My American Duchess

  Her governess’s criticisms had usually bounced off Merry like rain from a tin roof. But that one had stuck, and night after night she lay awake, wondering if she and Cedric could be happy together. Clearly, he expected his wife to excel at something more refined than molding wax flowers.

  Absurdly, sometimes she found herself wondering what it would be like to be a duchess. The very idea was ridiculous: a duke might flirt on a balcony, but he wouldn’t consider actually marrying a woman like her. He would marry someone like Lady Caroline, a noblewoman who knew the ins and outs of society.

  Not that she would ever want a position like that anyway. All eyes followed a duchess. She could scarcely imagine the storm of gossip that would result if a duchess made a faux pas, the kind she made every day.

  But then the duke hadn’t seemed to be as concerned about etiquette as Cedric was. She even thought he might join a conversation across the table, though that was probably wishful thinking on her part.

  And irrelevant, of course.

  In desperation, she began to compile a list of etiquette rules that included the correct use of sugar tongs, as well as a reminder to never say “spit.” A young lady at a musicale had practically swooned when Merry growled it after tearing her hem.

  Two weeks into her betrothal, the list had grown to four pages. When she had questions—Why are morning calls often conducted in the afternoon?—Cedric was happy to elucidate.

  “No one is awake in the morning,” he explained. “Except servants, of course, which reminds me that you mustn’t greet your butler with such familiarity. I realize that you value Jenkins. But we show our respect by keeping a certain distance.”

  Even an hour with her fiancé was liable to result in one or two new rules.

  Not that she saw Cedric very often. If she’d had her way, she would have liked to spend part of every day with him. To her dismay, Cedric was rarely free, and when he was, he often seemed to be late for an important appointment.

  Still, he always put his name down for two dances at every ball. He never failed to bring her a glass of canary wine, a gleam of conspiratorial mischief in his eyes. He seemed amused by the idea that his fiancée was too sophisticated for lemonade. Cedric had a marvelously world-weary, sardonic manner that Merry was trying, albeit with little success, to imitate.

  She watched her fiancé for signs of inebriation, but never saw any. Which meant that she spent more time thinking about when the duke would return from Wales than she ought, but only because she looked forward to setting him straight about his brother.

  And it was only out of dutiful family feeling for her future brother-in-law that she daily scoured her uncle’s newspapers, to reassure herself that there had been no mining accidents in Wales.

  After an uneasy fortnight, she had to admit that the twinges of doubt she felt could no longer honestly be called “twinges.” She was at a crossroads. She could become a selfish, vacillating woman, who fell in and out of love as casually as she changed her gloves, casting men to the side as she might a boring novel.

  Or she could become a true wife to Cedric, loving and loyal in the way that Aunt Bess was to Uncle Thaddeus.

  Merry’s challenge was not to mimic an English lady. No: she had to become a better person. The duke would return any day—not that his return was relevant—and sometime after that, she and Cedric would marry.

  Sometime? There was a precise date set now, in June. It was easy to forget, because Bess had hired a secretary to manage all the details. Still, Merry was due for a second fitting of her wedding dress, an idea that made her feel a little faint.

  In the end, she wrote a strongly worded note to Cedric, asking him to join her for a morning ride in Hyde Park. They had to spend more time together before they vowed to love each other to the end of their days.

  Besides, it would give her a chance to practice being a better person.

  The next morning Cedric appeared at the prescribed time in an extremely elegant riding coat, and they set out for Rotten Row in Hyde Park. He wasn’t precisely cheerful—Cedric was clearly not a morning person—but she appreciated the fact that he made the effort.

  Overnight rain had scrubbed the coal smoke from the sky, and for once London smelled fresh and clean. The sky had the color and shimmer of mother-of-pearl, as if the very air was made of water.

  The only sound was that of hooves squelching in the puddles that dotted the paths, and occasional plops as drops found their way from leaves above to the ground.

  Merry couldn’t stop smiling, even though Cedric was grumbling because her “summons,” as he put it, had rousted him from bed. No one of note could be seen on the Row this early, and indeed, they passed only a couple of grooms exercising horses.

  Most unhappily for Cedric, a small gust blew just as they rode under a particularly low-hanging branch, sending rainwater cascading onto his hat and splashing in all directions, making it look as if his head were a tiny fountain. Merry laughed, but stopped immediately, because naturally Cedric’s headache was worsened by this indignity.

  “Perhaps we could gallop for a few minutes,” she suggested. “We haven’t seen a soul other than those grooms, so no one would be affronted to see me riding above a trot.”

  “That is because no one of countenance is out of bed. If you think that I will ever ride with you again at this hour, you are mistaken. I am mortified to discover that I am in the company of servants.”

  Well, spit. He really was annoyed.

  “Shall we try a gallop, Cedric?” Merry asked again.

  “What you don’t seem to understand, Miss Pelford,” Cedric said with dreadful emphasis, “is that a lady is a lady all the time, not merely when she is within view of polite society. Gentility must needs be internal. Even though we find ourselves in a throng of servants, it behooves us to behave with utmost circumspection.”

  They were hardly in a “throng”; in fact, the grooms had apparently taken themselves back to the mews, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen in the park.

  Cedric warmed up to his topic while Merry reminded herself that his irritability was entirely understandable. He had asked her repeatedly to address him by his title in public and she kept forgetting.

  She nodded, and nodded again. And when she frowned, it was merely because she heard something other than Cedric’s nettled—if well-bred—tones. She pulled up her mare, Dessie, and strained to listen.

  Cedric didn’t notice, riding on with one gloved hand waving in the air as he emphasized his point about the delicacy of the British temperament.

  There it was again—a whimpering sound, like an animal in distress.

  “Why have you stopped?” Cedric said, turning about. “Oh bother, this damp has entirely wilted my neck cloth! I shall look no better than a milkman.”

  Merry slid off her mare and draped the reins over the pommel. Dessie shook her head and stamped her hoof a few times, but stayed put, so Merry headed toward the hedgerow lining the south side of the Row.

  “What on earth are you doing? Don’t touch those branches; you’ll become wet.”

  “I think I heard something,” Merry explained, pulling a branch aside. Rainwater bounced off the leaves and splashed over her.

  “What did I tell you?” Cedric demanded. “I suppose we’ll have to return home so that you can change.”

  Before she could answer, she heard another scrabbling noise, and a plaintive whine that sounded like pain. She ignored Cedric, bent down, and pulled another branch aside.

  Through the foliage she could see a small space within the hedge, and within it, a black-and-brown puppy, about the size of a loaf of bread. It must be trapped by its collar, because its round rump was wiggling in the air as it tried to free itself.

  Cautiously, she reached through the dense branches until she touched wet fur. Rolls of loose skin moved under her fingers. The puppy whined again and twisted around to lick Merry’s wrist.

  “Hello, little one,” she crooned. “You mustn’t worry. We??
?ll have you out of this hedge in a trice.”

  She managed to get a firm grip around his middle, and gave a tug. This made him squeal with pain, so she stopped and gave him a pat. Her shoulder jogged the branches above her, sending rainwater onto her bonnet, which lost its shape and molded itself unpleasantly to her neck.

  “Cedric,” she called. “I need help. There’s a puppy!”

  She couldn’t turn her head far, because her arm was inside the hedge, but after a moment Cedric appeared in her line of sight. He had dismounted and was tying his reins to an overhanging bough. “A puppy,” he said with disgust. “You sound like a schoolgirl.”

  The little dog had begun snuffling her hand, and a floppy ear, as soft as cashmere, fell on Merry’s wrist. “We’re going to rescue you,” she promised, stroking the mounds of soft fur covering his middle. “How long have you been stuck here, poor baby?”

  “How is he trapped?” Cedric asked, making no attempt to help.

  She inched her hand forward until it reached a piece of cord tied around the puppy’s neck, caught so tightly that she couldn’t get even a single finger under it. It must be cutting viciously into his skin.

  “There’s a cord around his neck,” she said, giving the puppy another pat before removing her arm from the bush. “Can you try to break it, Cedric? I’m not strong enough.”

  Her drenched bonnet was funneling rainwater down her back and soaking her to the skin. Though her fingers were cold, she managed to undo its strings and toss it on top of the hedge. Its fashionable ruffled brim was ruined, and it looked like nothing so much as an old tea cloth.

  Cedric peered through the branches. The puppy had begun whimpering again.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” Merry said. “I won’t leave you. We are going to save you.” She could see one trustful brown eye looking up at her. It was rather bulging, but in an adorable way.

  “He must have run under the hedge to get out of the rain,” she said, turning to Cedric. “And now he’s caught fast. Can you break him free?”

  “Not if there’s a cord around his neck,” Cedric said. “I’d probably strangle him. We shall inform the parish constable and he will send someone with a knife. Come along. I’ll pay the man to make sure he finds a home for the animal afterward.”

  “Oh, Cedric, we can’t leave him!” Merry cried.

  Her fiancé’s mouth tightened and she remembered—again—that she was to address him as Lord Cedric out of doors. “Of course we can,” he said, straightening. “It’s about to start raining again, and there’s nothing we can do for the animal.” Another whimper came from inside the hedge. “We are merely prolonging his agony.”

  “I’ll stay, and you go,” Merry said, turning her head as a horse came into sight, galloping toward them. “Or perhaps we can send whoever this is to get help. It’s probably another groom exercising a horse.”

  Lord knew, no one other than a groom would dare to take his horse above a trot, what with all those rules that Cedric had laid out for her about not galloping in Hyde Park and never, ever putting a horse on a lead line.

  She said none of this aloud, though, because she was practicing prudence and restraint.

  “If you insist, we will instruct the groom to remain with the animal until the constable arrives.”

  “No, I will stay here until he’s free.” She reached into the hedge again and caught up one of the puppy’s ears.

  “I must ask you not to squat on the common roadside,” Cedric said stiffly. “I could not leave you here unprotected.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Merry cried, exasperated. “What harm could possibly come to me in broad daylight?” A warm tongue licked her hand again. “Oh, you are a sweetheart, aren’t you?” she breathed. “You’ll be out of there in no time and I’ll ask Cook to give you some scraps of beef. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  The horse and rider were still pounding down the path toward them. Merry tried again to get a finger under the cord, but it must have hurt as the puppy uttered a little yip.

  “Lord Cedric!” she called, “Do you see anything sharp we could cut the cord with? Perhaps a rock?”

  “A rock?” her fiancé answered, managing to sound bored and irate at the same time—quite a feat, though his accent was a great help. Merry had observed that an aristocratic accent lent itself to expressions of irritability.

  “Thrashing about in the sand is ruining your skirts,” Cedric added. “Get up.”

  “If I let go, he’ll begin crying again,” Merry replied, her voice becoming a bit sharp despite herself.

  Cedric looked over her head. “Well, well, what a surprise. It seems it wasn’t a groom riding in such a reckless fashion.”

  She heard the thud of boots hitting the sandy path as the rider dismounted, though she couldn’t turn her head far enough to see him and still keep her hand on the puppy. “Could whoever just arrived please fetch a constable so we can cut this poor animal free?” she called.

  “It’s the duke,” her fiancé said acidly. “Did I neglect to mention that His Grace is once again honoring London with his presence? Who else would be galloping such an ungodly large horse?”

  Merry twisted about and looked up.

  The Duke of Trent was walking toward her, tall and imposing, his inky blue eyes on her face. In that instant, her stomach tightened and her heart thudded . . . and then she remembered.

  Brother-in-law.

  Brother-in-law.

  Chapter Eight

  Trent was getting some exercise after a brutal week on the road from Wales, when he spied the unmistakable figure of his brother in the middle distance.

  That was surprising, considering that Cedric had been drunk as a wheelbarrow when he arrived home the night before. Even more surprising, Cedric was leaning against his horse, looking down at a woman who was crumpled on the ground next to him.

  He pulled up, dismounted, and approached the pair, his gut tightening as he recognized that the woman on the ground was Merry. She was not crumpled after all, but kneeling with her back to him, with one arm thrust into the hedgerow.

  As he approached, she made no move to stand, or even withdraw her arm from the hedge but she twisted around and looked up. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  He was mesmerized by the sight. Merry’s hair was curling in the damp as if it had a life of its own, springing free from whatever pins she had put in it that morning. She wore a tight—and wet—riding habit, with buttons that ran down the front in a way that emphasized her magnificent chest.

  Her face, like her coat, was streaked with rain and her lips were wet. He was struck by a violent urge to bend over and pick her up. He would bury his hands in that glossy hair and kiss her senseless. Kiss her until her cheeks were pink and her lips were warm.

  Lust rolled over him like fog coming in from the ocean.

  He swallowed a curse and flexed his hands. These bouts of lust were remarkably inconvenient.

  Belatedly, Cedric’s voice penetrated the fog of desire. “You’re kneeling in the dirt like a chambermaid lighting a fire. Get up!”

  Without thinking, Trent snarled, “Do not speak to her in that manner.”

  Cedric’s eyes narrowed. “You are giving me lessons in comportment?”

  “Gentlemen!” Merry called. “I’d be grateful if you could save your bickering for later.”

  Trent dropped into a crouch beside her. “What is inside that hedge, Miss Pelford?”

  She withdrew her arm and held the brushes back so he could peer inside. “A puppy with a cord around his neck. Whenever I stop petting him, he pulls and I’m afraid that he’s going to strangle himself.”

  Trent reached into the tangle of bushes and after some maneuvering, managed to find the puppy’s neck. “Bulldog, I would say.” And then, a heartfelt “Damn, that’s wet,” as the hedge dropped a load of cold water over him.

  “I suggest we leave,” Cedric said in a clipped tone, “and send a constable who will cut the animal from his bond
s. He could have been freed by now,” he said to Merry.

  The household servants quavered with fear in the face of Cedric’s reprimands, but Merry seemed unmoved by his displeasure.

  “Please, could one of you fetch some help? I shall remain here.” She added the last firmly, without the slightest contrition in her voice.

  “I can’t wrench the cord free without injuring him,” Trent said, straightening. “But I’ve got a knife.” He went to his horse. Like any man who spent most of his time in the country, he kept a knife sheath mounted on his saddle. He undid the flap and pulled out his blade, listening to Cedric and Merry squabble over what to do with the dog.

  Leaving them to it, he crouched down again and began to work on cutting the cord where it was caught in the bramble.

  Cedric and Merry’s exchange was building into a proper row. He could have told her that it wasn’t worth the energy; his twin had the endurance of Hercules when it came to arguments. At the moment, Cedric was characterizing Merry as “an uncaring foe to all animals,” because she had refused to leave the dog.

  The cord gave way at last, and Trent got a good grip on the wriggling puppy and hauled him, wet but otherwise unharmed, out of his leafy prison.

  Merry uttered an enchanting squeak of delight.

  “You did it!” She reached out and took the puppy, bringing his face up to hers. “He’s the most darling dog I’ve ever seen!”

  The pup resembled a bulldog, given his snub nose and loose, rumpled skin. But there might be a few other breeds mixed in as well. His coat was longer and wirier than a bulldog’s; perhaps he had some terrier in his family tree.

  “Look at that tail,” Cedric said with disgust. “It’s curled like a piglet’s.”

  “Just look at his face!” Merry cried. “Half of it is white and the other brown. Well, brown-black. And he has a patch over one eye! Isn’t he adorable?”

  In the Portmeadow ballroom, on the night they’d met, he had found Merry beautiful. But seeing her now, her hair falling to her shoulders, her riding habit plastered to her breasts . . .

  She made Trent feel a little insane.