The Husband Trap (37 page)

No, he’d said, he hadn’t seen her, wasn’t harboring her and didn’t know anyone else who might be. Then he asked a question of his own.

If Adrian truly despised Violet and wanted nothing more to do with her, why was he so desperate to discover her whereabouts?

Kit was right. Considering her wrongs, why did he care so much about finding her? She’d lied to him, used him, humiliated him. By rights, he should hate her. He did hate her.

At least, that’s what he kept assuring himself.

Her disappearance ate at him, though, wondering where she was. What she was doing. Whether she was safe and healthy. Happy.

He dreamed of her nearly every night. Sometimes she was in terrible danger. Lost, penniless and frightened, at the mercy of some villain as she cried out for help. Failing to arrive in time, he would jolt awake. Skin damp, heart racing, he would stare into the darkness, his thoughts full of her.

Other nights the dreams were both sweet and seductive. Violet—he thought of her now as Violet—coming to tease him, tempt him, delight him. They felt so real, those dreams.
She
felt so real. And for a brief time she would be his again the way she had been in those first few wonderful months. Waking from those dreams was worse, his body stiff with unsatisfied desire, his mind haunted by the knowledge that even against his wishes, he wanted her still.

Yet how could he reconcile those needs with what she had done? For months he’d believed her to be Jeannette. She’d done everything in her power to deceive him. But now that his initial anger no longer burned so hot, he could look back and see the many ways she clearly had not been like her sister.

Her innocence. Her shyness. Her pretty, becoming blushes. The forays into the library she’d thought he hadn’t noticed. Her acceptance of his duties, understanding that he couldn’t dance attendance upon her at all hours of the day. The peaceful quiet companionship she’d offered many an evening. Her kindness to the staff. Her appreciation of simple pleasures, nature, music, art. Her love for a great oaf of a dog who many others would have left to a life of misery and despair.

Looking back, he didn’t know how he could have missed all the signs. Perhaps he’d wanted to miss them, afraid to see the truth. Afraid if he did, he would have to acknowledge what a mistake his original choice of wife had been.

Jeannette, the real Jeannette, would have made him miserable.

Violet had made him happy. And he’d driven her away.

Where was she? England surely wasn’t so large an island that one small woman could not be found. Unless she was no longer in England. Had she gone to her sister? Were the two of them even now basking beneath the glow of a warm Italian sun?

He stopped, glanced up, only then realizing he’d arrived at Hatchard’s Bookshop. He’d been so busy woolgathering, he’d scarcely been aware of his progress along the streets. He walked inside, a bell chiming bird-soft at his entrance.

He’d ordered a number of books some months ago; they’d finally arrived. While the clerk went to retrieve them, he wandered into the stacks to examine the other offerings.

A young woman turned at his footfall, glancing up from a book she had been perusing. She sank into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace, how do you do?”

He bowed. “Miss Hammond. I did not realize anyone else was here. Foot traffic is generally light this time of day.”

“Yes, I know, that’s why I like it.” She paused, an awkward silence developing as the import of her admission sank in. She moved to cover the gaffe. “How is your family?”

“Well, thank you. And your own?”

“Fine. My aunt and cousin are currently debating the wisdom of remaining in the city. The expense of another Season, you see.”

He did see. This would be Eliza Hammond’s third attempt at the matrimonial mart. To his knowledge, she had not received a single offer all of last Season. He was about to find a polite way to end their conversation, when she issued a statement that riveted his attention.

“I had a letter from your sister-in-law,” she said.

“From Violet?” Or did she mean Jeannette?

“Yes. She continues to enjoy the Continent. She and her great-aunt recently relocated to Rome and find the city most amiable. She says they will likely return to England soon.”

“Did she? What good news.”

“Please thank your wife, by the way, when next you see her. She has been most kind to forward Violet’s letters to me.”

A buzz arced through him. “Has she been? I was unaware.”

“Oh, yes, for a few months now. I assume you will be joining her in Dorset once your business is concluded here in the city.”

“Dorset?”

Eliza scrunched her brow. “That is where I have been sending my letters of late. She said she’d gone to the shore for a visit, to the lovely house you own there.”

A rushing noise roared between his ears. Violet was at the house in Dorset.
My God.

He hurried to cover his lapse. “Quite right. She went south for a few weeks. I plan to join her directly.”

Most directly,
he promised himself.

“Well, my purchase must be ready by now,” he continued. “A pleasure, Miss Hammond.” He bowed, turned away quickly. He raced from the shop, his book order forgotten, the clerk gawking at his abrupt exit.

Horatio loped through the grassy patches that dotted the cliffside fields, pausing every now and again to sniff at an interesting scent before racing on. Violet followed behind him at a more leisurely pace. A chill, stiff wind plucked at the pins in her hair and ruffled her skirts like some impish sprite bent on mischief. She didn’t mind, letting the wind have its way, the tempest a perfect foil for her desperate, melancholic mood.

In the distance, the sea churned, whitecaps riding high atop steel blue waves as they raced toward the shore. The afternoon sun did its best to shine, without much luck, obscured by thick lumbering clouds that turned the sky a dingy gray.

After several minutes more, she called for Horatio, his ears flagging to attention. “Come, boy. Come here.” The dog streaked toward her. It was time they were returning home, she mused. It was time she was moving on as well.

Facts were facts, her life with Adrian was through. Somehow, no matter how frightening the thought, she had to make her own way in the world, find the courage to act, to go on. She couldn’t hide here forever, much as she wished she could.

When she’d arrived in a hired hack nearly two months before, accompanied only by her maid and her dog, the Grimms had taken her in with nary a question. Souls of discretion, they’d barely blinked at her request to say nothing to the duke about her stay. Ever the mother hen, Mrs. Grimm clucked and fussed, preparing a good, hot meal, coaxing her to eat when she would have only picked.

Rooms were prepared. One for Agnes in the servants’ quarters. The master suite for her; the same room where she’d spent her honeymoon. Memories rushed at her from every corner, crowded with images of sweeter times past. Of Adrian when he’d still looked at her with desire burning in his eyes. When his cold hatred hadn’t chilled her to the bone.

His memory was everywhere. In every room. Outside on the moors. In her bed at night as she cried until sleep overcame her.

She should never have come here, she knew.

Yet the house proved a comfort as the weeks passed.

Desperate, she hadn’t known where else to go. Her parents were out of the question. Once they found out what she had done…well, she shuddered to consider.

Her brother would merely laugh if she applied to him, then turn her out.

As for Jeannette, her sister could offer her nothing, not even shelter since she had no property nor money of her own.

And Great-aunt Agatha would give her away, demanding to know why she’d fled England and left her husband. Before Violet knew it, Agatha would be writing letters to every acquaintance she knew.

No, there was no one in her family who would aid her.

She considered Kit. But as a single man—and a student at University—he wasn’t in any position to help, even if he would.

As for her friend Eliza, even if Eliza forgave her all the lies and took pity, she could not aid her, since she, as an unmarried woman, lived wholly dependent upon her own relations.

Terrifying as it might seem, Violet was alone in the world.

With that in mind, she’d spent the past two months considering her options. She had a small amount of money saved from the generous monthly allowance Adrian had given her. If she lived frugally it could be made to stretch for several months. After that, she would need to acquire some sort of employment. Agnes would have to be let go, of course. She would write her a glowing letter of recommendation.

And Horatio. Her heart tore at the thought of leaving him behind, but what other choice did she have? He ate as much as a growing boy, and even if money were no consideration, his size was. Finding lodgings would be a problem with him in tow. And if she hired on as a companion or a governess, they would never let him come along. She would send him to Winterlea with a note asking Adrian to care for her dog. No matter how much he might despise her, she knew he would not be so cruel as to turn his anger against a helpless beast. Horatio would be cared for.

She paused in her walk, dropped to the ground beside the huge dog. She hugged him, laying her cheek against his warm, smooth flank. Eyes squeezed shut, she fought the bout of tears that threatened to overcome her.

When she’d recovered her emotions enough to escape comment from Mrs. Grimm’s shrewd gaze, she rose and continued onward. The house came into view over a slight rise, gleaming like gold in a stray patch of sunlight. Then she saw the coach in the drive, the ducal crest emblazoned on its side.

She stopped dead, her heart kicking like a mule inside her chest.

Adrian had found her.

Chapter Twenty-one

He was waiting in the main parlor when she came inside.

She took her time removing her cloak, tidying her hair, resetting pins as she checked her reflection in a small mirror down the hall. The murmur of Adrian’s deep voice floated to her ears. He was speaking to Horatio, who had rushed into the parlor in an exuberant dash the instant he realized Adrian was there.

Pinching her cheeks to put some color in them, she adjusted the spectacles she’d once again taken to wearing, then straightened her shoulders. She could do this, she told herself. She
would
do this and not fall apart. She’d made a fool of herself in front of him once. She did not intend to do so again.

Horatio’s tail was still wagging when she walked into the room. He turned, padded up to her on huge paws, a big doggy grin demonstrating that his allegiance to her was as strong as ever. She stroked his head and sent him over to lie down near the fireplace.

A tea tray had been brought in, courtesy of Mrs. Grimm, an extra plate and cup laid for her use.

She glanced around the room, looking everywhere but directly at him. Finally, she spoke, aware she could postpone her greeting no longer. “Your Grace.”

“Violet.”

How odd it sounded, after all this time, to hear her name on his lips. What she would have given, once, for him to speak her name and know who she truly was. Now that he did, she regretted the price at which that knowledge had come.

“How did you find me?” She moved farther into the room, striving to be her most elegant. She refused to cower.

“Tea first, I think.” He crossed to the tray. “You look chilled.”

“No, thank you.” Her stomach lurched at the thought of food or drink.

Ignoring her, he lifted the pot. “Mrs. Grimm informed me you were out walking the cliffs.”

“Yes.”

Why was he being so polite? She’d expected anger or at least cold civility from him. Perhaps the worst of his outraged affront had faded during her absence. Perhaps in the intervening weeks, he’d come not to care at all.

Uncertain how long her legs would continue to support her, she crossed to the chair farthest from him and sank gratefully downward.

“Your tea.” He extended the cup.

She accepted, pointedly set it aside. What did he want? Why was he torturing her? Why didn’t he simply say whatever it was he’d come to say and have done with it. “Who told you I was here?”

He took a seat. “Your friend Eliza Hammond.”

Her gaze flew upward.

“Forgive her. She didn’t realize she was giving away your secrets. I happened upon her quite by accident in London. She mentioned she’d had a letter from you, sent from Dorset.”

“I knew I should not have written her, but of all people, I never thought she’d have an occasion to tell you.” She folded her hands together in her lap to keep them still. “Does everyone know? Have you told the world about me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “No. With the exception of my solicitor, one bishop and a few of their most discreet assistants. I was compelled to contact them concerning the validity of our marriage.”

A lump swelled in her throat. She stared at her shoes. “And?”

“It is as I suspected. We are not legally husband and wife. Our marriage is invalid. Annulment papers have been prepared to make it official.”