by Eloisa James
Trent shook his head. “That was bollocks.”
Her smile evaporated.
“Making love to you has nothing in common with anything I’ve experienced with any other woman. Nothing. There’s no need for those things; you look at me and I’m hard. Wiggle your hips and I want to come, sometimes in my breeches, like a mere lad.”
“Oh,” Merry breathed.
He gave her a hard kiss. “Right now, we will make love and it’s all going to be for your pleasure.”
What woman would say no to that?
Inside the house, Trent escorted Merry to her bedchamber and gave her another kiss in full sight of a chambermaid, who promptly fled. Merry tugged at his hand, but he shook his head. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” His eyes promised wicked things.
Merry managed to wriggle out of her dress—because she’d rather die of shame than summon her maid—and lay down on the bed naked, pretending to be as bold as her husband always was.
The door between their rooms opened and Trent strolled in, carrying a bowl covered with a white cloth.
“What on earth is that?” she asked, sitting up.
He stopped short and his eyes flared with desire so heady that she started tingling all over. Particularly in her breasts, which happened to be where he was looking.
With a visible effort, he looked back at her face. “May I just say how unbelievably lucky I am to have you?” His voice was a husky rumble.
Merry gave him a smile that was only a bit shy. It felt odd to be naked in the daylight but right then and there she realized that she would stroll through the whole house without a stitch of clothing if she knew that Trent would look at her in that fevered way.
He walked across the room—no, he prowled across the room—and sat on the edge of the bed. “We will sleep in my bed tonight.”
Merry was having trouble keeping her breath steady. It would never do to let her husband know how melting she felt when he issued commands. At least, this sort of intimate command. “We will?”
“Yes. Because we’re going to play in this one now. Afterward, the sheets will be rather sticky.” He pulled off the cloth.
The bowl was filled with chunks of sweet, ripe pineapple.
“I brought more than a stove from London,” he said with a devilish smile. “Now lie back, Duchess.”
“Jack! What are you planning to do?”
He took a cube of the fruit and shook a drop of juice into the bowl. “Eat some,” he said meditatively. He held the scrap of sweetness to her lips. “Actually, I’m going to feed it to you.”
“I’m quite hungry,” Merry said huskily. She opened her mouth and he slipped the fruit inside, bending to lick a stray drop of juice from her lips.
“As am I.”
He took a second piece, but didn’t feed it to her. Instead, he leaned back, gazing at her body as if it were a work of art.
Her eyes widened.
Then she squealed. The pineapple chunk that slid over her nipple was chilly. But the tongue that followed was blissfully warm.
Chapter Thirty-nine
The letter arrived around six months later, when the duke and duchess were sitting down to breakfast. That very morning, Merry had deduced that she must be carrying a child because—among other clues—the smell of wintergreen soap made her stomach lurch.
Something was obviously not right.
She was drinking a cup of tea and nibbling a piece of toast while Trent read aloud bits from the newspaper so they could argue about them later.
In the middle of an article predicting an invasion by Napoleon—which Merry feared, but Trent scoffed at—she started wondering whether she ought to tell her husband about her suspicions now, or hold off as long as possible.
She had the idea that he might be intolerably protective upon learning she was enceinte. She’d never known anyone like Trent, someone who would do literally anything for someone he loved.
That was a surprise: this man who swore he would never love, loved more fiercely and passionately than Merry could ever have imagined.
When Oswald entered with the post, Merry perked up. “Is that letter on top from my aunt?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Grace.”
Trent took the letter, his brow furrowing. “From Cedric,” he said. “Posted a month ago.”
Merry gasped and straightened. They hadn’t heard from her brother-in-law since he left England. They hadn’t discussed it, but she knew that her husband worried about his twin, for all he growled at the mention of him.
“This is a first,” Trent commented, tearing open the letter.
“Have you written to him since he left?” Merry asked.
“Once or twice.”
Of course he had. Trent would never give up on his foolish brother.
She took her last bite of toast, thinking about family. Then she heard a deep chuckle and looked up.
“Did I ever tell you that arrogance runs in the bloodline?”
“I ascertained that by myself,” Merry said demurely.
“Read this.” He tossed over the letter.
To His Grace, the Duke of Trent
Dear Jack,
I shall keep this brief, because I find apologies ill-bred. I realize that implies that genteel behavior precludes vulgarities, which is clearly not true in my case.
I received your letter, and although the draft on your bank was much appreciated, it is not needed. I suppose that surprises you, but the fact is that I have landed on my feet. No need for money, so you will find it enclosed here, along with some part of what I owe you.
You are likely shocked to your core, but you will have to wait until I return to England to hear the story. I am not sure when that will be, since I embark for India on the tide tonight. I might not be in touch for quite a while.
I did want to say one thing, though. I know you think that I do not love you, but you are mistaken. In fact, you are the only person I love in the world, although I rarely showed it.
I did show it once, though. I had only one possession in my life worth anything, and I gave it to you.
I mean Merry, of course.
It took me some time to understand that you and she belonged together. And it took a few nights of drunken plotting to get around the fact that you would bungle it, and she would leave for America and meet some fellow on the boat who would stick a fourth ring on her finger, and by the time you found her again, the captain would have married her off.
So I arranged things for you. One of my few triumphs!
Spare your sons that ghastly name “Mortimer,” will you?
Your brother, Cedric
Epilogue
Merry endured her labor in her own inimitable American fashion, from Trent’s point of view. He had the vague idea that British ladies were given laudanum and slept through the whole experience.
The Duchess of Trent, however, had read an article that suggested that laudanum might have ill effects on the child, and refused it.
Instead, she howled and clung to her husband’s hand, and swore at the midwife when the woman suggested it was time for His Grace to leave the room.
Thus, Trent was the first man in his acquaintance to be present for the gory, astonishing experience of childbirth.
To be truthful, he would rather not have been there. But it did mean that he got to hold his son within a minute of his birth.
Trent had accepted the alarming passion he felt for his wife, but still worried that he wouldn’t be able to muster it for a baby. But he no sooner looked at the annoyed, red face of the seventh duke—who had his nose, poor scrap—and he knew that he would do anything for Thomas, who was named after his wife’s father. Thomas Cedric John Allardyce, the future seventh Duke of Trent. His heartstrings were tied to a little scrap of humanity as tightly as they were to Merry.
He looked up, his heart full, and found her smiling at him.
“He looks just like you, doesn’t he?” she asked softly.
So much jo
y filled his heart that it felt as if it might crack. He sat down beside her, arranging Thomas so that he could see his mother. Or could see his mother if he cared to open his eyes.
“I love you,” Trent whispered. “God, Merry, I love you so much.”
She reached up, and he leaned down, and their lips met in the middle. It was the sort of kiss that carried a husband and wife through bad times and good times. Or perhaps it was the love they shared that did it.
That love got them through another baby, Fanny, and then a third, Peter. After Fanny learned to walk, she loved nothing more than to pull a small red wagon containing her brother Peter.
No one except Trent understood why his wife laughed so joyously at the sight of her beautiful children trundling about in that shiny red wagon.
It got them through the sad day when Snowdrop died, and all three children were inconsolable. George did his best to comfort them, with help from three butterball-shaped puppies named John, Thomasina, and James, after the next three American presidents. Merry was raising her children to honor both English and American traditions.
And finally, Merry and Trent’s deep love was there on the joyful, miraculous day when Lord Cedric Allardyce strolled through the door of the townhouse in Cavendish Square, healthy and hearty, his clear blue eyes set off by skin tanned to the color of dark honey.
He was hand-in-hand with a smiling black-haired young woman whose skin was darker yet, a color that no English lady—no matter how many times she forgot her bonnet—could attain.
But that’s a tale for another day.
Author’s Note
A Note about Americans in London
This novel began as a simple story, a novella about an American marrying a British lord. I thought up the plot because I was living in London for a year with my family, running Fordham University’s London program. But Merry and Trent demanded far more space than a piddling hundred pages, especially after the rented pineapple made its appearance.
I discovered that fascinating phenomenon during a tour of the marvelously preserved Georgian townhouse, No. One Royal Crescent, in Bath, England. The museum had set the dining room for an elegant party—and somehow my family and I ended up talking with the docent about why a pineapple sat in the place of honor. After that, I turned myself into a pineapple expert, even attending a lecture on the history of the Chelsea Physic Garden, the better to learn about pineapple stoves.
If pineapples were rare in 1803, so were American heiresses; the phenomenon of these young ladies marrying into high society actually began around twenty years later. The most famous American duchess is Consuelo Yzagna, who became Duchess of Manchester in 1876. But she was not the first; in 1828, the American heiress Louisa Caton married the heir to the Duke of Leeds. Louisa’s grandfather had signed the Declaration of Independence.
While this novel owes a great deal to the historical sites I visited in England, it is just as indebted to the dear friends I made during the year. Rachel, Cecile, and Jessie tirelessly listened to stories of Merry, lending their stories of culture clashes to my experiences as an American abroad. Thank you, my dears!
Seven Minutes in Heaven
Edward Reeve may be the son of a marquis, but he’s more interested in the hurly-burly world of business than the rules of high society. However, when Ward inherits two young half-siblings whom he never knew existed, he realizes they need a governess.
He hires someone from the very best registry, Snowe’s—but quickly discovers that what he really wants is Mrs. Eugenia Snowe herself, a witty, beautiful widow.
Sparks fly as Ward pursues Eugenia with charm and determination, but Eugenia refuses him at every turn. She was married to a man she adored, and in her opinion, nothing could surpass those years of bliss.
But Ward will take any risk to prove Eugenia wrong. He’ll stop at nothing—not even kidnapping—to convince her that they’re meant to be together. He promises her heaven, if she’ll just give him a chance . . .
She’ll give him seven minutes.
Click here to buy Seven Minutes in Heaven.
My Dear Readers,
While each of my twenty-five novels has fans, one series has proved a particularly enduring favorite: the Essex Sisters quartet. A few years ago, a reader named Jody Gayle proposed an e-book companion volume that would include my introduction to the series, the “extra chapters” I wrote in response to reader requests, and a series of essays exploring Regency fashion, horse racing, and publications.
Over the last two years, I wrote a hundred-page introduction that traces the writing process from my first idea to publication. Then we faced a vexed decision. Kiss Me, Annabel exists in two versions; the last two hundred pages of my original draft are sharply different from the published novel. In essence, I had written two novels. We decided to include the original pages in the companion, so you can come to your own conclusion about which Kiss Me is your favorite.
Once I was deep in the Essex Sisters world, I wanted to spend time there! The companion also includes a brand-new short story with an appearance by Josie and the Earl of Mayne. And what’s more, A Gentleman Never Tells, a full-length novella, will be published in tandem with the companion. Josie and Mayne appear again, this time with their daughter!
If you loved the Essex Sisters novels, I hope you will enjoy diving into the companion. If they’re new to you, all four novels are being reissued by HarperCollins with gorgeous new covers, just in time to accompany the companion.
Following this letter is an excerpt from A Gentleman Never Tells, as well as an excerpt from Much Ado About You, the first novel in the Essex Sisters quartet. I hope you enjoy them!
With all best wishes to you and yours,
A Gentleman Never Tells
August 13, 1826
Telford Manor
Fontwell, Sussex
“I would prefer to take supper on a tray.” Lizzie didn’t look up from her book, because meeting her sister’s eyes would only encourage her.
She should have known Catrina wouldn’t back down. “Lizzie Troutt, your husband died over a year ago.”
“Really?” Lizzie murmured, turning a page. “How time flies.” In fact, Adrian had died eighteen months, two weeks, and four days ago.
In his mistress’s bed.
“Lizzie,” Cat said ominously, sounding more like an older sister—which she was—with every word, “if you don’t get out of that bed, I shall drag you out. By your hair!”
Lizzie felt a spark of real annoyance. “You already dragged me to your house for this visit. The least you could do is to allow me to read my book in peace.”
“Ever since you arrived yesterday, all you’ve done is read!” Cat retorted.
“I like reading. And forgive me if I point out that Tolbert is not precisely a hotbed of social activity.” Cat and her husband, Lord Windingham, lived deep in Suffolk, in a dilapidated manor house surrounded by fields of sheep.
“That is precisely why we gather friends for dinner. Lord Dunford-Dale is coming tonight, and I need you to even the numbers. That means getting up, Lizzie. Bathing. Doing your hair. Putting on a gown that hasn’t been dyed black would help, too. You look like a dispirited crow, if you want the truth.”
Lizzie didn’t want the truth. In fact, she felt such a stab of anger that she had to fold her lips tightly together or she would scream at Cat.
It wasn’t her sister’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault except her late husband’s, and he was definitely late—i.e., dead.
“I know you feel ashamed to be in company,” her sister continued, energetically digging her own grave, as far as Lizzie was concerned. “Unfortunately, most people are aware of the circumstances of your marriage, not to mention the fact that Adrian was so imprudent as to die away from home.”
That was one way of putting it.
Imprudent.
“You make it sound as if he dropped a teacup,” Lizzie observed, unable to stop herself. “I would call the fact that Adrian died in th
e act of tupping Sadie Sprinkle inconsiderate in the extreme.”
“I refuse to allow you to wither away in bed simply because your husband was infatuated with Shady Sadie,” Cat said, using the term by which the gossip rags had referred to Adrian’s mistress. “You must put all that behind you. Sadie has another protector, and you are out of mourning. It’s time to stop hiding.”
“I am not hiding,” Lizzie said, stung. “I take fresh air and moderate exercise every day. I simply like reading in bed. Or in a chair.”
Or anywhere else, to tell the truth. Reading in a peaceful garden was an excellent way to take fresh air.
“Moderate exercise,” her sister said with palpable loathing. “You used to ride every day, for pleasure. We would practice archery on a fine day like this, or roam about the countryside, not sit inside reading.”
“Adrian’s stables were part of the entail, and went to his cousin,” Lizzie said, turning the page. She hadn’t read a word, but she was hoping that a show of indifference would drive her sister from the room.
“Not the mare that Papa gave you when you turned fourteen!” her sister gasped.
Showing masterly control, Lizzie didn’t roll her eyes. “A wife has no true possessions,” she said flatly. “Under the law, they belong to her husband, and Perdita was, therefore, transferred to the heir.”
“Oh, Lizzie,” Cat said, her voice woeful.
“It wasn’t so terrible,” Lizzie said, meaning it. “I went to the auction, and Perdita went to a family with a young girl. I’m certain that she is well cared for and happy.”
“Do you realize that by staying home and wearing black, you give the illusion that you are grieving for your husband?”
Lizzie’s hands tightened around her book. “Do you know what being a widow entails, Cat?”
“Wearing ugly black dresses for the rest of your natural life?”