wife.
Elizabeth still could not believe what was happening to her. All her life she’d not been allowed to make even the simplest decision, being reminded again and again that she was incapable of such a task. Now, though, she would be married, in charge of a vast house in England, directing servants, taking care of tenants, planning parties and balls and so many other things she couldn’t even fathom. This she was expected to do when even now her mother wouldn’t let her pick out the gown she would wear for tonight’s dinner with the Duke.
“Ruled with an iron fist, that one is,” she’d once over heard a maid say to another. The servants pitied her, even the lowest scullery maid would look at her with sorrow clear in her eyes. As many times as she’d been humiliated by her mother, this by far eclipsed them all.
“You look lovely,” Alva said from behind her. “I knew that blue would suit you.”
Indeed, the blue of her gown matched the color of her eyes. It might seem a wonderful coincidence unless one was present when her mother was picking out the fabric in France a year ago. It had taken nearly an hour, and Elizabeth had sat there, back straight, hands folded on her lap, as the poor girl held swatch after swatch against her cheek.
“Thank you.”
“Your hair,” Alva said, narrowing her eyes. “I wonder if that’s the best we can do.”
Her maid had spent nearly an hour on the intricate style, threading delicate strands of impossibly tiny pearls through it. By the end, her hands had been shaking with the effort and Elizabeth had to tell her to stop, that her hair was beautiful and could not possibly be improved.
“I suppose, given the horrible brown you were born with, it will have to do,” Alva said, and Elizabeth wondered if her mother was even aware that Alva’s hair, before it had become salted with gray, was exactly the same color as her own. Still, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that her hair had passed inspection.
“The duke will arrive within the hour. I think we should be in the Rose Salon,” she said, as if she hadn’t choreographed the entire evening a dozen times in her head. “You should sit in the cream chair. When His Grace enters the room, stand and curtsy. Let me see it,” she commanded.
Elizabeth stood gracefully and gave a small curtsy, looking up at her mother expectantly.
“Perhaps a bit deeper? Oh, I don’t know of these English things. Curtsies and the like. Just be polite. And silent unless he or I address you. This is by no means final, and you could still ruin it by saying or doing some thing foolish.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Try to be pleasant. And smile. You do have a pleas ant smile at least.”
Elizabeth forced a smile that she knew was not the least bit as pleasant as she was capable. Alva gave her daughter a sharp look before turning away. “I expect you in the Rose Salon in five minutes.”
Five minutes. And then she would meet the man who would most likely be her husband. She would share her life, her house. Her bed. She closed her eyes in a hope less attempt to stop the panic in her heart. She was so sick of thinking about the “if onlys” in her life. But she couldn’t help but think about how different she would feel if it were Henry she were planning to marry on Christmas Eve instead of a man she didn’t know, a man who lived in another country. She wondered if Henry knew the duke was in Newport, if he understood how desperately she longed for him.
It was foolish to think of such things, and completely useless. She could not marry Henry without putting his very life in danger and perhaps her mother’s as well. She believed with every fiber in her being that her mother would follow through on her threat to hurt him, perhaps kill him. Her mother’s health had made a quick recovery once Elizabeth finally agreed with this marriage, and she’d thrown herself into planning an impressive welcome for the duke. Henry had been put from Alva’s mind, for she knew her daughter would never thwart her.
And to Elizabeth’s great shame, she knew her mother was right.
“His Grace, the Duke of Bellingham.”
Even now, when Rand heard that announcement and realized it pertained to him, he gave a small inward start. But hearing it in the flat accent of an American, it was almost surreal. In fact, this entire journey didn’t seem quite real, so he was slightly relieved to find Sea Cliff had an English flair to it and would not have seemed out of place in the countryside back home. He’d found Americans either completely unimpressed by his title, or so in thrall it was disconcerting. Rand entered the so-called Rose Salon bracing himself for the worst. His eyes scanned the room, taking in Alva Cummings, who curtsied when his eyes rested on her, and Jason Cummings, the girl’s father, who gave the briefest head-nod bows before coming over to shake his hand. Jason Cummings was a rotund man with thick wavy hair parted precisely in the center. His face was soft, and a fine sheen of sweat shone near his hairline making Rand wonder if the man was nervous about this meeting. He almost felt like laughing aloud, for if anyone should feel nervous and foolish, it was he.
“Welcome to Sea Cliff,” Cummings said. “I’d like to show you my yacht if you’ve the time. Got her four weeks ago. She’s sitting at anchor right now, but it’s just a small row out to—”
“Jason. Introduce your daughter,” Alva Cummings said sweetly. But there was nothing sweet about the expression on her face and Rand had a sudden understanding of why the man before him looked so harried.
Jason smiled tightly. “Of course, dear. Your Grace, my daughter, Elizabeth,” he said, giving a little bow toward a bank of windows.
Thank God. That was the first thing that came to his mind when he first laid eyes on the daughter. She was pretty, remarkably so. Her features were small but for her eyes, which seemed far too large for her delicate face. She curtsied nicely and smiled, and again Rand was struck that her smile, like her mother’s, didn’t reach her eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, nodding toward her. She immediately darted a look to her mother, as if she was at a loss to know what to do or say. Apparently, the mother must have communicated something silently to the girl, for she curtsied again, and said, “Your Grace.”
It was about as warm in the room as an icebox, and Rand was regretting his trip to America with all his being. Humiliation washed over him as he realized that everyone in this room knew why he was here, knew he’d come hat in hand begging for money. “You have a lovely home,” he said, even though it was so cluttered with furniture and paintings and flowers he could hardly see the room itself. He was painfully reminded of Bellewood’s cavernous emptiness thanks to his brother’s attempts to raise money.
“Thank you, Your Grace, although Sea Cliff cannot compare to Bellewood, I’m sure. We heard such wonderful things about your home when we were in England. Didn’t we, Elizabeth.”
The girl looked startled to be included in the conversation. “Oh. Yes.” She wore a blue dress that showed off an incredibly tiny waist, and he wondered at the brutality of her maid to have succeeded in cinching the poor girl so tightly.
“Thank you.” He stood there, feeling awkward to be beneath their intense scrutiny. But he supposed it was only natural for them to examine the man who would be part of their family. Their very, very rich family, he re minded himself to make this scene more palatable.
“How was your passage over?” Cummings asked.
“Very pleasant, though not everyone
