one of the most powerful men in the House of Lords.

More importantly, he had always meant to support the hospital, though he would have preferred to be consulted about his donation. That charity was the only thing Cedric had done in the last year other than order new coats and drink himself into a stupor.

God knew why his brother had taken on the task, but he had talked an impressive number of people into supporting the project.

“The wing is in memory of our parents?” Trent asked.

“Yes,” Cedric said, his voice taking on a false sweetness that Trent loathed. “I thought of specifying Mother, but I had the idea you might object.”

Trent didn’t answer. The late duchess had never pretended not to favor her younger son. And to despise her elder.

“The wing will be devoted to the care of impoverished orphans,” Cedric continued. “We
are
orphans, after all.”

“I scarcely think that we qualify as orphans, in that we were twenty when the duke and duchess died,” Trent said, tugging off his second boot.

“
I
for one am practically impoverished,” Cedric said.

“You have a tidy income, and the house in Berkeley Square,” Trent said, adding, “not to mention the fact that you are affianced to an heiress.” It was ridiculous to feel a twinge at the memory of Merry Pelford laughing about English fortune-hunters.

Trent should be happy about his twin’s betrothal; it
meant Cedric would finally establish his own household. A few years ago, Trent had deeded him a townhouse that had belonged to an aunt, but Cedric had declined to leave Cavendish Square. He liked playing the duke too much.

For example, he had taken the ducal town coach to Lady Portmeadow’s ball, leaving Trent to make his way in a curricle. But Cedric would have to buy his own carriage now. Hell, he would have to buy his own engagement ring; the ducal diamond felt as if it were burning a hole in Trent’s pocket.

“You never said what you think of my fiancée,” Cedric said. “I know she’s American, but Merry’s mother was one of Lord Merrick’s daughters.”

“Merrick?”

“A Hertfordshire baron who fled to Boston after winning a duel in which he killed his opponent. Not the most desirable connection, but she’s apparently as rich as Croesus, so who cares? I’ve put our solicitor on to an assessment of the money. I’ll be damned if I marry a pig in the poke. I want every penny documented before I see her in church.”

“Why the solicitor?” Trent asked. “Didn’t Miss Pelford’s father provide you the details when he gave permission?”

“Gave permission? As if an American would quibble with his daughter marrying a lord? The man’s dead, in any case, and an uncle is managing her supposed fortune.”

Cedric dropped back into the armchair. “I’m just not convinced she’s good enough to become my wife. What does she contribute besides filthy lucre? She’s a Yankee, and no one would describe her as a diamond of the first water. She’s a long Meg, for one thing. Feel as if I’m dancing with a man.”

Trent had a sudden vision of Merry’s luscious figure, and his fist curled instinctively. It wasn’t his business.

“I’m the son of a duke. She’s from one of best families over there, but is that really such a distinction?” Cedric’s mouth twisted. “I heard a rumor that her uncle made a fortune inventing some sort of barnyard geegaw. If that’s the case, I’m definitely selling myself short.”

Their mother had always reasoned that since the entire estate would one day be Trent’s, he must learn to be generous to his brother. No matter what Cedric had wanted, he had got: on one notable birthday, even the tin soldiers that had been meant for Trent.

As a consequence, Cedric had grown up viewing life as a competition in which he, owner of the lesser title, was always deserving of more.

“You know best,” Trent said.

“Now I think about it, I’m too young to marry,” his brother said moodily, pulling a flask from inside his coat and taking a swallow. “Perhaps when we’re thirty. You haven’t even considered the question of an heir, have you? You wouldn’t be the first to have a cod instead of a cock.”

Bloody hell. Cedric must have already drunk a bottle of brandy. He was deemed throughout polite society to have exquisite manners, but when he was drunk, his conversation veered between crass and vicious
.

One would suppose Trent could have helped his brother stop drinking, but no. He had emptied the wine cellars that had been started by the first duke. He had stopped drinking himself. He had cut off Cedric’s allowance. He had reasoned with him, and wrestled with him, and given him ultimatums.

Nothing had made the slightest difference.

“Maybe if I wait, I can find a grocer’s daughter,” Cedric said now, with a bark of laughter that had nothing to do with humor. “Don’t you love that idea? A grocer’s daughter becoming a lady.”

“In fact, I had the same thought you did,” Trent said. “I, too, intend to marry by the end of the season.”

“Just how are you planning to meet the lady?” Cedric inquired. “Are eligible misses to be found in the slate mines these days?”

“It’s only April,” Trent said, shrugging. “There’s time after I return from Wales.”

“It’ll be easy enough, since you don’t need a dowry. It’s only poor bastards like myself who have to sell our bodies and our titles to the highest bidder in order to keep bread on the table. I suppose I might as well stick with the heiress I’ve got.”

Trent pulled his shirt on again. In this mood, Cedric could blather on for hours, remaining on the knife edge of inebriation before passing out. “I’m going to find something to eat,” Trent said, heading toward the door. “Would you like to join me?”

“For God’s sake,” his brother said with disgust, “would you just ring the bloody bell the way every other man of our station does? The servants have nothing to do until you ask them to put together a plate of food.”

The knife boy slept in the kitchen. If the bell rang, the boy would awake the butler, who would dress hastily and rouse the cook, Mrs. Button, who would rouse the housekeeper, in order to get the keys to the pantry. A kitchen maid would get out of bed to get the banked fire back up—and two hours later, a splendid supper would appear on a tray, brought by a footman who was half awake, but dressed in livery.

“I only want bread and cheese,” Trent stated. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

“As if I needed a bloody escort,” his brother said, lurching to his feet. “I can find my own bloody chamber.”

They walked down the corridor while Cedric muttered
about bread and cheese, which—according to him—no one above the rank of a tapster would eat unless stranded in a snowstorm. “And perhaps not even then. A refined palate needs to be coddled. Assaulting it with bitter flavors and coarse grains will leave it unsuited to appreciate delicate flavors.”

He sounded so earnest that Trent grunted some sort of response.

“It’s the difference between sipping wine from crystal and throwing back beer from a redware mug in the pub.”

Trent had no idea what redware was. But a pub? He loved a dark pub and a hearty ale. Which just went to show that somehow he and his brother had got mixed up in the womb: he had the title but plebeian tastes, whereas Cedric had all the polish and gentility that signaled the bluest of aristocratic blood.

Once his brother wandered into his chamber, Trent headed down the backstairs to the kitchens.

Mrs. Button, bless her heart, knew what he liked, and had left out a loaf of crusty bread, a slab of sharp cheddar, and a jar of her best tomato pickle.

He sat at the kitchen table and ate, listening to the even breathing of the knife boy curled in the corner of the warm room.

In the last few years, Cedric had lost a respectable fortune playing vingt-et-un, and been expelled from divinity school after he’d shot off the Bishop of Winchester’s miter at fifty paces. He was an excellent marksman and hadn’t harmed the bishop, but that didn’t excuse the escapade; he might have taken the man’s head off.