story?” She was surprised. Cedric was interested in objets d’art, jewelry, and fashion, but His Grace didn’t seem to be that sort of man. She’d assume him to be an expert about horses, politics, science . . . things of that nature.
“Our father gave a diamond ring to our mother, and so he liked to tell the story of the first such token.”
Merry felt her lips curl into a genuine smile. “You see how romantic Cedric is? He must have bought me this ring because your father did the same for your mother. My mother died when I was born, but . . .” She trailed off.
“But?” The duke shot her a look.
“My father buried my mother with her wedding ring. He told me that she was so happy on their wedding day that he knew she would haunt him if he took it away from her, even to give it to me.”
His Grace said nothing, so Merry gave him a crooked grin. “Theirs was a love match, you see. A mésalliance.”
“How so?”
“Oh, my mother was from a respectable English family, visiting her cousins in Boston when she met my father. His ambitions were not small, but he wasn’t wealthy when they wed.”
The duke’s eyes were intent on her face, making her heart skip a beat.
“I would guess that your father became highly successful,” he observed.
“He was a member of our Constitutional Congress.” Merry raised her chin, as proud of her father as she was of her country’s fledgling republic, where there was no House of Lords, and no one was born into power.
“If he was anything like you, I suspect he would have become president.”
Something about the duke was turning her into a woman she wouldn’t recognize. A dishonorable woman, who thought it would be a good idea to smile at her own fiancé’s brother.
Not just smile, but smile .
“I like to think so,” she said briskly. “Your Grace, it is nearly time for your dance with Miss Portmeadow. I haven’t seen your brother in some time, so I must find him.”
She tried to infuse her voice with adoration for Cedric but ended up sounding like a bleating goat.
The duke’s mouth tightened, then he said, “Of course. It is hard for lovers to be apart for long.”
There was definitely a rough edge to him. It was as if that Mohawk warrior had put on a coat and strode into a London ballroom. He didn’t belong amid all these polished gentlemen. Cedric was right about that, at least.
“Do you know,” the duke said conversationally, “that no one except yourself has gone head to head with me in years?”
She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. “Thatis all too apparent, Your Grace. Clearly, you have been shamefully cosseted. Your mother is likely to blame.”
His mother must have adored having little twin boys. Merry could just imagine what they had been like, with hair like shiny golden coins, blue, blue eyes, and sweet smiles.
To her surprise, the duke’s expression turned bleak. A footman came past, offering a tray with glasses of lemonade. Merry shook her head.
“You don’t care for lemonade?”
“No, thank you,” she said cautiously. Something had changed in the very air. His Grace looked as if he’d come to a conclusion—one that didn’t please him, but one to which he was grimly resigned.
“Your choice of beverage, canary wine, is not customary for English ladies, as I suspect you are aware.”
He was cooler, distant. She hadn’t realized his eyes were warm until they were . . . not.
“I find lemonade unsophisticated,” Merry said, managing a careless smile. “I prefer something stronger.”
“I wasn’t aware that Lady Portmeadow offered a choice.”
“She doesn’t. But Cedric brought me a special drink. He is most thoughtful.”
“‘A special drink,’” the duke echoed, his voice neutral.
She was starting to feel nettled. “Do Englishwomen restrict themselves to lemonade? Because my English governess unaccountably neglected to teach me that rule.”
“Am I to take it that American ladies drink
“Our father gave a diamond ring to our mother, and so he liked to tell the story of the first such token.”
Merry felt her lips curl into a genuine smile. “You see how romantic Cedric is? He must have bought me this ring because your father did the same for your mother. My mother died when I was born, but . . .” She trailed off.
“But?” The duke shot her a look.
“My father buried my mother with her wedding ring. He told me that she was so happy on their wedding day that he knew she would haunt him if he took it away from her, even to give it to me.”
His Grace said nothing, so Merry gave him a crooked grin. “Theirs was a love match, you see. A mésalliance.”
“How so?”
“Oh, my mother was from a respectable English family, visiting her cousins in Boston when she met my father. His ambitions were not small, but he wasn’t wealthy when they wed.”
The duke’s eyes were intent on her face, making her heart skip a beat.
“I would guess that your father became highly successful,” he observed.
“He was a member of our Constitutional Congress.” Merry raised her chin, as proud of her father as she was of her country’s fledgling republic, where there was no House of Lords, and no one was born into power.
“If he was anything like you, I suspect he would have become president.”
Something about the duke was turning her into a woman she wouldn’t recognize. A dishonorable woman, who thought it would be a good idea to smile at her own fiancé’s brother.
Not just smile, but smile .
“I like to think so,” she said briskly. “Your Grace, it is nearly time for your dance with Miss Portmeadow. I haven’t seen your brother in some time, so I must find him.”
She tried to infuse her voice with adoration for Cedric but ended up sounding like a bleating goat.
The duke’s mouth tightened, then he said, “Of course. It is hard for lovers to be apart for long.”
There was definitely a rough edge to him. It was as if that Mohawk warrior had put on a coat and strode into a London ballroom. He didn’t belong amid all these polished gentlemen. Cedric was right about that, at least.
“Do you know,” the duke said conversationally, “that no one except yourself has gone head to head with me in years?”
She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. “Thatis all too apparent, Your Grace. Clearly, you have been shamefully cosseted. Your mother is likely to blame.”
His mother must have adored having little twin boys. Merry could just imagine what they had been like, with hair like shiny golden coins, blue, blue eyes, and sweet smiles.
To her surprise, the duke’s expression turned bleak. A footman came past, offering a tray with glasses of lemonade. Merry shook her head.
“You don’t care for lemonade?”
“No, thank you,” she said cautiously. Something had changed in the very air. His Grace looked as if he’d come to a conclusion—one that didn’t please him, but one to which he was grimly resigned.
“Your choice of beverage, canary wine, is not customary for English ladies, as I suspect you are aware.”
He was cooler, distant. She hadn’t realized his eyes were warm until they were . . . not.
“I find lemonade unsophisticated,” Merry said, managing a careless smile. “I prefer something stronger.”
“I wasn’t aware that Lady Portmeadow offered a choice.”
“She doesn’t. But Cedric brought me a special drink. He is most thoughtful.”
“‘A special drink,’” the duke echoed, his voice neutral.
She was starting to feel nettled. “Do Englishwomen restrict themselves to lemonade? Because my English governess unaccountably neglected to teach me that rule.”
“Am I to take it that American ladies drink
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