The Husband Trap (16 page)

March, the majordomo, stepped forward. He was an impressive figure with a ramrod-straight bearing and piercing blue eyes. “Welcome home, your Grace.” He greeted Adrian first, then turned to acknowledge her. “Your Grace.” He nodded respectfully. Violet inclined her head in reply. “I hope your journey was a pleasant one,” he said.

“Quite pleasant,” Adrian replied. “I see you have assembled the staff.”

“Yes, your Grace. I took the liberty. May I speak for everyone by extending our most heartfelt congratulations to you and her Grace on your marriage. May the years to come be happy, fruitful ones.”

“Thank you, March. Thank you all. It is good to be home.”

Adrian and Violet smiled.

The small army of people smiled back.

Adrian introduced her to the senior staff, including the housekeeper, Mrs. Hardwick, a tall, thin bird of a woman with a bun of steel gray hair wrapped so tightly over her skull it seemed a wonder she could blink her eyes. And François, Adrian’s French chef, who in his youth had worked as a kitchen’s assistant at Versailles in service to King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. His hazel eyes twinkled when he told her he had made cream puffs in the shape of swans in honor of her and the duke’s homecoming.

Thankfully she was not expected to say much. As a result, her nerves began to simmer down. She felt nearly relaxed by the time she and Adrian moved to enter the house.

Before they could, the majordomo discreetly drew Adrian’s attention, speaking in a quiet aside. “Your Grace, a moment, if I might.”

Adrian stopped, turned his head. “Yes, March? What is it?”

“I wanted to inform you that her Grace is in the drawing room. She arrived this morning from the dower house.”

Violet’s throat squeezed closed at the news.

Adrian’s mother was here.

Chapter Nine

“Adrian,
ma chou,
finally you are arrived. Come and give me a kiss.” From her place on the sofa that was upholstered in golden watered silk, the Dowager Duchess of Raeburn stretched her arms wide. She made no effort to rise, seated regally as a queen greeting her subjects.

“Hello,
Maman.
” Adrian bent, returned her embrace as he dusted his lips across his mother’s flawless cheeks. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Humor lit his sable brown eyes.

“I am sure you do not find it pleasant at all,” she retorted with blunt honesty, her French accent still very much in evidence despite her having lived in England for over thirty-five years. “Barging in on you, only just returned from your honeymoon. You must forgive me, but it could not be helped. See?” She gestured with a hand. “Jeannette, she will not even speak to me.”

Violet stepped away from the doors where she had been hovering. She swallowed past the hard knot in her throat as she prepared to greet Adrian’s mother.

Marguerite Le Richeaux Winter was like a Gallic whirlwind, passionate and highly unpredictable. During the engagement, the dowager duchess and Jeannette had been scrupulously polite to each other but far from bosom beaux. Violet knew she would need to tread lightly, at least in the beginning, around her new mother-in-law.

“You could not be more mistaken, your Grace.” Violet came forward to clasp the dowager’s hands. “Of course I will speak to you. You are most welcome here.” She leaned down, brushed a kiss over the woman’s perfumed cheek.

“Why, thank you, my child. How gracious you are. And you must call me
Maman,
now that we are mother and daughter.”

“Of course,
Maman,
” Violet dutifully repeated.

The dowager released her hands. Violet crossed, sank gratefully into a wing chair opposite the sofa.

“I already rang for tea,” Adrian’s mother announced. “I hope you don’t mind, my child.” She lifted a single dark eyebrow in a gesture very reminiscent of one Adrian often used.

Violet paused, wondering how she ought to respond. Jeannette, she knew, would be anxious to establish her preeminence as the new duchess.

“I don’t mind in the least.” Violet smiled, pointedly gracious. “I shall be certain to do the same for you the next time you come to visit.”

The dowager acknowledged the riposte with a slight tilt of her sensuous lips, another trait she had passed on to her son.

The resemblance between mother and son was quite strong, particularly around the eyes and mouth. It wasn’t hard to see where Adrian got his dark, magnetic beauty. Barely into her fifties, the dowager duchess was still an extremely attractive woman. Only a few threads of silver glistened in her lustrous black hair. Her creamy white complexion was youthful as a girl’s, the faintest fanning of lines visible at the corners of her eyes and in the slight creases that ran along either side of her nose.

Adrian strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter.

“How was your trip?” his mother asked. “I can see it must have been pleasant. You both look positively refreshed.”

Adrian took a sip from his glass. “Yes, it was quite pleasant.” His eyes moved to Violet, passed over her in a long, slow, intimate sweep. “Quite tolerably pleasant indeed.”

The tea arrived. The dowager duchess poured. Having forgone luncheon on the road, Violet and Adrian both accepted the plates of sandwiches and cakes the dowager passed. He refused the tea, however, preferring to keep his wine.

“How are all the family?” He sank into a wing chair that matched Violet’s. “Still hale, I presume, since last we saw them at the wedding.”

His mother patted her lips with her napkin, ignoring the amused sarcasm in his query. “Everyone is well,” she began. “Though dear cousin Filbert was confined to his bed with a sprain for several days after the reception. Apparently he tripped on Lady Rankin’s dress that evening while they were walking near the gardens. Took a tumble down a few steps, by all accounts.”

No doubt the result of too much champagne and a well-deserved push from Lady Rankin, Adrian mused. Filbert was an inveterate, though mostly harmless, flirt who often misplaced his better judgment when he imbibed too freely. Lady Rankin, an attractive young widow, had presumably decided the word
no
was not having a sufficient effect and had resorted to a more physical means of refusal.

“I hope he did not suffer greatly?”

He and the dowager turned their eyes to Jeannette and her words of innocent concern. It was obvious his wife was unaware of cousin Filbert’s notorious reputation. Surprising, Adrian thought. Stories about Filbert were a frequent source of amusement with the London set. Although perhaps not, it would seem, among respectable young ladies.

Each day she did something to surprise him anew, please him anew. Smiling softly, he ate one of the small sandwiches on his plate.

“Filbert is quite recovered,” the dowager reassured. “However, Sylvia is not.”

Adrian’s attention piqued at mention of his eldest sister. “What is wrong with Sylvia?”

“She is enceinte, as you know, and Herbert is of absolutely no help to her at all.”

Sylvia, Lady Bramley, was nearly six months pregnant with her fifth child, the first four boys. She and Herbert were trying again for the daughter Sylvia desperately wanted. Sons, she would complain, were all very well, but they had no use for dresses and parties and feminine pursuits. A woman was entitled to have a little girl to fuss and coo over, to send down the aisle when the time came. What if she never got to be mother of the bride? she often fretted. Every woman longed to plan her daughter’s nuptials someday.

Everyone on both sides of the family was fervently praying this next baby would be a girl.

“Oh, that,” he grunted.

“Yes,
that,
” the dowager scolded. “It is very cruel of you to make light of your sister’s discomfort. You know how sorry she was to miss your wedding.”

“I am not making light of Sylvia’s condition, and I am sorry if she feels unwell. But one would think by this time she would be well used to the complications that come from being in a family way.”

“Each baby is different. She writes her ankles are quite dreadfully swollen. The reason for my impromptu visit today.”

“To tell us about Sylvia’s swollen ankles?”

“
Non,
do not be ridiculous. I have decided to go stay with her for the rest of her confinement. Make sure she is healthy and well cared for.”

“I am positive Bramley has retained the best physician available.”

“
Certainement.
But a woman needs another woman at such a time, a daughter her
maman.
Besides, she says the boys are driving her quite mad. I shall go play
grand-mère
for a time. I am packed already. I leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So soon? In that case, you must stay to dinner,” he invited.

“Yes,” Violet concurred softly, “of course, you must stay.”

The dowager smiled, her face lighting up. “
Merci beaucoup,
I accept.” She gave her daughter-in-law a probing look. “You are very quiet today, my child. Is anything wrong?”

Violet just barely kept herself from jumping. “Why, no…no, of course not. I’m…a bit fatigued from the journey, is all.”

“
Naturellement.
And I am a selfish beast to keep you here. Do not think you must stay to entertain me.” The dowager made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on to your rooms. Lie down. I will bend my son’s ear for a little while longer,
non
?”

“Thank you, your Grace. It would be most pleasant to refresh my attire,” Violet said.

The dowager shook a reproving finger. “It is
Maman
now, remember.”

“Yes,
Maman.
” Violet stood, gave her a smile. She turned, shared a more intimate smile with Adrian.

“March will have Mrs. Hardwick show you to your rooms.” He stood, walked with her to the door. He drew a fingertip down her cheek. “Rest well, my dear. I shall see you at dinner.”

“Until then, your Grace,” she replied softly.

Adrian crossed back into the room, selected a tiny wedge-shaped sandwich of herb cheese and ham from the silver serving tray. He popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “So what are you really doing here today,
Maman
?”

Feigning astonishment, the dowager raised a hand to her chest. “I told you,
ma mie,
I wanted a chance to see you before I leave for Herefordshire. I will be away until Martinmas at the very least.”

“And Jeannette and I shall be quite bereft without your company until then. But that is not why you have come.”

“Well, there is another small matter. Some repairs at the dower house that need attention. The drawing-room door squeaks like a little mouse every time it is opened or closed. And there is a draft in one of the upstairs maid’s rooms. Obviously, the roof, it requires an inspection.”

“Did you consult with McDougal?” Ewan McDougal was Adrian’s chief steward with oversight of Winterlea, its grounds, tenant houses, outbuildings and the dower house.

“
Non,
I am consulting with you.”

He gave a half smile, well used to her ways. She never liked to speak directly with Mr. McDougal. She said she could understand only half of what the Scot said.

“I will have the repairs seen to while you are away.” Adrian carried his glass to the sideboard, poured himself more wine. “So, will you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

He gave her a speaking glance.

“Oh, that.” She pursed her lips, finally relenting when it became clear he would not be put off. “I did not wish you to think I was interfering, but I wanted to see how you are getting on. I was concerned. I sensed some tension between you and your bride before the wedding. Do not tell me I am mistaken.”

He returned to his chair, swallowed a mouthful of wine, set the glass aside. “No, you were not mistaken, but all is well now. The trip to the coast was very good for us both.”

“She forgave you for your change of plans?” His mother knew about Jeannette’s less than enthusiastic reaction to their canceled tour of the Continent.

“She was upset at first, but it was all forgotten once we arrived in Dorset.”

“And you are happy,” his mother stated. “I can see by the way you look at her that you are.”

Did he look at Jeannette in a particular way? he thought, surprised. Yes, he supposed he did. “I am well contented with my marriage.” And he was. More so than he had ever expected to be.

“Then I can visit your sister with an easy heart,” the dowager said. “I did not like to think of going away, leaving you troubled and unhappy.”

“I am a grown man,
Maman.
I appreciate the concern, but I am well able to look after myself these days, you know.”

“Bah! You may be a man, but you are still my son. That and my love for you will never change, no matter how old you become.”

“I love you too,
Maman.
”

She beamed a happy smile at him.

“Now, what is this I hear about George Finchley?” Adrian said, indulging his mother’s love of scandal broth. “Did he really agree to marry Grenton’s eldest chit?”

The duchess poured herself another cup of tea and launched into the tale.