Everyone stared at the duke, waiting for something to happen.
“We don’t— We can’t—” Lady Julia began, but she stopped abruptly. Her face was pale, her eyes wide.
The duke cleared his throat. Cold anger radiated from his gaze. “We will not discuss war at my dining table. It is not done. My family have all suffered a great deal because of the War.”
“It’s something we all have in common, isn’t it?” she argued. “I’m quite happy to field all the awkward questions you can throw at me. I’m not marrying Sebastian for his title, and I don’t give a fig for social strictures. We’ve all suffered loss, life is short and I’m in it for the fun and the happiness now. I don’t see there’s any sense at all in pretending there’s no world beyond those rain-streaked windows of yours. You cannot pretend the world is not changing around you. My goodness, even Britain now has the vote.”
“Two years before America,” Langford shot at her.
“But with so many strings attached, even an intelligent woman like your sister cannot exercise what should be her right.”
“Zoe!” Mother gasped. She looked as if she might faint into her fried filleted sole in anchovy sauce.
“I can see you paid a horrible price for war, Your Grace. I lost a brother. I can’t just not talk about it. I can’t act as if he never existed. We Americans did fight in the Great War, after all.”
“Zoe, no,” Mother breathed.
“Are you quite finished, Miss Gifford?” inquired Langford stonily. “If I visit your home, I shall expect to be required to pour the contents of my soul onto your dining table. Here, at Brideswell, I will ask you to follow my social strictures.”
She had opened up her heart. How could he continue to snap at her after what she’d said about her brother? “All right then, Your Grace. What do you speak of at dinner, then? So far I’ve heard you utter barely a word, while I’ve been condemned for wanting to wed in my native country, for daring to ask the name of your regiment and for suggesting intelligent women should vote.”
The doors opened, the footmen strode in wordlessly and everything stopped while plates of fish were traded for larded fillets of rabbit. More wine was poured. This time, red.
“A lady should be taught how to engage others in conversation. In the proper sort of conversation.” The dowager snapped the words to the room in general.
“I prefer meaningful conversation.” Tears welled beneath her words, and Zoe fought to hold them back. All she could think was how she wished she were dining at the Waldorf with Richmond, instead of here. “If I’m going to endure a whole lot of anxiety at the dinner table, I would rather it be over something worth caring about.”
“If we are going to dissect our lives at the dining table,” Langford returned, “I would begin with yours, Miss Gifford. Tell me where you were born, what life is like in America. How did you meet Sebastian? I believe it was at a speakeasy. And I believe it was after you had broken up another gentleman’s marriage.”
The dowager gasped and the duchess threw a mortified glance at Sebastian.
“That last part isn’t true, Your Grace,” Zoe said. “I’ve broken up no one’s marriage. But I did meet Sebastian at an underground club in Harlem. Sebastian and I indulged in rather too many cocktails, and we ended up dancing in a fountain. Of course, it was April, and much too cold. But bathtub gin will do that to you. And lo and behold, we decided to marry.”
They expected her to shock them. The Hazeltons all seemed so grim or restrained—it was as if they were all preserved beneath glass.
“But we did fall in love,” Sebastian added quickly. “Her charming American ways swept me off my feet.”
“Perhaps they would not have done so had you been sober,” the dowager said tartly. The lady turned to the duke in a flash of purple. “Langford, this is your fault. What were you thinking to allow Sebastian to travel alone? You should have accompanied him.”
“Accompany him?” Zoe echoed. “Sebastian is a grown man.”
“He rarely behaves like one,” the dowager snapped. “His brother knows it is his duty to keep Sebastian out of trouble.”
“Well, Langy refuses to leave Brideswell,” Sebastian threw in with a careless smile. “And I refuse to be trapped here. When Zoe and I are married, we’ll set up house in London. I know she will take good care of me and keep me out of trouble. Perhaps you can visit us. Certainly, you’ll want to come after we begin to fill our nursery.”
Sebastian’s easy lie speared her with guilt. Suddenly she hated all this. She had been wrong to throw their expectations at them in bold defiance. She should treat them with respect at least, even if they did not return it. That meant she had to be up front about their arrangement. “There is something all of you must know about this wedding—”
“That can wait until later, Miss Gifford,” the duke interrupted. “I, for one, would much rather talk about dancing in fountains. Tell me more.”
His lips mouthed more words to her. Do not tell them. For a moment, his icy demeanor dropped, and he faced her with an almost pleading expression.
That stunned her.
But she recovered as swiftly as she could. “I don’t think I should, Your Grace. I suspect discussing such a topic would be improper.”
“Then we have come to an agreement,” he said sharply. “Neither of us will plumb the depths of anyone’s soul. I, for one, would like to finish my meal in an atmosphere of peace.”
His tones could have frozen the dinner right to the table. Langford did not say one more word, and neither did anyone else. But at the end of four more courses, as the other men left for port and Zoe and her mother were directed to follow the ladies, the duke appeared at her side and he touched her wrist.
The brief contact made her stop in her tracks. The others filed out, and for a moment, she and Langford were alone, their faces close, just as they had been on the road, when their lips had almost touched.
His fingers curled around her wrist, holding her in place. Strangely, the air felt thick and heavy around them, as if lightning might fork through the shadows of the dining room.
“Please do not tell the ladies about your deal with Sebastian, Miss Gifford,” he said.
“I would rather be honest, Your Grace. I don’t regret my arrangement with Sebastian, but I do think now it is wrong to fool your family and pretend this marriage is real.”
“There is something you have to know.” When he spoke softly and low, his voice changed. No longer did it sound sharp with frost. It was smooth and rather caressing. “Our mother will never accept a divorce.”
“It’s not going to make much of a scandal, Your Grace,” she stated. “In America, it is said that over fifteen percent of marriages now end in divorce, as people choose to find happiness rather than endure in misery.”
“Our mother is a Catholic,” he said. “This goes against her faith. She is already gravely weakened by our father’s death, the War and losing William after that. The scandal would destroy her.”
This was why he’d said nothing to his family. Zoe’s stomach dropped away. “Who is William?” Her older brother’s name had been William. They always called him Billy.
“He was my youngest brother. The Spanish flu epidemic claimed him, after the War.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
The duke’s expression remained hard, as if carved of granite. But was it not because he felt no emotion, but because he was fighting to keep his feelings contained?
She was really sorry. Sorry for him, for his lost brother, his grieving mother.
His