sound in the least believable.
“‘Cedric’?” His Grace repeated.
“We are not so ceremonious in America,” she said, defending her informality. “Indeed, as we will soon be family, you may address me as Merry, if you wish. Not Mary, as in Mary, Queen of Scots,” she added, “but Merry, as in Merry Christmas. My mother was a rebel.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“She was English, and Christmas was not well regarded in Boston when she first arrived,” Merry explained. “Observing an English holiday was considered rather inflammatory at that time. I never knew my mother, but my father told me that she wanted me to have a name that reminded her of home.”
“I gather she would have approved of you marrying an Englishman.”
Merry nodded. “I think so. It was one of the reasons that I—that I came here. Besides the reason I told you about, I mean.”
The duke had forgotten that the glass he held was actually hers, because before she could warn him, he took a swallow, then sputtered. “Bloody hell, what is this?”
“Canary wine,” Merry said hastily. “But I hadn’t yet tasted it, Your Grace. You may drink the rest.”
He put the glass down on the table. “You were telling me that you fell in love with my brother after he quoted some lines from Shakespeare.”
“I must confess that I didn’t recognize the quotation. Icould never bring myself to read poetry, let alone memorize it.”
“Shakespeare wrote that poem for a young man,” His Grace observed.
Merry wasn’t sure what to make of that. “My governess despaired of me,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I can’t make poetry stick in my head. I managed to memorize only a line or two, and those badly.”
“You, who have all those facts at your command, can’t remember more than two lines of poetry?”
“Not even that. ‘Ye little birds that sit and sing amidst the shady valleys . . .’ something, something . . . ‘Go pretty birds about her bower, sing pretty birds, she may not . . .’ something . . . followed by a lot of warbling.” She wrinkled her nose.
For a second, she saw a gleam of laughter in his eyes, but then it disappeared. “Yet Cedric’s use of poetry was persuasive. Were your other fiancés similarly literary?”
Merry was wrestling with herself, because it seemed that, contrary to her previous conviction, she did like muscular men, at least the one standing before her. The mere sight of the strong column of his throat as he drank had sent a shiver straight through her. She’d never felt that before—not with Bertie, nor Dermot, nor Cedric. She tried to banish the thought the moment it surfaced, but panic spread through her like black oil across a puddle.
What’s more, the duke was close enough that she could smell wintergreen soap again, and it was intoxicating.
Far more than Cedric’s musky cologne.
The evidence was inescapable. She truly was an awful person, fickle in every way. She was attracted to her fiancé’s brother, which probably broke some sort of ecclesiastical law.
She could control these disgusting urges. It was simply amatter of taking her marriage vows. After she and Cedric were wed, it would all be different.
Avoiding the question of literature—Bertie’s “red wagon” spoke for itself—she answered his real question. “As I mentioned on the balcony, I believed myself to be in love before, but it feels very, very different this time.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Do look at my betrothal ring,” she chirped, lifting her hand so that the diamonds caught fire from the chandelier. “Cedric— darling Cedric,” she amended, “chose it for me because he said I remind him of—well, of some duchess who was given a diamond ring by an archduke.”
The duke’s large hand lifted her small one toward the candlelight. For a moment they both stared at the sparkling cluster of diamonds she wore. “It was the Archduke Maximilian of Austria.”
“You know the
“‘Cedric’?” His Grace repeated.
“We are not so ceremonious in America,” she said, defending her informality. “Indeed, as we will soon be family, you may address me as Merry, if you wish. Not Mary, as in Mary, Queen of Scots,” she added, “but Merry, as in Merry Christmas. My mother was a rebel.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“She was English, and Christmas was not well regarded in Boston when she first arrived,” Merry explained. “Observing an English holiday was considered rather inflammatory at that time. I never knew my mother, but my father told me that she wanted me to have a name that reminded her of home.”
“I gather she would have approved of you marrying an Englishman.”
Merry nodded. “I think so. It was one of the reasons that I—that I came here. Besides the reason I told you about, I mean.”
The duke had forgotten that the glass he held was actually hers, because before she could warn him, he took a swallow, then sputtered. “Bloody hell, what is this?”
“Canary wine,” Merry said hastily. “But I hadn’t yet tasted it, Your Grace. You may drink the rest.”
He put the glass down on the table. “You were telling me that you fell in love with my brother after he quoted some lines from Shakespeare.”
“I must confess that I didn’t recognize the quotation. Icould never bring myself to read poetry, let alone memorize it.”
“Shakespeare wrote that poem for a young man,” His Grace observed.
Merry wasn’t sure what to make of that. “My governess despaired of me,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I can’t make poetry stick in my head. I managed to memorize only a line or two, and those badly.”
“You, who have all those facts at your command, can’t remember more than two lines of poetry?”
“Not even that. ‘Ye little birds that sit and sing amidst the shady valleys . . .’ something, something . . . ‘Go pretty birds about her bower, sing pretty birds, she may not . . .’ something . . . followed by a lot of warbling.” She wrinkled her nose.
For a second, she saw a gleam of laughter in his eyes, but then it disappeared. “Yet Cedric’s use of poetry was persuasive. Were your other fiancés similarly literary?”
Merry was wrestling with herself, because it seemed that, contrary to her previous conviction, she did like muscular men, at least the one standing before her. The mere sight of the strong column of his throat as he drank had sent a shiver straight through her. She’d never felt that before—not with Bertie, nor Dermot, nor Cedric. She tried to banish the thought the moment it surfaced, but panic spread through her like black oil across a puddle.
What’s more, the duke was close enough that she could smell wintergreen soap again, and it was intoxicating.
Far more than Cedric’s musky cologne.
The evidence was inescapable. She truly was an awful person, fickle in every way. She was attracted to her fiancé’s brother, which probably broke some sort of ecclesiastical law.
She could control these disgusting urges. It was simply amatter of taking her marriage vows. After she and Cedric were wed, it would all be different.
Avoiding the question of literature—Bertie’s “red wagon” spoke for itself—she answered his real question. “As I mentioned on the balcony, I believed myself to be in love before, but it feels very, very different this time.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Do look at my betrothal ring,” she chirped, lifting her hand so that the diamonds caught fire from the chandelier. “Cedric— darling Cedric,” she amended, “chose it for me because he said I remind him of—well, of some duchess who was given a diamond ring by an archduke.”
The duke’s large hand lifted her small one toward the candlelight. For a moment they both stared at the sparkling cluster of diamonds she wore. “It was the Archduke Maximilian of Austria.”
“You know the
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