The American Duchess (18 page)

“I’d like to see Lady Bridgewater’s face if you offered to sail her to an island to eat chowder,” Adam said dryly, and Tracy giggled.

It was a wet summer evening in July and Adam Lancaster, Richard Rush and Lord and Lady Bridgewater had all come to Hastings House for a dinner that Tracy described as a family party. She had allowed Mary to join them and had been pleased by Adam’s attentiveness to her young sister-in-law. They all retired to the drawing room after dinner and Tracy encouraged Adam to talk about some of his experiences in Russia. Lord Bridgewater was a very influential man, and Tracy didn’t think it would hurt Adam at all to become better acquainted with him.

William Bodmin had made tremendous profits trading with Russia before the War of 1812 and Adam had sailed one of his ships. “Most shipmasters wintered in Riga,” Adam was saying. “It was much more convivial. Only once did I make the trip around Norway to Archangel. Wintering in Archangel was an experience. The sun never once came up. It made New England seem like the tropics.”

“Good heavens,” said Lady Bridgewater. “Whatever did you do, Captain Lancaster?”

“What all the Russians do, my lady,” replied Adam with a grin. “I drank.”

They were all laughing at his reply when the door opened and the Duke stood on the threshold.

“Adrian!” cried Tracy, turning her laughing face toward him. She jumped up and crossed the room. “You’re home at last!”

He kissed her cheek. “Home at last,” he murmured.

“And about time,” said his aunt. “There is a ball planned for which you are to be the host, if you remember.”

He smiled at Lady Bridgewater tranquilly. “I remember. I said I would be home in time and I am.” He then greeted the rest of the assembled guests, was introduced to Adam Lancaster and accepted a cup of tea from his wife.

Richard Rush began to question him about Spain and Tracy sat down behind the tea tray again, her eyes attentive to her husband’s face. After some minutes she noticed that he had finished his tea and, rising, she went and relieved him of his cup. He shook his head to say he did not want another and she put it down on the chimneypiece and stayed for a minute behind his chair, her hand on its polished wood back.

He and Adam were talking about Spain, but Tracy only half heard what they were saying. When Adam turned to say something to Richard Rush, Tracy gently rubbed her forefinger along the back of Adrian’s neck. His lids came half down to veil his eyes, and he smiled without looking at her. After a minute she returned to her seat.

Adam was being bitterly scornful about the Spanish King, whose iniquities he had observed firsthand. The Duke listened courteously and, without saying so, managed to imply he thought such a diatribe was in bad taste. Tracy smiled a little as she listened to him. She knew very well that, in his heart of hearts, Adrian agreed with every word Adam had said about Ferdinand. But this was not the company in which he would ever reveal such feelings. She must, Tracy thought vaguely, remember to explain that to Adam.

After what seemed to Tracy an interminable time, her guests bestirred themselves to leave. Mary had gone to bed earlier and the Duke and Duchess themselves accompanied their departing guests to the front hall. As the door closed behind them, the Duke turned to his wife, his veiling lids lifted so she could clearly see what was in his eyes. “And now,
ma mie,”
he said softly, “I can attend to you.”

Tracy awoke late the next morning and sighed with contentment as her eyes rested on Adrian, asleep next to her in the bed. She felt languorous and lazy and full of love. Luxuriously, she stretched a little and turned as she heard a soft chuckle. “You look like a cat,” he said.

“Mmm. I think I feel rather like a cat. A nice, fat, sensuous, satisfied cat.”

His hand slid lightly across her flat stomach and slim flank. “Hardly fat,” he murmured.

They had made passionate love the night before. It had been many months since Tracy had felt such excitement, such total abandonment. She had thought she was replete, but at his touch, and to her surprise, her body awoke.

Adrian felt the tremor deep within her abdomen. “Ah,” he said. “How nice.”

“I have to nurse Billy,” she protested rather feebly.

“Billy can wait,” her husband said firmly. She felt herself open and aching for him. “Adrian,” she whispered. Then she was filled with him, her body brimming, flooding, as she clung to him, arching her back. They kissed. Slowly, they toppled sideways, still locked together, their hearts racing, their bodies damp with a light sheen of sweat.

“I missed you,” she said after a while.

“It is almost worth going away if this is the reception I can expect to come home to.”

She chuckled. “You don’t have to go away.”

“I am very glad to hear that,
ma mie.
The next trip I make, I’ll take you with me.”

“That’s a good idea,” she approved. “Once the baby is weaned . . .” She pulled away from him and abruptly sat up. “Good heavens, the baby. He’s probably starving.”

“It won’t hurt him to wait for a bit,” said his loving father, pulling her back down. “I was hungrier.”

Chapter 24

. . . all bitterness and wretchedness that young men feel, in a manner continually, as jealousies, suspicions, disdeigns, angers, desperations, and certain rages full of madness, whereby many times they be led into so great error ...

—The Book of the Courtier

Adam Lancaster had been surprised by the Duke. He had expected Tracy’s husband to be much older. A duke, he had vaguely thought, must be somewhere around forty. This Duke, he discovered by inquiring of Richard Rush, was twenty-seven— two years younger than himself. And even Adam could not fail to notice that Adrian was extraordinarily good looking. Adam began to fear that Tracy’s marriage was not what he had thought it to be. He needed more information, and with characteristic thoroughness, he set about getting it. It was not difficult. London, it seemed, was full of people who loved to gossip.

He had married her for her money. That was what became clear to Adam as he listened to people respond to his careful inquiries. As Americans, he and Tracy were outsiders in the enclosed English world of birth and position. Tracy had been acceptable because of her father’s money. Money was the only reason a personage like the Duke of Hastings would have stooped to marry the daughter of an American businessman.

He had married her for her money. And she had married him because her dying father had wished it. The Duke had probably known about William Bodmin’s illness, Adam thought viciously. It wasn’t just a matter of a marriage settlement; with Tracy came all the millions intact.

Tracy was obviously uncomfortable in her new situation; she felt inferior. That thought made Adam wild. Tracy Bodmin, to his mind, was worth every damn duchess and countess in the whole goddamn island, and to see her worrying about throwing a party for people who weren’t worthy to lick her shoes put him into a rage.

It was her husband. He was obviously after her to behave as he wished, to play her proper role as an English duchess. Adam found himself disliking, even more than he had previously, the princely young man who was the Duke of Hastings.

Tracy herself spoke very little of her husband to Adam. Considering the fact that Adam had once desired to marry her himself, she thought it would be tactless to dwell upon her present marital happiness. Consequently, and without her realizing it, Adrian figured primarily in her conversation as someone whom she had to live up to.

It was the way she felt. She felt that she didn’t deserve him,that she wasn’t the wife he ought to have. He was the fastest rising star in the British government, yet, except in a few rare instances, he couldn’t discuss his work with his wife. He was married to a woman who disagreed with almost everything he believed in. He was one of the highest personages in a very high and ancient society, and he was married to a woman who didn’t even know how to throw a party properly.

Tracy did not feel inferior in herself, but she did feel inadequate as the wife of a Duke of Hastings. She was striving so hard to win her place in the world because she felt she owed it to him. She owed it to him because she adored him and to her mind nothing was good enough for him. That, however, was not the impression she gave Adam Lancaster. To Adam it seemed rather as if Tracy regarded her husband as an ogre.

Adam was not the only person to be misled by Tracy’s behavior. The Duke, too, was laboring under a growing misapprehension about the nature of his wife’s regard for Adam Lancaster.

The change in Tracy from the last months was blindingly clear. At first the Duke had thought that she had finally recovered from childbirth and so had regained her old vividness and sparkle. Her welcome home to him had been deeply gratifying. But, as the days went by, he began to wonder if the change in Tracy wasn’t due instead to the presence of Adam Lancaster.

He was certain that Lancaster was the “friend” whose letter had so discomposed Tracy in December. And during the week that preceded Tracy’s ball, Adrian became more and more convinced that Lancaster had been more than a friend to his wife.

 He did not like the American at all. He did not like it that he was so damn rugged looking and tall. He did not like the way Adam called his wife ‘Trace.’ He did not like the easy intimacy that reigned between the two Americans. He was terribly afraid that Tracy might once have loved this man. He was even more afraid that she might love him still.

He had to know. He was having tea with her on the afternoon before the day set for their ball when he determined to bring the subject up. He sipped his tea, regarded her over the rim of his cup and asked gently, “How well did you know Captain Lancaster in America, Tracy?”

She blushed and his fingers tightened on the saucer. “He lived in Salem, Adrian, and he was one of my father’s captains before he became an owner himself.”

“You mean you grew up knowing him?”

“Well, not exactly. I was away at school a great deal, you see.” His silence indicated clearly that he did
not
see and Tracy bit her lip. “I really only met Adam after I left school and came home to live.”

She looked at her husband and smiled a little ruefully. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. I almost married Adam, Adrian.”

He put his teacup down, rose and walked restlessly to the chimneypiece. “Almost?” he asked.

“Yes. Adam wanted to become engaged before Papa and I left for England, but I said I wanted to wait until we returned before I made any decision.” She shrugged gracefully. “You know what happened next.”

He stood near the chimneypiece, his fingers lightly laced together, looking hard at the tea table, not at her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I know what happened next.”

“I was a little embarrassed when Adam first arrived in England,” she confessed. “I felt guilty, I suppose. But he has been splendid.”

“Yes. You seem to be enjoying his company.”

“I am. I was feeling a little homesick, I’m afraid. It’s been like a breath of New England to see Adam. He’s of
my
race, you see. We speak the same language; we see the world through the same lenses; we are held together by the same moral paste.”

Adrian did not like what he was hearing. “Your race?” he protested lightly. “Surely,
ma mie,
you and I are of the same race, at least.”

She put down her own cup and looked for a minute in silence at her husband’s face. “No,” she said then, very softly. “We’re not.”

Tracy’s revelation about her past relationship with Adam Lancaster only exacerbated Adrian’s fears. It was not that he suspected her of having an affair with Lancaster. He had far too much regard for Tracy’s honesty for that. Whatever Tracy did, it would be done out in the open; she was a creature of the sun, not of the shadows. What he feared was far more complicated. He was afraid that she had loved this Lancaster and that she had given him up to please her father. He was afraid that, even though she would be loyal to her marriage, she loved the American still. And it was not enough for Adrian that his wife would be faithful to her marriage.
He wanted much more from her than that.

To put it bluntly, for the first time in his life, Adrian was jealous. And he was helpless in that jealously. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could accuse her of. She was responsive and passionate in bed. He knew he would sound ridiculous complaining about any lack of affection from her. But, also for the first time, he doubted the emotional truthfulness of sex. He was a superb lover. He knew that. It was the ultimate magic he had always employed in his relationships with women, in his relationship with his wife.
He knew how
to employ it. But now, it seemed unsatisfactory to him. He wanted more. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing that his wife loved him totally, completely, utterly—him alone, no one else. He wanted what he had thought he had. There was a growing hatred in him for Adam Lancaster.

Meanwhile, the cause of all this misapprehension was thinking about one thing: her ball. She had sent out three hundred invitations and almost six hundred people were coming. The musicians were hired, the food was arranged for, her dress was ready. She had decided to deck the rooms with fresh flowers, and she and Lady Bridgewater had paid visits to half the flower shops in London.

The servants had been busy all week, polishing furniture and silver and washing crystal. Tracy herself spent the entire day of the ball arranging the flowers. Adrian, returning in the late afternoon, had been greeted by the sight of two huge vases of pink and red roses placed in the large entrance hall. Following the sound of activity, he proceeded through the house to the ballroom, in the center of which, slowly revolving
to regard her handiwork, he found his wife.

The room looked beautiful. The polished floor gleamed. The crystal chandelier sparkled. And arranged throughout the room were stunning masses of pink and red roses. “A masterpiece,” he said and she turned at the sound of his voice.