My American Duchess (17 page)

“Buttons,” Merry repeated.

“Buttons should come as a surprise,” Cedric informed her. “The new ones are ebony with inlaid brass flowers. My
tailor swore on his mother’s grave that they are the only such buttons to be found in all England.”

Likely her uncle had paid for those buttons—or, even more likely, the new coat was bought on credit and waiting for their marriage before the bill was settled.

“Cedric, we
must
talk,” Merry insisted.

But her fiancé just pushed open the door to the hallway, where Jenkins was waiting.

“I am very proud to be marrying a woman whom all of London admires,” Cedric said, bowing.

“I didn’t mean to ruin Mrs. Bennett’s reputation!”

“Style, not sincerity, is all that matters.” And with that he brushed a kiss on her cheek, not seeming to notice when Merry recoiled.

Jenkins helped Cedric shrug on his close-fitting overcoat. With a flourish and another bow, her fiancé clapped on his hat and left.

Over the course of the morning, so many cards had arrived that the silver tray in the entry overflowed with them. Merry slipped back into the drawing room just as the door knocker sounded again.

It was quite ironic that Cedric had finally looked at her with the admiration she had hoped for . . . but for all the wrong reasons. Now, too late, he was apparently hers, for better, for worse—at least until she managed to break it off in person, or send him a letter to that effect.

Merry shook her head. Jilting Cedric was not a problem; God knows, she had experience in that.

The real problem was Mrs. Bennett. Merry sank into a chair, feeling truly ill. The thoughtfulness that is never mentioned in books of etiquette seemed to be as rare in London as pineapples—but that didn’t mean that she should have lowered herself to be as spiteful as Lady Caroline.

What must poor Mrs. Bennett be thinking? A wave of nausea came over Merry and she fought back tears.

Her father would be ashamed of her for more than one reason. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t fix the situation.

She had to make amends to Mrs. Bennett. Casting off Cedric could wait, but atoning for her rudeness could not.

Just paying a visit to the lady would do nothing. She had to make a public announcement of some sort, tonight, at the Vereker ball.

After which she would break her third engagement.

Lady Vereker’s ball

T
rent made up his mind to attend the Vereker ball for one reason, and one reason only: to find his own American to marry. His fascination with his brother’s fiancée was entirely inappropriate and must cease.

Naturally, the first person he saw upon his arrival was Cedric, holding court amid a cluster of gentlemen and ladies with sharp faces and predatory eyes, vultures who dressed impeccably and always seemed to be murmuring something at once clever and unpleasant.

In short, Cedric was in his element.

Trent headed in the opposite direction. It was slow going because ladies with eligible daughters in tow stopped him every few feet. Every one of those girls was dressed in
white; they looked like a crowd of vestal virgins who’d left their lamps at home. Their bodies blurred together, making their heads stand out.

Miss Chasticle with the red hair—God, no. Miss Petunia with the squint—unlikely. Lady Sissy Royal, with the snub nose—not even if hell froze over.

It had just occurred to him that he hadn’t met a single woman who was worthy of serious consideration—where were the American ladies this evening?—when Lady Caroline emerged from the pack with all the demureness of a hungry jackal.

Perhaps that pinched aspect of her face had nothing to do with him, and she was simply hungry. Her white gown had a low neck, which had the unfortunate effect of giving her collarbones a marked similarity to the ridges on the backs of sea monsters depicted on medieval maps.

Here be dragons
, he thought unenthusiastically.

“Duke!” Lady Caroline cried, with an archness that was acceptable, and a familiarity that was not. “It’s such a pleasure to see you a second night in a row. Dare we hope that you plan to assume your rightful place in society?”

Just in time, Trent bit back the
God, no
he was thinking. Rather than answer, he bowed and kissed the lady’s proffered hand, wondering what she would think if he told the truth: he’d come to the ball to find an American wife.

But even as he formulated the thought, he knew he was lying to himself.

He’d come to the ball to find one particular American, and no other woman of any nationality or attributes—no matter how pleasing—would do.

Hell and damnation.

Cedric already thought Trent had stolen the title that was rightfully his, and now he was going to steal his fiancée.

“I was so, so horrified at the affront you received last
night,” Lady Caroline said, lowering her voice and drawing closer. Her hair brushed against his cheek, each strand rigidly set in place, as if her curls had been starched. “Although I have been friendly with Mrs. Bennett in the past, naturally I revised my feelings the moment I saw how
you
were treated.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Such an extraordinary insult, to seat a duke at the bottom of the table! Thank goodness, you did not tolerate her disrespect. I recounted the event to my father upon returning home, and he agreed that we members of the peerage must insist on the rights and privileges to which we are entitled. I assure you that I have heard nothing but the most supportive remarks from all quarters.”

“I left only because I spilled wine on my garments,” Trent stated.

Lady Caroline twinkled at him. “Of course, Your Grace. You are the soul of discretion. But a disregard for precedence was not the only blunder at last night’s dinner. I suppose you have heard about the pineapple incident?”

Trent glanced over her head at the room. Not that he was searching for Merry. Oh hell, he was searching for Merry.

“I have not,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Caroline—”

She put a hand on his sleeve and drew close to him again. Trent felt a prickling in his shoulders that suggested a sizable portion of the ballroom was watching them closely. Tonight White’s betting book would include wagers in favor of Lady Caroline’s chances of becoming a duchess.

“Your future sister-in-law created quite a bother last night,” the lady whispered.

Trent froze. “Miss Pelford?”

“I would not have believed her to possess such refinement, but that just goes to show that one cannot judge on
appearances, as my sainted grandmother often reminded me before her death.”

Trent waited while Lady Caroline related some fool thing about a rented pineapple.

“Now everyone is gushing about Miss Pelford, repeating her clever remarks.” Her expression curdled a little. “For my part, I don’t think it appropriate for those of our station to makes jests about those who are lower in status.”

That didn’t sound like Merry.

“Miss Pelford apparently labeled Mrs. Bennett a ‘pineapple pariah.’ It is not precisely
kind
, you know, but there are those who seem to find the term amusing, and everyone is talking of it.” Lady Caroline hunched one thin shoulder with an expression of disdain.

“Have you seen Miss Pelford this evening?” he inquired. “I ought to greet her.”

“I last saw her around the lemon grove at the end of the ballroom,” the lady said with a sniff. “I am aware of the mania for hothouse plants, but Lady Vereker erred by bringing so many trees into the room. The ballroom’s size is insufficient.”

To Trent’s relief, a gentleman appeared at her side and bowed. “Lady Caroline, I believe this dance is mine.”

Trent disengaged himself from the hand clutching his arm, but before he could make an escape, she leaned in again and murmured something about the supper dance. Then she gave her dance partner a condescending smile and left before Trent could answer.

The forest of plumes waving above ladies’ heads prevented Trent from seeing whether Merry was still somewhere near the “lemon grove.” Worse, a stout lady immediately slipped into the space left by Lady Caroline and thrust her daughter forward as if the girl were a posy of white carnations peddled outside a music hall.

Trent managed to bow, even in the cramped space. In the back of his mind, he was evaluating Lady Caroline’s story.

Unless he was sorely mistaken about her character, Merry had no hidden capacity for viciousness. Even had she lost her temper, he’d wager that she wouldn’t stoop to insulting people. She’d probably fish up a fact or six to demonstrate why she was right.

The thought brought a wry grin to his lips and too late, he realized that the young Miss Randall-Barclay, to whom he had just been introduced, had taken the smile as encouragement. She started flapping her lashes as if she’d been caught in a high wind.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your remark.”

“I asked if you were enjoying the season?” she breathed. “It’s my first.”

It couldn’t be easy having your mother parade you in front of prospective husbands, and he liked the optimistic bravery in her smile.

“I haven’t any sisters,” he said, “but I understand that a lady’s first season is a taxing adventure.”

Her smile broadened. “I assure you that if you had been trapped in a schoolroom for fourteen years, you would have no complaints about going to balls, and eating ices.”

She would make a lovely wife for someone, just not for him. He was too . . . too ferocious. Strains of music sounded, and a flash of hope crossed her eyes.

“May I have the honor of this dance?” he asked.

Miss Randall-Barclay beamed and curtsied, and then he placed her among a long line of women standing opposite their dance partners, freeing him to go back to thinking about his American.

Merry would never come up with a spiteful term like “pineapple pariah.” If she were insulted, she would get ex
cited, and wave her hands about, and turn pink. She might utter a snappy retort. He’d bet she could be kissed out of a bad humor.

He was finally thinking clearly. Yes, there had been a chance that Merry would coax his brother into sobriety if she loved him. He’d bet his right arm that Merry did not love Cedric.

She might have thought she loved him, but she didn’t.

As the music drew to a close, he was reunited with Miss Randall-Barclay. Her yellow curls were bouncing on her shoulders and she was glowing with happiness.

She was pretty.

Merry wasn’t.

Merry was too intelligent, and too voluptuous, and too funny to be merely pretty.

Hell, he kept coming around to the same realization he’d first had on the balcony at Lady Portmeadow’s ball.

He didn’t want another woman to look at him the way Lady Caroline had. Or touch his arm.

He wanted Merry on his arm.

He wanted Merry in his bed.

Mrs. Randall-Barclay accepted her daughter back with the controlled triumph of a woman certain that her daughter would have a brilliant season, if only because the most elusive bachelor in London had shown every sign of interest.

Trent kissed both ladies’ hands and, determined not to be waylaid again, went in search of Merry. He made it to the bottom of the ballroom just in time to find the main actors in the previous night’s melodrama, Mrs. Bennett and Merry, coming face-to-face.

Last evening, Mrs. Bennett had had the self-confident attitude of a woman enjoying a social triumph. Tonight, she looked like a mouse who had been befriended by a playful cat.

Obviously, she was well aware of her new status as a pariah.

For her part, Merry cast him a harried look and sank into a curtsy in front of Mrs. Bennett before he could greet her.

“Mrs. Bennett,” she said, as she straightened, “Please allow me to apologize again for my gauche behavior in eating your centerpiece.”

“I don’t regard it,” Mrs. Bennett squeaked.

Trent groaned inwardly. The lady should either make a joke of the whole affair or defend herself; if she didn’t show spirit, she would indeed become an outcast.

“I promise you that you need not fear that I’ll consume your table decoration, if you are gracious enough to invite me to your house,” Merry said, trying again.

Mrs. Bennett murmured something without looking up. If she didn’t show some backbone, her invitations would dry up like a puddle in August.

“I imagine Lady Vereker is worried that I shall abscond with a lemon from these lovely trees,” Merry insisted, sticking it out, although her eyes had a desperate look. “She informed me that they were
rented
from the Chelsea Physic Garden.”

Mrs. Bennett’s mouth wavered into a smile, but at that moment Cedric stepped forward, brushing invisible lint from his brilliantly embroidered cuff.

Trent’s jaw clenched when he saw that his brother’s eyes were glassy. Cedric was drunk. Not entirely soused, but well on the way.

“Are we to begin renting apparel now?” Cedric drawled. “Perhaps there are those in this very room whose attire comes from another’s dressing room.”

Merry narrowed her eyes at her fiancé. “Your lordship, that is not an appropriate subject of conversation.”

“We already have a pineapple pariah.” Cedric paused just long enough to allow an appreciative titter of laughter to subside. “And now I, for one, begin to suspect that we may well discover there is a similarly invidious practice of leasing evening gowns. Bogus ball gowns, in short.”

“Lord Cedric!” Merry cried, as high color suffused Mrs. Bennett’s cheeks.

Cedric pulled out his quizzing glass and directed a hideously enlarged eye at the costumes around them, pausing for a moment on Mrs. Bennett’s ruffled hem.

To Trent’s mind, Merry looked like Venus in a rage. Her head was high, her eyes stormy, and every magnificent inch of her quivered with rage.

“Lord Cedric!” she snapped again.

No, shouted was more accurate.

Every head in the vicinity, including Trent’s, turned to see how Cedric would respond.

“Miss Pelford,” he acknowledged with a world-weary sigh, allowing his quizzing glass to fall. He looked for all the world as if he were a bishop whose homily she had interrupted.

“Wouldn’t you agree that it is more invidious to depend upon a woman to
pay
for your clothing than it would be to rent it?” she demanded.

The awful silence that followed was like the pause that follows a crack of thunder.

“After all, if you had rented that magnificent coat you are wearing, at least you would have paid some of your own money for it, rather than having to rely on my uncle to ensure your tailor was compensated.”

Dents appeared beside Cedric’s mouth.

“As a newcomer to London society,” Merry went on, seemingly without pausing for breath, “I did not under
stand that an unpaid-for pineapple could decorate a table. But I also had no idea that an entire wardrobe of unpaid-for clothing might be worn without disgrace. We do not have a high opinion of that sort of behavior in Boston, though I suppose it seemed good to you at the time.”

Cedric’s eyes shone with an arctic light but his mouth remained tightly closed. He gave Merry a furious, high-nosed stare, turned on his heel without a word, and left.

Trent glanced back at Merry to find a bleak look in her eyes. She had either just recognized that she was in need of a husband, or she had realized that her spirited exchange with Cedric would do nothing to resurrect Mrs. Bennett’s reputation.

He had every intention of solving her first problem and he could take a stab at the second. He stepped forward and bowed. “My dear Mrs. Bennett, good evening.” He consciously embellished his words with the rich, plummy tone of a duke of the realm.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Bennett whispered.

“I must apologize again for leaving your dinner so abruptly.” He hesitated, as if wondering whether to speak intimately, then lowered his voice just enough so that everyone in the vicinity could hear him. “A rather extraordinary realization drove me from your table.”

Merry nodded madly. “Oh, do tell us, Your Grace,” she trilled. “What was it?”

“I made up my mind to ask a lady for her hand in marriage,” Trent announced.

“Oh!” Mrs. Bennett yelped. “You did? That is, you are? A lady at my table?”

“When I realized the depth of my passion,” Trent said, “I could not remain at the dining table. I had to . . . to
muse
about my passion.”