An American Duchess. Sharon Page
gut without complaint. Sweat poured off his brow, leaking like a stream of salt into his eyes. Ragged breaths tore at his chest.
He didn’t lift his fists.
He couldn’t. He had fought hand to hand, when rifles had jammed, when pistols had been spent. Once, with a twist of his arm, he had broken a man’s neck. He knew how easy it was to kill—
He didn’t dare hit his brother again.
Sebastian’s fist slammed into the right side of his face, twisting him around. Nigel spat blood. It landed just in front of a dainty, silvery-white satin shoe.
“Is this what brothers do in this civilized country? Beat each other senseless beneath portraits of their ancestors?”
“Zoe!” Panic in his green eyes, Sebastian lowered his fists. He jerked out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood, then chased after his fiancée, who had spun on her heel and was swiftly retreating across the floor.
His brother’s foot hit the precious ’04 and sent it rolling across the parquet, spilling wine.
Gushing and dark red, it made for a sickening sight. Nigel’s hand shook. As if he were controlled by strings, his arm started to tremble, then his shoulders and his back.
His brother had to marry—it was the only way to avoid scandal. But right now all he could see was red.
* * *
“Who in blazes did this?”
“Weren’t me. I don’t ’ave a sweetheart. My money’s on Lord Sebastian.”
Zoe got out of bed and pushed open the drapes to see what was happening under her bedroom window. She stared down, unable to breathe. A stocky, gray-haired gardener and a young, fair-haired one stared at the lawn. On it, hundreds of petals spelled out the message: I adore you.
“Bleeding ’eck,” the older gardener grumbled. “’Alf the flowers in the greenhouses must have been be’eaded. The dowager will want someone’s ’ead. And it’ll be one o’ ours. Not ’is.”
Zoe let the drapes fall back and paced in her room. This was carrying the ruse too far. She would go and tell Sebastian, except he’d warned her he rarely woke before noon. She’d intended to tell him last night, until she had seen the duke and him knocking each other about.
A knock sounded at the door, and then her maid, Callie, who had arrived in the evening, hurried in carrying a silver tray on which sat a pot of tea and a plate of what appeared to be plain toast. “They gave me this tray to bring up to you. Your mama said to keep your breakfasts small.”
Zoe rolled her eyes. Mother had instructed her to maintain a dainty appetite. If Mother had her way, she would be measured every morning to ensure she was maintaining a sufficiently svelte figure. It wasn’t necessary. Eating was not an occupation that kept you busy. When you chewed, you had too much time to think.
“Do you want me to open your window, miss?” Callie went to the window, opened the drapes and stopped dead. “Ooh, miss, how romantic! He’s so very much in love with you—” Callie broke off. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s not my place to say such things.”
“It’s all right, Callie.” Zoe sat on her bed. Sebastian didn’t have to make gestures like these to fool his family...
But what if it wasn’t just to con his family?
Father had told her to look for an angle when a man was too smooth. Father had wanted to protect her of course, but his words had hurt. Was there any man who would overlook her trust fund and see her?
Even with Richmond, she hadn’t been sure. She’d never told him where she’d come from. Men might claim they would love you even if you had grown up barefoot in a dirt-floor shack, but she’d never wanted to put one to the test.
Could Sebastian be falling in love with her?
She didn’t want love anymore. She’d told Langford she wanted to live—that she had an obligation to do it, and she believed she did. She just didn’t want to risk her heart ever again.
“I must get dressed, Callie.”
In the drawing room Julia had approached her and whispered, “I can go riding in the morning, before my meeting. Please say you will. I should like to give you a tour of Brideswell.”
* * *
Nigel sat at the head of the dining table, a cup of coffee in his hand. A newssheet was propped in front of him so he could hide his bruises behind it.
Last night it had taken a long time to gain control over his body and the strange ways it betrayed him: the trembling and sweating. The raw, nonsensical panic. The nightmares.
Maybe he was weak and mad, because why else was he such a physical wreck? But he would be damned if anyone else would know about it. Nigel knew what happened to men who were diagnosed with shell shock. The hell that was inflicted on them to “cure” them.
Heels clicked on the stone tiles of the hall outside the door, a hint of exotic perfume assailed him and he had just pushed to his feet when Zoe Gifford strode into the dining room, lit by sunlight pouring in the two-story windows.
She was wearing trousers. Beige trousers, tall leather boots and a trim-fitting leather jacket that nipped into her waist and swelled out around her bosom.
Miss Gifford was not fashionably flat-chested.
But he should not be looking at her curves. “Good morning, Miss Gifford,” he grunted. He intended to skirt around her and escape. He assumed she had as little desire to speak to him as he did with her.
She stood in his path, hand on her hip, barring his way while his coffee cup burned against his palm.
“You will soon learn that your brother denuded half the flowers in your greenhouses, Your Grace,” she said, in her firm, husky American voice. “The gardeners had nothing to do with it. They’d better not be punished. I won’t stand for men being wrongfully abused, simply because one group of people considers them to be of a lower class.”
Could they not spend a moment together without an argument ensuing? He had not even finished his coffee. “I assure you, I do not punish either blindly or unjustly—” Then her words filtered in. “For what purpose did my brother do this?”
“Something pretty foolish,” she began. Then she peered at his face, a gesture that made him step back and twist away from her. “You have a stunning set of bruises, Your Grace.”
“And you are dressed like...like a gardener.”
“I often wear trousers when I’m tinkering with an airplane engine. Or riding.”
He had started to walk away, but he found his steps slowing. Last night, she’d been glossy and beautiful, with scarlet lips and a glimmering silver dress. “You tinker with aeroplane engines? In the grease and oil?”
“That’s what an engine requires to run smoothly.”
He frowned. “Isn’t that what mechanics are for?”
She walked with smooth, confident strides to the buffet and picked up a plate. Taking the silver lid off the eggs, she glanced at him. “I like to know how my plane is going to perform when I’m betting my life on her. Have you never fiddled with an engine?”
He wouldn’t know where to begin. That was why they had chauffeurs. In houses where they had electrical generators, a man was employed full-time to wrangle with the contraptions. Yet now Nigel hated admitting he did not tinker. “No,” he said abruptly. He had cursed any number of seized machine guns and bogged-down tanks, but he had not the skill to deal with the blasted things.
Miss Gifford bent to spear a sausage, and her trousers pulled snugly against her derriere.
Nigel was equally speared with an image of how she would look, bent over an engine, her heart-shaped bottom the only thing visible beneath the hood.