An American Duchess (25 page)

Zoe lifted her glass to her lips just as the gong summoned them to the dining room. Nigel led her in, without saying a word. She smiled—a wobbly smile—at the sight of the table. Candles stood in a display of holly as the centerpiece. Christmas crackers—tubes of colored crepe paper—sat by every place.

Zoe pulled crackers with Reverend Wesley, and she put on her paper hat. Nigel set his beside his plate. Then the dishes came out: a first course of smoked salmon, followed by parsnip soup. Then turkeys—three of them—expertly carved, beautifully browned. Chestnut stuffing spilled out. Potatoes, brussels sprouts, carrots, baked parsnips, gravy.

Finally a Christmas pudding came out, flaming, with a sprig of holly upon it.

Exhausted and full, everyone else went to bed early. Zoe caught Nigel in the foyer. He stood by the tree, illuminated by the twinkling electric lights. He held an ornament of a tiny angel, stroking it thoughtfully with his thumb.

Their little angel...now in heaven...

The sherry and the wine at dinner made it much easier to walk right up to him and say, “Nigel. You’ve kept away from my bedroom because of...because of the bleeding. But I believe it is finally done. It has been a few days. Please come back to my bed. At night, I feel so alone.”

He let go of the angel and it swung slightly on its gold cord. “If it has been only a month, I do not think we should.”

“Oh, why not? We could think of having another child. I
would
like that. Perhaps my mother is right. Some of this pain would go away if we have another child to love.”

But Nigel looked as if she’d punched him in his gut. “God, Zoe. I cannot do that yet.”

She had hoped for one special gift today—she had hoped to be held in his arms, to be kissed by him, to make love to him and wrap her arms around him. She was ready to be intimate with him again. She
needed
it. It wasn’t just about being a modern girl and being free to be sexual. She ached for the closeness, the intimacy and the comfort that came with it. She needed to share love, instead of pain.

“I feel—I feel you are angry with me,” she said despairingly. “That you blame me for losing our child.”

He clasped her elbow and drew her to him. “Zoe, no. No—it wasn’t your fault.”

He spoke hesitatingly. But she believed his words. She had to. “Then why do you cry at night and keep your door locked? I feel like you are keeping your distance from me. We run into each other by accident. I feel like you avoid me because you can’t stand to see me. Nigel, I can’t live like this.”

“I did not want to hurt you. I will change—I will not keep away from you, if that is what you want.”

“What do
you
want, Nigel?” Zoe begged. “I don’t know.”

“I want this,” he said gruffly. With his hand on her elbow, he brought her one step closer. He touched her cheek, brushed his hand along her bobbed hair, then cupped his hand gently around her neck and brought her lips to his.

By the glittering light of the tree, he kissed her.

 19 

THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Nigel swept her off her feet, into his arms, and Zoe’s heeled shoe almost knocked a glass ball from the tree.

His left hand was splayed to support her back; his right hand cradled her bottom. He had her clasped to him, so she could hear the hard, fast beat of his heart. He carried her easily, crossing the marble tiles toward the sweeping, ornate staircase.

“Nigel, what are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed. To
my
bed.”

She wrapped her arms around his strong neck and held on while he carried her upstairs.

This was what she ached for. Passion and love. Closeness instead of distance. She buried her face in his neck. With her lips brushing his throat, she felt the smoothness of his freshly shaved skin—he must have been shaved before he dressed for dinner. He smelled of witch hazel, and his skin was so warm.

Tears prickled in her eyes. But she didn’t dare let them free. If she began crying she feared she wouldn’t stop. Closing her eyes tight, she kissed Nigel’s neck. She nibbled his jawline, then his earlobe—tugging on it. He breathed heavily as he carried her. She felt his heat through his elegant white-tie dinner jacket.

Nigel pushed open his door with his foot. Zoe caught a glimpse of his ancient valet. Without a word, the valet beat a retreat through the connecting door to Nigel’s dressing room.

Nigel lowered her to his bed. The mattress sank slightly under her, and Nigel got on top, his arms braced on either side. He lowered his mouth to hers in a long, slow, steamy kiss.

She remembered the moment when Nigel had held their tiny son. The love and agony in his eyes. The slight tic of his jaw, which was the only gesture he made to release the shock and pain—

She hadn’t meant to remember. But with her eyes closed, it was all she could see. Zoe opened her eyes wide. As Nigel kissed her, she caressed his shoulders and back desperately, trying to fall into his glorious kiss.

This was what she wanted. What she’d begged for.

So why did she feel so wrong inside? So unhappy? How could she celebrate life and passion now, when her son had not even drawn one breath?

She couldn’t think that way. People moved on. They survived. They did. She had to.

There could be another child.

Nigel lifted off her and tugged off his white bow tie, his jacket. She squirmed under him. He began to fight with the buttons of his shirt, and she breathed, “I can’t wait. Just take your trousers off.”

He managed a smile, a slight one. But it didn’t reach his eyes. Still, he undid his trousers and pushed them down. Followed that by shoving down his linens.

But then—

They couldn’t. They weren’t able. He wasn’t fully aroused, and she was tense. It hurt when they tried, and she gasped and whimpered with the pain.

Breathing hard, Nigel moved off her and lay beside her. He stroked her shoulder awkwardly. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “I am sorry. I couldn’t— I never thought. All I could think— No, never mind. I’m sorry, Zoe.”

Out of his garbled words, she knew what he wanted to say. “I—I—” She wanted to tell him she couldn’t either. But the minute she tried to explain that she hurt too much, tears came out.

A flood of them.

She tried to hold them back. She even sat up and put her face in her hands, as if that would somehow keep them inside.

He sat up, too.

“I couldn’t do it either,” she finally mumbled into her wet palms. “I’m still—I’m still sore.”

“I hurt you.”

Zoe dropped her hands from her face, wiped tears from her eyes and cheeks with the satin of her nightdress. “You didn’t
mean
to, and that’s what matters. That’s not why I’m crying. I don’t know why I’m blubbering like this. Crying won’t fix anything. Crying won’t make anything right. I don’t know what will.”

His strong arms held her and he let her cry. She rolled on her side, curled up in a ball, buried her face into his shirtfront and bawled.

It felt as if she cried for hours. She stopped only because her chest ached and she didn’t have any tears left. Then Nigel got off the bed and drew his covers over her.

“Come into bed. Please.” The bed felt so large, so empty. She felt small, and the only time she liked feeling small was when she was in his arms.

Nigel hesitated. “I shouldn’t. I will sleep elsewhere tonight.”

“Don’t. Please. I don’t want to be on my own anymore.”

“You know I cannot stay. What if I have a nightmare? I fight and lash out in those dreams. What if I hurt you?”

“But maybe you won’t. If we don’t try, we will never change things.” She couldn’t reveal he had hit her during his nightmare once.

He frowned. “We cannot change things.”

Oh, God. He’d never intended to change or heal or try to break free of his memories. “I think the only thing that can help with pain is having someone to help you through it.” When he held her, she felt that she had someone else to bear the weight of grief. Maybe that was the secret. “Maybe holding each other and going into the future hand in hand can help us. Maybe that way, we can put the past behind us.”

“I can’t.”

“But all this pain is coming between us.”

“I am sorry. There is nothing I can do about that, Zoe.”

Then he left her. On her own.

She couldn’t sleep, of course. For one glorious moment, when he’d carried her upstairs, she’d tried to believe they could snatch at happiness.

Was Nigel right and they never could?

In the morning, she walked in on him in his study. Nigel had his back to her. He was staring out of the window and he had a letter in his hand.

To his back, she said, “I want to go to London. I want to do something. Go dancing. Go to clubs or the theater. I want to take you dancing, Nigel. I have to believe we can find a way to heal and I think we would both feel better if we—”

She broke off. She thought he would turn while she spoke, but he hadn’t. She approached him. From the side, she saw his eyes were shut and his shoulders were moving with grief. “What is it? What’s happened?” She went right up to his side. She reached for the letter—

But he crumpled it and moved away from her. His eyes had opened.

“It’s about the War,” he said brusquely. “Not something I want to talk about.”

“You look terrible, Nigel. You look so haggard. Won’t you come with me to London? Come and listen to a jazz band and dance with me.”

“Zoe, don’t you understand that I can’t do that?”

“Then tell me what is hurting you so much.” She pointed at the letter. “It’s more than just our baby. Why has the War followed you for four years?”

“There are things I have to bear alone.”

“But you don’t!”

“Maybe in America, husbands and wives are expected to be friends and share everything,” he snapped. “Though, have you noticed that in your home country, almost twenty percent of marriages are being dissolved by divorce?”

She reeled back.

He stopped. “God, I’m sorry. Zoe, you don’t want to know my secrets. If you want to go to London, why not take Julia? Do some shopping. Go to the theater. Enjoy yourself.”

He was pushing her away.

She was tired of it. Tired of being told by her husband that she had no right to share his sadness or to try to help him. “All right. I’ll go to London. I would prefer to go with you. In New York—” She broke off. She had never told him how hurt she was to be cast out by New York’s upper crust. She’d never wanted him to know she used to be poor. But just the thought brought the same swirling anger. The same piercing hurt. She tossed her head. “Back at home, I made my own way. If I have to, I’ll do it here.”

* * *

The letter had been stained and dirty, the printing down in smeared lead pencil, and it had shocked Nigel to his soul.

It had come from Mrs. Bell. It read:

Our Ernie’s birthday were at the beginning of the month. It made Lily sad and angry as it always does. She said she wanted to do something about it. “Make the buggers finally pay” is what she said. I told her off for that kind of talk.

She walked out in a huff. And she hasn’t come back. She were stepping out with the draper’s lad. But he don’t know where she’s gone off to.

I’m afraid she’s gone off with a man, even though she was raised better than that.

But I hoped maybe in her temper she’d come to you and you might know where she is.

What had she meant:
make the buggers pay?
Lily had been filled with rage and pain. God, he understood.

Nigel went to his desk. He could not let Zoe know his secrets. He took up his own pen, dipped it in his inkwell and wrote carefully.

My dear Mrs. Bell,

I have not seen Lily. But I am concerned, as I do not believe she is the type of young woman to leave without giving word to you. I will undertake a search for Lily to ensure she is safe.

If Lily had done something foolish, it was because she had lost her brother. And he was responsible for that. At least this, he could make right.

* * *

One gloomy January morning, a week after New Year’s, when they had toasted 1923 with champagne at midnight, Zoe drove to London with Julia. She tried to focus on the road. Nigel hadn’t come to her at night since Christmas Day and their failed attempt to be intimate. Her mood was edgy and tense, urging her to drive fast, her foot heavy on the pedal, her hands working as the car hugged the curves of the road. Julia looked a bit green by the time they pulled up at the front entrance of the Savoy.

Zoe checked them into two enormous suites. As she joined Julia in her room, leaped onto the edge of the bed and flung off her hat, she announced to her sister-in-law, “I haven’t come to town only to buy clothes. We can do that in the day, but tonight we are going dancing.”

Julia looked startled. “Dancing? Do you think you should?”

“Because Nigel wouldn’t like it?”

Julia bit her lip. “Zoe, it is not my business, I know. But I have seen you and Nigel together since...since your loss. What has happened between you? You both seem so unhappy. Is it more than grief? You aren’t—you aren’t falling out of love with my brother, are you?”

“Your brother is wounded and troubled and he refuses to share anything with me. He told me to come to London—without him. He told me he didn’t want to try to forget his pain—and if it came between us, there was nothing he could do about that.”

He had rejected her. He had told her he didn’t care that she needed him. But, oh, heaven, she still loved him.

Zoe jumped off the bed. “Let’s get dressed. We’ll have dinner, then go to this club—it’s supposed to be one of the wildest clubs in London. For one night, I want to dance frantically and enjoy music and simply not think!”

She was trying to act much more cavalier than she felt, but she had to try something.

In the Savoy’s restaurant, she and Julia had a decadent dinner and drank wickedly potent cocktails, and then she took Julia to the exclusive jazz club. Bottled Joy was the best jazz club in London and she had the password to gain entrance.

Zoe drove them there and parked her car at the side of the road. She jumped out of the car, but Julia got out cautiously.

Bottled Joy was in the basement of a Victorian-era house in Soho, where even the light from street lamps scooted past, afraid to hang around. A narrow stair led down into a well of darkness.

“Are you certain we should have come here?” Julia gazed around apprehensively. “This is not one of the better parts of London.”

“It’s like a New York speakeasy,” Zoe said. “The best ones are in church basements and warehouses. They’re dark and secretive.”

Julia shivered in her coat. “That’s because America has prohibition. This club doesn’t have to be secret.”

“But that’s what makes it deliciously fun. We’ll try it, but we’ll leave if you don’t like it.”

Zoe rapped on the door. A small sliding door opened and a large eye that looked like a boiled egg peered out. The muffled sound of loud, bold music poured through the opening.

Zoe leaned her cheek close to the door. “The bobby’s knickers.”

The door opened. The primitive drumbeat, the soulful blare of clarinets and trumpets poured out. So did a cloud of thick smoke from the dozens of cigarettes that dangled between fingers. Dresses and jewels sparkled and the men wore black ties and dinner jackets. Silver trays were whisked around the room by waiters. Atop the trays stood tall glasses, short tumblers, champagne flutes, martini glasses filled with drinks of every color. When a waiter passed one of the few lamps in the place, the cocktails glowed like a stained-glass window in a new kind of church.

The band was made up of young black musicians and a gorgeous, large black woman who crooned into a microphone.

A man in black tie with hair as fair as Sebastian’s bowed to her. Then he grabbed her hand and tugged her onto the dance floor. Zoe danced wildly with him, then moved on to the next partner.

She danced with viscounts and earls and common men. Several men asked her name, but she didn’t bother to give it. Julia was danced over to her, her cheeks pink with excitement and exhaustion as she was dancing through one song after another.

Then some gentlemen recognized Julia—and began to realize who Zoe was. Murmurs rushed through the crowd. People whispered, “It’s the American duchess.”

She saw scathing looks. She got a hell of a lot of attention. But she wasn’t doing anything wilder than anyone else in the room.

Besides, she didn’t care what anyone thought or what they said. For one glorious night, she could laugh and dance and feel alive and young again, instead of old and cold and despairing.

Now that she was in this glittering, brash, exciting contrast to Brideswell, she realized that was exactly how she’d felt. Old. All of her felt empty—her heart and her soul, not just her womb.

She danced as fast as she could to the jaunty music of “Toot, Toot, Tootsie (Goo’ Bye).”

“Enjoying yourself?” her current dance partner shouted.

“This is how I want to feel,” she declared to him—he might be the Earl of Morland or Viscount Sawfield or some man named Mr. Smythe-Williams, but she didn’t really care.