My American Duchess

by Eloisa James

  “You know what I mean,” Bess said, unperturbed. “The boy shines like brass.”

  Merry frowned.

  “Oh, tut!” her aunt said. “You’re lucky to have him, my dear, and that’s all I’ll say about it.”

  As Merry began to explain (not for the first time) the concept of mixed metaphors, one of her suitors, a Mr. Kestril, approached, and after greeting them both, said, “Miss Pelford, I believe you granted me your next dance.”

  “Certainly,” Merry said, smiling at him. Cedric had suggested that Merry keep Mr. Kestril at a distance because he wasn’t “good ton,” whatever that meant.

  But Merry liked him; Mr. Kestril was not only taller than she, but he knew a lot about gardening.

  “As shiny as an ingot from a fairy hill,” her aunt said abruptly.

  Mr. Kestril’s forehead creased. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I had described Merry’s fiancé, Lord Cedric, as being as shiny as brass, but I’m trying to come up with something better,” Bess explained, neatly dropping the fact Merry was now betrothed into the conversation. “My Muse just suggested a comparison to a fairy ingot.”

  “My aunt is a poet,” Merry told Mr. Kestril, whose mouth had pulled tight at Bess’s news.

  “Nothing so grand,” Bess said, fanning herself. “A poet implies subtlety and genius. I merely dally with words.”

  “There’s a touch of genius in your comparison of a fairy ingot to Lord Cedric,” Mr. Kestril said dryly.

  Merry frowned. “Why so? A fairy ingot is gold, isn’t it?”

  “And Lord Cedric’s hair is golden-colored,” Bess explained.

  The strains of a country dance started up. “Miss Pelford,” Mr. Kestril said, bowing deeply and extending his hand. “If I may?”

  She put her hand in his. And with that, they were away, capering down the room, and smiling every time they met and parted, and met and parted again.

  Merry kept her eyes on her partner’s face and glanced neither right nor left. Not that there was anyone she’d want to see in the ballroom.

  Other than her fiancé, of course.

  Chapter Two

  Octavius Mortimer John Allardyce, the sixth Duke of Trent, returned to the ballroom feeling as if he’d taken a sharp blow to the gut.

  Earlier that evening, Trent had no sooner presented himself at Lady Portmeadow’s ball, kissed his hostess’s hand, and entered the ballroom than his twin brother, Cedric, had appeared and announced, loud enough so that anyone within a stone’s throw could hear, that he was now betrothed to marry.

  Although Trent’s first impulse had been to give a howl of joy, he had pushed it down and instead offered his brother a congratulatory nod.

  He had been just about to request to meet his future sister-in-law when Cedric had added—as casually as if he were discussing the weather—that he had given his betrothed a diamond ring.

  Their mother’s, to be precise. The ring was worth more than any other piece of jewelry in the family estate, but its value was symbolic as well as financial: it had been worn not only by their mother, but by their father’s mother before her.

  In other words, his brother had given away the ring that was traditionally worn by the Duchess of Trent, the ring that family lore dictated should grace the finger of his own bride. Perhaps Trent should have locked it away, but it had never occurred to him that Cedric would take it.

  In another man, theft of a diamond ring might reflect avarice. That wasn’t the case with Cedric; he was jealous of Trent’s title, but he wasn’t greedy. Cedric’s eyes had been bright with glee. He intended, very deliberately and simply, to provoke.

  Equally clearly, Cedric had made his announcement at a ball in the hopes that Trent would lose his temper before an audience that included most of fashionable London. The scandal resulting from a lady’s betrothal ring being wrenched off her finger would be discussed for years.

  Trent would be damned before he gave his brother the satisfaction of a public dispute, even though the ring belonged to his descendants, not to Cedric’s. The very idea of reclaiming the diamond from his future sister-in-law, who was the innocent in this whole business, was extremely distasteful.

  Without a word, he had turned on his heel and taken himself out onto the balcony. He had been staring into the dark garden when he had felt a touch on his arm, turned—and met her.

  Now, back in the ballroom, he stood at the edge of the whirl of music and color and thought about what had just happened.

  He didn’t even like Americans.

  They were overly bold, in his experience—and she was no different. She had looked him in the eye as if she were a member of the royal family: direct and unwavering, without a hint of respect for his title.

  Yet she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, with riotous curls the precise color and sheen of a ripe chestnut, and a mouth like a lush rose, without the aid of sticky paints. Her figure was luxurious and trim at the same time, and she was tall enough that he could kiss her without getting a painful crick in his neck.

  But what had made him lose his equilibrium were her eyes. He was pretty certain they were misty gray, but it had been hard to tell on the shadowy balcony. What he did know was that they sparkled with laughter and intelligence. And they changed with her every emotion, her every thought clear.

  Her openness was a welcome change from his family’s furtiveness. His father, like any man who drinks to excess, had harbored secrets on secrets. What his mother had thought of that, no one knew. Trent had no memory of her expressing any opinion or emotion other than a generalized, withering discontent.

  Everything the American thought and felt, by contrast, was written in her eyes and—as far as he could tell—fell straight from her lips. She would never be guarded with her thoughts: more likely, whomever she married would spend a good deal of time laughing as she informed him, all too bluntly, exactly what she thought.

  Trent had never contemplated laughing with a wife. To the extent that he’d thought about his duchess, he’d imagined a reserved woman, who would make no scenes of any kind. She wouldn’t cling to him, create fusses, or make incessant demands, particularly of the emotional sort.

  But he was used to making rapid decisions when presented with new evidence.

  He would marry this lady because he liked everything about her, from her husky giggle to those facts she loved so much.

  She wouldn’t be a properly respectful wife, or even be an obedient one. But she would never be sly, either. She would be a very different duchess than his mother had been—which would be all to the good.

  He had had no idea that he’d been waiting for a particular woman, but it turned out he had been waiting for an American with glossy curls who would look him straight in the eye and not give a damn that he was a duke.

  Cedric’s bride could keep the diamond ring. Trent would buy his American a new ring. She was from a new country, after all.

  He would buy her a ring worth twice the purloined diamond. They would start a new tradition, and his ring would grace the hands of future Duchesses of Trent.

  Now he merely had to discover her name, arrange a proper introduction, and inform her chaperone that he intended to pay her a morning call. The request would speak for itself: anyone who overheard it would suspect that she was to be the next duchess. The gossip would be all over London by morning.

  Trent only discovered he was smiling when he met the puzzled eyes of a man he’d been to school with.

  “Excellent champagne, isn’t it?” Lord Royston said, raising his glass.

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t any.”

  “I will,” Trent said. “If you’ll excuse me, Royston, I must find our hostess.”

  “You should get some champagne before it runs out. Last I saw, Lady Portmeadow was lurking near the refreshments table, no doubt to ensure that no one takes too much.”

  “Right. Well—”

  “Shameful, the way she laid out a plate or two of c
ucumber sandwiches and tried to pretend it was a spread,” Royston continued, staring so hard that his eyes bugged out a little.

  Had he really become so grim that acquaintances found a smile shocking? The man was looking at him as if he were a five-legged calf, as the American had described. The memory made him smile again.

  His lordship blinked uncertainly. “Heard your brother has found a wife.”

  “We both have,” Trent stated.

  “Have you indeed! Who is your duchess-to-be?”

  “I have yet to ask her, so I’d best keep it to myself.”

  Wry humor crossed Royston’s eyes. “Of all the men in London, you needn’t worry about a refusal, Duke.” He raised his glass. “I’ll drink to the prospect of matrimony, since it’s making you so cheerful. Don’t think I’ve seen you smile in years.”

  Trent bowed and made his way toward the refreshments table, in an anteroom off the entrance hall. He probably hadn’t smiled often, not when every minute of his day was consumed by saving the estate his father had almost bankrupted.

  But that would change after he married an American who had promised never to swoon, but who had looked slightly dazed after examining him from head to foot.

  Especially after perusal of his midsection.

  His body had responded to her gaze with a surge of raw lust. If they hadn’t been so close to the ballroom, he would have kissed her. Hell, he would have snatched her up and ravished her . . . after obtaining her permission, naturally. The thought sent another wave of heat through his loins.

  More than once during their conversation he’d had to fight an impulse to claim her lips. Claim all of her, in truth. Push her up against the balustrade and kiss her until those intelligent eyes were blurred with desire, and her clever brain forgot every fact it had ever contained.

  Sure enough, as Royston had predicted, Lady Portmeadow was hovering beside the refreshments table, watching cucumber sandwiches disappear down her guests’ gullets.

  He helped himself to a sandwich, just for the fun of it, and ate it as her ladyship rounded the table to him. Then he took another and ate that, too.

  “I am so honored that you were able to join us tonight,” Lady Portmeadow said with a pinched smile. “It’s at times like these that I miss your dear mother.”

  Trent had no idea what she was talking about. He took another sandwich. They were small, but surprisingly good.

  “How have you been, Lady Portmeadow?” he asked.

  “The same, the same. My daughter Edwina is . . . oh, you likely know that. After all, you’ve come to her coming-out ball.”

  Trent frowned, confused. Wasn’t this ball in honor of the new hospital that his brother had championed?

  “I saw no reason to go to the expense of two balls,” Lady Portmeadow explained. “Edwina is making her debut this evening, which is fitting, as your mother was her godmother.”

  Trent bowed slightly.

  “I shall take you to Edwina,” Lady Portmeadow said, taking his arm and drawing him back to the ballroom. And away from the sandwiches, Trent couldn’t help noticing. “She has changed a great deal since you knew her as a child. I am happy to report that those unfortunate freckles have disappeared.”

  “I am certain she is most lovely,” Trent murmured. He remembered Edwina without enthusiasm. She had been about as interesting as a bread pudding.

  In fairness, she had been only ten years old at the time.

  “Your brother told me that you have been very busy with the House of Lords since the season began,” Lady Portmeadow said, as they crossed the entry, heading toward the ballroom. “Have you seen Lord Cedric tonight? He must have told you his happy news.”

  “He has.” Trent nodded to an acquaintance.

  Lady Portmeadow lowered her voice. “I am so pleased for him. You must know, of course, how much your mother worried. I’ve thought of her a hundred times in the last few years, watching the two of you grow to be men. Younger sons frequently pose problems. It’s such a burden for a man to grow up without an inheritance.”

  Trent kept his mouth shut. The fact Cedric had gambled away an estate was thankfully not common knowledge.

  “There are some unfortunate aspects to his proposed marriage,” Lady Portmeadow whispered. “Prudence dictated that your brother chose from a limited selection.”

  Hell. Cedric must have found an heiress with buck teeth or a squint.

  Trent tried to feel sorry for him, but he couldn’t keep his mind on it.

  He kept thinking about his American. Not a few English maidens would consider themselves compromised merely for having conducted a long conversation with a man on a shadowy balcony. But his American had no interest in the sophisticated games that members of English society amused themselves with.

  She had walked straight up to him and touched his arm—but not because he was a duke. She hadn’t the faintest idea who he was. In fact, he had the distinct impression that if she had known he was titled, she would have marched off in the opposite direction.

  Trent grinned to himself, looking forward to the moment when he was introduced, title and all.

  “Now where could my daughter be?” Lady Portmeadow asked, pausing at the entrance to the ballroom and holding on to Trent’s arm with a grip that suggested she thought Edwina would make a fine duchess. “Ah, there she is, dancing with Viscount Bern.”

  Trent seized his moment. “I shall be delighted to dance with Miss Portmeadow later this evening. But meanwhile, I wonder if I might request a favor?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  “I would be most happy to be introduced to a young lady whom I glimpsed in the ballroom.”

  “Certainly,” her ladyship repeated less readily, reluctance warring with curiosity.

  Trent guessed that motherly instinct told her to secure a duke as her son-in-law, but that she would love to be the hostess who had introduced one of the most eligible, yet elusive bachelors on the market to his future duchess. Just imagine the story she could weave about the moment they met.

  He gave a mental shrug and looked around the crowded room for his American. He found her within seconds, happy to learn that she was just as delectable in the light of the chandeliers as she had been on the balcony.

  She stood only a few yards away, a glass of lemonade in her hand, next to a scrawny yellow-haired girl with a petulant mouth. The yellow-haired girl was nodding at something Nigel Hampster was telling them.

  “Delectable” wasn’t quite the right word. The American had a heart-shaped face and a turned-up nose. Turned up in the right way: adorably. She would probably reject that characterization, but it struck him as correct. She was adorable.

  Except that word wasn’t right, either, because he could see her curves more clearly now that she stood directly under a chandelier. She wasn’t wearing white, like most of young ladies around her; her rose-colored gown hadn’t even a hint of virginal chastity about it.

  Instead, it was caught up under her plump breasts and clung to her body as if she had dampened her petticoats. The bodice was cut low, at the very edge of propriety.

  She looked expensive. Sensual. Complicated.

  Innocent.

  And adorable—all at once.

  Hampster was telling jokes to the yellow-haired girl, even though any fool could tell that he was really performing for the girl who stood to the side. She was looking straight through him, a fixed smile on her lips.

  Trent found he was grinning again. She would be a magnificent duchess.

  “Whom would you like to meet, Your Grace?” Lady Portmeadow prompted, following his gaze. “Oh, I see—Lady Caroline! She does have lovely hair, and she’s considered a diamond of the first water. She’s Wooton’s daughter, though rumor has it that her dowry is not commensurate with her status.”

  Her ladyship swept on without waiting for confirmation, lowering her voice a trifle so that only the ten closest people could hear.

  “I am also told that she doesn’t even s
peak French. In fact, unkind people have jested about whether she speaks English. It need hardly be said that a man of your stature must find a lady who has a command of languages, perhaps three or four.”

  Edwina must be able to speak in tongues, considering the force with which her mother was advocating the duchess-as-linguist idea.

  “In fact, I was speaking not of Lady Caroline, but of the young lady next to her,” Trent said.

  Lady Portmeadow squinted. “Oh, of course, you were,” she said, to Trent’s surprise. “Now, where can your brother be?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Where did I last see Lord Cedric?” She rose on her toes and peered over the heads of the crowd.

  “My brother is undoubtedly in the card room,” Trent said. He had a sudden unwelcome thought.

  “Quite likely,” Lady Portmeadow said. “I’ll be happy to introduce you to Miss Pelford, and then I’ll take you to meet Edwina. Did I tell you that she began learning German last year, purely for the joy of speaking the language? Not that I mean to imply that she’s a bluestocking . . .”

  Trent had stopped listening.

  Pelford. He had heard that name before.

  From his brother.

  He wasn’t a man who swore, silently or otherwise. He considered vulgarities a sign of lost control.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Three

  Earlier that evening . . .

  Her heart bounding, Merry gazed down at Lord Cedric Allardyce’s curls as he knelt before her, his proposal of marriage being offered with exquisite eloquence. Outside Lord Portmeadow’s library, a rainy April held London tight in its dark, wet grip—but Merry was oblivious to it, for Cedric had just compared her to “a summer’s day.”

  Merry had not given up hope that men existed who were as kind as they were handsome, but she had given up hope of finding one. She had finally vowed to herself that even if she couldn’t find a perfect man, her third engagement ring would be her last.