Marry Christmas. Jane Goodger

the duke stopped walking and stared out to sea. “You don’t want this marriage, do you?” he asked, stunning her so completely, Elizabeth let out a strangled sound. All she could think of was that her mother had somehow bribed him into challenging her.

      “Of course I do,” she said, staring at his hard profile and hoping he couldn’t read her lie. Foolish thought.

      “You’re lying,” he said finally, turning to her. “I suppose I could be made to believe you are merely shy, and not completely unhappy with this arrangement.”

      “I am not shy,” Elizabeth said, confirming his suspicions without overtly agreeing with him. He was frowning, and she wondered if she’d just made a terrible mistake. He turned and continued walking along the well-tended lawn, heading for the sharply cut hedge that separated the estate from the rocky shore below.

      “I don’t particularly want to get married either,” he said, surprising her yet again. He shrugged, and for a moment he almost looked boyishly sheepish. “I’m only twenty-seven. I hadn’t thought I’d get married for another ten years or so.”

      “Then why…” The money. Oh, God, how could she have forgotten even for a moment about the money. “Oh.”

      “Yes. Oh.” When he reached the hedge he stopped and turned toward her yet again. “These sorts of things go on all the time. In fact, more often than not in England. Still, I suppose it is not what you expected.”

      “No.” Without warning, Elizabeth’s throat closed up and she wished vehemently he would stop being so kind. She could feel his somber gray eyes studying her.

      “I’m not such a bad sort.”

      She darted a look up to him, only to see him studying her far too closely. “I’m sure you are a very fine gentleman.”

      His mouth curved into a smile. “I do try to be.” He let out a long breath. “This is how it can be between us. We can marry. I have to have an heir. And we’ll get that over with and then we can go on with our lives.”

      She stared at him, shocked he could be so blunt about what their future would bring. Suddenly the entire idea of a loveless marriage, bearing children for a man she hardly knew, was nearly too much to abide.

      Rand took in her stricken face and knew he’d made a mistake. She was only nineteen and no doubt had fantasies about love and romance and all that rot. He didn’t want to be cruel, he simply wanted to be honest, to let her know this mockery of a marriage was not something he desired any more than she did. But he was prepared to make the best of the situation. “It’s what is done,” he said. “I thought that would give you comfort.”

      “What would give me comfort is for you to go back to England and never return,” she said earnestly.

      Without thinking, he let out a laugh and quickly tried to sober when he saw she was completely serious. “No, you are not shy, are you?” he asked.

      “I told you I was not,” she said, and he thought he detected the tiniest smile before she looked back to the house.

      So upset was he by this marriage that was being forced upon him, he hadn’t given a thought to how the bride would feel. Likely that was because he’d never imagined any girl wouldn’t want to marry him. He was a duke, after all. And he knew from the attention women had given him even before he acquired the lofty title that he was somewhat attractive.

      “Perhaps I should marry your mother, then. She would be thrilled, I think.” He’d hoped to make her laugh aloud, but his jest produced only a smile. “Well, have heart that I haven’t asked for your hand yet. You still have time to change my mind about the entire plan.”

      He’d thought those words would produce another smile, but instead her face took on an expression of such sadness he was taken aback.

      “Please don’t say such a thing.”

      She must fear her mother more than he’d thought, he realized. “I assure you, if I do beg off, I will make it completely clear to your mother that I am to blame.”

      “You speak entirely too lightly of the situation. As if it is a game and not our very lives. As if you do not realize the import of what they have planned for us. As if you do not care at all that we will be stuck together forever.”

      Despite his great efforts to put the girl at ease, she had the nerve to reprimand him. “I, more than you can know, am completely aware of what I am doing and why I am doing it,” he said, feeling anger at his predicament surge through him. “You have no right to lecture me on the seriousness of marriage. If I speak lightly, it was only a failed attempt to put your mind at ease. In the future you can rest assured I will not speak lightly of this. But I will not apologize, ever, for making you my duchess, for allowing you to bear my children, for granting you the privilege of becoming chatelaine of one of the greatest estates in all of England.”

      During his angry tirade, Elizabeth’s eyes widened, her mouth opened slightly as if in shock. “I see I’ve inadvertently hit a nerve,” she said, sounding breathless and the tiniest bit frightened.

      “I’m not certain how inadvertent it was,” he shot back.

      “I suppose you would like an apology,” she said, and he couldn’t believe how reluctant she sounded.

      He was used to women fawning over him, to having them bat their eyes and smile slyly. He folded his arms in front of him and looked down at her, feeling more like a duke than he had in all the previous months combined. Perhaps his blue blood was thicker than he realized, because the idea of this American girl scolding him had rubbed him raw. “I would.”

      She raised her head, her pert nose high in the air. Then she tilted her head just slightly and narrowed her eyes. “No. I don’t think so.” And then she turned and began walking back to the house where her mother waited.

      For the second time that day, the Duke of Bellingham let out a laugh.

      “She doesn’t want to marry me,” Rand reported to the Earl of Wellesley when he’d returned to the cottage they were renting together for the duration of their visit. The twelve-room house was located just off Bellevue Avenue, one of the lesser homes among the ostentatious ones that lined the road. Edward had rather nicely volunteered to accompany Rand on his journey mostly because he was a bit overwhelmed at home, not yet grown used to being head of a household that included six children. Besides, Rand needed to borrow his valet and Edward wouldn’t loan him out for the duration, so Edward and his valet were forced to accompany him. Rand had hinted that Edward might get lucky and nab his own little American heiress, though Edward was almost violently opposed to the idea. Why would Edward consider such a notion when there were plenty of pretty English girls? Had there been a single English heiress who could have gotten him out of his financial mess, Rand would have jumped at the chance. Though, he had to admit, they probably wouldn’t have been as pretty as Miss Cummings.

      Rand couldn’t have been more grateful for Edward’s company, for he didn’t know a soul here and had never been overly comfortable walking into a room full of strangers. A duke and an earl; the mamas would be beside themselves with joy.

      Edward sat in the home’s rather extensive library examining the collection there. He picked one from a shelf and smiled. “Didn’t think to find something this fine here,” he said, holding up an ancient book. “Quadrins historiques de la Bible. Sixteenth Century here in Newport. Truly remarkable.”

      “Didn’t you hear me?” Rand said, letting a small amount of exasperation come through.

      “Yes. She doesn’t want to marry you.” Edward carefully opened the book. “Remarkable,” he muttered again before finally giving his friend his full attention. “Really, Rand, what did you expect? For her to throw herself at your feet in gratitude?”

      “Well, perhaps nothing so dramatic. But, yes, I thought she’d be a bit more happy about marrying a duke. It’s one of the privileges of rank, is it not, to have women throw themselves at