The Husband Trap (3 page)

“What a foolish little man,” Christabel said. “He really ought to come with the word
hazard
stitched onto his lapel, do you not agree?”

Violet tittered because she knew it was expected. Inwardly, she felt rather sorry for him. She knew how it was to be mocked. How it felt to have interests and proclivities that set one apart from the crowd.

For the next several minutes, Christabel launched into an animated discussion of some delicious gossip she’d heard, when suddenly she paused, nudged her elbow softly into Violet’s side.

“Look, across the room,” Christabel whispered. “It’s your sister and that dowdy bluestocking, Eliza Hammond. Whatever does Violet see in the girl? If I were you, I would forbid the association. A woman of your status shouldn’t have to abide such a distasteful alliance. Only consider how it might reflect upon your plans to one day become a patroness.”

Violet gritted her teeth, stifled the defense of her friend that sprang instantly to her lips. Sadly, she knew her twin would probably have agreed with Christabel. She couldn’t count the number of occasions on which her sister and their mother had expressed similar sentiments, chastising her for her friendship with the unfashionable Eliza. Consorting with such a bookish nobody would do nothing but drive eligible suitors away, they’d warned. Stubbornly, she’d chosen to ignore them and continue her relationship with her friend. She liked Eliza, fashionable or not, and that was good enough for her.

“Ooh-hoo, my eyes may be deceiving me,” Christabel observed, “but if I am not mistaken, Violet is giving the horrendous Miss Hammond the cut direct. Perhaps seeing you so splendidly married today has forced your sister to come to her senses at long last.”

Not in this lifetime,
Violet thought, watching helplessly as her twin turned a dismissive shoulder upon her best friend, then strode away. The confused hurt on Eliza’s gentle face was apparent.

She wanted to rush across the room and console her friend. She wanted to explain to Eliza that it was Jeannette she had been speaking to and not her.

But she couldn’t go to her, couldn’t explain, all too aware how dangerous it would be to reveal her deception, even to a person as trustworthy as Eliza. One tiny slip and this house of cards she and Jeannette had built would come toppling down around them. She promised herself she would make it up to Eliza someday. Somehow she would find a way to make amends for Jeannette’s slight.

Christabel sighed. “How eminently diverting. Did you not think so?”

Violet realized she was supposed to nod and chuckle in agreement, make some witty reply. But she couldn’t, too sad inside to muster even a false humor. Instead she found herself staring into Christabel’s limpid blue gaze.

Hateful girl,
she thought. Slowly she retrieved the solitary use of her arm, unable to bear Christabel’s touch any longer, pulling away as though escaping Medusa’s reptilian clutch.

Christabel frowned and stared. “Is something amiss? You look peculiar all of a sudden. You aren’t ill, are you?”

Her newfound bravado temporarily deserted her, her tongue welding itself suddenly to the bottom of her mouth. Silent, she shook her head, forced a smile, sure if she even attempted to speak she would give herself away.

Christabel continued to stare, obviously unconvinced, when Adrian appeared at Violet’s elbow.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” he said, all congeniality. “I hope you do not mind, Miss Morgan, but I fear I must steal my bride away. It is time Jeannette and I begin the dancing.” He showered them both with a debonair smile.

Reluctantly, Christabel curtseyed, and they exchanged parting nods.

Violet turned into his arms with a grateful inner sigh, allowed him to lead her away. He had no idea, she thought, the invaluable service he had just rendered her.

As they danced, his long arms enfolded her in a warm, stalwart embrace and she relaxed. Safe for the first time since she’d walked down the aisle on her father’s arm that morning. Ridiculous, she scoffed, considering he was the one person with whom she need always to be on her guard. The one man who, should he discover her real identity, had the power to crush her, heart and soul. And yet she was his wife.

His wife.

What wonderful, improbable words. Until that morning, until those unbelievable moments of shock, denial, apprehension and hope after Jeannette had declared she would not marry Adrian, Violet had never dared to dream such a thing might be possible. Never let herself truly imagine he could ever be hers.

She thought back to those seconds just after Jeannette made her bold declaration not to marry Adrian, recalling the way she’d gaped and sputtered. And the way, after she’d had a moment to collect her wits, she’d argued. Much as she despised the idea of her sister marrying the man she herself loved, she’d realized instantly the ramifications of Jeannette’s refusal.

Yet in spite of all her pleas that Jeannette reconsider, her twin had remained adamant.

“Her happiness,” Jeannette declared, “was far too important to worry over mundane details like money and social strictures. For a time she’d fancied herself in love with Raeburn, but she’d been mistaken in her feelings. He was an uncaring bully and she would not be chained to him for a lifetime,” she had stated with dramatic hyperbole. “She would not be used for the benefit of the family like some slave bartered at market.”

Then Jeannette had uttered the words that had irrevocably altered their lives.

If you care so much about saving everyone, if you want to act the martyr and sacrifice yourself on the family pyre, why don’t you marry him?

The statement had hung between them, dramatic as a cannon blast.

Marry Adrian? Dear God, Violet could think of nothing she would like better. But to deceive him? Beguile him by trading identities with her twin? To consign herself to living her life in a permanent game of pretend?

No, she’d reasoned, it would be wicked. A villainous crime no decent person would dare perpetrate, certainly not a shy, genteel young woman like her. Why, the very concept was laughable. No one would believe her capable of committing such a brazen hoax, she’d argued.

But wasn’t that what made it all so perfect, so possible? Jeannette had urged. Who, after all, would even think to suspect?

Despite her reservations, her terror of potential discovery, her knowledge that what she contemplated was wrong, she had not been able to resist. Her one chance, her opportunity to be with the man she adored, how could she pass that up? If she refused now, Adrian Winter would walk out of her life as surely as the sun would set in the sky that evening.

What did it matter if he thought she was her sister, as long as she could be with him?

She considered her decision again now as they danced, as she smiled up into his beautiful, expressive eyes.
It’s worth it,
she thought,
for however long it lasts.

Somehow she made it through the rest of the day, due in great measure, she realized, to Adrian’s rock-steady presence at her side. If not for his support, she feared she would have collapsed into a shivering heap, disgracing herself before one and all.

And if he noticed a difference in her, in
Jeannette,
he didn’t remark upon it. Attributing her lapses, she prayed, to the unusual strain of the day. For despite doing her utmost to act like her sister, she worried her performance was a pale imitation. Dull as paste stones displayed next to diamonds.

Finally, after many long hours, after the dancing and the small talk and the elaborate meal—most of which she’d pushed around her plate, unable to eat—she was allowed to retreat upstairs to change into the clothing she would wear for the honeymoon trip.

“There you are, darling, nearly ready for your journey.” Her mother, the Countess of Wightbridge, sailed into Jeannette’s bedchamber. A pair of maidservants flitted around the room busily packing last-minute essentials. Her mother believed she was Jeannette. She couldn’t falter now. She had to keep Mama believing.
Just a few minutes more,
Violet told herself, as nausea swelled like a queasy tide inside her belly.

“Oh, it will be so hard to see you go, my sweet child,” her mother moaned. “How we shall all miss you.”

“Yes, and I shall miss you,” Violet said, striving for the breezy tone she was certain Jeannette would have affected. “But a woman must learn to accept these things once she marries and leaves to set up a household of her own.”

“Oh, married and a duchess.” Her mother clasped her hands together in delight. “Your father and I are so pleased. The wedding was everything to be hoped for.”

“It was, was it not?”

“Although I still think it perfectly beastly of Raeburn to have canceled your wedding trip abroad. I know how crushed you are. How much you were looking forward to seeing the Continent—France and Holland and Belgium—now that that fiend Napoleon has finally been defeated and locked away. Problems on Raeburn’s estate!
Pshaw.
I am sure they are far less serious than he claims. But then, men are stubborn about these things. Never understanding how important special occasions like a honeymoon are to a woman. And they claim to be the smarter sex.”

Violet knew all about the canceled European tour. Every single member of the Brantford household did, down to the lowliest tweeny. Jeannette had cried and wailed and pouted over it for nearly the whole of last week, drying her eyes just in time for the wedding.

Only, Jeannette had not gone through with the wedding.

Violet pressed a palm against her stomach and struggled to focus on her mother’s words, on the role she was supposed to be playing.

“Are you certain you want to give Jacobs to your sister?” her mother continued, referring to Jeannette’s longtime lady’s maid. “Violet can do quite well on her own, you know. She always has done. I couldn’t bear to part with my own dear Miss Phillips.”

Violet drew a deep breath before rushing into the speech she and Jeannette had agreed upon earlier. Jeannette, it seemed, could not be parted from her lady’s maid any more than their mother could be parted from hers.

“Yes, she will be a great loss, you are right,” she agreed. “But Jacobs is so very knowledgeable about all things Continental. With Violet off to Italy with Great-aunt Agatha in a few days’ time, she will need her assistance far more than I. I wouldn’t feel right leaving her to the ministrations of some
foreign
maid. Heaven knows the trouble that might ensue.”

Violet fluttered a hand, imitating a regal gesture Jeannette had taken to using lately. “So I have decided to give Jacobs to Violet as a present. A wedding gift, if you will, one sister to another. I shall take Agnes for myself. She’s new to the household but genteel. She should do quite well as a lady’s maid, I am sure, once she is properly trained.”

Actually, Jacobs had been handsomely compensated to soothe her ruffled feathers, the woman none too happy when she had learned she was not to be the Duchess of Raeburn’s dresser, after all.

“Oh, you are so dear, Jeannette,” her mother proclaimed. “So giving and loving. Violet is blessed to have you as her sister.” The countess straightened and gazed toward the door. “Where is that girl anyway? I declare she is never around when you want her.”

Violet cringed inside but said nothing.

“Here I am, Mama.” The real Jeannette walked demurely through the doorway, attired in the ecru silk bridesmaid’s gown she’d worn since their switch, spectacles and reserved glances firmly in place. Violet found herself staring for a long moment before she looked away.

What a curious sensation, she mused, to see herself as others must. Like gazing into a three-dimensional mirror except for the glint of mischief that peeked like a devil from inside her twin’s eyes.

“Have you seen your sister’s brush?” their mother questioned, turning to Jeannette. “You know, the one with the pearl handle. The maids say they can’t find it anywhere, and your sister needs it for her trip. You didn’t use it and leave it somewhere, did you?” The countess shot Jeannette a disapproving stare.

Jeannette linked her hands together in front of her. “No, Mama, I…I did not use the brush. It was on the dresser this morning, as I recall, when Jeannette was getting ready for the ceremony. I have not seen it since.”

Her mother snorted derisively. “Well, you’re of little help. See to your sister, then, since she must be leaving anytime now. Raeburn won’t abide being kept waiting much longer. You know how men hate letting their cattle stand. I shall consult with Phillips,” she went on, half speaking to herself. “Perhaps she will be able to shed some light on this mystery.” Carried forward on a wave of rustling skirt, the countess departed, leaving the two sisters entirely alone.

Jeannette crossed the room, closed the door, turned the key in the lock.

Violet met her twin’s gaze. “I suppose you have it.”

“Of course I have it. It is
my
brush.”

“Well, don’t let any of them see you with it. You will be sorry if you do.”

Jeannette came over, dropped down into a nearby armchair. “I don’t care a fig what they think. I never have. You are the one who has always been the little timid doe, trembling at her own shadow.”

Violet gritted her teeth at her sister’s unflattering assessment of her character. Jeannette didn’t understand the way it had been growing up, since she had always been the favorite, fussed over and cosseted by both of their parents. Violet, on the other hand, had simply been the
other
daughter.

Over the past twenty years of her life, she had often considered the subject, never able to understand what it was she did wrong. Why her parents made such a marked distinction between her and her sister.

Physically the two of them were indistinguishable. They shared the same ash blonde hair, the same peaches and cream complexion, the same radiant blue-green eyes. They both had pert noses and full rosy lips, cheekbones set high in perfect oval faces. Their figures were rounded in the hips and breasts, attractively slender everywhere else. Even their voices sounded exactly the same; only by their manner of dress and speech could they be told apart. Like a pair of fresh spring peas in a pod, their uncle Albert used to say of them.