Marry Christmas (Zebra Historical Romance) (11 page)

She felt her stomach sinking slightly. “Oh,” she said, a bit bewildered. “Do you think your mother could help me?”

She might as well have asked if the devil could help her, so horrified was his expression. “Does your mother not want to help me?”

“My mother.”

“Yes, she is alive, is she not?”

His brows furrowed and the sinking feeling got worse. “She’s not, that is to say, she’s unaware that I will be returning to Bellewood with a bride.”

She stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. “I don’t understand.”

Suddenly he grabbed her hand, holding firmly even when she would pull away.

“Brace yourself, Miss Cummings,” he said, making her trepidation grow in bounds. “My mother is a terrible snob. She makes your mother seem like a socialist.

I did mean to tell you about her.” He made a sick face.

“Some day. Before you actually met her. She is not going to be happy about this marriage.”

“Because I am an American?”

He nodded, still holding her hand, and suddenly she was glad he had. “And because you are not a member of the peerage. She had a list, you see.”

“A list?”

“A list very much like the one your mother had. A list of titled gentlemen. But my mother’s is an extensive list of the daughters of peers. It was for my brother, of course. She hasn’t had time to start browbeating me with it.”

Elizabeth swallowed heavily. The only thing that was good about her marriage was her escape from her mother. But, if what the duke was saying was true, she was simply going from the pot into the fire. She started to laugh. For her entire life, her mother’s primary goal was to get her a fantastic match, a match that would make every mama green with jealousy, the highest title could only be what her daughter would deserve. Never had either of them thought that Elizabeth would be considered unworthy of anyone. The Cummings were second to none in American aristocracy, but they were commoners, rich upstarts, to anyone else.

“Why are you laughing?” he asking, pulling a bit on her hand. “I’ve just told you the most disturbing thing.”

Elizabeth waved her free hand at him, begging him to stop talking so that she might stop laughing. “Oh, it is too, too funny,” she gasped. “You are marrying a peasant. And I am marrying a pauper,” she said, nearly losing her breath she was laughing so. Tears of mirth streamed down her face. “Don’t you think that is ridiculous? All this maneuvering and machinations and crying and look at us.”

The duke put a hand on either side of her head. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said, smiling at her. “But we can get through this. All of this.”

She sobered suddenly and gazed at him, feeling as if real tears were only a heartbeat away. “Do you think so, Your Grace?”

“Please call me Randall,” he said, his eyes drifting to her mouth so that she knew he was going to kiss her. He moved closer, until his mouth was so close, she could feel his breath against her lips. “Please.”

“Rand—” He stopped her with his mouth on hers and she found herself leaning toward him, still on her knees, her hands clenched by her sides. He moved his mouth gently, but his body was taut against hers, as if he were straining against a terrible weight. Henry had never kissed her. Never. And this man was kissing her for the second time, making her feel liquid and hot and confused. She didn’t like it, and yet something stopped her from pulling away, something animal and base and full of need that had nothing to do with whether she liked him or not. She put her hands, still clenched tightly, upon his shoulders, not knowing whether to pull him closer or push him away, so she let out a little sound.

He pulled back, his eyes holding a strange light. “Miss Cummings,” he said with a bemused smile. “I am not going to murder you, I promise.” He glanced at each shoulder where her fists were still clenched. She looked up at him uncertainly, then slowly unfurled her hands. “Much better. Now, your mouth.”

“My mouth?”

“It is much more pleasant to kiss when it is not hard as stone,” he said.

He was making fun of her. How should she know how to kiss when no one had ever taught her? Was there a right and wrong way to kiss? From what she’d seen, it was a mere pressing of the lips, and that’s exactly what she was doing. She wished that Henry had not been such a gentleman, for then she would be able to show His Grace she knew something about kissing. She felt her face grow hot with anger and a bit of embarrassment. “I am so sorry my lips are not to your liking,” she said.

“Oh, no, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “Your lips are very, very much to my liking.” He touched them with the pad of his thumb and she pressed them closed. “Relax, love. Relax.” He kept moving his thumb over her lower lip, creating such a dizzying sensation she didn’t stiffen when he brought his head closer. “Relax,” he said, his mouth against his own thumb, which continued to move in such a seductive way against her. For once, he didn’t sound imperious or even like a duke, for he was asking, beseeching her, really, and that seemed to make all the difference. He dropped his thumb away and his mouth, warm and soft and hard, pulled at her lower lip and she let out a sigh. “There,” he breathed. Elizabeth clutched at his shoulders only because if she had let go, she surely would have melted to the blanket. She could not have imagined that a man’s lips against hers would feel so completely…intoxicating.

And then, his tongue, touching her mouth, moving inside, and she felt as if something were taking hold of her, something wild and free and desperate. How did he know such things? His mouth moved against hers, and with a groan, he deepened the kiss and she let him, welcomed him, suddenly forgetting she was nervous, forgetting she did not want to be with him. Forgetting to wish he was Henry. Oh, Lord, his kisses made her forget even who she was.

Finally, he drew back, his forehead against hers. “That was much better,” he said, laughing a bit. “You are a very good student, my dear.”

She smiled, ridiculously proud that he seemed so flushed, that she had somehow made him feel the same breathless way he made her feel.

“Do you know how to swim?” he asked suddenly, jarring her senses yet again. She still knelt, still held her hands against his shoulders, still felt his hands in her hair, strong and sure and oddly wonderful.

“No.”

“Then why did you want to go to the beach?”

They found themselves grinning at each other.

“To avoid just this situation,” she said, trying to sound affronted but failing miserably.

“I like this situation,” he said. He gave her a quick kiss, then pulled back to grab one of the small lemon tarts cook had packed.

She slumped back onto her heels and stared at him through narrowed eyes. Then, without a word, she took one of the tarts and bit into it, almost as if daring him to stop her. It was a small bit of rebellion and one he would never know. Her mother had forbidden her from eating sweets, so she ate this one with relish. And when she was done, she took up another, wondering what it was about this man that made her act and do things she had never done before.

Alva Cummings was in her glory. No one, other than perhaps Caroline Astor, could come close to organizing a grand ball the way she could. It was all a matter of spending more money, making everything more lavish, inviting more important people than anyone else could. And for her daughter’s engagement ball, the last of the summer season, Alva had outdone herself.

Elizabeth suspected that all those weeks where she had been confined to her room and the weeks that followed, her mother had been planning this event, for there was no way she could have affected such a ball if she had not spent weeks and even months planning it.

Elizabeth’s suspicions were confirmed when she realized the favors for the cotillion were antique French etchings, fans, and gilded ribbon that her mother had brought back last year from Paris. The beautifully intricate Chinese lanterns were little duplicates of Sea Cliff that had come directly from China. It made Elizabeth realize that, as much as she’d longed to have some control over her life, she never really had any. Her mother had never sought her opinion on anything, not even the wedding dress that was secreted in the New York home, which Alva had ordered from Charles Worth. Every detail, from the ornate dance cards to the gold-trimmed, silver napkin rings, had been chosen by her mother months ago.

Despite a tinge of resentment, Elizabeth couldn’t help but marvel at what her mother had accomplished. At the end of the grand hallway, a brass fountain, filled with blooming flowers, had been erected. Hyacinths, lilacs, and a tower of pale pink hollyhocks surrounded the fountain, and tiny hummingbirds seemed to float above the miniature garden. Forty small tables, covered in fine Irish linen, were set up in the dining hall and spilled out onto the veranda. The terrace was filled with exotic plants, including ferns and palms trees. And, as if Alva had control over the heavens, it was a spectacularly beautiful night.

Alva didn’t stop with simply decorating the house, the lawn was turned into a fairy land, with palm trees lit by butterfly fairy lamps. As dusk fell, the mansion became more beautiful, an enchanted palace. Elizabeth wandered about the house and grounds before the guests arrived amazed at what she saw, and realized with a bit of panic that she would be expected to produce this kind of grandeur for the duke. She had never seen anything quite so beautiful as Sea Cliff on the night of her ball.

“There you are, Elizabeth. It’s time for us to get dressed,” Alva said, looking about the gilt ballroom one last time.

“Everything is wonderful, Mother,” Elizabeth said, feeling a sudden overwhelming tenderness for her mother.

Alva let out a quick breath, as if she didn’t have time for more, and said, “Let us hope everything goes as planned.”

“I don’t see how it cannot for you have planned so well.”

Alva gave her daughter a quick smile. “Up to dress. And do please stop by my rooms before you venture downstairs. I want us all to go down together just in case some early guests have arrived. Then we’ll greet everyone in the pink room,” she reminded her for the third time.

Elizabeth followed her mother’s brisk steps up the stairs at a bit more leisurely pace. Even though she was getting on well with the duke, her heart still ached for Henry. She’d kept his rose, now blackened and dried, in a small drawer by her bed and took it out each night before trying to sleep. Everyone would think her quite foolish for still loving him, but she simply could not turn her heart off as much as she wished she could. Henry had been so fervent, so completely enraptured by her, and that was a heady thing, indeed.

The duke…he was still such a stranger to her. Though he’d been in Newport for several weeks and everyone knew of the engagement, the ball was to be the formal announcement. Elizabeth hadn’t been alone with the duke in three days, and had only exchanged polite words well in the earshot of her mother. He was formal and stiff and not at all like the man who taught her how to kiss, who let her hold the reins and dared her to race to town. He hardly even held her eyes, and she wondered why she even wanted him to. It was maddening to think that she would not be able to know any more about him before their wedding. She had so many questions, about his childhood, about Bellewood, about what he expected from her. It was all a swirl of unknown.

Her gown was laid out on her bed, and finally her mother had allowed her to dress the part of a debutante. It was white satin, trimmed with rich white lace, a dress that had been remade from one her grandmother had worn for her engagement. That, as everything else, was dictated by her mother. Her gown, the heavy, diamond-studded tiara that sat so regally in her hair, even her shoes, which her mother had ordered small, because she refused to acknowledge that her daughter’s feet were larger than they should be, were all ordered by Alva. Elizabeth had stopped resenting it, and rode upon her mother’s plan like a piece of flotsam on an endless wave. Straighten your back. She straightened. Lift your chin. She lifted. Smile dear, smile. She smiled. And then, when the first guests started to arrive, when she stood next to the duke, she was let free and expected to act properly on her own, with only her mother’s words in her head.

“You are beautiful tonight,” the duke said, when there was a brief break in the line. She could not think of him as Randall. Not here in this formal setting.

Elizabeth thought she looked silly, like a little girl playing dress-up wearing a faux crown. Her mother had insisted on the lavish tiara, but Elizabeth was slightly embarrassed by it, as if she were trying to be something she was not. But she took the duke’s compliment nicely and thanked him and told him he looked very fine in his formal outfit. He seemed stiffer, if possible, than she’d ever seen him and she remembered that he disliked such events. He bowed and shook hands and nodded when appropriate, but he rarely smiled. Then again, neither did she. By the time the Cummings were done greeting guests, Mullally’s Orchestra had begun to play for the informal dance before the light dinner. Already she was exhausted and the evening wouldn’t end until at least four in the morning.

“Would you care to dance?” the duke asked, coming to stand in front of her and bowing.

She looked up at him in surprise. He was a different man, this evening, far more formal than he’d ever been before. He held out a stiff arm, his gloved hand curled in a loose fist.

He leaned toward her slightly. “Your mother wants us to begin the ball,” he said.

And so for the first few strains of a Strauss waltz, they danced alone on the gleaming marble floor, unsmiling and self-conscious beneath the gaze of everyone in attendance. The women sighed aloud and Elizabeth heard a smattering of manly chuckles. How she hated being the center of such attention, and her cheeks flushed knowing even as they did that everyone would take note and wonder why. They would suppose, she thought, that she was blushing for the duke, that it was the bloom of love or some such silliness. And to spite them, she refused to smile, refused even to look at the duke to see how he was faring. They didn’t talk, even when the others joined them on the dance floor. When the waltz ended, the duke bowed before her, held out his arm, and escorted her to her father.

“Sir,” he said, before handing her off and giving her a small bow. She curtsied, feeling silly and had to stop herself from putting her hand on his arm to stop him. He had kissed her, he had brushed his mouth against hers, and this night he hardly looked at her. Elizabeth danced with her father, with Maggie’s brother, with Mr. Belmont and Major Gibbs. It was her duty to dance every dance, to never falter, to never yawn or beg to sit. By the time dinner was announced, Elizabeth thought she would faint from thirst and hunger. But she sat with her mother and father and the duke even though she longed to sit with Maggie and the earl. They looked like they were having so much fun, while she felt as if she even dared smile her mother would give her a
look
.

“I hope you’re finding everything in Newport to your satisfaction, Your Grace,” Alva said pleasantly.

“I am, indeed, Mrs. Cummings. Yesterday I took in a bit of tennis at your Casino. Quite nice,” the duke said.

“I heard you play well,” Jason Cummings said. “Never was one much for running about whacking a ball. Too old, I suppose. It’s a young man’s sport.”

“Or young woman’s, Father,” Elizabeth said, and got a severe look from her mother.

The look did not escape Rand. Every time the poor girl opened her mouth she got some sort of reaction from her mother and usually it was not favorable. He continued to be amazed that the girl she was in front of her mother was not at all the woman he saw when they were alone. He was trying his best to act formal at this ball in particular, for every word he uttered, every look he gave her would be noted by someone. He’d even seen some sort of reporter wandering about the place and been told the gent was from the
New York Times
.

“I suppose you’re right,” Jason said. “I hear the Canfield girls are quite good.”

Alva let out a light laugh, that was somehow cutting. “The Canfield girls are so exuberant on the court,” she said in her sweet southern drawl that Rand noticed she affected when she was particularly offended by something. He was still getting used to all these American accents, surprisingly as varied as England, though more difficult to discern. Unlike Britain, where the educated aristocracy sounded much alike, the Americans did not. Bostonians sounded nothing like the southerners, though they could be equally held in esteem. Elizabeth sounded nothing like her mother, whose southern drawl could be so pronounced.

A footman came to whisper something in Alva’s ear and she instantly lost her pleasant look. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and got up from the table to handle whatever disaster had befallen the Cummings’ ball. Once she was gone, Elizabeth visibly relaxed, and Rand was self-deprecatingly aware that he did, too.

“Your mother and my mother would either be best of friends or mortal enemies,” Rand said near Elizabeth’s ear. She stiffened, and he thought at first that he’d insulted her mother. But he looked at her mouth and could tell she was, rather desperately, trying not to laugh aloud. Then she shushed him.

“You are not allowed to shush a duke,” he said softly, if not imperiously.

“And you are not allowed to make sport of your duchess’s mother,” she shot back.

He lowered his head and laughed. “You are not my duchess yet.”

She looked at him askance, as if she feared she may have insulted him somehow, but looked decidedly unrepentant.

Impulsively, he put his hand around her left wrist, which lay on her lap. “I have missed you,” he said, and she looked at him with such shock, he nearly laughed again.

“You saw me two days ago.”

He withdrew his hand and tried not to be disappointed in her response, but he did feel rather idiotic to have blurted such a thing. “Quite so,” he said. “But I should have liked to have gone on another picnic.” She immediately stared at her Cornish hen with heightened intensity. Rand, who never felt foolish with women, found himself acting like a moonstruck youth. He rather felt like one at the moment. Of course she’d be thinking of their kiss. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to kiss her again, and far more, but he’d only meant that he wanted to be alone with her in a setting far less formal than this. So they could talk. And kiss.

Just like that, he grew hard, just from
thinking
about kissing her, just from sitting by her, from touching her wrist.

And she was carefully sawing through her Cornish hen probably wishing he was still in England. His humiliation was complete.

Then she turned to him, her blue eyes wide, staring at him as if willing him to know what was in her head. His eyes drifted downward to her mouth, her plump lower lip, the freckle, my God, the freckle at one corner that he’d not noticed before, and he saw that she was smiling a Mona Lisa smile, like she shared a secret.

He grinned at her, feeling relief rush through him just as fast and hard as lust had.

“I do enjoy picnics,” she said, her gaze direct and unwavering and Rand had a difficult time not leaning forward and kissing her, giving these pseudo-peers something really interesting to talk about.

I do believe I’m falling in love with you.
“Then we shall picnic every day when we are married,” he said, and watched her smile broaden just a bit.