An American Duchess. Sharon Page

mean Sebastian is rather selfish, and he’s exactly like Father was,” Julia said pensively.

      Nigel relaxed. She did not know. Their father had been a womanizing rogue.

      “I love him dearly,” she went on, “but I would never let one of my friends marry him.”

      “Miss Gifford went into this proposition so she could get hold of her inheritance, as it is held in trust until she marries. I do not believe our steely-eyed American heiress is going to have her heart broken,” he said coldly.

      “And most heiresses want titles. If she wants Sebastian, she must be in love with him.” Julia lifted her head and stared at him with huge, stricken blue eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

      “I know I am shirking my duty by avoiding marriage. I was doing it as a favor to both myself and any prospective bride. I will not do so any longer.”

      “You are going to marry?”

      “I am going to have to,” he said grimly. “Sebastian agreed to this marriage to obtain funds. It is my responsibility as duke to find a way to support Brideswell. I have to do my duty.”

      Julia touched his shoulder. “I know losing Mary broke your heart, Nigel. I know what that feels like.”

      He clasped his hands gently over Julia’s. He had frightened Mary away when he’d come back from war, scarred, haunted, wounded. Frightened her so badly, she’d married someone else.

      Julia frowned. “No, you can’t make a duty marriage. I hate to think of you doing that. I don’t want you to be as unhappy as Mama and Father were.”

      “You need not fear I will make a wife unhappy. I will keep my distance from her. After all, as you say, she would be in it for the title.” He had to keep his distance. He certainly couldn’t share a bed with a wife, to sleep the night with her, the way some couples now did. Not when he screamed with nightmares or had to fight to control the shaking of his body when a loud noise erupted.

      “You cannot keep your distance from a wife and have children, Nigel. That simply won’t work. If Sebastian and Miss Gifford are in love, why not let Sebastian go through with marriage?”

      “I cannot.” At her frown, he added, “I have a very good reason.”

      Julia rolled her eyes. Then she smiled—an impish smile that made his heart ache—and she waved her hand airily. “Then perhaps Miss Gifford has well-to-do American friends for you. I shall ask her—”

      “I would not go near any woman who claims friendship with Miss Gifford.”

      “That won’t stop me from asking her, unless you give your reasons.”

      “I assure you that Miss Gifford would not attempt to marry me to any woman she calls a friend.”

      The gong rang again—the final summons after the warning shot. He offered his arm. “Let us go for dinner.”

      Julia sobered. “I am not looking forward to this, Nigel. Grandmama is appalled by Sebastian’s choice, and she has not been hiding her displeasure. Mama has been attempting to put it all in the best light, but you know how stubborn Grandmama can be. I think dinner is going to be a disaster.”

      “It will not be,” he said darkly. But he could easily imagine the battle over dinner between the dowager and Miss Gifford. And he could readily guess how Miss Gifford would behave. Much like he had when he’d had to race through bullets to save one of his soldiers—too stubborn to duck.

      Strangely, Nigel found he was actually looking forward to seeing how she handled herself.

      What was he thinking? When he’d come home, he hadn’t wanted any more battles or confrontation. Brideswell had been the promise of normalcy after four years of living hell, albeit a far poorer normalcy than before the War.

      Yes, he was a relic of an older age—of the way the world was before war had ravaged it. And he wanted his dinner in peace. There would be no wars tonight at his dining table.

      * * *

      “Zoe, you really must wear jewels tonight.” Mother sailed through the door. Encased in a formal gown that displayed her thin figure, her mother surveyed her with narrowed eyes. “That dress is all wrong. It’s too modern for the occasion.”

      Zoe had dismissed the maid sent to help her dress—her maid and Mother’s were arriving later by train. The girl’s jaw had almost struck the carpet when she’d adjusted the skirt and discovered it went no lower.

      “I like it,” Zoe said. “There’s no point in trying to make it look as though our family goes back to Henry VIII, Mother. We don’t.” She touched her neck. “I was thinking a string of white beads—”

      “Diamonds, Zoe.” Lifting her gloved hand, rings sitting on top of the satin, Annabelle Gifford counted off the pieces that had been shipped by trunk and were now in the duke’s safe.

      “Mother, it’s dinner, not a ball at Buckingham Palace. If I wear all of that I will look like a walking sandwich board for Tiffany & Co. Anyway, I want to look modern. I am modern,” Zoe added, suddenly aware of how coldly she said it.

      Mother looked pained. “The duke himself is quite handsome, you know. Once you ignore his scars. He looked at you, my dear, with a great deal of interest.”

      “If by interest, you mean dislike, then yes, he showed a lot of it. When the duke looks at me, it’s down his nose. He’s obnoxious and rude.”

      “I am sure if you were to get to know him—”

      “I would be even more likely to want to run him over with my car. Every word exchanged with that man feels like shots fired in a war.”

      She would not think of that moment when their lips had almost touched. When she’d wanted their lips to touch. It had been a moment of insanity.

      A modern girl kissed men—she had kissed a few. She’d known sizzling kisses. Her lips hadn’t even touched the duke’s, and the air had crackled like the aftermath of a lightning strike.

      Yet the man was insufferable.

      “Zoe, you must not antagonize the duke.” Mother’s large violet-blue eyes widened in panic. “Think of your father—it was his fondest dream that you be accepted in New York society. No one will turn up their noses if you have a title. No ballrooms will be barred to us; there will be no invitation list that does not feature our names.”

      The things that drove Mother seemed so trivial. They had been through a war. The world was a place of manufacturing, of making things—airplanes, telephones, motion pictures.

      That world had made Father a rich man—Zoe had grown up in Manhattan, after Father had made his money in steel. Columns and beams and rivets from his mills were used in most of the brand-new buildings that reached into the sky, and she knew a little of the ruthlessness that coup had taken.

      What did it matter that Zoe, as a debutante, had been purposely excluded from most balls or that when her family hosted them, people took malicious pleasure in not showing up?

      All that had mattered to her was following her heart. She’d fallen in love with Richmond DeVille, the famous and daring aviator. Richmond had taught her how to fly a plane. With him, she had touched heaven with silver wing tips. Every moment with Richmond had been filled with excitement and challenge. But they’d kept their relationship a secret, because Richmond had just got a divorce.

      On the day of his departure, flashbulbs had popped everywhere, but she and Richmond had found treasured private moments. He’d slipped a diamond ring on her finger. With tears of joy and excitement in her heart, she had wished him a safe voyage. She had waved at his airplane until it had disappeared over the ocean into the early-morning sky like a silver star winking out. Then she had sat by the wireless for hours and hours, waiting for the word he’d arrived.

      He hadn’t made it. Days