His American dutchess
Chapter One
Paris, September, 1895
Jeanne Witherspoon swept a pale yellow stroke of pastel chalk across the outline of a face in her sketchbook. "I can't get your hair right, Yves."
In the year she had been in Paris, Yves LeClercq had become her closest friend. Others assumed she had come to Europe to heal a heart broken when her fiancé, Gabriel Hunter, had chosen another woman to marry. Only Yves knew that her father had lost the family's fortune through poor business decisions, changing Jeanne's lifestyle dramatically, and that it had been Jeanne who had ended the engagement to the Boston tycoon.
"You are frowning, chérie." Yves sipped his espresso and observed her.
"I want to go to the ballet on Friday," she admitted.
"That would be nice."
"I have nothing to wear," she grumbled.
Yves cocked an eyebrow. "You also have no ticket."
"Even if I did, I still have nothing to wear."
"Very well. You find tickets for us both and I will loan you a gown from last season's collection." Yves was a popular couturier, whose gowns demanded enormous prices.
"The peach satin?"
"I think something in blue-sapphire, to match your eyes. Speaking of that, how are my eyes coming?" He leaned forward to see her sketch then suddenly leaped to his feet as he murmured, "Your grace. Forgive me, I was..."
"So entranced by this gifted artist. May I?" The tall stranger held out his hand for the sketchbook.
"You have studied the masters." It was not a question. "Quite extraordinary," he murmured, more to himself. "The eyes..." He glanced at Yves and then back at the sketch. "She's captured your mischief, LeClercq." He returned the sketchbook.
"Mademoiselle Jeanne Witherspoon, may I present Lord Groton-Hames, Duke of Thirndale." Yves hastened to make introductions.
Jeanne took the measure of the man as if evaluating him for a possible portrait. Eyes obsidian in color and deep-set under thick black brows. Hair a rich ebony with traces of silver at the temples and sideburns. Complexion seasoned by the elements and his years, which she estimated to be mid to late thirties. The physique of a much younger man. Tall and erect without appearing pompous. She smiled up at him. "A pleasure, your grace."
"You are American?"
"I am, and your title is British but do I detect a connection to the Hapsburgs of Austria-Hungary?" Yves sucked in an audible breath and Jeanne wondered how such an innocent question could be a problem.
The duke smiled. "You have an excellent ear for accents as well as an exceptional eye for portraiture, Miss Witherspoon."
"And you, sir, avoided my question." Jeanne gave him a coy smile. It was in Jeanne's nature to flirt a bit. "Are you hiding something, your grace?"
This time Yves made no pretense of his distress. He placed a restraining hand over Jeanne's as he cast the duke an apologetic look.
"Your grace, will you be attending tonight's opening of the ballet?"
"Will you be attending, Miss Witherspoon?" Again he had avoided answering the question.
"Actually, I..."
"Alas, the performance is sold out," Yves interrupted.
The duke smiled. "Then I insist you be my guests for the evening."
