An American Duchess (5 page)

Miss Gifford bent to spear a sausage, and her trousers pulled snugly against her derriere.

Nigel was equally speared with an image of how she would look, bent over an engine, her heart-shaped bottom the only thing visible beneath the hood.

“I could teach you,” she said.

He had the distinct impression she was making an attempt to scare him away. Dukes did not scare easily. “Thank you, Miss Gifford. I would love the opportunity to have you teach me how to tinker. Let me know when you would find it convenient to begin.”

With that, he tossed back a slug of coffee. Too hot, damn it, but he refused to flinch as he swallowed. Then he left the breakfast room, dignity intact.

* * *

Zoe approached the stables prepared to shock first, then defend herself. It was how she negotiated New York society, and her first night at Brideswell had shown her that stuffy English society behaved in the exact same way.

She could refrain from being shocking. But since she would never fit in and it would hurt too much to try and fail, she was determined to stand out.

Lady Julia was already atop a black Arabian mare. Her eyes widened, but before Zoe could speak, Lady Julia smoothed her pretty features into an expression of elegant calm. Perched in a side saddle, Julia wore a long skirt of blue velvet, a snug jacket, white silk at her throat, a black hat and veil on her sleek jet-black hair. Smiling politely, she said, “Good morning, Miss Gifford. Your trousers look so much more comfortable and easy for riding.”

Zoe hadn’t expected this. Unflappable manners. “Thank you. I do find them that way.”

“O’Malley,” Lady Julia called, “you will have to change Miss Gifford’s saddle.”

“Wot’s wrong with the one that’s on Daisy, m’lady?” A broad-shouldered, redheaded man emerged from the stable, leading a pure white mare by the bridle.

He stared at Zoe as if Lady Godiva herself had strolled down nude to select a horse. “Trousers? Ladies use the side saddle, miss.”

“I would prefer not to since I am not wearing skirts.”

The groom gave a desperate look to Lady Julia. “Don’t know if this is right, m’lady.”

“It’s a saddle,” Zoe pointed out firmly. “Hardly the end of civilization as we know it. I am sorry if it is additional work, but in the future, you will know how to saddle my horse.”

“Yes, O’Malley. Let’s change the saddle and be done with it.”

Lady Julia’s polished, smooth tones gave the final word. The groom unbuckled the saddle on the mare and carried it back to the tack room, muttering under his breath all the while. He continued to mutter while fastening an English saddle intended for trouser-wearing gentlemen.

The servants were every bit as supercilious and snobby as the duke and the dowager. Maybe more so.

“Let’s go, shall we?” Lady Julia flicked her reins.

Zoe followed. They set off along the gravel path together, and she had her first view of Brideswell that was not obscured by rain.

The lawns stretched endlessly, a carpet of lush green and bluebells, dotted here and there with stone benches and statues. In the distance, water rippled on a small lake. Deer grazed at the edge of a forest, and in the distance, the spires of a church struggled to be noticed over the trees.

Her father, Thaddeus Gifford, had built his own country house outside New York. He’d filled it with everything she could see around Brideswell, as if he’d asked a duke to give an inventory for his grounds. But these statues were evidently much, much older than her father’s.

“I am being derelict in my duty,” Lady Julia said. “I promised you a tour. You look as though you’re an accomplished rider, Miss Gifford. Can you take jumps?”

Zoe liked Lady Julia. There was an air of reserve about Sebastian’s sister, but also of genuine welcome. She could count on one hand her female friends, and that made her say impulsively, “Call me Zoe, please, my lady. I rode like a fiend when I was younger, but it’s been years since I last did it. Once I learned to drive I spent most of my time in my car. Then when I learned to fly... Well, I find it dull to keep my feet on the ground now.”

“You can fly?” Lady Julia pulled up her horse. “An aeroplane, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen them. Goodness, they look as if they are made of paper and string, but they are marvelous. I should be absolutely terrified to go up there—” Lady Julia broke off. Her face became as still as a pond, as colorless, too. “No, I would never be able to do anything so brave.”

“Lady Julia, I am certain you would. You’ve lived with your two brothers and I should think that has given you a lot of courage.” Lady Julia looked at her in surprise. Zoe’s heart sank—she’d intended the words as a joke. “If you would like to fly,” she offered, “I’d be happy to take you.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Lady Julia declared, but she bit her lip and looked up at the sky with such longing in her eyes that Zoe’s heart twisted.

Zoe suspected Lady Julia was refusing because of some kind of social stricture. Perhaps one that said a lady couldn’t aspire to be more than a drawing-room ornament. “Wouldn’t you like to touch the clouds?”

“You are teasing me, Miss Gifford. Clouds are just water droplets in the sky. If I tried to touch one, my hand would go right through.” She gave a graceful smile. Mother would approve of it, Zoe thought—it was the sort of smile that would never add a wrinkle to a lady’s brow.

“Now, I promised you a tour,” Lady Julia said quickly. She pointed toward the edifice that was Brideswell, a square building of beige stone, paned windows and ironwork; with towers and spires that made it look like a castle. Zoe knew the house contained forty major rooms on the ground and first floors, along with eighty so-called lesser rooms. Gold gates were set in the outer wall, and inside them were oak doors with handles as big as her arm.

“The house itself was built between 1560 and 1603, during the reign of Elizabeth I,” Julia said, “though it’s been added to many, many times over the years. The east wing was added in the late seventeenth century and the west wing is Georgian. Unfortunately, that made it into a bit of a dog’s breakfast. It’s why the corridors inside are an absolute maze. I shall show you the chapel later—Father built it for Mama shortly after their wedding, and it is my favorite place of the whole estate. Down there—” Lady Julia nodded toward ornate buildings made of glass “—are the greenhouses. Though the flowers within are not quite as spectacular as they were yesterday.”

“You know about Sebastian’s message.”

They cantered along a gravel path that wound toward large evergreen hedges, sculpted into spheres and rectangles and columns.

“The whole house does now,” Julia said.

“Is your grandmother furious?”

Julia’s brow rose as if she hadn’t expected the question. “Grandmama will surprise you, Zoe.”

“Do you mean take me by surprise? Jump out and get me with her cane?”

Lady Julia—Julia—giggled. “I mean Grandmama is very, very practical. Now, Miss Gifford, do you want to gallop? We’ll go down past the lake, cross the bridge at the stream then take the higher trail into the woods.”

Julia amazed Zoe—the talented horsewoman could take jumps in a side saddle that she didn’t dare attempt. Julia was charming, but there were moments as they cantered along when Julia’s mouth turned grim and her eyes looked haunted.

She looked like a woman in grief. Was it over her younger brother? Mother had learned more details from the dowager. William Hazelton had died of the Spanish flu at fifteen. It would have been after the duke returned, scarred and wounded, when war was done and everyone thought the worst was over.

She remembered the day the telegram had come about Billy. Up until then, the War had been a distant thing, about loss and sacrifice, but not for her. For her it was about dances with young officers in uniform, about passionate kisses with passionate men who were pressed for time and eager to go all the way before they shipped out. A sensible girl always said no—though the girls hadn’t really understood they might never see their men again.

She’d never dreamed she wouldn’t see Billy again.

“Zoe, are you all right?”

Julia’s voice, filled with worry, snapped Zoe back to where she was. “I was just thinking about my brother,” Zoe said. But no amount of thinking would bring him back. “Let’s gallop again,” she called to Julia, and she spurred her horse to run. She leaned along her horse’s neck like a jockey, tearing along the gravel path that encircled the house. She laughed with the exhilaration, even if she didn’t really feel joy.

When she reined in on the long front drive that led to the house, Julia caught up.

“Your hat hasn’t moved, Julia,” Zoe said. “If I’d worn one, it would have sailed into the lake by now.”

Julia fixed the veil. “Oh, it’s practically nailed to my head with pins.”

From there, they had a clear view of Brideswell; of the enormous house that had stood there for over three hundred years. Her father would have been so proud of her marriage—but if he had been living, she wouldn’t have to marry to save Mother from scandal or prison. “You have a beautiful home.”

Julia shook her head. “It’s not my home—not anymore. Now it is a house in which I stay because I have not yet married and taken over management of my husband’s house.”

It was the first time Julia had sounded bitter, had sounded like anything other than a perfect lady. “Of course it’s your home,” Zoe said. “You grew up here.”

“Eventually another woman will rule the house, and she may not wish to have me under her roof. She will want to give preference to her own family. Sometimes spinsters live on the estate—if there’s a spare cottage that doesn’t cost much to run. Whoever Nigel marries will have more rights to a home on the estate than I would.”

“A woman who is only here by marriage would have more rights than you? That’s shockingly unfair. But you’ll have an inheritance—”

“Very little. I do have a dowry, which is only if I marry.”

Zoe could always buy her own house. Never had she really understood what power that gave her until now. “Then you must marry.”

The shadow darkened Julia’s eyes. “I do not think that’s possible. My fiancé, Anthony, was killed at the Somme. It is years ago now, but the loss...has not gone away. I do not think I could ever fall in love again. My mother and grandmother think me foolish, but I cannot marry without love.”

“My fiancé was killed in a plane crash. He was lost over the Atlantic Ocean. I do understand what you mean. I can’t—” But of course, she couldn’t tell Julia she understood it was impossible to fall in love again—Julia thought she loved Sebastian.

Women did survive—they did get over loss. Zoe knew it was possible. Just not for her. But it had to be so for Julia.

“I think you can open your heart again,” she said, making it sound like the gospel truth. “I did, after all. I met your brother Sebastian.”

“I do not think it will be that way for me.”

“Julia, do you do things for fun?”

“I have not felt very much like having fun.”

Zoe would not have survived losing Richmond at all if she hadn’t at least grabbed hold of life, rather than lock herself away to mourn.

Julia deserved to be happy. And after Zoe and Sebastian divorced, Julia would not listen to her scandalous former sister-in-law. If she wished to help Julia, she must do it now. “After your Women’s Institute meeting, Julia, we are going to drive down to London. It’s time you begin to have fun again.”

“I don’t think I could.”

“You can. Do you think the man who loved you would want to see you wither away in sorrow? The best way to make his sacrifice mean something is to live the life he was fighting for.”

* * *

“Where do you think she took her?”

Horns blared as Sebastian, dressed in a duster and driving goggles, took a corner wide and crossed into oncoming London traffic. Nigel’s heart jumped into his throat. Despite the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, he said, with forced sangfroid, “Bloody hell, Sebastian. You have to stay on the left side of the road.”

“This
is
the left side of the road.”

“Not in England, it’s not. Move over.”

“Spoilsport. It’s a lot easier to get through traffic when people are fighting to get out of your way. I’ll head for the 400 Club.”

Nigel did not doubt Miss Gifford had been able to ferret out the most popular dancing club in London. “No. Try Murray’s,” he growled. “On Beak Street.”

“Murray’s?” As usual, Sebastian took his gaze off the road to embark on a conversation. “How do you know about the jazz clubs in town, brother? You never leave Brideswell.”

“I know about Murray’s. Turn here.” He’d heard about it in letters from friends. From war comrades who didn’t understand why he was hiding away at Brideswell.

Sebastian swung the wheel, cut across traffic and made a hazardous left turn that aged Nigel by a decade. Having been shot at for four years, Nigel had no intention of dying in an automobile crash. “Pull over and let me drive.”

“You don’t drive,” Sebastian protested. “You’d be worse than me.”

“That would be impossible. Watch where you are going.”

Nigel had never been in a London dance club. The only club he frequented in town was White’s, which had been favored by the Dukes of Langford for almost one hundred and fifty years. Murray’s had the staid, imposing facade of a bank. Sebastian located the curb by hitting it with the tires. Nigel jumped out, and within moments, he stood at the bottom of the stairs in the massive ballroom, straining to spot Julia.

“There is my beloved.” At his side, Sebastian smoothed his slicked-back hair.

Nigel stared. “What in blazes is she doing? It looks like she is having a seizure.”

“Dancing, brother.”

Nigel watched Sebastian claim Miss Gifford. Her legs jerked behind her, kicking like a mule, and her hands waved wildly around her head like a drowning woman begging for rescue. Tall feathers showed every contorted motion of her head. Hundreds of beads jumped off from her indigo dress as her hips moved in a vulgar swing.

The dress shifted as she moved, giving him a glimpse of the garment beneath it. White fabric and lace banded her back, but below the one small strip there was nothing but bare skin. No corset. No shift.