An American Duchess

by Sharon Page

  “Nigel, what if you’d hurt yourself? They should have ignored you and come to help you.”

  “Good servants do not do that.”

  “Then I’ll have to take care of you.” She got to her feet. She came back carrying his robe and settled it around his shoulders. She overlapped it in front of him so it warmed him.

  He touched her hand. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re cold. You need whiskey—or brandy or whatever you prefer to drink.”

  “Why are you doing this? I thought you would be horrified.”

  “Haven’t you learned yet that it takes a lot to shock me?”

  “Go back to bed, Zoe. Once I’ve woken, I cannot get back to sleep.”

  She looked to his mantel clock. “But it is four o’clock. You will be exhausted if you don’t get any sleep.”

  He shook his head, sending stray locks of dark hair to dust across his eyes. “Even tired, I won’t sleep. I don’t fight it anymore. But now you know why I cannot sleep with you.”

  She saw his pain in admitting it.

  “If you’re going to be awake, why not come back to bed with me. We could make love again. Make love until the sun comes up.” She took his hand and put it against her breast. Then she bent over so her lips touched his right ear. “I don’t usually fall into bed until dawn,” she whispered. “So I can make love until morning...if you want.”

  He lifted her, picking her up easily in his arms. His lips touched her forehead and he cradled her against his chest.

  “Or we could use your bed,” she suggested.

  Effortlessly, he carried her to his bed and he placed her gently on it.

  She got onto her knees. “Your bed is even bigger than mine.” She touched the bed curtains, tied to the ornate columns of the bed canopy. “These are lovely. I think this bed is very old—am I right?”

  “Two hundred and fifty years old. Used by many Dukes of Langford.”

  She giggled, and then her soft laugh caught in her throat. “Let’s use it together. Please come to bed with me.”

  Crooking her finger in invitation, she fell back onto the soft mattress. Nigel followed.

  He made love to her so slowly it was exquisite. After, she snuggled against him, put her arm over his chest and her leg over his. She intended to keep him with her.

  “You have so many terrible memories of the War. You must have good memories. I don’t know any of those. There’s so much I don’t know about you. What’s your happiest memory?”

  His lips touched the top of her head; his fingers caressed her bare shoulder. “The moment you walked into the church this morning.”

  She loved being constantly caressed by him. And that was what he kept doing. Skimming his fingertips over her arms, her shoulder, her neck, collarbone. Making her skin tingle everywhere. “Is that really true?”

  “Yes. The second-best memory I have is of being in your aeroplane and looking up at you as we made love.”

  Her heart pattered wildly, aching with love. “I want to know about your past. What were you like as a little boy?”

  “A holy terror.”

  “I can’t believe that.” She didn’t want to yawn, but she couldn’t help it. Making love left her sleepy and lazy and so relaxed she felt she floated on a cloud.

  “It’s true.”

  She was aware of Nigel gently kissing her temple. Of cradling her even closer, lifting her onto his chest to lie on him. His arms were strong, muscular, and wrapped around her.

  Struggling to subdue another yawn, Zoe opened her eyes wide. She was going to stay awake. Nigel needed her. “What’s the naughtiest thing you did as a boy?” she murmured, her cheek pressed to his firm, broad chest.

  She never heard the answer.

  * * *

  Zoe woke up alone, of course. Her maid had come in and was opening the tall velvet curtains. But even as Callie tugged the heavy drapes back, revealing the window, only gray light filtered in. It wasn’t raining, but thick iron-gray clouds blotted out the sky.

  This wasn’t supposed to matter because she was supposed to be waking up with Nigel and she would reach for him, and they would make love all morning. All day.

  But he had put her back in her own bed while she slept. She didn’t even know where he was.

  “His Grace wished to tell you he has gone walking on the moor, Miss—Your Grace.” Callie blushed. “That’s a strange title, isn’t it? What’s it supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Zoe said, ruffling her hair. “A king is a ‘highness.’ I guess ‘grace’ was supposed to be the next best thing.”

  “I’ll try hard to get it right, Miss Zoe. I mean—”

  “Never mind now. We’ll work on it.” She thought of the mean, snobby girls in New York having to curtsy to her and call her that. For a moment, she felt like her mother. A wicked sense of satisfaction flared in her heart.

  Then it fizzled.

  It seemed a silly and insignificant thing. Compared to the pain Nigel was going through.

  “What does one wear to walk on a moor?” She thought of the sensible shoes worn by women at Brideswell, and the tweed skirts, the shapeless things they called jumpers, the heavy coats.

  “They wanted to know if you wanted your breakfast in bed, Your Grace.” Callie said her title carefully.

  She could have breakfast in bed. She supposed ladies did that to fill time. Then they went through the rigors of getting dressed. “Don’t bother. I’ll go down for my breakfast.”

  Zoe dressed in trousers and boots, a shirt open at her throat and the leather jacket of her flying ensemble. Breakfast awaited her in the dining room, like at Brideswell. Places were set at one end of the long table. She ate quickly.

  She was walking out the front door, pulling on her leather flying gloves—in June, for heaven’s sake, because the wind off the ocean was cold—when the butler materialized out of nowhere. “Might I inquire as to your destination, Your Grace?”

  He asked politely, but he was prying into where she was going.

  What did the staff think? This was England. It was normal, probably, for a husband and his brand-new bride to have separate breakfasts, and for him to go for a walk instead of going back to his wife’s bed on their honeymoon.

  “I’m going to walk and catch up to my husband.” She deliberately called him that—instead of “the duke.” Mother would have called him “the duke,” but she wasn’t going to. He wasn’t His Grace to her; he was her husband. And they could stuff their shock.

  A brisk wind whirled around the house and threw Zoe’s bobbed hair around her face. She heard barking and followed the sound, rounding the stone house. Nigel, wearing tweeds and tall leather boots, playfully fought a stick from the mouth of a white hound, while two brown ones barked and jumped around him. Freeing the stick from the dog’s jaws, he put his arm back, then threw the stick with power and ease. It hurtled high and the dogs streaked off after it. He threw like a New York ballplayer.

  He saw her, and she saw a guilty expression come over his face. He shook it off, but it was there. “Good morning, Zoe. Did you sleep well?”

  She walked to him. “I take it you didn’t get back to sleep.”

  The hounds were running back to him. The white dog had the stick and was in the lead, the other two hard on his heels.

  “I had a better night than I’ve had in a long time.”

  “But you didn’t sleep, did you?”

  The dogs arrived then, and Nigel put his attention to tossing the stick again. She watched him—the broad shoulders moving under tweed as he wrestled the stick away. The soft, controlled command he gave that made the dogs sit.

  Small things took her breath away. The pure blackness of his hair brushing his white collar. The length of his eyelashes and the curl of them
. He must have been absolutely beautiful as a child. He was gorgeous now with his piercing blue eyes, his sharp cheekbones, his mouth that rarely smiled, but when he did, she was so tempted to kiss him.

  When he straightened and threw the stick, she asked softly, “What happened to you in the War? What haunts you in those terrible dreams?”

  His shoulders stiffened. “I do not know. I never remember the dreams.”

  His gaze stayed on the dogs. Which meant he was lying. “I am sorry I woke you, Zoe. That is why, when I returned to Brideswell after the War, I had a room in the south wing of the house. It’s rarely used and far enough away that I don’t disturb anyone. Here, the servants made up the room adjoining yours. I will move to another—”

  “Don’t! Please, don’t. I don’t want you to feel you have to run away from me.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Can’t you forget what happened in the War? You’re safe now.”

  “I know. That’s the madness of it. I got through. I survived. I was graced with life, when so many died. But it’s a tainted gift. I do not believe I’ll ever be free of the War.”

  She hurried to him and touched his arm. “There has to be a way. Treatments—”

  “I have learned about the treatments used. Cold baths to shock, for example. It’s torture, and half the time it leaves the man a worse wreck than when he started—no good for anything. I will not do that.”

  “If you don’t, we will never share a bed. Sleeping with you, curled up against you all night. That is what I want to do. But you’re telling me I’ll never experience that, if you don’t try to find a cure for this.”

  “Zoe—I’m sorry. I should have been honest with you.”

  “There must be a way.”

  “It’s been four years. I know there is no way.”

  They were alive, they were married and they could make love whenever they wished. Zoe knew that should be enough. It wasn’t so terrible if they didn’t sleep together. But it was something she had wanted from marriage. “Nigel, have you finished your walk or are you willing to give me a tour?”

  He offered his arm. “I would be delighted. I didn’t want to disturb you this morning, and I always walk early when I’m here.”

  “How often do you come here?” There were so many things about him, about his life, she didn’t know. And she felt bad about having spoken bluntly about his condition. For once, she believed she shouldn’t have been honest.

  “Usually once a season. I come for hunting in the autumn. In the summer, it is cool here and hot at Brideswell, so the family usually comes in August.”

  “How about London—how often do you visit there?”

  “We avoid town in the summer. Go for the opening of Parliament. We avoid the winters there now—too expensive to fully open the house.”

  “How many houses did you once have?”

  “Six. I sold off three to cover Father’s death duties. We kept Brideswell, the London house and this one.” He was leading her up a hill. “We can see the ocean from up here.”

  They stood at the top, and she could see the vast horizon, the rolling waves. She thought of something else they hadn’t discussed. “When will you want to make trips to New York?”

  “New York? A transatlantic journey.” He shook his head.

  Her heart tightened. “That’s where my family is—my mother and my uncle, my cousins.”

  “I would never stand in the way of your visiting your family, Zoe.”

  “But you won’t go.”

  “I’m uncomfortable with that sort of travel. People are put off by the scars.”

  She realized what he was saying—that he would travel only in his small world, where he felt safe. If she wanted to go home, she would have to go alone. “I want to take the weight from your shoulders. I want to help you.”

  “I will not talk about the War, Zoe. These things would horrify you. I refuse to do that to you. It’s my duty to protect you from such things.”

  “Nigel, I’ve been touched by war. I lost my brother.”

  “No, Zoe. I will not speak of it.”

  “I’m a strong girl.”

  “I know, but I don’t know if I am strong enough to tell you the mistakes I made, Zoe. I can barely live with them myself.”

  * * *

  That night, Zoe made love with him in her bed, kissed him passionately and slept alone.

  As she settled into her bed and drew up her covers, she still knew eventually she would have her husband in her bed.

  Americans possessed drive, energy, conviction, and they had a great deal of faith in themselves—that was what Father had always told her. It was what made them successful.

  Nigel had told her he could not reveal the mistakes he’d made to her. She took his no as a temporary situation. But like Father when he’d taken over a company, she recognized she needed a longer, more careful campaign.

  She wanted her husband to open his heart to her. She’d been honest all along with him.

  The next morning, he tapped on her door, surprising her—and buoying her faith. He wore his riding clothes—breeches, a jacket, hat and tie. “Would you like to ride with me this morning?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  When he left her room, she pulled on trousers and a tweed hacking jacket, then followed him downstairs.

  They went for the ride before breakfast. It was early morning, and the sea breezes had cleared away most of the fog that had gathered overnight. Patches still filled the valleys, and wisps of fog streamed around the horses’ legs on the tracks. As the last of the mist evaporated, Zoe galloped after Nigel across fields until they reached a ridge that overlooked the sea. The air tasted of salt. Waves rolled up on a beach of pebbles, far below them.

  Nigel brought his mount close to hers. He leaned over and kissed her. They controlled their horses, while they kissed and kissed. She loved it—the heat of their mouths, his hot, impulsive passion, the brisk coolness of the whipping breeze.

  She knew he wouldn’t talk to her yet, but she was determined that someday he would. Nowadays, husbands and wives were supposed to be partners. They were supposed to be together for more than just the economic advantage of sharing a household or holding to some idea about their duty to procreate. She put her gloved hand to his face and caressed him. To let him know she cared so much about him. Her fingers grazed over his scars.

  He didn’t pull away from her hand.

  In the afternoon, he took her tramping all over the property. Through meadows filled with daisies and buttercups, beneath the leafy canopy of the woods.

  “This is my favorite spot,” he told her. He led her along a narrow path that wound through slender trees and dipped into a valley filled with wild roses. She breathed in the glorious scent. The dogs ran with them, charging away to follow scents, then returning with tongues lolling and tails wagging.

  “It is beautiful.”

  He turned and smiled—a dazzling flash of white teeth and dimples. “Come here.” He stood her in front of him and covered her eyes with his hands. “Let me lead you,” he said, his voice a soft, deep growl by her ear.

  She obeyed, letting him gently guide her. She smelled the brine of the ocean. Nigel took his hands away. They stood on a sand beach—the sand was wet and firm—in a small cove. Waves broke in foamy white on the beach. On each side rose the gray, rugged rock face of the ridge.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “The beach is submerged late in the day, when the tide comes in. It comes in fast here, because of the shape of the cove.”

  He held her hand and they scrambled over rocks, walking the length of the cove. Together, they threw sticks for the dogs. When Zoe noticed the water lapping at her shoes, Nigel said, “We should go up.”

  They did, and the next days followed the same pattern
. She had tea outside with Nigel, on the back lawn, beneath the large branches of an oak. He read his newspapers and she read hers. They ate sandwiches and sipped tea, then walked, or rode until it was time to dress for dinner. They had moments where they laughed together—like at the moment when the housekeeper came in with ten letters. All from Zoe’s mother, and all written in the two extra days Mother had stayed on at Brideswell.

  Each night, after dinner, she would join Nigel in the drawing room for sherry and brandy. At eleven o’clock regularly, they retired to bed.

  In bed, Nigel was a different man. He focused on her, giving her pleasure. When she suggested daring things, he was always a little shocked, and then he agreed.

  Afterward, he would kiss her, wish her good-night, and he would leave her bed. When all Zoe wanted to do was fall asleep with him in a decadent tangle of arms and legs.

  She worried about Nigel. She was frustrated he wouldn’t speak more to her, but he refused. He had secrets locked inside.

  She loved the quiet moments they shared. The companionship she felt even when they were reading their own newspapers. Or when he shared stories about past years at the hunting seat as they walked.

  But those moments didn’t help her forget how much he was suffering or ignore the wall it created between them. If anything, it was worse to feel her heart soar as they walked hand in hand and know he wouldn’t sleep with her. That he never intended to sleep with her.

  One night, when she couldn’t sleep, she walked through the house. Rain pattered against the windowpanes. She carried a candle, for there was no electricity here, of course. In a drawing room, she saw the glow of another candle’s flame. She padded into the room.

  Nigel stood by the window. He leaned against the glass. He started, whirling around when her foot made a floorboard creak. “What are you doing up? Did I wake you?” An intense look of guilt burned in his eyes.

  “I think the rain woke me.” She shivered. “It’s cold in here.”

  “You are going to take me to bed, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  The anguish lightened on his face and he held his hand to her. As they walked through the room, Zoe bumped a hard object under a white dustcover. A small pile of records slipped to the floor.