Read Online My American Duchess by Eloisa James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eloisa James
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image of their mother smiling lovingly at her sweet little boys. The poor duchess had likely found herself in the midst of a pitched battle from the moment they spoke their first words.
The problem was that they were both stubborn, willful, and English. There was something to being English, she was discovering, just as there was something to being American.
She understood the inherent character traits of Americans: they were open-minded, ambitious, independent, and brave—sometimes to the point of foolhardiness.
The British, however? Perhaps it was a hallmark of their nationality that these two men were so stubborn that they could choke on it.
Feeling a wave of exhaustion, she tucked her hand into the crook of Cedric’s arm. “I’d like to go home, please. Aunt Bess mentioned that you would accompany us, because the axle on your carriage is broken, isn’t that it?”
If she hadn’t been looking straight at Cedric, she wouldn’t have seen his eyes fly to his brother’s and then look down. “Something like that,” he murmured.
“Miss Pelford,” His Grace said, and swept her a magnificent bow.
“Your ring,” Merry said, and held it out to him.
“Oh for God’s sake, just keep it,” her fiancé said sharply.
“This is the future duchess’s ring,” Merry stated. “While I appreciate the sentiment with which you chose it for me, Lord Cedric, I cannot wear a ring that will, by rights, belong to my sister-in-law.”
“I am giving it to you, Miss Pelford,” the duke said. “You are in love with my brother. It will serve as my wedding present.”
“No, thank you,” she said. Proving that an American could be as stubborn as any Englishman, she held out the ring once again.
“We could sell it,” Cedric put in—most unhelpfully, she thought.
The duke muttered something under his breath and accepted it back.
Merry just wanted to go home. A part of her wanted to go all the way home to Boston, where brothers didn’t growl at each other like bears sharing a too-small cave.
Lady Portmeadow appeared. “My butler will be calling the supper dance in a few minutes!” she said brightly. “May I say that it has been such a pleasure to see the three of you chatting so cheerfully? I know that my dear friend the late duchess would have been very happy.” She beamed at Merry. “Our sex serves as nature’s peacemakers, don’t you agree?”
Her ladyship hauled the duke away before His Grace could express his opinion about Merry’s peacemaking abilities, though not before he threw her a glance that reminded her it had not been his choice to sup with Miss Portmeadow.
“We need a drink,” Cedric said, breaking the silence. “I always need a drink after spending more than five minutes with my brother. Though I must say, you did quite well with him. I thought I’d find the two of you at each other’s throats.”
“Why?” she asked, startled. “Surely you don’t believe me capable of such incivility.”
“The duke despises Americans. Told you that before. Oddly enough, I got the impression he actually likes you. I’ll fetch you a glass of wine from the library.”
“I’d rather go home.” She’d had enough of the ball, the betrothal, and all these exhaustingly fraught exchanges.
“One more drink,” Cedric insisted, taking her by the wrist and drawing her toward the door. “I couldn’t possibly face the ride to Portman Square in a closed carriage with your aunt without first cushioning the blow.”
Merry had felt worry before; when, for example, she’d come to see that life with Bertie would mean watching her husband hack his way through forty or fifty duels, if he even survived to his third decade. Later, she’d fretted over the depth of Dermot’s attachment to money—and the depth of his enthusiasm for spending hers.
But it was not until this moment, hearing her fiancé refer scornfully to the person she loved most in the world—the person who had raised her, and had sacrificed
The problem was that they were both stubborn, willful, and English. There was something to being English, she was discovering, just as there was something to being American.
She understood the inherent character traits of Americans: they were open-minded, ambitious, independent, and brave—sometimes to the point of foolhardiness.
The British, however? Perhaps it was a hallmark of their nationality that these two men were so stubborn that they could choke on it.
Feeling a wave of exhaustion, she tucked her hand into the crook of Cedric’s arm. “I’d like to go home, please. Aunt Bess mentioned that you would accompany us, because the axle on your carriage is broken, isn’t that it?”
If she hadn’t been looking straight at Cedric, she wouldn’t have seen his eyes fly to his brother’s and then look down. “Something like that,” he murmured.
“Miss Pelford,” His Grace said, and swept her a magnificent bow.
“Your ring,” Merry said, and held it out to him.
“Oh for God’s sake, just keep it,” her fiancé said sharply.
“This is the future duchess’s ring,” Merry stated. “While I appreciate the sentiment with which you chose it for me, Lord Cedric, I cannot wear a ring that will, by rights, belong to my sister-in-law.”
“I am giving it to you, Miss Pelford,” the duke said. “You are in love with my brother. It will serve as my wedding present.”
“No, thank you,” she said. Proving that an American could be as stubborn as any Englishman, she held out the ring once again.
“We could sell it,” Cedric put in—most unhelpfully, she thought.
The duke muttered something under his breath and accepted it back.
Merry just wanted to go home. A part of her wanted to go all the way home to Boston, where brothers didn’t growl at each other like bears sharing a too-small cave.
Lady Portmeadow appeared. “My butler will be calling the supper dance in a few minutes!” she said brightly. “May I say that it has been such a pleasure to see the three of you chatting so cheerfully? I know that my dear friend the late duchess would have been very happy.” She beamed at Merry. “Our sex serves as nature’s peacemakers, don’t you agree?”
Her ladyship hauled the duke away before His Grace could express his opinion about Merry’s peacemaking abilities, though not before he threw her a glance that reminded her it had not been his choice to sup with Miss Portmeadow.
“We need a drink,” Cedric said, breaking the silence. “I always need a drink after spending more than five minutes with my brother. Though I must say, you did quite well with him. I thought I’d find the two of you at each other’s throats.”
“Why?” she asked, startled. “Surely you don’t believe me capable of such incivility.”
“The duke despises Americans. Told you that before. Oddly enough, I got the impression he actually likes you. I’ll fetch you a glass of wine from the library.”
“I’d rather go home.” She’d had enough of the ball, the betrothal, and all these exhaustingly fraught exchanges.
“One more drink,” Cedric insisted, taking her by the wrist and drawing her toward the door. “I couldn’t possibly face the ride to Portman Square in a closed carriage with your aunt without first cushioning the blow.”
Merry had felt worry before; when, for example, she’d come to see that life with Bertie would mean watching her husband hack his way through forty or fifty duels, if he even survived to his third decade. Later, she’d fretted over the depth of Dermot’s attachment to money—and the depth of his enthusiasm for spending hers.
But it was not until this moment, hearing her fiancé refer scornfully to the person she loved most in the world—the person who had raised her, and had sacrificed
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