My American Duchess by Eloisa James

her.
    “May I return your lemonade now?” he asked, a sardonic look in his eyes.
    The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was as impressed as everyone else. As a member of the peerage, His Grace was used to being fawned over. He would need some time to grow accustomed to a sister-in-law whotreated him as though he walked on the ground with the rest of humanity.
    Merry put her hands back on her hips, the better to show off her indifference to his title. “You don’t appear to be happy that I’m joining your family,” she observed.
    “I am not.”
    His voice was a growl.
    If Merry’s voice were capable of that register, she would have growled right back. He was making her a little nervous, so her breath felt tight in her chest and her voice was a near whisper. “You don’t feel your brother has made a suitable choice?”
    His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply.
    It had to be said. “I much enjoyed our earlier conversation, Your Grace. I should be sorry if you feel I am an inappropriate spouse for Lord Cedric in light of it. Let me assure you that I do not make a habit of conversing with strangers.”
    “You misunderstand me.” Something almost violent, a kind of controlled fury, colored his words and ran over Merry’s skin like the touch of his finger.
    “I am aware that you and your brother are not on good terms,” she observed, taking the bull by the horns.
    The duke was again silent.
    “I expect you underestimate him,” Merry suggested. “He does the same of you.”
    His jaw tightened. Perhaps the duke didn’t know that Cedric’s characterizations were so harsh. “I’ve noticed that siblings are often blind to each other’s best qualities,” she added hastily. “But surely you are aware that your brother is a very kind and thoughtful person.”
    The duke just stared at the floor for a long moment. Cedric was right; bitter jealousy had divided them. Whata shame. A drop of confusion slid down her back like icy water. The duke was so very different from Cedric’s description of him.
    But it was true that they were opposites. If Cedric dazzled, his brother was dark, and possibly dangerous.
    Well, that was overstating it.
    “I suppose that is possible,” the duke said finally, lifting his eyes to hers.
    “I was an only child, but I gather it is quite common. In time, you will come to recognize each other’s good qualities,” she said encouragingly. “Why, I expect you have no idea that Lord Cedric is deeply romantic.”
    A moment of silence followed. “You are right about my ignorance of that trait,” His Grace said.
    What did it say about her own character that she could scarcely recall why she had agreed to marry Cedric? At this very moment she was having trouble remembering to breathe properly; she found the duke’s glower absurdly thrilling.
    She wanted to make him laugh again. She wanted to lean forward and tempt him into looking at her breasts.
    She wanted . . .
    “I think I fell in love with him when he compared me to a summer’s day,” she cried, rushing into speech. “A summer’s day,” she repeated firmly. For some reason, it didn’t sound quite as romantic as it had when Cedric, kneeling at her feet, had first murmured it.
    Another silence. Then: “I certainly didn’t know my brother was capable of quoting Shakespeare,” His Grace drawled.
    Of course, Cedric had been quoting poetry. How stupid of her not to have recognized it. The English were forever trotting out a line or two of the Bard and then waiting for her to applaud. She was getting sick of the man’s name.
    “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’” the duke recited in a flat monotone. “‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’”
    His intonation made it clear that he found her neither lovely nor temperate, whatever that meant.
    “Cedric’s poetic nature makes it easy to understand why I fell in love with him so quickly!” The sentence came out in a chirping voice that didn’t