Chapter Two
‘There’s an invitation to a garden party at the Fishes’ new cottage.
And tea at Mrs Van der Lan’s…she has three daughters, you know!
And a ball at the Goelets. All before we even leave for Newport!
’ Aunt Louisa said triumphantly as she sorted through the stacks of engraved cards.
‘Marvellous. The plan is going so well.’
‘Plan, Aunt Louisa?’ Benedict asked, studying the street outside the window, the endless parade of carriages, carts and people.
There was a lively symphony beyond the glass—footsteps, the clip-clop of hooves, calls of street vendors and the distant roar of trains.
The light was bright on the upper storeys, dim and shadowed in narrow alleys between, giving the city a mysterious, theatrical quality.
He had the sense of watching a world always in motion: raw, vibrant, sometimes harsh but always alive.
Unlike Rollston Court, where little changed.
He wondered if Jane was out there somewhere.
He remembered their kiss so well, no matter the years that had passed, the women he had known since.
Remembering her made the past flicker to life like a delicate flame in the quiet corners of his mind.
He recalled that moment with such vivid clarity—the softness of her lips, the shy smile that followed, the warmth of her hand lingering in his.
Time seemed to slow, folding the present into that instant when everything else had faded away.
What had become of her? Did she ever think of him?
‘To find you a suitable bride, of course,’ Aunt Louisa said, snapping him back to the present. She studied another card and marked it off on a list. ‘Surely you’ve looked over the English offerings and found nothing? America has a whole new selection. And the girls are so much better dressed here…’
Benedict laughed. ‘You make it sound like the breakfast buffet at a house party.’ He did need a wife, it was true. Rollston needed a mistress, and he needed an heir. But he wished it wasn’t quite like selecting scrambled or poached eggs from a warming plate.
‘I suppose it is, really,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s all rather familiar fare—eggs, bacon, kippers, toast…’
He shook his head. ‘Are you comparing the young ladies of New York to toast?’ He pictured them all popping out of a silver rack, white lace ruffles fluttering.
Louisa waved her hand. ‘Of course not! Well, maybe just a little. They all do wear much the same styles these days, shirtwaists and organdy gowns; they all play lawn tennis and embroider cushions and play piano, but the American girls have more variety than we are allowed. They even ride bicycles and enter archery competitions! You might be pleasantly surprised, after London.’
‘So there is marmalade as well as strawberry jam on the table.’
‘Oh, really, Benedict, you do twist my words. Not marmalade! I am just saying there are some lovely girls here now, all of them so eager to meet you. There is Miss Van Joort and Miss Goelet…’
He noticed a couple walking past, arm in arm, laughing together.
Watching them woke a quiet, wistful ache, like hearing a familiar song from another room, just out of reach.
There was something tender in the way the couple moved together, shoulders leaning, laughter shared like a secret.
It was so beautiful, effortless and not his.
It reminded him of something he’d had once for a fleeting moment, or something he still waited for.
‘All with fathers with lovely bank accounts to go with the jam,’ he muttered as the couple vanished round the corner.
Louisa sighed in exasperation. ‘Certainly. Isn’t that rather the point of it all? You have acres of roof to maintain at Rollston, my dear. Dozens, no hundreds, of people depend on you.’
‘Yes. You are quite right.’ His father had carelessly gambled away whatever money that had been left, and now there was not a shilling.
He had to marry for money. It was what had to be done.
Rollston needed saving, the debts clearing.
American girls had more money than most English girls.
But in his heart it felt like surrender.
He remembered a girl with a warm laugh and green eyes who’d dared him to want more.
‘That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t find someone you like.
It makes marriage so much less tedious when you can talk to each other, and you of all people need someone who can truly be a partner.
Being a duchess is no easy task—and let’s face it, my dear, you are no simple task either.
You are as handsome as Apollo, but you are so very serious all the time.
No one ever knows what you’re thinking.’
‘Probably all for the best. I’m a dull fellow.’ He was always thinking about farm fields now, about bank sheets and roof leaks. It didn’t leave much time for fun. ‘They say I’m handsome, then?’ he teased.
Louisa laughed. ‘You know you are, you conceited thing. How many young, handsome, single dukes are there? You are like hen’s teeth, no matter the state of your roof.’ She read another invitation. ‘Oh, now, this is very interesting.’
‘What is it?’
‘A housewarming ball for May Van der Berg’s Newport cottage!
Well, she’s May O’Neill now. Very old New York family, direct from Peter Stuyvesant, but she married into pots of new money—an Irishman, if you can believe it.
The new house is called Shore’s Edge, designed by McKim, Mead and White, the architects to get if you’re building something now.
They say there are towers and turrets, marble and gilt and silk! ’
He remembered an Irish girl he’d once met. A girl he had never forgotten. One he could not imagine amid marble and gilt. ‘Irish, you say?’
‘Her husband is called Connor O’Neill—wildly handsome.
He made his money from nothing at all, and now he owns half the city.
May is from a very old family, and since their marriage she’s quite brought his family up in the world.
I’ve been quite aching to see that house when it’s done.
Best of all, my dear, there is a sister, about your age.
I haven’t met her myself, but if the brother is so frightfully good-looking, I am sure it runs in the family.
Now that I think of it, she might do well for you.
They say she is serious too, just like you. ’
A serious, smart lady did sound exactly what he, and the estate, needed.
A tycoon brother was what Rollston was crying out for too, sadly.
Louisa was right: this was why he was in New York.
He had to do his duty; too many people depended on him.
His father had nearly sunk the whole ship, and it was up to him to right it.
A lady he could like was the most he could hope for.
He dared think for a moment about his mother, emotions layered with time but never dulled.
He remembered only fragments: the soft sound of her voice, the warmth of her arms around him, the way she’d smelled of roses.
But usually there was just a space beside him where she should’ve been, with tenderness and joy.
He had pushed down everything like that in himself, pushed it deep inside so even he could no longer reach it. Who could love him if they really knew him?
No, better to be left to get on with his job, that abhorrent role of duke, in peace.
He’d built up pride and silence, pushed away laughter and created a very useful mask.
He had to hold onto that now and find a calm, intelligent wife with whom he could make a rational bargain and who would never ask for more.
Yet once… Yes, once there had been a girl who’d looked at him with clear, direct, all-seeing green eyes and had seemed to see right past the mask to the very heart of him. What had she seen there? What had he not been able to hide from her?
How would she look at him if she could see him now—the icy, distant duke intent only on restoring his family’s fortune?
No. He definitely didn’t need a woman like Jane, with her warmth and laughter; with the way her green eyes seemed to see everything, see into the very heart of him, stripping away his careful armour.
He left the window and went to study the invitation cards on his aunt’s desk. ‘Tell me more about these New York toast girls, then…’