My American Duchess (15 page)

“There’s many a schoolboy who agrees,” Trent said, abandoning caution and taking another step toward her. “Hereafter, I shall curb my cleverness.”

“There’s a sacrifice that will change the world,” she said, laughter running through her voice. It was heady stuff, that laughter.

Something must have showed on his face because she went still.

“It’s remarkably easy to make an idiot of oneself trying to show off for a lady,” he admitted, the huskiness in his own voice surprising him. “You’d think I would have learned that lesson in my salad days.”

He was staring at her the way a lad gapes at a buxom barmaid, not the way a gentleman—a
duke
—eyes a lady. But he couldn’t seem to turn away. Merry Pelford’s clear eyes smashed through all his defenses.

She finally broke their gaze by looking at the floor, color flooding into her cheeks. It wasn’t merely on his side, then. She felt it.

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I must return to the dining room.”

“As must I.” He offered his elbow and enjoyed it far too much when she slipped her hand through.

A large, overly ornate mirror hung facing the bottom of the stairs, presumably positioned so that the lady of the house could glance at herself one last time before leaving. It was impossible to avoid one’s reflection.

He never spent time gazing at his own face, but if he happened to catch sight of himself in a glass, he was ac
customed to seeing an indifferent, sardonic aspect on the face looking back at him.

That expression was nowhere to be seen.

In fact, if he were given to poetic fancy—which he was not—he might have described his expression as smoldering. It gave him a queer sense of vertigo.

As they entered the dining room together, he had the uneasy feeling that the face in the mirror reflected things he’d rather not think about.

Emotions.

The idea was so perturbing that he allowed a footman to pull out Merry’s chair while he seated himself beside her.

“Your Grace,” said a feminine voice on his left. Please, let it not be a marriageable young woman.

Benjamin Trewell, a decent fellow he’d known since university, nodded to him from across the table. “My wife.”

Trent smiled at her. “Mrs. Trewell, it’s a pleasure.”

They chatted for a moment, but a footman intervened, pouring wine. Trent turned to Merry, and groaned inwardly. He could see directly down her bodice. Belying his earlier impression, she
was
wearing stays; he could see them as well. They pressed against her breasts, making them even plumper and higher than they would be naturally.

He shifted in his seat, cursing his damned silk pantaloons.

The gentlewoman beside him was talking on and on about a dog she was training. Or perhaps it was a child; he had missed a crucial detail.

Disgust curdled in his gut. What in the living hell was he doing at this dinner party? If he was honest with himself, he’d only come in order to see Merry Pelford.

That would be: to see his future sister-in-law.

Right.

Well, he’d seen her.

And lusted after her.

She was delicious. His cock was threatening to burst out of his pantaloons. If he wasn’t careful, he might finally see a lady faint—after glancing at his lap.

The hell with it. With an abrupt gesture he reached forward and flicked his wineglass so that it tipped over, sending a wave of claret across the tablecloth and into his lap.

Mrs. Trewell gave a little scream; Merry said nothing, but drew away slightly. He was sufficiently overheated that the cool liquid was a relief. And brought him under control.

“I must apologize,” he said, rising from his seat and handing his sodden napkin to the footman who had rushed forward to assist. The entire table stared at him, every conversation cut short. “I shall have to return home and change my clothing. I have no other choice.”

At the other end of the table, his hostess had leapt up with a look of horror; too late, Trent realized that she—and everyone else—would assume that he was leaving the party because he was insulted at being seated among less honored guests.

“I would prefer to stay,” he said, bowing to his hostess. His lie would have no effect; he could see people whispering to each other, and Mrs. Bennett looked stricken.

He gave a mental shrug and then a general bow to the table.

M
erry watched in astonishment as the duke stalked from Mrs. Bennett’s dining room.

“Apparently, His Grace didn’t care to be seated with mere mortals,” Mr. Kestril remarked.

Had the duke overturned that wineglass on purpose? Could he truly have been so irritated at not having been granted the precedence he considered his rightful due that he’d left a dinner party before it even started?

She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. He hadn’t seemed like that sort of person, but he was a duke, after all.

“I am rather surprised,” Mr. Kestril said, echoing her thoughts. “My lands run beside his, and he’s never put on airs. But I gather he’s courting Lady Caroline, and perhaps he felt the meal was beneath his notice when he was not seated beside her.”

With the duke’s abrupt departure, the party felt flat and
tiresome. Cedric was seated far above her at the table. Lady Caroline was flirting with him with an ostentatious intensity that should have made Merry jealous. It didn’t.

Fortunately, Kestril was happy to talk. It turned out that he was a bird enthusiast who could list which birds she might glimpse in Hyde Park but would never see at home in Boston.

Seven courses later, Merry had become an expert on London’s winged residents, and the dessert course, an array of confections and sweetmeats, was finally being served. She sampled each of them, as etiquette demanded, but in truth the only thing she wanted was a piece of the pineapple in the center of the table. She had been craving a taste since she’d entered the room and seen it crowning an elaborate tower of more prosaic fruits, as unexpected and exotic a sight in damp, sooty London as a Mohawk brave in full regalia.

She had tasted her first pineapple the day after she’d arrived to live with her uncle and aunt. She had been a young girl, grief-stricken, tired, and lonely. Bess had told her that pineapples arrived on ships that sailed to Boston from islands where the sun always shone, and people wore folds of cloth around their middles and danced from morning to night.

For the first time since her father died, the heavy, gray cloud that had clung to Merry like a second skin lifted. To this day, she could remember her first bite, how it tasted like honey and happiness, an emotion she’d forgotten in her grief.

The tower of fruit was being dismantled, and a footman made his way around the table to inquire about preferences. When it was her turn, she asked for a slice of the pineapple.

As the footman retired to slice the fruit, she heard a very
old man across from her say distinctly, “She’s asked for the pineapple!”

If Merry’s etiquette books hadn’t been so emphatic on the incivility of speaking across the table, she would have asked him why he was surprised. Instead she watched silently as he summoned back the footman and requested a slice himself as, indeed, did everyone else at her end of the table.

“They are devilishly difficult to grow in our northern climate,” Mr. Kestril informed her. “As you may know, they originate in the tropics, where the days are long.”

“I am surprised that they can be cultivated in England,” Merry said, taking a bite of the presumably English pineapple.

“They have to be grown in a hothouse with a pineapple stove. Chelsea Physic Garden has a number of thriving plants, I believe.”

“A pineapple stove?” Merry echoed, just as their hostess signaled that the ladies would now retire to the drawing room.

“If you are interested, I could arrange a visit to the garden,” Mr. Kestril said, as they all rose.

“That would be lovely,” Merry said, beaming at him. “I am interested in plants of all kinds, and I would dearly like to see that stove.”

Cedric appeared. “Kestril,” he said, bending his shoulders slightly, rather than bowing at the waist.

“Allardyce,” her dinner companion replied, bowing, though his countenance was cool.

“Mr. Kestril has kindly offered to arrange an outing to the Chelsea Physic Garden,” Merry told Cedric.

“Perhaps you will have time after we return from our wedding trip,” Cedric said languidly.

This was the first Merry had heard of a wedding trip, but she knew better than to question him in public. Besides, Aunt Bess arrived, slipping her arm through Merry’s to lead her away; the butler was waiting to escort the ladies to the drawing room.

Immediately upon entering the room, Aunt Bess was waylaid by a poetry enthusiast and drawn into a discussion of sonnet form, which left Merry to sit between Lady Caroline and Mrs. Bennett. How wonderful.

She had scarcely seated herself when Lady Caroline glanced at Merry’s midsection and said, “I do hope that pineapple was your own, Mrs. Bennett, since Miss Pelford was so hungry.”

Lady Caroline’s peculiar elocution turned simple vowel sounds nearly unrecognizable—but even after Merry untangled the “paheenawpple,” she had no idea what the lady was talking about.

“I would never
buy
a pineapple,” Mrs. Bennett replied airily. “Their appearance pleases me, hence I rent one to create my table’s centerpiece, but most people I know can’t abide the flavor.”

At that, the ladies all fell over themselves to assure her that they, too, loathed pineapple and had only accepted a slice from politeness.

Rent?

The pineapple had been
rented
?

Who rented food?

“What next?” Lady Caroline said, laughing. “Will guests begin to swill the violets in the finger bowls?”

Who would have dreamed that a hostess could rent a pineapple for a dinner party? Yet Londoners did, apparently, and it had been profoundly gauche of Merry to request a slice.

Embarrassment flooded through her, spreading right to the very tips of her fingers. “I was not aware the pineapple was merely a decoration,” she said apologetically. “We do eat them back home. In fact, Mr. Kestril told me that King Charles the Second enjoyed the first pineapple grown in England back in 1675.”

The silence that followed was familiar; no one ever seemed interested in the sort of information that stuck in Merry’s memory.

“I am truly sorry for eating your centerpiece,” she added quickly.

Lady Caroline leaned toward her and patted her hand. “No one can blame you for your ignorance of polite society.”

Merry told herself that Lady Caroline was likely so poisonous because she was hungry. Starvation did that; it turned otherwise decent people into cannibals.

“If you don’t mind the hint, Miss Pelford, I would suggest that you stay away from sweet fruit. I’m sure you are hoping to look your best on your wedding day, and staying slender requires willpower.” Lady Caroline glanced down at her rake-thin body with satisfaction.

Maybe the lady
was
starving. Did it really give her the right to be so perishingly obnoxious?

Bess came to the rescue before Merry could say something she might regret. “Mrs. Bennett,” she said, smiling at their hostess, “I must reiterate my niece’s apology. I assure you that I will have a replacement pineapple delivered to your door tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Bennett’s eyes narrowed, and Merry’s heart sank. Her aunt meant well, but the implicit reminder that Bess’s emeralds were not green glass was not well received.

“I have a wonderful idea,” Bess continued, widening her smile to include the whole circle. “We shall serve pineapple at my niece’s wedding breakfast. I am certain that
tasting the fruit will change your minds. It is remarkably beneficial for the skin.”

Oh no.

Lady Caroline bridled, and the red patches around her jaw deepened in color. “Really, Mrs. Pelford,” she said shrilly. “One would almost think that you imagine a few pineapples could serve as an entrée to polite society.”

Her aunt had raised Merry to turn the other cheek, and never lower herself to respond to a snub. But now Merry felt a slow boil rising to the surface on her aunt’s behalf. It was one thing for Lady Caroline to be rude about America—but now she’d been hateful to the person Merry loved best in the world.

“I did not have that in mind,” Bess said calmly, picking up her teacup. “It would be a fine thing to be a part of the British nobility, of course, but not everyone has ambitions to that elevated station. As I’m sure you know, in America we favor democracy rather than a constitutional monarchy.”

As the person of highest birth in the room, Lady Caroline clearly took Bess’s indifference to the nobility as a personal insult. She tossed her head, like a horse about to rear on its hind legs. “You will forgive me if I point out that the smell of the shop lingering around your niece’s betrothal suggests that
she
has precisely that ambition. As I understand it, Lord Cedric’s tailor is already celebrating, though the wedding has not yet taken place.”

This audacious statement was followed by a long moment of dead silence—a moment in which Merry discovered that the civilizing effect of London air had its limitations. Resentment that she had repeatedly pushed to the back of her mind turned to a rage that swept her like a fever.

“As
I
understand it, Lord Cedric had a wide choice of
heiresses,” she said, keeping her tone sweet. “I know we are all sympathetic, Lady Caroline, regarding any disappointment you might be feeling.”

“Mrs. Bennett,” Bess said in a slightly raised voice, “This tea is truly marvelous. Will you tell me where your housekeeper finds the blend?”

Brick color had flooded Lady Caroline’s cheeks. “At least I will not have to bribe people to attend my wedding breakfast with the promise of pineapples!”

“Well, spit,” Merry retorted, “I can’t say that it had occurred to me that a pineapple or two gave one entrée to the haut ton. Imagine what one could do with a crate of oranges.”

All the ladies turned their heads expectantly toward Lady Caroline—except Aunt Bess, who gave Merry a look that sent a shock of shame through her.

“I beg your pardon,” Merry exclaimed, at the very same moment that Lady Caroline turned her shoulder and whispered loudly to their hostess, “One cannot expect persons from the Colonies to understand civilized behavior.”

“I declare that I would be
terrified
to travel into the wilderness, where no rules of polite society pertain,” Mrs. Bennett agreed. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a naked savage serving the table instead of a footman in livery! I shouldn’t have the faintest idea how to conduct myself as, indeed, is clearly the case for some who travel to our shores.”

With this, Aunt Bess rose, gathering her shawl and reticule. “I have most unfortunately developed a headache, and I’m afraid that I must take my leave.”

All thought of further apology had flown from Merry’s head. She leaned forward and smiled at their hostess. “I do assure you, Mrs. Bennett, that were you to visit my country, you would find our customs easy to
negotiate. For example, in America, you won’t find even a single stalk of asparagus on the table unless your hostess wishes you to eat it. And unless your hostess owns the vegetable in question.”

“
Niece
,” Bess said, with dreadful emphasis.

Merry felt a bit dizzy—though whether with triumph or shame, she wasn’t certain. She jumped to her feet as her aunt gave Mrs. Bennett a polite thank-you that avoided any mention of ornamental produce.

Their departure had the effect of spurring the other guests; by the time they made their way out the door, ladies were milling about and donning their pelisses; husbands had been summoned from cheroots and port.

“You were strongly provoked,” her aunt said the moment their carriage door closed and they were alone. “Nevertheless, I am sorely disappointed in you, Merry. I hope I have taught you that kindness is always the better alternative.”

“I do know that,” Merry said. Her anger was seeping away, and she began to feel acutely ashamed. Had she really taunted Lady Caroline because Cedric hadn’t chosen her as his bride?

“Mind you, Lady Caroline’s remarks were remarkably ill-bred,” Bess allowed.

“She implied I was fat, and she was unforgivably rude to you.”

“She wanted to provoke you, and you allowed it.”

“I know it doesn’t excuse what I said. I’m tired of remaining silent while people say ignorant things about America.”

“England is your mother’s country,” Bess pointed out. “What’s more, you have made a solemn promise to an Englishman to wed him and live here for the rest of your life. Your children will be English, Merry. For your own peace of mind, you must stop taking offense at such silliness.
Mrs. Bennett’s remark said more about her character than about our country.”

Merry nodded.

“Unfortunately, I’m fairly sure the pineapple was rented in order to provide the illusion that Mrs. Bennett could afford to offer her guests exotic fruit.”

“Wasn’t it part of the decoration? She said that I had eaten the centerpiece.”

“I had the impression that Mrs. Bennett was disguising a harsher reality, and your misstep may inadvertently have caused the lady a financial hardship. I took a closer look and her pearls are definitely made of paste.”

The carriage turned a sharp corner and Bess lost her balance, pulling herself upright again with a muttered exclamation. “I shall never get used to these London streets! At any rate, I will send over a replacement pineapple tomorrow. They are dear in Boston, but they must be an extravagance here.”

“I shall write Mrs. Bennett an apology,” Merry said unenthusiastically.

Bess nodded her approval.

“I suppose I can apologize to Lady Caroline in person.” That was not a conversation Merry was looking forward to.

“There is always a silver lining, my dear,” Bess said, more cheerfully. “We shall not receive any more invitations from Mrs. Bennett.”

They sat in silence while Merry thought over the conversation. “I do have one question,” she said at length. “Lady Caroline’s remark about my betrothal seemed very pointed.”

“Marriage
is
a commercial transaction for those in our station,” Aunt Bess replied. “You are an heiress, Merry, and it does no good to pretend that men don’t take it into
account. Though as you know, your uncle structured your settlement so that your fiancé has no claim on your money until the marriage actually occurs.”