My American Duchess (13 page)

“Did you really think that dimple of yours could persuade me to adopt a dog, which is not only
not
a ratter, but which from a distance might be confused for rat?” the duke asked quietly.

Merry bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. “She could ride on the seat next to you. Think of the two of you, bowling around Hyde Park in the spring, Snowdrop adorned with a new ribbon . . . lavender, perhaps?”

Snowdrop was now positioned squarely in front of the duke, dotingly gazing up at him.

“There is no space in my vehicle for an animal,” the duke stated.

Under Bess’s supervision, Jenkins had replaced the teapot with a fresh one and supplemented the crumpets with several kinds of cake.

“Your Grace, Merry,” Bess called, “I think that is more than enough conversation about dogs. Please, do join us for a cup of tea.”

Merry nodded, and looked to the duke. “A cat may look at a king, or so they say.”

“They can say whatever they like.”

“It would make your brother very cross if you took her . . .”

He gave her that crooked smile, the one with more than a drop of sardonic amusement about it. “I see that you are acquainting yourself with our family politics, Miss Pelford. However, I am not so easily baited.”

He walked over to Bess without another glance at poor Snowdrop.

Merry knelt and put George on the floor again. There
was no help for it; she was going to be the owner of two dogs. “Snowdrop, I want you to be a good girl, because George is only a baby.”

Snowdrop snarled, tiny upper lip curling ferociously.

George trembled—and piddled. On the Aubusson rug and, distressingly, on the hem of Merry’s gown as well.

In the ensuing furor, Snowdrop paraded around in triumph while Jenkins exhibited the first signs of a nervous collapse. Bess was sympathetic. Cedric was decidedly
not
sympathetic.

“That dog is not fit to live indoors,” he thundered. “You are being cruel by acquainting him with the comforts of this house because he will have to live in the stables.”

“He will never live in the stables,” Merry cried, snatching up George again.

There was a significant silence.

Merry looked to the duke for help, but he had strolled over to the fireplace and was gazing down at the burning logs as if reading ancient runes in the flames.

“I will not share my house with an incontinent animal,” Cedric announced.

“George is almost trained,” Merry said. The puppy looked thoroughly ashamed.

Snowdrop, meanwhile, was amusing herself by circling Merry’s feet, head cocked, beady eyes fixed on George.

“I
promise
that there will be no further accidents,” Merry added.

Cedric looked at Bess. “Mrs. Pelford, I regret to say that my interest in a piece of cake is quite overset by this incident.”

“I completely understand,” Aunt Bess said. “I—”

“You will have to choose between us,” Cedric said, cutting off Bess as he turned back to Merry. “Lady Cedric
Allardyce must be a woman of fashion, and a woman trailing an incontinent bulldog does not meet that standard.”

His bow was perfunctory, with no added flourish at all. He swept through the door with all the outrage of an affronted emperor exiting the stage.

The duke crossed the room and tapped Merry’s chin. Despite herself, tears were welling in her eyes.

“Ah, damn,” he said softly. “You really do want him, don’t you?”

Merry swallowed a sob. “I do.”

“You shall have him.” It was a promise. And anyone could tell the duke always kept his vows.

It wasn’t until later, after he had taken his leave, that it struck Merry that His Grace might not have been referring to George, as she had assumed.

He might have been asking if she really wanted Cedric.

T
here was only one way to make certain that Cedric went through with the marriage, and Trent grimly decided to do it.

“I’ll take the dog,” he said abruptly to his brother, much later that evening. They were at the table, having just finished a mostly silent late supper—during which, Trent reckoned, Cedric had drunk far more than he had eaten.

“What?”

“I’ll take George and the white dog, too, when you marry.”

“Why would you do that?” Cedric tried to narrow his eyes but failed, and closed one of them instead.

Trent shrugged, rounding the table. “If you don’t want her, I’ll take Merry as well.” The words escaped his lips as if they had shaped themselves.

“She’s mine,” Cedric said flatly.

That was exactly the response that Trent was pushing him to say. Of course it was. He hoisted his brother upright and deftly wedged his shoulder under Cedric’s arm; he was well practiced at this ritual. “Time for bed.”

“You know,” Cedric said, when they were halfway across the dining room. “My earliest memory of this room is seeing Father collapse and fall to the floor. He nearly hit his head on that andiron over there.”

Trent grunted. His brother was remarkably heavy for such a slender man.

“Drunk as a beggar,” Cedric muttered.

The words started a horrible train of thought in Trent’s mind. Merry might die the way their mother had, thrown from an overturned phaeton. His father had never realized what he’d done; he’d sustained a grave injury to his brain and succumbed after two days without regaining consciousness.

Cedric had once told Trent, in a late-night drunken fit that neither of them ever mentioned again, that he begged his mother not to get in the phaeton that evening. “Told her if she loved me, she wouldn’t go,” Cedric had said, slurring voice growing darker. “She said that I was becoming stuffy. Tapped me on the cheek as if I were five years old.”

The thrill of terror that had shot through Trent’s veins calmed. Cedric had not driven a carriage of any kind, let alone a phaeton, since their parents’ accident. He always took a coachman.

Merry would be safe.

His brother didn’t reappear until luncheon the following day, when he joined Trent at the table looking half dead and exuding a sickly sweet smell of liquor despite the fact his hair was wet from a bath.

“I’m going back to bed,” Cedric said a while later, breaking the silence.

“Right.”

“I don’t remember much of last night.” No shame was evident in his tone; he was matter-of-fact, as if he were remarking that he had misplaced a pair of gloves.

Trent saw no reason to reply.

“But I do remember that you promised to take both dogs upon my marriage,” Cedric went on.

“Yes.” Trent helped himself to another slice of roast beef.

“Do you suppose she’ll agree to that?”

Trent had been certain that Merry would never relinquish George. But considering how she had reacted to the possibility of losing Cedric, it was possible that she would reconcile herself to the dog being in a good home.

She could always visit George, after all. His mind conjured up an image of his sister-in-law traipsing in his front door with those shining eyes and that hair and bosom and . . .

No, she could not visit the dog.

“I’ll send both animals to Hawksmede,” he said.

Cedric’s lip curled. “We’d have to have all the carpets taken up, in that case. It will reek when summer comes.”

“They can live in the gatehouse with Mrs. Plunket and her husband.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Cedric allowed. He pushed back from the table unsteadily. “Damme, but I was really soaked last night.”

Trent couldn’t think of an appropriate response.

A flush rose in his brother’s cheeks. “You’re such a sanctimonious prig.”

Trent chewed his beef without answering.

“I shall take Merry for a walk in Hyde Park this afternoon,” Cedric said, after a moment. “I shall explain to her
that she has a clear choice. She can either keep the dogs, or she can give them to you and marry me.”

“She loves you,” Trent said, raising his eyes from his plate.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Cedric mused. “I suppose you think that’s a terrible mistake on her part.”

“Not if you were to stop drinking,” Trent said.

“Perhaps I will after I’m married,” Cedric said, to Trent’s surprise. “I have a devil of a head. It’s not worth it.”

Perhaps Cedric’s marriage would be his salvation. “In that case, why not allow Miss Pelford to keep her dog?” he suggested. “George is just a puppy, and they grow up quickly. Don’t you remember Blossom?”

As boys, they had shared a dog, a bloodhound with a heart as big as the whole county. For a few particularly miserable years, Blossom was the only thing that made Trent’s life worth living.

A muscle worked in Cedric’s jaw. Then he said, “I suppose you’re right. I’ll tell Merry she can keep the dog but only if she’s not seen with him outside the house.”

Trent had serious doubts about the way his brother seemed to think his fiancée would follow his bidding, but it was not his business. “George can stay in the buttery when you entertain people.”

Cedric rubbed his face wearily. “I’m not even married yet, and I can already feel the bloody ball and chain dragging at my ankle.”

With that charming remark, he made his way from the room and, presumably, up to his bed.

M
erry entrusted George to the knife boy when Cedric arrived to take her for a stroll in Hyde Park.

“That dog will have to be locked away when we have guests,” Cedric announced as they set off down the path. “I also request that he not be allowed in the drawing room until he can be trusted.”

“Certainly,” Merry exclaimed, wondering what on earth had caused Cedric’s change of heart. Presumably the duke had intervened. “George is learning to wait for the garden, unless he is startled.”

With the question of George resolved, they walked along in silence, Merry racking her brains for an acceptable topic of conversation.

“I look forward to seeing your hospital when the building is completed,” she finally said. “It’s truly a magnificent thing you’ve done.”

“Regrettably, you won’t be able to visit the building, as it is in a part of London that respectable ladies do not frequent. I shall commission drawings so that you can obtain some sense of the edifice, at least.”

“Surely I could pay a short visit,” Merry said, startled by the unconditional sound of Cedric’s decree.

“Not only is the area dangerous, but the patients, too, will be of a rougher sort. Though come to think of it, you Americans are so brash and straightforward; it’s not as if you are as delicate as an English lady. I suspect that you could fight off an Indian attack all on your own.”

He laughed, so Merry joined him, her laughter a little hollow. “I doubt that one of my hat pins would fend off a tomahawk.”

“A toma-what?”

“Tomahawk. It’s the weapon used by Indian tribes that’s very similar to a hatchet. In any case, Spitalfields is no more dangerous than any large city,” Merry asserted. “I read in the
Times
that the most vicious criminals live in an area called the Devil’s Acre, near Westminster Abbey, and I’ve been to the Abbey many times.”

“It’s out of the question,” Cedric stated. “There’s another thing I’ve been meaning to suggest. I think we should consider engaging a tutor who specializes in elocution.”

Refining her accent would not address the larger problem: the actual words Merry spoke. According to Miss Fairfax, English ladies were like deep, still pools. “Opinions are accursed,” her governess had repeated over and over. “Gentlemen treasure a quiet nature.”

Merry was many things—and she truly could fashion a wax flower if required—but she wasn’t a deep, still pool. For example, she had a very negative opinion of Cedric’s declaration that whole swaths of London were off limits.

“Oh, I meant to tell you that I accepted an invitation to
Mrs. Bennett’s for dinner on your behalf,” Cedric said. “As well as your aunt and uncle, of course.”

“At such late notice?” Merry asked, rather startled. “My aunt was under the impression that we were not invited.”

“The dinner will honor those who contributed to the hospital fund,” Cedric said. “Mrs. Bennett was happy to add yourself and Mr. and Mrs. Pelford after I pointed out her oversight. Even my brother has engaged to attend, since he funded the Allardyce Wing.”

The duke would be there.

The duke
might
be there.

Not that it mattered to her. He was nothing more than her future brother-in-law.

“Shall we retrace our steps? The mist is frizzling your hair, and it is beginning to resemble moss.” Cedric chuckled at his own joke.

Merry touched her fringe as they turned. The curling irons her maid, Lucy, used every morning to shape fashionable corkscrew curls were the culprit. This morning she had put on a straw bonnet adorned with small plumes, but she probably should have worn a cottage hat with a wide brim.

The truth was that she was beginning to feel certain that she could not achieve the level of refinement required of Lady Cedric Allardyce. Elocution lessons wouldn’t help. She felt stubbornly more American every day, not less.

Cedric patted her hand as they climbed the marble steps to Uncle Thaddeus’s townhouse. “You mustn’t take it to heart.”

Merry turned to him, grateful that he understood the distress she was feeling. “Oh, Cedric—I mean, Lord Cedric—I do feel wretched.”

“Everything can be mended,” he said, in a consoling voice.

“Do you think so?”

“We will have to dismiss your maid and hire someone French.”

“But—”

Cedric smiled. “Shakespeare praised his beloved for the ‘black wires’ on her head.”

“Really?” If Merry heard about that playwright’s stupid opinions one more time, she really
was
going to spit.

“Regrettably, in this civilized age, we require a great deal more from the gentle sex’s toilette.”

Had Cedric just said her hair was two centuries out of date?

If Merry hadn’t sworn—no,
vowed
—that she would never again jilt a man, she would have parted ways with Cedric then and there.

But she couldn’t. She had given her word.

She said good-bye to Cedric and went to find her aunt, all the while trying to ignore the persistent voice in the back of her head that said an elocution tutor and a French maid wouldn’t do it. Nothing would make her an acceptable English lady.

Bess turned out to be in the small sitting room with the dogs.

Snowdrop had appropriated George’s new velvet pillow, leaving the puppy to a spot on the floor. He got up so quickly when Merry entered that he tripped over his paws before bounding up again and coming to greet her.

“Good afternoon,” Merry called, crouching down to scratch George’s ears.

“Good afternoon, dear.” Bess narrowed her eyes. “Upon reflection, I do not care for that bonnet. The feathers are going every which way, like a hen in a fit.”

Merry straightened, and gave her pelisse and the offensive bonnet to Jenkins, who retreated into the hall.
Then she scooped up George and carried him over to the sofa.

“I shall ring for more crumpets,” Bess said, doing so. “I seem to have eaten them all.”

Merry was desperately trying to decide whether to confess her worries about the upcoming marriage. “Aunt Bess,” she finally said, “I have a problem that I wish to discuss with you.”

“Your problem is what we should do about your hair,” Bess said, eyeing her. “That coiffure is not pleasing to the eye. I think we’ll have to send Lucy back to Boston and hire someone from Paris.”

Jenkins reappeared, so Merry ground her teeth while she waited for Bess to detail precisely how many crumpets she would like.

“My hair is frizzled because you insist that Lucy shape it into ringlets,” she said, when they were again alone.

“Fashion is a harsh mistress,” Bess said airily. “Lucy should apply a remedy. The
Lady’s Magazine
suggested applying a tincture of sesqui-something to the hair.”

“Sesqui-something? What on earth is that?”

“Something like iron. Obviously, I am misremembering the name.” She frowned. “Perhaps the effect as well. It might have been to color one’s hair.”

“My hair will have to remain this color, Aunt Bess, because Cedric just informed me that he prevailed upon Mrs. Bennett to include us in her dinner party tomorrow evening.”

“So I gather,” her aunt said, gesturing toward a card on the table beside her. “An invitation arrived an hour ago.”

“He believes that our lack of invitations was an oversight.”

“Most unlikely,” Bess said cheerfully.

Merry leaned forward, pinched a lump of sugar with the
tongs, and dropped it neatly into her cup.
This
, at least, was a nicety of etiquette that she had mastered. “I’m sure that Mrs. Bennett was quite disgruntled when Cedric pointed out her omission.”

“There is no question but that we must attend,” Bess said with a sigh. “She writes that Lady Caroline will be in attendance. I think that young lady can’t afford Cedric, but she doesn’t seem to agree; she would love to steal your fiancé. You mustn’t allow that to happen, Merry.”

“Well, but—”

Her aunt held up her hand, giving her a commanding look that suggested she had guessed Merry’s doubts and did not approve. “Thank goodness, you caught Cedric’s attention before your hair reached this state,” she added. “A third broken engagement would be disastrous, my dear, as we agreed before reaching these shores.”

Sometime later, Merry retreated upstairs, thinking about the morrow. If she were inclined toward dramatic turns of phrase, she would say that the dinner was shaping into a gladiatorial contest between herself and Lady Caroline.

The perfect English lady against the flawed American.

She only wished that she cared more. It was hard to put a finger on what had gone wrong with her engagement. It wasn’t just her awkward manners. Cedric had never looked at her with the glint that had shone in Bertie’s eyes—and yes, in Dermot’s as well.

She ruthlessly pushed away memories of the way the duke looked at her. Whatever emotion was in
his
eyes was monstrously improper. It made her feel warm to the tips of her toes to even think of it, which was monstrously improper as well.

At length, Merry decided that she owed it to Cedric—and indeed to herself—to try to improve herself one more
time. She devoted most of the next day to preparing for Mrs. Bennett’s dinner, sitting on a low stool and reading a book about table manners while Lucy tamed her frizzled tresses.

Clear consommé was drunk from the bowl; other soups were not. One should delicately lift the finger bowl from the plate and place it to the left. And so on.

She could do this. American women regularly forged paths through the wilderness. A London dining room was hardly the wilderness, even though her uncle Thaddeus had come to the conclusion that Englishmen in groups resembled a pack of jackals. “Red in tooth and claw,” he kept repeating darkly, refusing to accompany them to Mrs. Bennett’s.

Would it be possible to fend off a jackal with a hat pin? Merry shook herself and dove into a chapter entitled “On the Peculiarities of Dress, with Reference to the Station of the Wearer.”

A few minutes later she dropped the book to the floor.

She and Bess had spent three months in Paris before traveling to London. While in France, they had spent many pleasurable hours poring over French fashion plates, Dutch lace, and Italian linens—and that time and attention were reflected in the wardrobe Merry had brought across the Channel.

The watered silk she intended to wear in the evening was trimmed in pearls and silver lace. It cost the earth but was worth every penny.

It was better than a hat pin.

It was like a suit of armor.