An American Duchess. Sharon Page

filled with worry, snapped Zoe back to where she was. “I was just thinking about my brother,” Zoe said. But no amount of thinking would bring him back. “Let’s gallop again,” she called to Julia, and she spurred her horse to run. She leaned along her horse’s neck like a jockey, tearing along the gravel path that encircled the house. She laughed with the exhilaration, even if she didn’t really feel joy.

      When she reined in on the long front drive that led to the house, Julia caught up.

      “Your hat hasn’t moved, Julia,” Zoe said. “If I’d worn one, it would have sailed into the lake by now.”

      Julia fixed the veil. “Oh, it’s practically nailed to my head with pins.”

      From there, they had a clear view of Brideswell; of the enormous house that had stood there for over three hundred years. Her father would have been so proud of her marriage—but if he had been living, she wouldn’t have to marry to save Mother from scandal or prison. “You have a beautiful home.”

      Julia shook her head. “It’s not my home—not anymore. Now it is a house in which I stay because I have not yet married and taken over management of my husband’s house.”

      It was the first time Julia had sounded bitter, had sounded like anything other than a perfect lady. “Of course it’s your home,” Zoe said. “You grew up here.”

      “Eventually another woman will rule the house, and she may not wish to have me under her roof. She will want to give preference to her own family. Sometimes spinsters live on the estate—if there’s a spare cottage that doesn’t cost much to run. Whoever Nigel marries will have more rights to a home on the estate than I would.”

      “A woman who is only here by marriage would have more rights than you? That’s shockingly unfair. But you’ll have an inheritance—”

      “Very little. I do have a dowry, which is only if I marry.”

      Zoe could always buy her own house. Never had she really understood what power that gave her until now. “Then you must marry.”

      The shadow darkened Julia’s eyes. “I do not think that’s possible. My fiancé, Anthony, was killed at the Somme. It is years ago now, but the loss...has not gone away. I do not think I could ever fall in love again. My mother and grandmother think me foolish, but I cannot marry without love.”

      “My fiancé was killed in a plane crash. He was lost over the Atlantic Ocean. I do understand what you mean. I can’t—” But of course, she couldn’t tell Julia she understood it was impossible to fall in love again—Julia thought she loved Sebastian.

      Women did survive—they did get over loss. Zoe knew it was possible. Just not for her. But it had to be so for Julia.

      “I think you can open your heart again,” she said, making it sound like the gospel truth. “I did, after all. I met your brother Sebastian.”

      “I do not think it will be that way for me.”

      “Julia, do you do things for fun?”

      “I have not felt very much like having fun.”

      Zoe would not have survived losing Richmond at all if she hadn’t at least grabbed hold of life, rather than lock herself away to mourn.

      Julia deserved to be happy. And after Zoe and Sebastian divorced, Julia would not listen to her scandalous former sister-in-law. If she wished to help Julia, she must do it now. “After your Women’s Institute meeting, Julia, we are going to drive down to London. It’s time you begin to have fun again.”

      “I don’t think I could.”

      “You can. Do you think the man who loved you would want to see you wither away in sorrow? The best way to make his sacrifice mean something is to live the life he was fighting for.”

      * * *

      “Where do you think she took her?”

      Horns blared as Sebastian, dressed in a duster and driving goggles, took a corner wide and crossed into oncoming London traffic. Nigel’s heart jumped into his throat. Despite the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, he said, with forced sangfroid, “Bloody hell, Sebastian. You have to stay on the left side of the road.”

      “This is the left side of the road.”

      “Not in England, it’s not. Move over.”

      “Spoilsport. It’s a lot easier to get through traffic when people are fighting to get out of your way. I’ll head for the 400 Club.”

      Nigel did not doubt Miss Gifford had been able to ferret out the most popular dancing club in London. “No. Try Murray’s,” he growled. “On Beak Street.”

      “Murray’s?” As usual, Sebastian took his gaze off the road to embark on a conversation. “How do you know about the jazz clubs in town, brother? You never leave Brideswell.”

      “I know about Murray’s. Turn here.” He’d heard about it in letters from friends. From war comrades who didn’t understand why he was hiding away at Brideswell.

      Sebastian swung the wheel, cut across traffic and made a hazardous left turn that aged Nigel by a decade. Having been shot at for four years, Nigel had no intention of dying in an automobile crash. “Pull over and let me drive.”

      “You don’t drive,” Sebastian protested. “You’d be worse than me.”

      “That would be impossible. Watch where you are going.”

      Nigel had never been in a London dance club. The only club he frequented in town was White’s, which had been favored by the Dukes of Langford for almost one hundred and fifty years. Murray’s had the staid, imposing facade of a bank. Sebastian located the curb by hitting it with the tires. Nigel jumped out, and within moments, he stood at the bottom of the stairs in the massive ballroom, straining to spot Julia.

      “There is my beloved.” At his side, Sebastian smoothed his slicked-back hair.

      Nigel stared. “What in blazes is she doing? It looks like she is having a seizure.”

      “Dancing, brother.”

      Nigel watched Sebastian claim Miss Gifford. Her legs jerked behind her, kicking like a mule, and her hands waved wildly around her head like a drowning woman begging for rescue. Tall feathers showed every contorted motion of her head. Hundreds of beads jumped off from her indigo dress as her hips moved in a vulgar swing.

      The dress shifted as she moved, giving him a glimpse of the garment beneath it. White fabric and lace banded her back, but below the one small strip there was nothing but bare skin. No corset. No shift.

      He blinked. Miss Gifford sported a lot of bare skin. Her upper arms were bare, as were her thighs—in the gap between her short skirt and her rolled-down stockings. Underneath the dress, much of her must be naked.

      Heat washed over him and he moved behind a potted palm to hide what must be a blindingly obvious erection in his trousers. Anger and embarrassment hit him. She was his brother’s fiancée—albeit his convenient one—and he had no business feeling anything about her skin.

      On the dance floor, Sebastian rushed Miss Gifford through the crowd in a waltz that looked like his brother was racing to find a bathroom.

      Where was Julia? Nigel’s gaze scoured the small round tables at the far side of the large room. Egyptian-style pillars separated that section from the dance floor, and couples lounged in the shadows. Nigel did not see any woman who looked like Julia—black hair in a neat bun, elegant and understated.

      “Nigel!” At the edge of the dance floor, a woman with bobbed dark hair waved wildly at him. He could see the tops of her stockings below her short skirt, rolled down just below her knees like Miss Gifford’s.

      He had no idea who she was, though she’d addressed him intimately. Her partner’s legs appeared to be made of India rubber, wobbling back and forth as the man passed his hands over