An American Duchess. Sharon Page

she’d been angry. She didn’t want them punching each other over her. She was supposed to have a simple arrangement with Sebastian. Why did the men have to have such hot emotions over it?

      Why had she kissed Langford back?

      She’d never kissed a man who irritated her, who drove her mad, who disapproved of her. She’d never had any need to. There were enough men who had liked her.

      “We stop here, Miss Gifford,” Langford said, and he reined in in front of a small cottage. Roses rambled up the walls, covered with tight buds tipped with red and pink.

      As Zoe dismounted, the duke came close to her. “Mrs. Billings lives here,” he said. “She lost all four of her sons to the War.”

      Zoe put her hand to her mouth. “All her sons, gone?”

      Langford nodded. “They were the only family she had. Her husband died during the War, too. His heart gave out.”

      She stared at the house. Curtains of grayish-white lace hung in the windows, old but tidy. “How could anyone live through that much pain?”

      “I don’t know,” he said simply.

      He straightened his coat and smoothed his shirtfront. It surprised her how much Langford tidied himself up before rapping on the door to the humble cottage. Zoe expected to meet a grieving woman, seated despondently in a chair, surrounded by cobwebs. Instead a plump woman with gray hair and a round, flushed face saw them and dropped into a curtsy. “Yer Grace, how honored I am to have ye visit. I’ll put the kettle on.”

      Langford dipped his head to step through the low door. “I don’t want to trouble you, Mrs. Billings.”

      “’Tis no trouble at all, Yer Grace. Won’t you have a seat in the parlor? I’ve barn cakes, fresh today. I remembered this was the day of the month ye usually stop by,” she said with a fond smile.

      “Then I am a fortunate man.”

      Langford looked truly anticipatory, delighted to get what must be a treat. When he could have anything he wanted made by the cook at Brideswell. The cottage was filled with heat and steam. Zoe stepped in, too, and Langford introduced her. As Sebastian’s fiancée, which startled her. She didn’t know why—that was what she was. The woman beamed but kept staring at Zoe’s trousers until she bustled out of the room to her tiny kitchen.

      As Mrs. Billings made tea, Zoe walked around the parlor. It was a quaint room with a stone hearth, a low-timbered ceiling, simple furniture. What looked out of place were four photographs in silver frames. They were images of four young, handsome men. Zoe picked one up.

      “Photographs were taken of all men before they left for the Front. A woman like Mrs. Billings would have had no record of her lads otherwise. I ensured they were framed for her.”

      “That was...very good of you.” It was clear that the poor woman couldn’t have afforded a photograph and frame.

      A yellowed paper sat on the mantel beneath the first photograph. Zoe unfolded it and the words leaped up at her. It was an army form, with the information filled in by pen. The soldier’s name, number, rank. Then the cold words: The report is to the effect that he was killed in action. There were words of regret and a message of sympathy from Their Gracious Majesties the King and Queen.

      She couldn’t swallow. Her throat was too tight. They had received a letter for Billy. Mother kept it tucked in with Billy’s picture in a locket that she never wore, but had instead wrapped in a lace handkerchief. Zoe knew Mother took it out, sometimes at night, clasped it to her heart and cried.

      War gave you the knowledge that every good thing in life—beauty, fun, security, pleasures, love—could be gone. So you had to dance harder, drive faster, pack everything in.

      Beneath her leather jacket, Zoe felt hot and was perspiring. “It’s steamy in here.”

      Langford turned—he was standing at the window, far from her. His blue eyes looked somber. “With her boys gone, she takes in laundry to earn money.”

      She stared at him. “She is forced to take in laundry?” Zoe left the room and went to the kitchen doorway where the most heat billowed out. Mrs. Billings had her back to her, arranging cakes on a plate. Steel tubs sat everywhere, filled with sudsy water.

      Zoe hurried back to the living room to confront Langford. “How can you let her do manual labor after she has sacrificed her sons for this country? Surely you could help Mrs. Billings. A monthly amount or something invested—”

      “Give me money? Why would His Grace do that?” Carrying in a simple tea tray, Mrs. Billings looked mortified. “My laundry provides for me. I won’t take charity.”

      “But you should not have to work your fingers to the bone,” Zoe protested.

      But Mrs. Billings was adamant.

      “It’s not charity to take money to help you because you sacrificed the men who would help you run your household.” Zoe hesitated, realizing that some landowners would have evicted Mrs. Billings. Langford hadn’t.

      “Well, I won’t accept it. Though—” The woman’s small blue eyes twinkled. “I do find piles of logs on me doorstep some mornings. No idea where they come from. And baskets of food.”

      “Wood is needed for the fires for your laundry,” Nigel said gently.

      “Aye, and a little fairy sees fit to leave some for me. And me rent was lowered.”

      Zoe understood. Langford wanted to do something for Mrs. Billings—he’d kept her rent low, provided her firewood and food. She sensed he wanted to do more. But Mrs. Billings had pride and was too stubborn to bend and accept anything more.

      The Duke of Langford might be old-fashioned, autocratic and irritating, but looking at him with Mrs. Billings, Zoe could see that he was a good man.