by Avery Aster
She watched as he straightened, curious now. She’d seen the ravages of war on young American men. Boys who’d come back with missing limbs, or some who were what they called shell-shocked; who shook all the time and jumped at loud noises.
The duke was not all that bad. Scars marred the left side of his face. But it wasn’t enough to horrify her.
He had Sebastian’s features, but on Langford, every plane and line was harsher, more angular, as if his face had been sculpted with hard slashes—abrupt cheekbones, a blade of a nose, straight, dark brows, and a strong chin with a deep cleft in its center. His eyes were a brilliant blue and his lashes were thick and black.
He obviously expected her to look away or gasp with shock.
Sympathy rose. Perhaps it wasn’t disgust with his brother’s inappropriate American fiancée that had led the duke to keep his distance. He put his hat on quickly, and for one second, he’d looked awkward and unhappy instead of condescending and annoyed, and she knew revealing his injuries had made him vulnerable.
“I lost a brother to the War,” she said simply. “It was a horrible thing.”
He said nothing for a moment. It was amazing he could look at her so directly without feeling any need to respond, as one would in conversation. Though, she had to admit—what could he say? She changed the subject. “What do we do now, Your Grace? Is it far to walk to Brideswell?”
“I will escort you back to your automobile,” he said stiffly. “You may wait there with your mother, and I will send the Daimler for your persons and your belongings.”
His expression was that of a man who had bit into a lemon.
Her heart sank. She was going to be trapped in a house with this man for a month. Perhaps the house was enormous and she wouldn’t encounter him very often. Hopefully, he had a dining table the size of one of the Olympic’s decks and he sat at the opposite end of it.
They walked in silence along the uneven, muddy road, stepping around piles of manure left by the sheep. Then Langford stopped, and she halted, too. The duke cleared his throat and glared down at her. He intended to say something but, just as with the farmer, it seemed to take forever for an Englishman to speak.
“Is there something you wished to discuss, Your Grace?”
“Sebastian tells me you are marrying so you can have access to your trust fund.” His words came in a rush, as if they’d burst out on a geyser of emotion he could no longer contain. “That you plan to divorce immediately after you have achieved that goal.”
“That’s right.”
“Good God, Miss Gifford, have you no breeding? Only the most appalling women get divorced. As for planning to end a marriage before you have even wed…this I will not allow.”
Zoe squared her shoulders, ready to do battle just as her father would have done when dealing with a cutthroat business opponent. What had Sebastian been thinking? They’d agreed not to explain their plan to either family, knowing it would just cause trouble.
“I have better breeding than you are displaying, Your Grace,” she answered, coolly. “Sebastian is a chivalrous gentleman. He’s saving me from a disaster, and he’s happy with the terms of our agreement. I have the contract drawn up, ready for his signature, and I don’t believe your consent is required at all. I assure you I’ll become Sebastian’s wife, just as we’ve planned. The settlement I am giving him is money he said your family desperately needs. We’re making a modern version of a transatlantic marriage—I need a marriage, he needs money, and we don’t need to make matrimony last.”
An American Duchess is available now! Check out a longer excerpt or buy it here.
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