Marry Christmas. Jane Goodger

in the Rose Salon in five minutes.”

      Five minutes. And then she would meet the man who would most likely be her husband. She would share her life, her house. Her bed. She closed her eyes in a hope less attempt to stop the panic in her heart. She was so sick of thinking about the “if onlys” in her life. But she couldn’t help but think about how different she would feel if it were Henry she were planning to marry on Christmas Eve instead of a man she didn’t know, a man who lived in another country. She wondered if Henry knew the duke was in Newport, if he understood how desperately she longed for him.

      It was foolish to think of such things, and completely useless. She could not marry Henry without putting his very life in danger and perhaps her mother’s as well. She believed with every fiber in her being that her mother would follow through on her threat to hurt him, perhaps kill him. Her mother’s health had made a quick recovery once Elizabeth finally agreed with this marriage, and she’d thrown herself into planning an impressive welcome for the duke. Henry had been put from Alva’s mind, for she knew her daughter would never thwart her.

      And to Elizabeth’s great shame, she knew her mother was right.

      “His Grace, the Duke of Bellingham.”

      Even now, when Rand heard that announcement and realized it pertained to him, he gave a small inward start. But hearing it in the flat accent of an American, it was almost surreal. In fact, this entire journey didn’t seem quite real, so he was slightly relieved to find Sea Cliff had an English flair to it and would not have seemed out of place in the countryside back home. He’d found Americans either completely unimpressed by his title, or so in thrall it was disconcerting. Rand entered the so-called Rose Salon bracing himself for the worst. His eyes scanned the room, taking in Alva Cummings, who curtsied when his eyes rested on her, and Jason Cummings, the girl’s father, who gave the briefest head-nod bows before coming over to shake his hand. Jason Cummings was a rotund man with thick wavy hair parted precisely in the center. His face was soft, and a fine sheen of sweat shone near his hairline making Rand wonder if the man was nervous about this meeting. He almost felt like laughing aloud, for if anyone should feel nervous and foolish, it was he.

      “Welcome to Sea Cliff,” Cummings said. “I’d like to show you my yacht if you’ve the time. Got her four weeks ago. She’s sitting at anchor right now, but it’s just a small row out to—”

      “Jason. Introduce your daughter,” Alva Cummings said sweetly. But there was nothing sweet about the expression on her face and Rand had a sudden understanding of why the man before him looked so harried.

      Jason smiled tightly. “Of course, dear. Your Grace, my daughter, Elizabeth,” he said, giving a little bow toward a bank of windows.

      Thank God. That was the first thing that came to his mind when he first laid eyes on the daughter. She was pretty, remarkably so. Her features were small but for her eyes, which seemed far too large for her delicate face. She curtsied nicely and smiled, and again Rand was struck that her smile, like her mother’s, didn’t reach her eyes.

      “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, nodding toward her. She immediately darted a look to her mother, as if she was at a loss to know what to do or say. Apparently, the mother must have communicated something silently to the girl, for she curtsied again, and said, “Your Grace.”

      It was about as warm in the room as an icebox, and Rand was regretting his trip to America with all his being. Humiliation washed over him as he realized that everyone in this room knew why he was here, knew he’d come hat in hand begging for money. “You have a lovely home,” he said, even though it was so cluttered with furniture and paintings and flowers he could hardly see the room itself. He was painfully reminded of Bellewood’s cavernous emptiness thanks to his brother’s attempts to raise money.

      “Thank you, Your Grace, although Sea Cliff cannot compare to Bellewood, I’m sure. We heard such wonderful things about your home when we were in England. Didn’t we, Elizabeth.”

      The girl looked startled to be included in the conversation. “Oh. Yes.” She wore a blue dress that showed off an incredibly tiny waist, and he wondered at the brutality of her maid to have succeeded in cinching the poor girl so tightly.

      “Thank you.” He stood there, feeling awkward to be beneath their intense scrutiny. But he supposed it was only natural for them to examine the man who would be part of their family. Their very, very rich family, he re minded himself to make this scene more palatable.

      “How was your passage over?” Cummings asked.

      “Very pleasant, though not everyone fared as well as I did,” Rand said, thinking of another passenger who’d been ill nearly the entire voyage.

      “My Elizabeth is a poor sailor, aren’t you?” Alva said, almost as if the girl had some control over whether or not she got ill.

      Again, the girl gave a startled look, and Rand began to wonder if they’d ever before included her in a conversation. Almost by rote, she responded, “Yes, I am.”

      Rand couldn’t see any strings attached to the girl, but it certainly seemed as if her mother was very apt at pulling them. When Alva nodded to her daughter she said, “Please sit down, Your Grace.”

      And so he did.

      “Have you been to Paris?” Alva asked.

      “Many times. It’s a beautiful city.”

      “We bought Elizabeth’s dress there.”

      He looked at her, as he supposed he was meant to, and said, “It’s lovely.”

      The girl’s lips tilted slightly into a smile, a forced movement and she didn’t meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

      It struck Rand then that it was possible Elizabeth Cummings did not want to marry him any more than he wanted to marry her. Well, fancy that. All this time he’d been feeling rather put out by this arranged marriage—for he never doubted for a second that he would agree to such a match—and now he was finding out his future bride was rather put out, too. She looked, frankly, miserable.

      “I wonder, Your Grace, if you could accompany us tomorrow morning to the Casino,” Alva said. “It’s quite lovely to see all the fine carriages on Bellevue Avenue. It will be a wonderful opportunity to introduce you to New port Society.”

      It was the last thing he wanted to do, to be put on display and forced to be pleasant to a large crowd of gawking Americans. Good God. “It would be my pleasure, Madam,” he said, lying very nicely. “For now, though, I wonder if your daughter could show me around your grounds if we have time before dinner.” If he left everything up to the mother, he’d likely never get a chance to be alone with the girl until he was forced to propose.

      From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl stiffen, and he knew he’d been correct about her. She didn’t want to marry him and that made him curious. For didn’t every girl dream of marrying a duke?

      Chapter 4

      Elizabeth wondered idly if she could run away from the duke, run to the sea, jump in and swim away. Perhaps become a mermaid. Perhaps become anything but the Duchess of Bellingham. Elizabeth had become extremely adept at finding something good about everything life handed her. Marrying the duke: bad. Saving Henry’s life by marrying the duke: good. Meeting the duke for the first time four months before her planned wedding: bad. Finding he wasn’t hideously ugly: good.

      No. His grace was anything but ugly. Of course, he wasn’t as fine looking as her Henry. Who was? The duke was far too rugged, too big, too…everything. Henry was refined, from his straight blond hair to his well-manicured nails. Henry was perfect. All this she’d already determined even though she could admit to herself she’d hardly even looked at the duke.

      It was a warm day, the sky nearly cloudless, and the Atlantic Ocean that stretched before them in the distance was almost painfully blue. How perfect this day would have been if she’d been walking with anyone but the duke. Like, perhaps, Henry.

      Her