My American Duchess

by Eloisa James

  “I think I’ll call him George. Doesn’t he look like a George?”

  “He looks like a street mongrel,” Cedric stated. “I trust you are not thinking of keeping it,” he added, displaying a positive genius for saying the wrong thing at just the wrong moment.

  Merry pushed a mass of shiny ringlets behind her ear. “Of course I’m keeping him. You don’t think that I would abandon him, now he’s been freed? Your Grace, do you suppose that you could remove the cord from around his neck?”

  She parted the folds of skin bunched around the puppy’s neck, exposing the much-too-tight cord.

  “Keep him still,” Trent said.

  Merry nodded and held the dog close against her.

  Trent carefully inserted the tip of his knife under the cord and began to saw as gently as he could.

  “Poor baby,” Merry told the puppy, who was crying as his hind legs scrabbled against her chest. “It’ll be over in a moment.”

  “If that coat wasn’t already ruined, it is now,” Cedric said. “For God’s sake, Miss Pelford, put the animal down and let my brother take care of it. The duke prides himself on his barnyard skills; he’s always out and about birthing a sheep or building a privy just for the fun of it.”

  At that moment Trent’s blade broke through and the cord fell away.

  “Oh, thank you!” Merry cried, giving Trent a huge smile. She cradled the dog belly up, and bent to kiss his nose. “That feels better, doesn’t it?”

  “The animal is not an infant,” Cedric pointed out unnecessarily. “I would strongly suggest you put the mongrel down. I can smell him from here, and you may well catch fleas.”

  Merry gave her fiancé a cool stare. “George is unbathed through no fault of his own.”

  Trent looked at his brother with some interest. It was obvious that nothing short of an act of God would separate Merry from that puppy. Cedric should simply reconcile himself to a dog in the marital bed.

  The thought of that bed chilled him more than the rainwater had. He should just get back on that horse and head off to his country estate.

  Now.

  Before Merry smiled at him one more time.

  Or before his eyes drifted to her bosom again because damn it, that riding coat had been made by some devil who wanted men to crumple to their knees.

  He’d be happy to fall to his knees. He would take the wet hem of her skirts and draw them slowly up. He would have to warm her legs with kisses, of course. She must be chilled through.

  Pallid where she ought to be pink.

  “That is not a lady’s dog,” Cedric declared. “You are holding a bulldog. It will grow into a monstrosity.”

  His brother was making one mistake after another.

  Eyes flashing, Merry drew herself upright like an enraged statue of Juno.

  If he were betrothed to Merry, he would beg her to wear that riding habit every time it rained. Toss that. He wouldn’t take her out in the rain. He’d just take her into the bath—

  Bloody hell. Trent wrenched his mind out of the gutter once again.

  “I have always wanted a dog like George,” Merry announced.

  “You didn’t even know what a bulldog looks like,” Cedric retorted.

  “It’s possible we don’t have the breed in the United States,” Merry admitted. “Is his skin supposed to be so loose or is he very hungry? Just look at his darling expression. He’s so sad.” She dropped another kiss on the puppy’s round head. “There’s no need to be sad, George. I’ll take care of you. I’m going to feed you until you don’t have any wrinkles left.”

  “You cannot possibly keep that dog,” Cedric said, true alarm leaking into his voice.

  Not being stupid, the puppy twisted around so he could lick Merry’s chin.

  “Not only will he grow to be large, but he will snuffle and drool. A bulldog is not a lady’s dog; they were bred for bullbaiting.”

  Merry was tickling the animal, blind to his ridiculous pug nose, or the grime that had turned its white parts dingy. “You like being called George, don’t you?” she whispered. “Yes, you do. Hello, George.”

  “Why George?” Trent asked. It was the name of the sovereign, and one of his school friends, and the local bishop . . . it didn’t jump out to him as a name for a fat puppy.

  She gave him a mischievous grin. “George, for George Washington.”

  “You’re naming the dog after your first president?”

  She nodded. “We Americans love General Washington.” She bent over and kissed George. “And I love you,” she told him.

  The little dog seemed to have a sweet temperament, since his only response to the indignity of being held like an infant was to lick Merry’s hand every time he had a chance.

  “I think there are many who would find it an insult to the founder of your country,” Cedric pointed out, “though it is no concern of mine, I suppose.”

  “I suppose not,” Trent murmured.

  “If you insist, we will give him to my groom,” Cedric announced. “That way you could visit the dog in the mews.”

  Trent sighed inwardly. His brother had a lot to learn about women. Even he—who had always avoided complicated relationships with women—knew that Cedric was about to go down fighting.

  “You don’t mean that,” Merry stated.

  “I do mean that. Now we must return to your house before anyone catches sight of you. Your appearance is unacceptable.”

  Merry had been kissing the puppy’s snub nose, but she slowly raised her head.

  Trent braced himself. He scarcely knew his future sister-in-law, but he judged that she was as strong-willed a woman as he’d ever met, and not someone to take an insult without a rejoinder.

  But she surprised him. She did not lose her temper.

  Instead, he watched with some fascination as the rage melted from her face. “In that case, I suspect that you won’t wish to hold George while I mount Dessie.” There was even a faint thread of amusement in her voice.

  He’d forgotten that she was in love with Cedric. Love could blind someone to a person’s worst traits—one of the many reasons he considered himself fortunate to have avoided the emotion altogether.

  “Absolutely not,” Cedric replied.

  Trent reached out and plucked the puppy from her arms. George began enthusiastically licking his hand. “He’s a charmer. I like the dark circles around his eyes. Very fetching.”

  “Like a streetwalker in Whitechapel,” Cedric put in.

  Merry was looking up at her mare. Even though she was on the tall side for a woman, she undoubtedly used a mounting block.

  Trent glanced at his brother, but Cedric had taken out a handkerchief and was using it to wipe rainwater from the glossy surface of his tasseled boots. Trent could have put George down, but he didn’t want to have to chase him down the path.

  So he draped the puppy over his shoulder, put his hands on Merry’s waist, and hoisted her onto her mount.

  She smelled of perfumed soap and wet woman, a combination so potent that it almost knocked him down. She fit his hands as if she’d been made for them.

  This was ridiculous. One look, one touch, and he felt starkly possessive.

  It wasn’t merely that she belonged to his brother, which she did. Nor that if anyone could pull Cedric out of a cloud of brandy fumes, it was Merry.

  Most importantly, Trent didn’t want to feel emotion like this toward the woman he married. He wouldn’t countenance an unfaithful spouse, but he also had no intention of running around London like a jealous fool, warning people away from his flirtatious wife.

  George liked being on Trent’s shoulder. He scrabbled around, caught Trent’s neck cloth with his teeth, and shook it with a little growl.

  “No,” Trent stated, his voice an adult version of that growl.

  The puppy froze. As he pulled him off his shoulder, George hung his head, looking like nothing so much as a kitten being hoisted in the air by its mother.

  “What the hell,” T
rent exclaimed, feeling something warm running down his back.

  Cedric gave a bark of laughter.

  “I’m so sorry!” Merry cried, reaching out her hands. “George is sorry, too. He’s just a baby.”

  Trent handed the dog over. He thought of using his handkerchief to blot the urine, but what would be the point? His black coat disguised the stain, but he smelled like a pisspot.

  He untied his horse and leapt into the saddle. “I shall escort you back, since I’d better change my coat before my first appointment.”

  “Surely that little episode settles it,” Cedric said, as they turned the horses back toward Portman Square. “The dog is fit for the stables, if that.”

  Merry had settled the puppy in the crook of her arm again. She smiled at Cedric without a trace of irritation in her face. “His name is George.”

  Trent was impressed by her self-control. She didn’t appear ruffled by Cedric’s colossal rudeness. In fact, he had the feeling that his brother had finally met someone who was as stubborn as he was.

  His hands tightened on the reins and he was aware that his heart had started thudding against his ribs in an uncivilized manner. He scarcely knew Merry Pelford, so why did he feel this wave of possessiveness? Desire felt inked on his skin, as if it were visible to everyone.

  He glanced over to see Merry’s slender arm cradling the dog, and felt another stroke of jealousy.

  Envious of a damned dog. That was a first.

  He had a sudden chilling awareness: he was losing his mind, probably from some sort of twisted fraternal jealousy. That he’d met Merry without knowing she was Cedric’s fiancée—and within minutes had decided to marry her—just made it more twisted. Those stories people told about twins were coming true.

  Except they weren’t.

  Because he’d be damned if he felt anything for a woman whom his brother had selected to wed. That was perverse.

  Merry spent the ride home talking in a low voice to George, while Cedric amused himself by disparaging a musicale they had both apparently attended the night before, from the hostess’s refreshments to her guests.

  As they neared Pelfords’ house, Cedric made one last attempt to separate Merry and George. “If you want a dog,” he announced in a generous tone, “I shall buy a suitable one for you. Some ladies do have dogs, after all.”

  He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself, Trent thought cynically. “The Princess von Aschenberg has a dog,” he heard himself saying.

  Cedric frowned.

  “It has a decided resemblance to a hairy rat,” Trent clarified.

  “Of course!” Cedric turned to Merry. “The princess’s Maltese can be a guide. You should think of a dog as part of your attire, like a bonnet or reticule.”

  A flare of wicked amusement led Trent to chime in. “I believe the princess changes the ribbon on her dog’s topknot to match her costumes.”

  “Like a maypole?” Merry sounded dubious.

  Trent dismounted to say good-bye, as did Cedric.

  A footman ran over and stood at Merry’s horse’s head. Waiting for a groom to bring over a mounting block, she tickled her puppy under the chin. “George would look very well with a ribbon.”

  “Where, on his tail?” Cedric scoffed.

  Trent held back a grin. George’s tail was not one of his best features.

  His breath caught at the generous curve of Merry’s smiling lips. If she had been his fiancée and she smiled at him in that reckless way, as if what he’d said was foolish but she forgave him for it, he would have kissed her until they were both senseless.

  He watched her lean forward so that the groom could help her dismount. Her riding coat was still damp and clinging to lush breasts.

  He would have pulled her off the saddle and carried her inside where no one could see them. Then he would have torn open her coat, cupped her breasts in his hands, and licked every drop of rainwater from her skin.

  “I’ll pay you a call tomorrow,” Cedric was telling Merry. “I’ll bring a dog for you, a more appropriate dog.”

  Merry frowned. “I have a dog.”

  “Now that I know you want a pet,” Cedric observed, about an hour too late, “I shall find you an animal that will enhance your countenance rather than diminish it, as this cur will necessarily do.”

  “George—” she began.

  “That dog will urinate on you if given the chance. Moreover, you are holding the animal in a manner that could be deemed offensive, considering that his undercarriage is entirely visible.”

  Merry bit her lip. The sight sent a bolt of lust down Trent’s thighs. He had to get out of here.

  “I will bid you both good day,” Trent said. He bowed to Merry. “Miss Pelford, it has been a pleasure. Cedric . . . George.”

  Merry made a perfunctory curtsy and disappeared with her puppy into the house.

  Cedric turned his scowl to Trent. “Even you must understand that a lady of breeding cannot bring that mongrel into polite society.”

  Trent shrugged. “Why not make fashion rather than follow it?”

  “Miss Pelford is not yet in a position to make fashion,” Cedric said.

  “That seems a harsh appraisal,” Trent observed.

  “It’s drudgery, training an American to be a proper lady. I wish I’d never taken it on.”

  “Surely you don’t mean it.”

  Cedric ran a hand through his hair. “You needn’t start worrying about whether you’ll have to share your ha’pennies with me again. I’ve committed to marrying her. It’s just that her instincts are invariably incorrect,” he went on, as they both mounted.

  “How so?”

  “One could almost say that she is instinctually immodest. Hell, she’s like you in that. I suppose you would think that it’s perfectly fine that she cart around a mongrel with his clothes peg waving in the air. An indiscriminate pisser, moreover.”

  “The puppy had been frightened, cold, and no doubt hungry for God knows how long,” Trent pointed out. “He only piddled because I startled him. And who gives a damn how she carries the animal?”

  Cedric shrugged. “The dog is merely a symptom of the whole. Merry Pelford has no ladylike instincts.” To Trent’s surprise, his brother looked genuinely stricken.

  “I’m sure that you can steer Miss Pelford in the right direction.”

  “It’s so much work. Who would have thought? She had an English governess, after all.”

  Trent had no answer, so they headed toward Cavendish Square. That exchange cleared his mind. He refused to be the bastard who stole his brother’s fiancée away. In fact, as a family member, he should try to help calm the waters.

  When they were back home and grooms rushed out to take the horses, he said, “I don’t think Miss Pelford will relinquish George, even if you do find another dog for her.”

  For all his fussiness, Cedric was an excellent horseman. He turned from instructing a groom to make both horses a hot mash.

  “Nonsense. I know where to find the right sort of dog, a white Maltese. I’ll buy one that will not urinate in the house, let alone on Merry herself.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “You scarcely know the woman, I might point out.”

  “I had a lengthy conversation with her at the Portmeadow ball, before I realized she was your fiancée,” Trent said.

  “Indeed?” Cedric said sharply. “And where was that?”

  “On the balcony. Neither of us had any idea that we would soon become family.” Trent nodded to the groom who was taking his mount, but he could feel his brother’s eyes on his back.

  “I’ll bring along the new dog tomorrow and make a trade,” Cedric said, after they left the stables. “You don’t understand: women are flighty, not to say fickle. Surely you heard the gossip about my fiancée?” he asked, striding ahead in order to climb the front steps before Trent.

  The orders of precedence decreed that Trent go first, but Cedric never allowed Trent to precede him. Trent didn’t
give a damn about whether a duke should pass through a doorway before a lord, so they never quarreled over it.

  “I have heard nothing about Miss Pelford, but she herself told me of two broken engagements in her past.”

  Cedric had drawn out the flask he always kept in his coat, but it proved empty. “I think it’s more accurate to say that she has had two men in her past.”

  The door swung open but Trent jerked his head at the butler, sending him scurrying back into the house and out of earshot. He joined Cedric on the top step and growled a question. “Are you implying that Merry—Miss Pelford—has been less than chaste with her previous beaux?”

  “You really know nothing of women, do you?”

  Trent was starting to think that he knew a damned sight more than his brother. Merry was a virgin; he’d bet his life on it.

  “Without question, she made sport between the sheets. But I’m smarter than the two fools who came before me. I haven’t even given her a proper kiss—just busses on the lips—and believe me, she’s as hot-blooded as any wench you might meet in Covent Garden.”

  Trent fought back an impulse to tear his brother limb from limb. “You are wrong,” he said, finally, voice clipped but under control. “Your fiancée is chaste.”

  Cedric threw him a condescending glance. “You mustn’t rely on appearances, Duke. She clearly tired of the others when they didn’t satisfy her.”

  “You are wrong.”

  Cedric walked across the threshold, remarking over his shoulder, “I’ve kept her wanting, and she’s in the palm of my hand.”

  Trent had cultivated an iron control since the time he was eight years old, and that control kept him in good stead now. He would gain nothing—Merry would gain nothing—if he knocked out his brother.

  Even so, he strode forward and caught Cedric’s arm. “Do not ever speak about your wife-to-be in that manner again,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Cedric gave a startled cough.

  “Merry Pelford is in love with you. She deserves your every respect, in public and in private. She would never engage in intimacies outside of marriage, and if you can’t see her bone-deep virtue, then you don’t know her at all.”

  Cedric began to struggle.