To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  The stench of stale cabbage assaulted their senses as they climbed a narrow set of stairs and reached room six at the top. A baby was crying in one of the rooms. A mangy cat scurried past their legs.

  James knocked forcefully on the door. Then—to his surprise—it opened immediately, and he found himself staring into the alarmed eyes of Pierre Billaud.

  Chapter 28

  This is too easy, James thought. Pierre was either a vapid moron, or he’d wanted to be caught. Pierre tried to slam the door on him, but James stuck his boot out and blocked it. “Don’t be a fool, Billaud. Where is my sister?”

  “James!”

  He heard Lily’s voice from within, and shoved Pierre out of the way. Sophia and Whitby followed him inside where Lily hurled herself into James’s arms. He held her tighter than he’d ever held her before.

  She squeezed him and began to cry. “How in the world did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. There was a trail of letters, sent over many years, that led us here.”

  “Letters?” She looked up at him. “What sort of letters?”

  He wiped a tear from her cheek. “I will explain later.”

  Pierre seemed to be gathering his courage, and he took a daring step forward. He stopped between Whitby and James—who were both at least six inches taller than he—and pressed his shoulders back. James had to give some credit to the man.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he said. “Lily, this is not what we planned.”

  James frowned at him.

  “I’m sorry, Pierre,” Lily replied, wiping more tears from her cheeks, “but this was not what I thought it would be like.”

  “He didn’t kidnap you, Lily?” Whitby asked.

  She bowed her head in shame. “No, I came to Paris with him, quite willingly. He said he wanted to marry me.”

  “And did he?” Lily shook her head.

  “Then why didn’t he?” James asked, glaring at Pierre for an answer. Pierre was markedly silent.

  Sophia reached for Lily’s hand. “It’s all right, darling. We’re here to take you home. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Lily sniffled and wiped her nose.

  James turned. “Whitby, take Sophia and Lily to the coach. I will follow shortly.”

  They moved toward the door, Sophia with her arm around Lily to guide her out. Lily stopped however and returned to speak to James. “It’s not all his fault,” she whispered through her tears. “Please don’t hurt him. He did say he wanted to marry me.”

  James felt a tremor of unease move through him. Please don’t hurt him.

  Lily was afraid—afraid because of what she knew of the family legacy.

  He glanced at Sophia, who gazed at him uncertainly. His gut twisted into a tight, coarse knot. Was she afraid, too? Afraid that he would explode with uncontrollable, raging violence, like his father and grandfather before him?

  The truth was, he had no idea what he was going to do. All he knew was that he had to deal with this man. He only hoped his sister would understand when she learned the whole story.

  “You needn’t worry, Lily,” he assured her. “I only require an explanation.”

  She accepted that and started for the door but paused to kiss Billaud on the cheek. She burst into tears immediately after, and Whitby gathered her into his arms and carried her down the stairs. With a hostile look Pierre watched them go.

  James faced Pierre and regarded him through narrowed eyes. The man was his own age, perhaps a year or two older, but he was weak and reticent. James wasn’t altogether certain what Lily had seen in him. Then he remembered the flirtatious manner Pierre had exhibited during the shooting party—socializing with the ladies, complimenting them endlessly in his thick French accent—and James supposed that Lily, in all her romantic innocence, had been easily charmed.

  “You removed my sister from her home, sir,” James said. “You transported her out of England to this hovel, without my permission, nor with the accompaniment of a proper chaperone. I will have an explanation.”

  Pierre spoke with a contempt that grated upon James’s already frayed nerves. “I fell in love with her.”

  “Then you should have requested permission to court her properly.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you wouldn’t have granted permission, and I couldn’t say good-bye to her.”

  James had to fight hard against the rising fury he felt—brought on by an intense need to protect his sister and the unpalatable knowledge that he had failed the first time around. He tried to cool down by seeking to understand more of what had occurred and why it had occurred.

  “What is your connection to Madame La Roux?” James asked.

  He’d found his mark, for Pierre stiffened.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I believe you do.” James stood before Pierre and looked him up and down from head to foot. He studied the man’s eyes, the set of his jaw, the line of his nose. “Do we resemble each other at all?” he asked.

  “Not really, Your Grace.”

  “Some might think we do.”

  Pierre said nothing.

  James tapped a hand on his thigh and wandered around the room. Pierre began to fidget.

  “You had this letter in your side table drawer when you were a guest in my home.” James pulled the letter addressed to Genevieve from his pocket. “I took the liberty of reading it. You said that your assignment was going well, and that you would be returning to Paris on the seventeenth. You returned earlier. With my sister in tow.”

  “Like I said, we fell in love.”

  “Which was not part of the assignment,” James surmised. A bead of sweat trickled down Pierre’s forehead. “What was your assignment, exactly?”

  Pierre swallowed hard. “To act nonchalant, have a good time at your party, then leave.”

  “Why did you return to Paris early?” James asked. “You found a more profitable bounty?”

  Pierre’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “Your sister was eager, Wentworth. She practically begged me to bring her here.”

  “Watch your tongue sir. I will ask you point-blank, are you Madame La Roux’s son?”

  Pierre sneered. “I don’t know what’s going on in your sick family, Your Grace, and to tell you the truth, I don’t really care. All I know is that I’m not that whore’s son. I’ve got an entirely different whore for a mother. So, if you’re worried about Lily and me being related, we’re not. What happened between us was—how can I say it?—decent and natural.”

  James fought to control a sudden overwhelming rush of rage. “How did you become involved with Madame La Roux? Unless you want to face the full force of my wrath, sir, I suggest you tell me the truth.”

  Pierre considered it, then sauntered toward the small window that looked out over an alley. “I met her only a few times at her place of business, then she came looking for me, to ask me to attend your shooting party. She knew all about it and made the arrangements for my lodgings. She paid my expenses and bought me clothes. She instructed me to say nothing about my purpose, and if I did what she asked, I would receive five hundred English pounds when I returned. As well as a few other ‘favors.’”

  “But you have not gone to collect your reward,” James said.

  “We only just arrived in Paris last night,” Pierre replied. “I didn’t want to leave Lily alone.”

  James took a threatening step forward. “Do not ever contact any member of my family again, do you understand me? Do not even set foot in England, or I will rip you to shreds. Count yourself lucky that I have not already done so.”

  James turned to go, but foolishly, Pierre grabbed hold of his coat sleeve. “Wait. There is still the matter of your sister. What if I intend to fight for her?”

  James’s eyes blazed down at Pierre’s ha
nd on his arm, but Pierre did not retreat.

  “Lily’s got a reputation to think of,” Pierre continued. “If anyone found out where she’d been, she’d be ruined.”

  James met Pierre’s gaze. “First of all, unhand me sir. Then you will tell me exactly what it will cost me to have the pleasure of never seeing your face again.”

  Pierre’s eyes glimmered with satisfaction as he released James’s arm. “A duke like you with a rich American wife? Fifty thousand pounds should keep me quiet.”

  James let out a long sigh. “You, too, Pierre? Have the French nothing better to do than dream up endless plots of blackmail?”

  Proudly adjusting his collar, looking as if he’d just bagged a lion, Pierre smiled. “It’s better than pushing a potato cart around town, Your Grace.”

  “Ah. But is it better than this?” James drew his pistol and pressed it firmly up against Pierre’s forehead. “I would wager that pushing potatoes would be far preferable to being buried with them.”

  Pierre raised his hands, as if in surrender. “She’s your sister, Wentworth. Are you sure you want to risk this getting out?”

  James cocked the pistol. “There will be no risk, because if you do not keep quiet, you will be dead.”

  Pierre’s hands trembled as he stared at the pistol.

  “I will have your word, Billaud, and with it, you will have my promise not to hunt you down and spill your brains all over those dowdy new clothes of yours.”

  Pierre’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. “If you hadn’t come here, Your Grace, I would have married her.”

  “With the expectation of an allowance from me, no doubt.”

  “With or without it.”

  James flinched, then raised his chin. “Do I have your word, sir?”

  After a tense second or two, Pierre judiciously agreed.

  A moment later, James walked out of the boardinghouse and stepped into the coach that was waiting on the street. Inside its safe confines, Sophia sat beside Lily, who had recovered from her tears and was now looking nervous and frightened at the prospect of facing James’s displeasure.

  He took a few seconds to roll his neck, relax the muscles in his shoulders, and allow his raging pulse to settle down. His hands were shaking. But he was in control.

  He gazed at Sophia, so beautiful even now in this horrid coach. If she only knew what she had done for him. He never would have been able to trust himself to deal with all of this before Sophia had come into his life. She had taught him a great deal about himself. His American wife was the greatest gift he had ever known.

  He felt a blanket of calm slowly descending upon him.

  Whitby, Sophia and Lily all sat in silence, waiting to hear what had occurred in the boardinghouse.

  As soon as the coach was in motion, rumbling down the street and turning a corner, James spoke. “Pierre will keep quiet.”

  Lily covered her mouth with a hand. “You didn’t harm him, did you? Because.... Because he wasn’t bad to me, James, truly. As I said, I went with him willingly. He was always very charming toward me.”

  James noticed Whitby stiffen with outrage. He was no doubt wondering what James himself was wondering—had Pierre robbed Lily of her virtue?

  “I did care for him,” she continued. “I just realized, after we left England, that I wasn’t quite sure who he was or what he was.”

  James sat forward and squeezed her hand. “You do not need to explain everything to me now, Lily. There will be time for that later. We’re just glad to have you returning with us.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them.

  As he looked at her, he realized it was difficult for him not to see her as a child, when in fact she had become a woman in recent years.

  “You must all think me a fool,” Lily said, lowering her gaze. “Or hate me entirely.” She turned her sheepish gaze toward Whitby. “And you came.”

  “Of course I came,” Whitby replied, compassionately. “I’ve known you since you were a child, Lily. You’re like a sister to me.”

  Sophia pulled Lily into her arms and hugged her. “You mustn’t worry. You’re safe now, and we’re going home.”

  “And rest assured,” James said, “that it will be a different home than it was before. I have not been there for you in the past, and for that, I am sorry.”

  Not wanting to leave Lily alone on the ship, Sophia shared a cabin with her sister-in-law during the overnight crossing, making it necessary for James and Whitby to take separate cabins.

  Sophia was still unsure about what exactly had taken place between Pierre and Lily, and whether they had been physically intimate. It was most certainly possible—likely even—for Lily had been more than a little besotted with Pierre.

  Lily did not wish to talk about it, however, and Sophia agreed not to push. She would be patient.

  Thankfully, it did not take long to ease Lily into a restful sleep, for James’s sister had not slept a full night since she left her home with the intention of eloping. At long last, Sophia was able to sit down in a chair and consider all that had happened in the past week.

  She did not remember a more distressing time in her life. She had kept secrets from her husband and feared he would condemn her if he found out. She had teetered on a wobbly precipice between winning her mother-in-law’s affection or guaranteeing her hatred forever. Lily had gone missing, and Sophia had blamed herself. They’d all exhausted themselves traveling to France, confronting the most despicable people, setting foot in foul, filthy places they would never have set foot in otherwise.

  Yet, so many wonderful things had come out of it. Sophia had discovered that her mother-in-law did in fact possess a softer side, though it was buried beneath a mountain of fear and guilt. Sophia had even managed to bridge the gap that had existed between them from the beginning. Marion had revealed her regrets to James, and they had reconciled after years of ill will and avoidance.

  James and Martin were embarking on a brotherly friendship. James had apologized to Lily for not being there for her, and he had thanked Sophia for her role in all the reconciliations.

  He appreciated her. He’d admitted it openly during the Channel crossing. She should feel satisfied, grateful and fortunate, for she had made a difference in James’s life and the lives of all his family members. Against the odds, they had rescued Lily, put an end to a devastating blackmail plot against their family and were on their way home to begin a brighter future together.

  Feeling tired and despondent, Sophia sighed and leaned her head against the chairback.

  Something was still missing, for James didn’t truly love her, not the way she loved him. She wasn’t even certain he was capable of loving her, after declaring on so many occasions that he was not.

  Yet she still loved him. More than her own life. Why? It made no sense. He had done everything in his power to keep her at a distance.

  She supposed it was because she knew that James, like the ocean, possessed complicated but beautiful, hidden depths. Why else would he have retreated so ardently from his family after the ordeal of his childhood?

  To protect those he loved. And to protect himself. Clearly, his heart had been shattered by all that he had suffered. But deep down, he was truly noble and had been heroic. She had witnessed that heroism these past few days when he had put everything aside—even a lifelong chasm between himself and his mother—to protect his family.

  She felt a tremendous ache in her heart at that moment. An aching need to know her husband as intimately as she knew her own heart. She only wished he would let go of the demons from his past and love her fully, the way she wanted and needed to be loved.

  Two days later, shortly after their arrival back at Wentworth Castle, Sophia retreated to her own bedchamber and summoned her maid to arrange for the tub to be brought in and filled with water. All she wanted was time alone to rest her mind and
cleanse herself of all the dirt and grime of the past few days.

  As she lay in the tub with her head tipped back upon the bowed rim, a note was slipped under her door. Sophia opened her eyes to the sound of the paper swishing across the floor.

  She rose and stepped out of the tub, dripping water everywhere as she bent to pick up the note.

  My Darling,

  When you are finished bathing, please come to me.

  James

  Sophia stared at her husband’s elegant script upon the ducal stationery, felt a rush of anticipation, then rang for her maid to return and help her dress and pin up her hair. A half hour later, she was at James’s door, knocking.

  “Come in,” he called from inside.

  Sophia turned the knob and pushed open the heavy door. Warmth touched her cheeks as her gaze fell upon her husband, lying in his own brass tub in front of the fire. His arms were out of the water, resting along the rim, and his black hair was wet and slicked back. His chest was magnificent in the evening light beaming in the window—brawny, golden and robust.

  Sophia’s breath caught as she stood in the open doorway, staring at her handsome husband, naked in the bath before her. A swell of avaricious lust moved through her.

  “You sent for me?” was all she could say when her senses were blazing to life.

  His expression was blithe and open. “I did. Come in, if you will, and lock the door behind you.” A hint of seductive allure softened his voice.

  Her love for him at that moment was excruciating. Blinding.

  The corner of his mouth curled up in a small grin. Sophia trembled as he lifted his hands from the rim of the tub and held them open. “Would you like to come in?”

  With a willing smile, Sophia unbuttoned her bodice and slowly undressed in front of her husband. She laid her clothes out neatly on his bed, then stepped into the tub and sat between his legs, reclining to let her head rest upon his shoulder.

  James picked up the washcloth and dipped it in the water, then squeezed it over Sophia’s breasts and let the warm droplets caress her skin. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever known,” he whispered in her ear.