The Husband Trap (28 page)

Eliza stopped, blinked in obvious surprise at being acknowledged. She hesitated, then sank into a polite curtsey. “Your Grace. I am quite well. Thank you for inquiring. And yourself?”

“Well enough, though I’m finding it a trifle stuffy tonight. Too many warm bodies packed into too small a space. But that’s a crush for you, isn’t it?”

Eliza nodded, clearly ill at ease. No doubt she wondered what Jeannette—who’d rarely paused long enough to speak more than a handful of words to her in the past—could want. She wadded a lace handkerchief inside her palm as an awkward silence descended between them.

“Are you here with your aunt?” Violet asked.

“And her son,” Eliza confirmed.

Violet knew all about Philip Pettigrew, an obnoxious toad who dressed like an undertaker and had less of a sense of humor than a corpse. He was studying to take ecclesiastic orders, and was actively searching for a prosperous living. Wherever he ended up, Violet pitied his future parishioners.

“I’ve had a letter or two from my sister. She’s in Italy, you know.” Her courage sank a little when she saw Eliza stiffen at the mention of her former friend. “She wanted me to convey a message.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

“She asked me to express her apologies for her rather uncharacteristic behavior when last you met. She wasn’t feeling…um…herself at the time.”

Eliza unbent slightly. “Why didn’t she write to tell me that herself?”

Yes, why hadn’t she?
She racked her brain for a plausible answer. She couldn’t tell her it was because the letters would have been franked from Derbyshire and not Italy.

“She is…um…traveling a great deal. Great-aunt Agatha likes to keep on the move, and my sister feared her letter to you might go astray.” She paused, gathering her breath and her thoughts. “To be candid, she wasn’t entirely certain you would accept a letter from her. Truly, she regrets the unfortunate incident that happened between you, and asked me to say how much she values your friendship. She would like to continue that friendship, if you will still have her for a friend, that is.”

Throat tight, she waited for the answer.

“Of course I will,” Eliza said in a relieved rush. “I knew there must be something amiss. She seemed so very odd that day. Actually, she behaved more like y—” The girl broke off, her gray eyes widening at the gaffe she’d nearly made.

Violet forced herself to raise a haughty eyebrow in imitation of her twin. “You were saying?”

“N-nothing. I’m relieved, that’s all. The loss of Violet’s friendship has been a great sorrow to me.”

She kept herself from stretching out a comforting hand. “As it has been to her.”

“How long does she plan to remain in Italy?”

“Through the winter, I believe. Although her schedule is not yet fully decided.” Violet rose to her feet, brushed an idle hand over her skirt. “Her direction is not firmly fixed. If you wish to write to her, you may give the letters to me and I will see them properly forwarded. And I shall do the same with hers.”

Surprise shone once again on Eliza’s features. “Thank you. I would be most grateful.”

She inclined her head, wishing she could stay and talk, wishing she could put aside all pretense and reveal herself to her friend. But she didn’t dare. It would be much too much of a risk.

“Well, I must be returning to the ballroom,” she said. “I am promised to Mr. Canning for the next dance, and he will soon be searching everywhere for me. Good evening, Miss Hammond.”

Eliza curtseyed. “Good evening, your Grace.”

Violet returned to the party, to the press of the crowd, to the heat and light of a hundred blazing candelabras, to the scents of perfume and cologne and perspiring bodies. But the atmosphere did not weigh on her with its usual oppression, the load on her conscience lighter for the first time in months.

“There has been a tragic accident,” Adrian announced the following morning. “Ben Yardley, one of my tenant farmers, has been killed. I must leave for home directly.”

Violet turned from her place on the drawing-room sofa. “Oh, Adrian, how dreadful. Of course you must go. I shall tell March to notify the staff that we will be returning to the country.”

“I can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy the company, my dear, but there’s no need for you to come with me. You’re having such a splendid time here in the city, I wouldn’t want to spoil that. Besides, there’s nothing you can do at home. The poor man is already dead.”

He stilled her when she opened her mouth to protest. “No, you stay here with Kit.” He cast a glance toward his brother. “He can escort you to any of the engagements you should like to attend. I won’t be away long, a week at most. You’ll scarcely even know I’m gone.” He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Stay and enjoy yourself.”

A hint of uneasiness clouded the brilliant translucent depths of her eyes. Then it disappeared as her lips curved upward. “All right, my love. If that is what you wish.”

“Here is the translation I promised.” Violet passed a folded piece of paper to Kit, then continued along the upstairs hallway toward the staircase.

He accepted the note with a smile, tucked it into his breeches pocket while he kept pace beside her. “Thanks, sis, you’re a rock. If it weren’t for your help, I’d be stuck here tonight racking my brain for answers instead of escorting you to Lord and Lady Taylor’s bash. Not that you’d have trouble finding another eager gentleman ready to step in.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’ve assumed you-know-who’s mantle quite admirably.”

She stopped, turned to him. “Do you really think so, Kit? Sometimes I shake in my shoes waiting for one of them to notice. It would only take one, you know.”

“Not to worry. On occasion, when I’m not paying full attention, you even fool me. And I already know.” He patted her shoulder reassuringly, careful to keep his voice down. “As your mentor, I’m justifiably proud. If you weren’t a duchess, I’d suggest you try out for the stage. You put Mrs. Siddons to shame.”

His comment should have made her smile. Instead she sighed. “I wish Adrian would return. It’s only been two days and I miss him dreadfully.”

Which was foolish in the extreme, she thought, seeing how they’d barely spent two minutes together when he was here. Still, the bed felt empty at night. She hadn’t realized how accustomed she had grown to having him beside her, so warm and strong and comforting in the dark.

“Never fear, he’ll be back before you know it,” Kit said. “This matter at home, sad as it is, can’t take long to resolve. Now come on, or we’ll be more than fashionably late.” He coaxed her to the main staircase.

Resigned, she followed.

The soirée was well under way by the time they arrived. Several pairs of eyes turned in their direction as she and Kit strolled into the room. He excused himself as her usual crowd soon clustered around her. Not long after, young Mr. Moncrief dived into a sonnet he had composed in honor of her eyebrows. He’d entitled it “Angel Wings in Flight.” His soulful blue eyes grew moist with pride as he began his recitation.

One of her brows shot up to hear such nonsense, eliciting a round of appreciative sighs from several of her other male admirers. All of them were competing to become her
cisisbeo.
They persisted in this quest despite her having informed them many times over that she was not in the market for an exclusive male “friend.”

Christabel Morgan appeared at her elbow, anxious to pass on fresh snippets of gossip. Violet let her chatter away, making encouraging noises at the appropriate moments.

Short of giving Christabel the cut direct, which Jeannette would never do, Violet had tried every way she could think to gently rid herself of the girl. But Christabel was like a pesky garden vine that refused to go away no matter how many times you yanked it out of the ground. So she resigned herself and suffered her company as best she could.

The evening wore on, her slippered feet beginning to ache from too much dancing, her tongue pasty with the cloying aftertaste of one too many cups of sweet punch. In desperate need of solitude, she decided to brave the chill and slip out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air.

The November night wrapped around her like a cool pair of arms. She stepped into its embrace, into the soothing, shadowy quiet that curled catlike along the edges of the house.

Suddenly, a pair of long, sinewy arms—real arms—grasped and turned her, pulling her flush against a solid, masculine body. Lips descended, hard and hungry, capturing her mouth in a steamy, passionate kiss.

She cried out in alarm, her distress muffled by the marauding mouth that had taken possession of her own. Too stunned to resist, she froze, her body corpse-stiff within the unwanted embrace.

Soon she regained her senses, ineffectually trying to twist free. But his imprisoning arms were as unyielding as steel bars. She was rallying herself to let out a scream that would bring everyone running onto the balcony, when he abruptly broke the kiss.

A splinter of light slashed across his face, illuminating his dangerous, familiar features.

“Mr. Markham,” she gasped on a panting breath.

“Who else were you expecting?” Toddy Markham said on a near growl. “One of those puerile boys who trails after you, composing odes to your eyelashes?” He pressed another quick kiss upon her astonished lips. “I’m sorry if I scared you, darling, but when I saw you come out here, I couldn’t let the opportunity slip past. You must know I’ve been in agony. Wanting to see you, touch you, while being forced to stand aside and do nothing except watch and wait.”

Her mouth fell open. She blinked and sputtered, sure she must look like a freshly caught trout laboring for air.

“Mr. Markham,” she repeated, sensible speech deserting her.

He turned a gimlet eye her way. “Oh, are we being formal,
your Grace
? You seem to be taking this new title of yours a bit too seriously, don’t you think? ‘Jeannette’ was good enough for you before your marriage. ‘Toddy’ was fine when you cried out your pleasure in my arms. Surely Raeburn isn’t so skillful a lover you’ve forgotten what you had with me?”

Her eyes bulged. She actually felt them strain and scrape in the sockets. She sent up a prayer of thankfulness for the concealing darkness.

Markham tightened his hold, oblivious to her distress. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear about him.” He drew a harsh, impatient breath. “What I do want to know about are these little games you’ve been playing. Acting as if you barely know me. Refusing to accept my invitations to dance. Avoiding me at every possible turn. Whatever sort of clever tricks you think you’re up to, I don’t care for them one bit.”

Blood rushed, throbbing in her temples, pounding in her ears. For an instant, she thought she might faint. She knew her twin had amours. She’d just never expected one of them to appear in the flesh and confront her in such an obviously physical manner. Or for it to be Markham, of all people. He was supposed to be Adrian’s friend. Obviously her instincts had been right on that count. She’d known from the moment she met him that he wasn’t to be trusted.

What to do? What to do?
she wondered, frantic. She had to think, only there wasn’t any time to think. And if she didn’t say something soon—other than his name—he might begin to wonder. He might start to question, start to notice a difference in her. Notice, for instance, that she was not the woman she claimed to be.

“L-let me go, someone might see.” She pushed against his chest, using the defiant outburst to gather her scattered emotions as she stepped free. “D-do you want everyone to know?”

He reached for her hand, but she evaded him. “I wouldn’t necessarily mind,” he said.

“You forget. I am a married woman.”

“No, my love,
that
I never forget.” He scowled, crossed his arms, his voice low, gruff. “Why did you go through with it? Why did you marry him when you said you couldn’t bear the thought? And you’ve written me only once in all this time, urging me to be patient. How can I be patient when my heart aches for you? When my only recourse is to send letters to you at
his
house, since you’ve forbidden any other contact?”

Letters? He’d written letters. And she’d written back? She remembered the letter she’d passed on for Jeannette, forwarded to a post-office box in London. Her mind reeled at the implication.

“My God, you’re K.”

“Of course I’m K. What nonsense are you spouting? K. K for Kenneth, my middle name. We agreed to use it so no one would suspect. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing, nothing is the matter. You’ve taken me by surprise, is all, jumping out at me from the darkness. Don’t frighten me that way again.”

“My apologies. I couldn’t help myself, especially knowing Raeburn is away. Meet me tonight. Let me see you, touch you. It’s been so long.”

He stepped forward.

She stepped back. “I—I can’t.”

His jaw tightened, visible even in the shadows. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

“It’s difficult. You don’t understand. I can’t just leave the house, someone will know. And Kit, he…he watches me,” she lied. “Quite the little spy, Adrian’s brother. Who would have thought?”

“You seem to have an affinity for spies.” He reached out, traced a thumb over the curve of her cheek. “Very well, I’ll wait. But not for long. You may be his wife, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t still mine to love.” He swooped down before she could prevent it, planted another hard kiss upon her lips.

As quickly as he’d come, he was gone, disappearing like a wraith into the night.

She stood, her heart stuttering in her chest as if she’d just run a race. A shiver passed over her, cold seeping through the material of her dress. She hurried inside, anxious to be warm, desperate to be safe.

Scanning the crowd, she searched for Kit.

The Earl of Allensby intercepted her; it was time for his dance. She tried to slough him off, pleading a headache—which wasn’t much of a lie, since she felt one coming on. Gentleman that he was, Allensby insisted on escorting her to her brother-in-law.

“Jeannette.” Kit rose from the table where he was playing cards, tossed down his hand. “You look white as a sheet. Whatever has overset you?”