The Husband Trap (27 page)

As soon as the waltz began, she melted into Adrian’s strong, reassuring arms. Momentarily, she let herself forget the fear and strain she was under, Adrian’s familiarity a comfort as he whirled her around the room.

All too soon the idyll ended. They strolled off the dance floor.

“Look there,” he said, “I see a friend of mine.”

He drew her toward a lean, brown-haired gentleman. Shorter than Adrian by half a head, the man’s features were pleasant, patrician, yet unremarkable. It was his amber eyes, though, that caught her attention, left her transfixed like a fox to a dove the instant he turned them upon her.

She blinked to dispel the disturbing sensation. Strange, but for an instant she’d glimpsed intimacy in his look, as if he knew her. And knew her well. Then the look was gone, replaced by nothing more than casual, friendly interest.

She wanted to give herself a shake. Her overactive nerves must be making her see things that were not there, she decided.

“My dear,” Adrian began, “you remember Toddy Markham. Old friend of mine from my soldiering days.”

At least one mystery was solved, she thought. Obviously Adrian had previously introduced the man to Jeannette, during their engagement, no doubt.

She held out a gloved hand. “Yes, of course. Mr. Markham, how are you finding the evening so far?”

“Most enjoyable.” He clasped her palm, bowed over it. “With so many beautiful women in attendance, a man can’t help but enjoy himself.”

He squeezed their joined hands, applying a firm, insistent pressure that lingered for a long, intense beat. Seconds passed, his face betraying none of the emotion expressed by his touch. Then he released her.

She drew her arm away, curled her fingers protectively at her side.
Imagining things, hah.
She hadn’t imagined that touch.

She slid a fraction of an inch closer to Adrian.

The movement did not escape Markham’s notice, a dagger’s-edge glint winking at her out of those dangerous eyes.

“Do you stay long in the city?” she inquired.

“A while. My plans are of a fluid nature at the moment.”

“Toddy abhors regimentation,” Adrian volunteered. “Never plans past his next meal.”

Markham quirked a grin. “That’s right. I find that one misses out on far too many of life’s unexpected surprises otherwise. Much easier to simply let our passions take us where they may, and not dwell on the uncertainty of our futures.”

“Yet there is much to be said for plans,” she countered, “as well as the good governance of one’s emotions. After all, without plans, wouldn’t we all still be living in caves?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could recall them. Jeannette would never have made such an intellectually provocative remark.

Both men studied her, different expressions upon their faces: proud amusement on Adrian’s, surprised speculation on Markham’s.

She moved quickly to correct her mistake, laughing. “Then again, what would I know of such matters? Parties, shopping, amusing extravagances, those are the sorts of plans ladies like to make.”

Markham studied her for another long moment before he relaxed and smiled. “Quiet right, your Grace. Speaking of amusing extravagances, may I request the honor of a dance with you this evening?” He reached out a hand.

Before he could grasp the dance card dangling from her wrist, she slipped it out of reach. “Ordinarily I would be enchanted, but my entire card has already been filled.”

His face hardened. “Every dance? Perhaps you are in error and there is one that has slipped your notice.” He reached forward again for the card.

She stepped away, eluding his touch. “No, I am quite certain. Not fifteen minutes past, Mr. Hughes remarked upon his disappointment at being turned away for the very same reason.”

Markham gave a stiff bow. “Perhaps you shall have a set available next time we meet.” He turned to the duke. “Raeburn. A game of cards later on this evening?”

“Sounds good. I shall find you in the card room after a while.”

“Your Grace.” Markham bowed once more to her, then turned on his heel and departed.

“What was that all about?” Adrian asked as soon as the other man was out of earshot.

“What do you mean?”

“You and Markham. I got the distinct impression you were brushing him off. Is your dance card really full tonight?”

“Yes, of course it is,” she dissembled, aware there were one or two blank spots remaining. “Just because I am married now doesn’t mean I lack for admirers.”

“So long as admiring is all they do,” he warned with a teasing growl. He sighed. “I suppose that means you already have a partner for the supper dance? I was hoping the two of us could share it.”

She’d hoped the same. How easy, how blissful, to pass the evening in Adrian’s arms, at his side, sharing his table and his conversation during the elaborate midnight supper to come. But such exclusivity would draw unwelcome comment and attention, and she’d already taken one too many risks tonight as it was.

She tapped her closed fan playfully against his shoulder. “You know it wouldn’t do. A husband and wife mustn’t live in each other’s pockets. There shall be plenty of time to see each other later. At home.”

Lambent light flashed fire inside his dark eyes, the timber of his voice dropping low, whiskey deep. “I’ll hold you to that promise. Don’t dance too much and tire yourself out.”

A faint answering flush tinged her cheeks. “I’ll do my best.”

A wave of melancholy washed over her, drowning her beneath its force as she watched him stroll away moments later. She wanted to call him back, bury her face against his shoulder and beg him to take her home. She hated the pretense, the brittle superficiality of it all. Even inside the lies she’d spun, when she was alone with Adrian some part of her true self remained. Here, there was nothing left of her. Everything falsehood and fabrication. As if she were only a shadow, a reflection without form or substance. As if the real her, the real Violet, didn’t exist.

Sudden panic drained the blood from her head, leaving her dizzy, disoriented. Somehow she straightened, strengthened, as she remembered. She was here to make Adrian proud. She must convince everyone she was Jeannette, the woman he’d chosen as his wife.

A gentleman appeared at her side; her next partner.

Pasting a bright smile upon her lips, she let him lead her into the dance.

Chapter Fifteen

The days to follow passed in a whirlwind of activity: morning calls, luncheon parties, afternoon teas, dinner parties, fêtes, soirées, balls and routs. Ices at Gunter’s, promenades in the park, the theater, the opera and the ballet. There was scarcely a moment to breathe and even less time to rest. She danced until dawn. Slept until noon. And spent the rest of the time encircled by friends and acquaintances who buzzed around her like bees attending the queen in her hive.

Jeannette would have thrived on the attention.

Violet longed to find a quiet corner and curl up with a good book. She also longed for Adrian, the husband she rarely saw.

They shared a house and a bed. He still came to her at night, both of them often too tired to do more than turn into each other’s arms and sleep. When he wasn’t occupied by business or at one of his clubs, he escorted her to a variety of functions. Once there, however, they would go their separate ways, as husbands and wives were supposed to do.

There were times when an entire day would pass without so much as a glimpse of him. The imprint of his head on his pillow when she woke. The warm scent of him on the sheets when she slipped in late to find him already up and dressing for an early appointment that day.

She considered talking to him, asking if she ought to refuse a few more of the dozens of invitations they received. Spend an occasional evening, perhaps even an entire day, together quietly at home. But she knew she dare not broach the subject. It would be too unlike Jeannette. In the country, her differences were excusable. Here in London, they would never be believed.

She sipped a glass of champagne and studied the revelry around her through her lorgnette. She attended with only half an ear to the witty tale being spun by Mr. Moncrief, a blond, puppy-eyed youth who had become one of her retinue of devoted gentleman followers.

Adrian stood across the room, deep in conversation with Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister. Adrian sported a faint crease between his eyes, a sure sign he disagreed with whatever was being said. She knew enough of his opinions to realize he was a Whig. The Prime Minister was a hard-nosed Tory. Although Adrian wasn’t taking an active interest in his seat in the House of Lords, perhaps his mother was right, perhaps he did wish to pursue politics. Was he even now testing out his opposition?

Moncrief recited the punch line of his story. Everyone laughed. She laughed with them, her practiced response sounding hollow to her own ears.

Was this to be the rest of her life?

Her eyes drifted again over the bold, saturnine features of her husband, across the contours of his tall, proud, handsome frame. She sighed silently. If it took listening to a thousand such stories to make him happy, then listen she would.

She swallowed another sip of champagne and asked Lord Northcott about his new home in Sussex. He’d recently won it on the turn of a card, and never tired of retelling the tale or discussing his future plans for the property. The question was certain to keep him talking for half an hour at least.

Adrian observed his wife out of the corner of his eye, while he listened with half an ear to Lord Liverpool expound upon the illiterate masses and the dangers they represented to the Crown. He’d heard it all before, disagreed with it all before, and he knew better than to argue with the great man. There was no amiable way of winning an argument with the Prime Minister. And he preferred to keep on friendly terms with as many of his peers as possible. Even the ones with whom he was philosophically opposed.

It was all very well to banter politics over brandy and cigars. Quite another to trade in it on a daily basis, as some wished he would do. The notion of tossing his hat into the political arena made him shudder in horror. Politics might be his mother’s, and a few of his cronies’, fondest dream for him, but it wasn’t his.

His wife laughed with her friends. She looked magnificent tonight—but then, she always did. Dressed in Prussian blue velvet, she reigned, the regal centerpiece in a tableau of elegant ladies and gentlemen.

Mostly gentlemen, he noted, an unwanted spark of jealousy stinging him like a hot cinder. He ought to be glad she was popular, having fun. Isn’t that the kind of wife he’d wanted? A woman both personable and poised. A feminine jewel. Beautiful and refined enough to glitter on his arm when they were together, able to carry herself admirably when they were not.

Why, then, did he wish she was a little less sought after? Why did part of him long for her to cast aside Society’s strictures regarding married couples and defiantly spend more of her time with him?

Since they’d left Winterlea, it seemed as if an ever-widening gulf had developed between them; he on the one side, she on the other. They lived in the same house. Yet some days it seemed as though they were no more than passing strangers.

He wished they might return home to the country. Yet how could he ask her to do so when they had only just arrived? When she was having such a grand time here in the city?

Across the room, her laughter rang out, radiant as sunlight on a crisp spring morning. For a moment he let it drown out every other sound in the room.

Then he turned his attention back to the Prime Minister. When a conversational opening appeared, he asked the other man if he might be interested in a game of cards.

Later that evening, Violet checked her image in a large wall mirror hanging in the ladies’ withdrawing room. She sighed, nearly ready to return to the ball when her old friend Eliza Hammond entered the room.

She caught the other girl’s reflection in the mirror, seeing features that would have been pretty had Eliza not been dressed in an unbecoming mustard-colored gown that drained every speck of color from her fair cheeks, leaving her sallow and plain.

The handiwork of Eliza’s aunt, she suspected. A devout penny-pincher, the woman’s choices were usually dictated by her pocketbook rather than any semblance of good taste. Sickly yellow had likely come cheap at the dressmaker’s the day they’d shopped for this dress.

As she had a dozen times since her return to Town, Violet squashed the impulse to rush over and envelop her friend in a warm hug. She sat mute and let the other young woman disappear behind the privacy curtain that divided the room.

When Eliza reemerged a short while later, there were just the two of them, the room grown quiet after the departure of a quartet of chattering debutantes.

What could it hurt if she spoke to her? Violet thought. Who would know except a single attendant, who looked too sleepy to care which ladies were in the room?

Giving in to impulse, she swiveled around on her padded stool. “How do you do this evening, Miss Hammond?”