To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  Oh, but he was handsome. It was excruciating just to look at him. He wore his usual black suit with tails, white shirt, white bow tie and waistcoat, and that contrasted sharply with his midnight black hair. The effect was devastating.

  James took her gloved hand, raised it to his lips, and laid a warm kiss upon her knuckles, holding her in his fiery gaze as he did so. “A walk on the terrace, perhaps?” he suggested.

  “That sounds enchanting.”

  He offered his arm and they headed toward the large open doors at the edge of the ballroom.

  Many guests watched them and whispered with curiosity and fascination. Sophia didn’t mind it at all. She was proud to be the woman James had chosen to become his wife. She was also proud to show them how much in love they were, and how wrong the gossips were about him.

  “You look ravishing,” James said. “You make it difficult for a man to wait for his wedding day. It’s painful, actually.”

  Sophia laughed and rubbed her shoulder up against his. They reached the balustrade and faced each other under the stars. A breeze swept through the leafy oak trees and swooped down across the grass, like a seductive whisper in the night.

  “Have you been enjoying all the attention?” he asked. “I gather your social calendar has filled up considerably.”

  “Yes, it’s astonishing. I can’t get over it.”

  “Everyone wants to get a look at us together,” he mentioned, glancing over his shoulder. “They are in awe of you.”

  She lowered her gaze. “But you know I don’t care about any of that, James. All I want is you.”

  He surveyed the other couples on the terrace, as if to determine what social rules currently applied, then reached out and touched her cheek. Sophia closed her eyes briefly, took his hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips.

  “You’re killing me, you know,” he said, taking a step closer. “Our wedding is still over a month away. I’m growing very impatient.”

  “As am I. All I want to do is be with you, every minute of the day. I had no idea it would feel like this.”

  With an experienced eye, he glanced around the terrace again, then reached for her hand. “Perhaps a walk in the garden.”

  “Yes,” she replied breathlessly.

  Yes to anything. To everything.

  “I am a gentleman,” he said, leaning close, “so I will offer you my arm and politely escort you down the stairs, when what I really want to do is grab hold of your hand and take off running.”

  She laughed and slid her arm through his. They descended the stairs and stepped onto the soft, cool grass. The moon was full. The sweet scent of roses drifted languidly on the night air. It was a perfect evening.

  “Have you chosen your wedding dress?” he asked, resting his hand upon hers.

  “Yes, but I will tell you nothing about it, nor will I say anything about the flowers I’ll be carrying, or the color of my sisters’ gowns, or the fabric of their sashes.”

  There was amusement in his voice. “You seem to be enjoying this—keeping me in suspense about the details. Just a small hint?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “No!” she said, laughing and slapping at his arm.

  “I give up. You are a rock. You’ll make an excellent duchess.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder. “I hope so, James. I want to make you proud.”

  “You’ve already made me proud,” he replied. “I am the envy of every man in London.”

  “Now, you’re just flattering me.”

  “It’s God’s honest truth.”

  They strolled around the garden to where the trees grew tall.

  “I’m pleased you’re wearing a dark gown this evening,” James said.

  “Why?”

  Guiding her by the hand, he backed into the wispy branches of a weeping willow. The leaves parted like a beaded curtain, and he drew Sophia through, into a private little haven where it was nearly pitch-black. “So that no one will notice when I lure you into the shadows.”

  “This is dangerous, James,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “If anyone sees us....”

  He backed up against the trunk of the tree and gently drew her toward him. “They won’t. Come closer.”

  “Why?” she asked wickedly.

  “Because I want you near.”

  She could barely see his face in the darkness, only sensed where he was through instinct and the touch of her hands. When he pressed his lips to hers, she gave herself over to the desire that had not left her in peace for weeks.

  The kiss was deep and intoxicating. Sophia clutched at James’s broad shoulders, leaned into his body. As his passion grew, she took a strange, perverse pleasure in the power she seemed to have over him—in knowing that she could push him to his limits.

  Before long, he dragged his mouth from hers, turned his face away, and said in a low, husky voice, “I should take you back.”

  Sophia caught his face in her hand and drew him back to look at her. “Not yet, James. Please.”

  He touched his forehead to hers, then nibbled at her ear. “You have no mercy, do you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t seem to care about anything except the feel of your hands on me. I’ve never felt like this before. Everything happened so fast between us, but now, time seems to be passing so slowly. I want to marry you right now. This minute. I have no patience left.”

  He glanced toward the house where a Strauss waltz was playing inside the ballroom. The sounds of the orchestra were faint but discernible. “We’ve been gone awhile.”

  He was right, and she knew it, but that didn’t make it any easier to take even one small step away from him.

  “I know,” she said. “We should return, but I don’t want to.”

  He kissed her one more time, softly on the lips. “You are an extraordinary woman, Sophia.”

  She smiled at the compliment and backed away from him, smoothing out her gown. “All right then, since you put it that way.”

  “Mercy at last.”

  He pushed away from the tree and straightened his tie, then offered his arm. After one last kiss, they strolled dutifully back to the ballroom.

  James danced with his future wife, laughed with her and openly flirted with her, and realized with no shortage of turmoil that he had relinquished any futile attempts at self-restraint. All night long, he had been entranced by her. He was still shaken by his response to the way she’d touched him under the willow tree.

  She now stood beside him, speaking intelligently to a gentleman in their group, and he felt as if a set of flood gates had suddenly broken open, and he’d been knocked over and swept away by this mad, all-consuming desire for his betrothed.

  He glanced around for a tray of champagne and picked up a glass from a passing footman.

  This was not at all how he’d imagined things would be. He’d intended this marriage to be a business matter. A fair exchange. Perhaps it was simply the lure of the forbidden that had put him off his game, or the strain of constantly suppressing a damned inconvenient number of persistent arousals. He tried to tell himself that after he made love to Sophia properly on the wedding night and on their honeymoon, the intensity of his feelings would diminish.

  But for now, what to do? He wanted her, there was no getting around that, and she wanted him. Fortunately, they would have each other soon enough. The wedding day was approaching, and he would finally be able to dowse the fire. Sophia would satisfy her curiosity. He would enjoy her on the honeymoon, as she would enjoy him. They would travel to Italy, spend a few pleasurable weeks with each other. Perhaps it would be best to hold nothing back, he decided. Perhaps he needed to release this pent-up lust. He had been suppressing his passions for what felt like forever.

  After the honeymoon, they would return to England
and travel north to his house in the country, where his mother was now, where the reality of his life existed. It did not need to be complicated. He would simply curtail what was left of his passions and settle into a more tranquil life with a duchess at his side. They would produce an heir or two or three.

  Feeling his shoulders relax slightly, James swallowed the last of his champagne. This will pass, he told himself. For the good of everyone, this passionate madness—as enjoyable as it was—was only temporary.

  Chapter 11

  August closed in and London cleared out. The lords and ladies and sirs and honorable misses skipped off to their country estates, for everyone knew that it was better to be seen in one’s underclothes than wandering about the streets of London in August.

  Unless, of course, you were planning a wedding and you were marrying the Duke of Wentworth. Or any duke for that matter. Then you could set your own rules and do whatever you pleased—anything short of wandering about in your underclothes, of course.

  August passed, the wedding day arrived, and that very morning a package arrived from New York—a wedding gift from the Mrs. Astor—the matriarch of the Knickerbockers, who before that day had refused to acknowledge the Wilsons’ existence. She had sent an exquisite string of pearls for England’s newest duchess, and Sophia’s mother wept with perfect joy as she ripped and tore at the tissue paper.

  “At last,” she said between deep, resounding sobs, “Clara’s and Adele’s futures are assured.”

  Shortly after that, a gift arrived from Buckingham Palace—a magnificent gilded clock, and her mother wept again.

  The horses that were hired to bring the bridal carriage to the church were matched grays—a time-honored tradition—and the streets were lined with crowds of enthusiastic spectators waiting to get a look at the famed American heiress. Held back by rows of uniformed London constables, the throngs cheered and waved and threw flowers. Sophia squeezed her father’s hand as they rode in an open carriage behind the one carrying her bridesmaids, Clara, Adele, and Lily. She raised the other gloved hand to wave nervously to the crushing mob.

  The carriage arrived at St. George’s Church in Hanover Square, and with a trembling heart, Sophia stepped out of the carriage. She followed her bridesmaids up to the door of the church where she heard the peal of the pipe organ and caught a glimpse of the guests seated inside. There were over three hundred of them, from both sides of the Atlantic.

  The bridesmaids—dressed in gowns of white satin with pink sashes—embarked upon the long walk up the aisle to the music of Mendelssohn, then at last Sophia reached the altar. The bishop, with a deep, resounding voice, asked, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

  Her father replied in his deep American accent, “I do,” then the bishop took Sophia’s hand and placed it in James’s. She gazed up at him and saw the man of all her dreams. Handsome, strong, intelligent, and professedly enamored with her.

  He smiled with encouragement—his green eyes warm and true—and all the madness of the morning melted away inside her body. There was only her and her elegant groom, there to pledge their undying love to one another.

  James hoped he would not become like his father.

  As he and Sophia spoke their vows, then knelt on the red velvet cushions for the blessing, he closed his eyes. The bishop prayed.

  What would happen when the novelty of their new life together was no longer novel? James experienced a sudden rush of panic. What if Sophia took a lover one day, as James’s own grandmother had done all those years ago? Would he be able to restrain himself from becoming the man his grandfather had become, full of jealousy and rage?

  “What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  James and Sophia rose from their cushions. He studied his bride’s face and saw the exuberance in her eyes. She was born to be a duchess, there was no doubt about that. Her portrait would hang in the gallery, and no one would ever think she did not fit the part. Life as an aristocrat was what she had come to London seeking, after all.

  A deeper tension found its way into his gut. He hoped she would conceive on their honeymoon, so the initial obligation would be fulfilled sooner rather than later. Then they could each settle into their individual roles as duke and duchess. She would make a home for herself in her own private rooms—as all the duchesses had before her—and he would continue as he always had in his. Dinner each evening would be a pleasant time for conversation. He would hear about her undertakings for that day, and she would hear about his.

  He slid the ring onto her slender finger and tried to assure himself that everything would work out—that his self-control would not be lost.

  James and Sophia rushed out to the carriage that was waiting to take them to their private wedding breakfast at James’s London residence. First, however, they were driven ceremonially through the streets of London, lined with crowds of screaming onlookers.

  Sophia waved at the people on her side of the street, and James did the same for those on his. There they were, alone for the first time as man and wife, and they were too busy waving to strangers in opposite directions to even look at each other. Sophia tried to remind herself to be patient. Life would settle down soon enough.

  The wind had gained force while they were inside the church, and though it was warm, it blew hard against her veil and loosened the Greek twist in her hair. She raised a hand to keep the veil in place, which caught James’s attention. He finally turned to her.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  She gazed appreciatively into his eyes. “Thank you, James.”

  “And you’re a duchess now.”

  Sophia smiled. “Funny, I don’t feel any different.”

  “You will. Just wait until you arrive at Wentworth. Life will be very different from what it is here.”

  She wasn’t quite sure what he was referring to, exactly, but she did know one thing. They would be man and wife, and they would share the marriage bed.

  A ripple of anticipation—both frightening and exciting—shimmied up her spine. She remembered all the times they had snuck away to quiet places to be alone and kiss, and she relished the notion that no one would interrupt them next time, when they were alone together in their bedchamber. They would be free to explore their desires, fully and completely.

  There was much she did not know about that side of a marriage. So many wondrous moments lay ahead of her....

  “Will we be leaving for our honeymoon first thing in the morning?” she asked.

  Like a wolf picking up a scent, he seemed to detect her meaning, and he smiled. “Are you yearning to see Rome? Or do you just want to run away with me?”

  Sophia met his gaze boldly, her eyes glimmering with heat and daring. Her world seemed like a fairy tale all of a sudden—full of magic and grandeur. Her wedding day had been as enchanting as she’d ever imagined it would be, and she wanted to leap with all her heart and soul into this glorious marriage.

  She clasped James’s hand. “Perhaps a kiss would give everyone something sensational to talk about,” Sophia suggested. “Not that I want to encourage that sort of thing, but….”

  With a smile, he leaned close. “I’m keen, if a little shocked.”

  Sophia’s blood quickened as his lips brushed hers. The crowd cheered louder.

  “You are a very naughty duchess,” he said with a teasing grin.

  Sophia laughed and turned to the crowd. “James, sometimes you are so very British. It’s why I love you.”

  Why I love you?

  Suddenly numb from head to foot, James watched his wife wave exuberantly at the Londoners along the street. Good God, she was his wife, wasn’t she, and she was tossing the word love around like it was something commonplace.

  No one had ever used that word with him before, and he wondered if it was an American thing—to say it so lightly, with such innocu
ous ease.

  “Did your mother come to the ceremony?” Sophia asked without looking at him. “I was too nervous to see who was sitting in the front pews.”

  James searched his mind for an excuse. “She is still unwell, I’m afraid. Of course, she sends her regrets and is anticipating your arrival at Wentworth Castle with much enthusiasm.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her as well,” Sophia replied. “She won’t mind, will she? Handing her duties and responsibilities over to me? Or having to vacate her rooms?”

  “Why do you ask? You aren’t nervous about meeting her, are you?”

  “No, I just.... I always expected to know a man’s family before I married into it. As it stands, I will only meet your siblings for the first time today.”

  “You’ve met Lily.”

  “Yes, and I like her very much.”

  He squeezed her gloved hand. “Then do not worry. You are the new Duchess of Wentworth, and Mother knows well enough what her duty is—and that is to step aside. You shall have no problem there. Believe me, she will know her boundaries.”

  Sophia met his gaze directly. “Please, I beg your pardon, James. I wasn’t suggesting that there should be boundaries. I merely worry that she might feel left out or feel as if she has no more purpose. That will not be the case, I assure you, for I will need to rely on your mother for everything. To show me what to do. To share my joys and disappointments as I have always shared them with my own mother. I hope we will be close, James. I hope she will love me like a true daughter.”

  There it was again—the word love—carelessly flung about. It was one thing to say it to him, in the privacy of their carriage, but he hoped Sophia would know enough to be a little less outspoken when she met his mother. James doubted the woman would know what to make of such sentiments.

  “Let us think only of ourselves today,” he said, “and not worry about the future. Everything will work itself out.”

  “I do apologize, James. There have just been so many changes these past few weeks. I’m a little overwhelmed.”