a battle—a clash between the old ways and modernity. He wore full dress for dinner, which meant a tailcoat, white waistcoat and white tie. Sebastian usually appeared for dinner in the style of the Prince of Wales: a tuxedo jacket, once considered too vulgar for female sensibilities, and a black tie...and he slouched around with his hands stuck in his pockets.
Sebastian would look effortlessly elegant and laugh at his brother for being overdressed.
“A relic of an antique age,” Nigel muttered.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Higgins assured him. “Such classic attire is always correct.”
Since Higgins had been his father’s valet, and now approached eighty, Nigel merely said, “That will be all, Higgins.”
With a bow and another respectfully murmured “Very good,” Higgins disappeared through a connecting door like a shadow into darkness. Nigel ran his hand over his now-smooth jaw, having been shaved within an inch of his life in preparation for dinner.
He believed in formality. He believed in the old ways, the old standards, in showing respect to one’s class and position.
But facing the mirror, he had no doubt Miss Gifford thought like Sebastian, considering the fashionable hat crammed on her short, sleek blond hair, the bright red mouth that smirked at him, the astoundingly short skirt she wore. When she’d swung her leg over the wall, the skimpy skirt had flown up, showing the entire length of her shapely legs, right up to the garters securing her stockings at her suntanned thighs.
He’d done the gentlemanly thing and looked away—at everything but those stunning legs. As a result, he’d jerked on Beelzebub’s reins and almost unseated himself.
He had almost embarrassed himself again when she’d stretched like a seductive houri and he’d stumbled and almost fallen against her vibrant, scarlet-painted mouth.
It had been a misstep, not an attempt at a kiss. With his scars, he wouldn’t think to kiss any woman.
“I should have known I would find you skulking in here,” chided a soft female voice, “when you should be in the drawing room.”
No American accent flattened the words and drew out the vowels, and he smelled the subdued scent of ladylike lavender. Not Miss Gifford. Nigel knew it was Julia, even before he saw his sister’s reflection in the mirror.
“I am not skulking, I am dressing.” He turned, and his eyes almost popped out of his head.
Julia had his silver cigarette case open in her hand. She took out a Turkish cigarette and put it between her lips.
“What are you doing?” He stalked toward her.
His sister picked up his lighter. “Attempting to smoke. Miss Gifford does it. She claims that smoking calms nerves. She also claims it keeps a woman thi—”
He relieved Julia of her unlit cigarette, plucking it from her lips. “Smoking is a man’s habit. A lit gasper has no place near a delicate lady’s mouth.”
“Really, Nigel?” Julia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “So? What do you think of her?”
Julia was never so direct or blunt. Nor had she ever considered raiding his cigarette case before. Good God, were American ways contagious?
At least their manner of dress was not. His sister wore a demure gown of dark blue silk and it reached the middle of her calves. Her hair was long and rolled into a chignon. She was very like their mother, though her hair was jet-black, not gold, but she was just as beautiful with her oval face, her curling dark lashes and her wide pale pink mouth that she never touched with paint.
“Since you have seen her, I don’t think I need to say more.”
“Nigel, you can be hopelessly stuffy.” Julia sighed and walked to the windows of his dressing room, pulling back the faded velvet curtains.
He followed. The rain had blown in hard. It ran down the windowpanes, turning the world beyond into a blurry palette of subdued color. Sheets of it sliced through the dark skies and slammed into the stone terrace and the green lawns.
“I showed her and her mother to their rooms,” Julia said, arching a brow, “since you appeared to have abandoned them.”
“I instructed Mrs. Hall to take her and her mother to their apartments. It is customary for the housekeeper to do so.” He frowned. “Sebastian is nowhere to be found, of course. I have no idea what to say to either of them. The mother was chattering on about the paintings and fixtures as they went upstairs—it sounded as if she were cataloging the contents of the house to auction them off. Miss Gifford finds me both prejudiced and irritating. However, she is determined to say things that both irritate me and prove my prejudice well-founded. The woman is Sebastian’s fiancée. He should be here to keep her entertained.”
He felt Julia’s stare and he turned to her.
His sister regarded him with an amused expression. “I thought you’d only spent a short time in her company, Nigel. It sounds as if you had a lot to discuss.”
“American women are not backward in coming forward.” He raked his hand through his hair. He couldn’t tell Julia the whole truth about this damnable, scandalous business. “She told me she proposed to him.”
“Nigel, women in America—”
“Are not ladylike.”
Julia laughed. And that was a rare treat these days. She was usually quiet, somber, troubled. He wished she would fall in love again. Yet he could not do his duty as head of the family and ensure she was presented to eligible men. Her dowry was quickly evaporating, along with the rest of the money.
“I thought she looked very ladylike,” Julia argued. “Even you can’t deny that she is very lovely.”
“Her skirts are too short. She paints her face. Her hair is cut like a boy’s.”
“It is the fashion now, brother dear. It is called the Eton crop.”
“That’s because schoolboys have their hair cut that way. It’s hardly feminine.”
“I do love you, Nigel,” Julia said. “Miss Gifford has what the Americans call ‘it.’ You know—sex appeal.”
He did know what was meant by “it.” But the word sex on the lips of his sister brought a strangled cough from his chest. Nigel sputtered, unable to catch his breath. He had to stalk to the chest of drawers, where he’d set a glass of brandy, and down a mouthful before he could stop choking. Suddenly, he saw what Miss Gifford was already bringing into his household.
The bloody modern world.
He didn’t want it here.
He’d come back from war to find that, while he spent four years in mucky trenches, the world had changed—it was as if he’d stood still while the planet had revolved around him at top speed. There had been too much change, enough to upheave the world. At his home, at Brideswell, he’d planned to ensure change never breached the ancient walls.
Instead it had slithered in wearing an abbreviated skirt and scarlet lips and carried with it an absolute fortune.
“Julia, you cannot speak like that. You are an—” Another sharp cough. He had been about to say “unmarried woman.” What in God’s name was he thinking, to remind her of how much she’d lost?
“So you still disapprove of the marriage?” Before he could answer, she added quickly, “The thing is, Nigel, I think I disapprove. I think this is wrong. You know what...what Mother was like. How terribly unhappy she was with Father.”
Here, Julia wasn’t being blunt. She was being careful with her words, but he knew how miserable their mother had been because of their father’s infidelities.
“I like Miss Gifford,” Julia rushed on, almost defiantly. “I think I will like her even more as I grow to know her better. I don’t want to see her