Sharon Page - An American Duchess

“Mother, no.”

Her mother took quick, fluttery breaths and her hand trembled over her heart. “Dear Zoe, I’ve been having such pains. I’m so worried about you. It would ease my heart to know you had married the right man.”

“Mother, you’ve been as healthy as a horse your entire life. This may have worked for Mrs. Vanderbilt, but I’ve heard Consuelo’s story, and it’s not going to work on me. You’re not dying, and I’m not going to be pressured to chase a duke because of a fictitious bad heart. I will never be a duchess.”

“What are you talking about? If the duke does not marry, you will.”

Zoe shook her head. Mother might use quivering breaths, batting eyelashes and tears to get her way, but she was as strong and formidable as the steel her father had been famous for producing. The duke knew the truth and he had probably told his family. Mother might as well know it, too. “I won’t be married to Sebastian long enough.”

* * *

Nigel escorted Julia to the south drawing room, where it was customary to gather for cocktails before the meal. They reached the open doors just as their grandmother, the dowager, exclaimed, “Good heavens, are those her knees? Is she in her shift? Where is her skirt?” Then, her voice higher pitched, “Sebastian, what are you doing on your knee? Are you rehearsing for a play?”

Julia looked around the doorway and gasped, “Oh, how romantic.”

Nigel saw the scene in the room and his gut twisted with anger. He agreed with his grandmother: What in hell did his brother think he was doing?

In front of his fiancée, his hair soaked from the rain, his tuxedo jacket obviously thrown on in haste, Sebastian had dropped to one knee. He held a small velvet box in the palm of his outstretched hand.

Smoothing her skirt with nervous hands, Miss Gifford sparkled like a handful of stars in the glow of the candles and lamps. A white-and-silver dress with delicate straps fell from her slim shoulders, coasted over her slender figure, ended in gauzy, floating bits of fabric that swirled just above her knees. She stared down at Sebastian with huge, surprised violet eyes.

Whatever Sebastian was doing, she was not in on it.

Sebastian took her hand and bestowed a kiss on her fingertips, his gaze focused on nothing but her. But pure shock registered in her eyes...and in the dropped jaws and gaping mouths of his mother, Grandmama, his sister Isobel and Mother’s two male guests—Quigley, a writer, and Sir Raynard, an older local squire.

“We did it over the telephone before, and I knew you deserved more, Zoe,” Sebastian said, his expression deceptively earnest. “I’m sorry I’m late. I hopped off to town this morning and picked this up. I had it made especially for you. Took me a deuced long time to come up with the right inscription, then get it engraved. But you deserve a proper proposal of marriage.”

It was satisfying to watch Miss Gifford squirm with embarrassment as Sebastian flicked open the box with a twist of one hand. In white velvet sat a heart-shaped ruby the size of a quail’s egg, surrounded by diamonds.

“Marry me, my beloved Zoe,” his brother said huskily. “Make me the happiest romantic fool in England. Now kiss me, love.”

Nigel wanted to haul his brother to his feet. There was no need for a proposal. Sebastian should have been proposing the date for the blasted divorce.

But in one swift movement, Sebastian jumped to his feet and pulled Miss Gifford into his arms. In front of horrified guests, Sebastian sealed his mouth to his fiancée’s lips.

A hot red flush of embarrassment rushed up the back of Nigel’s neck. As duke, he had to put a stop to the scandalous display—

A cane sharply struck the floor. The dowager duchess’s voice soared to fill the drawing room. “Good heavens, Sebastian, desist. How will I face my dinner with this image burned on my eyes?”

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