going to make much of a scandal, Your Grace,” she stated. “In America, it is said that over fifteen percent of marriages now end in divorce, as people choose to find happiness rather than endure in misery.”
“Our mother is a Catholic,” he said. “This goes against her faith. She is already gravely weakened by our father’s death, the War and losing William after that. The scandal would destroy her.”
This was why he’d said nothing to his family. Zoe’s stomach dropped away. “Who is William?” Her older brother’s name had been William. They always called him Billy.
“He was my youngest brother. The Spanish flu epidemic claimed him, after the War.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
The duke’s expression remained hard, as if carved of granite. But was it not because he felt no emotion, but because he was fighting to keep his feelings contained?
She was really sorry. Sorry for him, for his lost brother, his grieving mother.
His blue gaze bored into her. “You see, what you propose to do is not so harmless after all. Perhaps it is time you thought of more than yourself, Miss Gifford.”
“It might surprise you, but I am. I am sorry you lost your brother. I know what that’s like. But I know we also have to go on living. That’s what I intend to do. Grasp life and live it as much as I can, so I can do his living for him as well as mine. I think we have an obligation to do so.”
The duke glared at her. “Live how you please, but do not tell them of the arrangement tonight,” he said. Then his fingers released her wrist. He walked away from her, just as he had on the road, but this time he did not look back, and he left her all by herself in the cavernous dining room.
THE JAZZ CLUB
From the arched stone doorway of the wine cellar, Nigel watched as Sebastian jauntily drew out a bottle of Château Cheval Blanc and tossed it from hand to hand.
“What in hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded.
Sebastian spun on his heel. A smug grin spread over his face. “Courting.”
“No. You are not.”
A guffaw met that. Sebastian scooped up two crystal goblets he had left on the floor and whistled his way to the cellar steps, where Nigel barred his way with an outstretched leg.
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Hell, you should be helping me, Nigel. If I can woo Miss Gifford, we won’t divorce, thus the family will be spared the scandal and notoriety. I’ve arranged to meet her in the gallery at midnight. What woman can resist an ’04 Bordeaux and a suitor who praises her beauty to the stars?”
“Miss Gifford, I expect. I saw her face when you proposed. This game ends now, Sebastian. I have devised a solution.”
“I’m supposed to drop to my knees and supplicate before you, oh great duke?”
Nigel glared. “I am adopting an American business strategy: making you a counteroffer.”
“You want to marry me? It’s illegal and you don’t come with a trust fund.”
Nigel gripped the doorway so hard he was amazed he didn’t break off stone. “I will find a bride who comes with a substantial dowry. Once Brideswell is taken care of and Julia’s dowry restored, you will receive an allowance. You can continue your dissolute London lifestyle, drinking and gaming. For Mother’s sake, I’ll keep you happy.”
God, he hated this. He had vowed not to marry. Now he had no damned choice.
Sebastian prodded him in the chest with the bottle. “But on a short leash. Even if you could snag an heiress, I would have to refuse your proposal.”
Nigel grabbed the bottle out of his brother’s hand. He felt the dull throb in the back of his skull. Sometimes the pain started this way: building slowly until it exploded. Other times it hit him like a bursting shell. “You have a duty and an obligation to this family—”
“For once, I am putting this family before my personal desires, Langy. I need a way out of trouble, and marriage is it.”
“What kind of trouble?” he asked slowly.
“The sort of trouble that gets a man dunked in fountains at Oxford by mobs of brawny, drunken louts. But I suppose you don’t want to talk about it. No one in this family speaks openly of anything. No one does in any family of the bloody British aristocracy. That’s what we do—adopt a stiff upper lip, pretend there is no rot in the foundations and carry on. But I can no longer do that. There are rumors, and I don’t want to be rumored into a prison sentence. If I produce a lovely, rich bride and eventually an heir, I can sweep the gossip away. You’re bloody worried about a scandal? The family will have a hell of a bigger one if I don’t wed.”
He had never understood Sebastian—not because his brother was drawn to men, but because Sebastian had been filled with a burning rage all his life. Underneath the charm, he was a powder keg that often exploded. He looked for trouble, just like their father had.
“Sebastian,” he began, but his brother jumped neatly over his leg, snatched the Château Cheval Blanc out of his hand and vaulted up the stairs.
Nigel stalked after Sebastian, down the corridor and through the green baize door that separated the servants’ part of the house from the family’s living areas.
He caught Sebastian in the gallery. Lit lamps bathed the length in a golden glow that shone on three hundred years of Hazelton ancestral portraits in heavy gilt frames. Rain slammed against the windows.
He grabbed his brother’s shoulder and hauled him around. “The answer to your problem is not a marriage where the woman has no idea what she’s getting into, Sebastian. I won’t let you woo this woman under false pretenses.” He knew his brother was bitter and in pain, but that was no excuse to hurt Miss Gifford.
Sticking a screw into the cork, Sebastian shrugged. “I need to marry her. You aren’t going to stop me, brother. Short of marrying her yourself.”
“I could marry her myself,” he said, without emotion.
His brother’s blond brows shot up. The cork came free with a pop. “She doesn’t want your blasted title, Langy, which is all you have to offer.”
Even before his brother’s insult, he’d dismissed the idea. But he hated that nickname. “This woman is too clever to be fooled. Once she knows she’s been duped, she won’t meekly remain your wife. And you can’t imagine she’ll be discreet. Every sordid detail of your life will be paraded by the muckraking press.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Sebastian poured two glasses of wine and set them on the floor. “I can fool her. My blessing and my curse is that women tend to fall in love with me. It’s the irony of my life—a smile, some sweet words, my full and devoted attention, and women swoon. Zoe will be as easily convinced as the rest of them. Though it may take some time with her, as she just lost her fiancé in an aeroplane crash—”
“What? What in the bloody hell did you just say?” Icy coldness shot through Nigel’s body.
“That’s what precipitated the whole scheme. She needed to marry, but could not face the idea of finding a husband while her heart was broken by the loss of her fiancé. I proposed a marriage of convenience. She took me up on the offer. Obviously, this wooing business will be a slow one.” Sebastian drained half his wine and refilled the glass.
“Her heart was broken,” Nigel repeated.
“I guess it was. But she’ll get over it—”
“Julia is mourning a lost fiancé.” Everything seemed strangely, eerily still. He remembered moments like this on the front. As if everything had stopped, and