The Husband Trap (8 page)

She raised her legs, hooked them around his hips. Moments later, he began to thrust. Shallow strokes at first, then longer ones. She sensed his restraint, as if he was denying his own urgings in favor of her own.

She held on to him, sliding her arms over his shoulders. Then stroked her palms across the fine, warm skin of his back. She reveled in the fluid texture she found, the tensile strength.

Yearning swept over her again. That same lovely rush she had experienced before when he had touched her with his hands. Building, swelling, leaving her body literally weeping for relief. Ripples of exquisite need pulsed through her system. Tingling in her toes. Exploding in her brain. Aching in her deepest depths.

She moaned.

Not from pain this time but from desire. Wanton, willing and ripe. A high, thin thread of sound that floated upward into the room.

Adrian’s breath sang warm and heavy in her ear as he continued to move within her. Suddenly his body stiffened and shook. His head arched back, a look of intense, almost feral satisfaction etched on his features. A wet warmth filled her before he collapsed upon her. Lungs pumping for air. His face cradled against her neck.

She waited. Was it over? Was that all? It seemed to her there should have been something more.

As if sensing her thoughts, he levered himself onto his elbows. Took most of his great weight off her small frame. “I couldn’t wait. Next time will be better, I promise.”

He rolled away from her. Less than a minute later, he climbed from the bed.

She tugged the coverlet up over herself, high under her chin.

Was he leaving?

There came the unmistakable sound of water being poured, followed by a soft hush of movement. Next, the light clink of porcelain on porcelain. Old water dumped in the waste basin, exchanged for fresh. With his feet all but silent on the carpeting, he crossed back to her, a china washbasin painted with cheery yellow flowers held in one hand.

He stopped beside her, naked and completely unashamed. The skin along his thighs, and that other unmentionable part of him, damp from where he had obviously bathed. After a hasty look, she turned her eyes away.

“Would you prefer I put on my robe?”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

Setting the basin on the side table, he took up a spot next to her on the bed.

She didn’t react until he reached out to pull back the covers. She clutched them to her, fought a silent tugo’war.

“Let me,” he urged, his tone gentle. He dunked a clean washcloth in the basin, rang out the excess water. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

Did he mean to wash her, down there?

Heat flooded into her cheeks, embarrassed afresh even after the intimacy they had just shared. “I—I’ll do it myself, later.”

“It will be easier if I assist you now. Let loose, my dear.” He gave the covers another tug. “I’ve already seen you, you know. There is no need for this sort of modesty.”

He was right, she supposed. He had seen her. And touched her in ways she had never envisioned. Jeannette would not have been modest. By now she would probably have been lounging beside him, relaxed as a kitten. And as much as she hated the necessity of it, she was, after all, supposed to be Jeannette.

Damn, she didn’t want to think about her twin. Not now. Not here like this with him.

She released her hold on the bedclothes, let him fold them down. Shock rippled through her when she saw the blood smeared over her thighs, across the sheets, staining her nightgown. She had not realized she would bleed like this. No wonder losing her innocence had been so painful.

The wet cloth was cool. But not unpleasantly so when he laid it against her flesh to wipe away the evidence of their coupling. She closed her eyes while he ministered to her. His touch efficient, calm, tender as a nursemaid tending a beloved babe.

“Shall I bring you a fresh nightgown?” he asked when he had finished. He discarded the washcloth into the basin of water.

She glanced down at herself. Noted the ripped bodice, bloodstained skirts, and realized she would be more comfortable in another garment. Until she remembered the choice of gowns available inside her trunk.

She shook her head. “My robe, perhaps.”

It wouldn’t cover a great deal, she knew, but it was better than any of the other possibilities.

He went to retrieve it.

He took a moment first to slip into his own robe, then walked to the center of the room, bent to collect her garment. Wordlessly, he laid her robe across the foot of the bed. Then he picked up the washbowl with its pink-tinged water, crossed to the commode to toss it away.

Taking advantage of his discreetly turned back, Violet stripped off her ruined night attire and slipped on the thin robe. She buttoned every button—all five of them—before climbing back into the bed.

Adrian soon returned, pulled the covers up to her chin, tucked her in tight. He brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek. “I should have listened to you, my dear. Should not have doubted your word. I will not do so again. You have my promise.”

Now it was her turn to feel guilty. He was apologizing for assuming she had lied, then finding out she hadn’t, when her very presence here was a lie. He believed she was another woman. She was letting him believe she was another woman. If Jeannette had been here tonight, Violet was sure Adrian would not have been apologizing. He wouldn’t have had any reason to apologize, for anything.

“Would you rather I slept in the adjoining room for the rest of the night?” he asked.

No doubt Jeannette would have bid him good night and turned her back. Likely she would have preferred to sleep alone.

Violet raised her eyes to his. Saw the man she still loved. The man she still wanted no matter what may have transpired between them. Reaching over, she folded down the bedclothes on the empty half of the bed.

He hesitated, then walked slowly around the bed. She snuggled down, the feather pillow comfortable beneath her head.

Adrian gutted the few candles still burning and plunged the room to black. She heard him slip out of his robe, then climb into the bed. The mattress gave beneath his weight.

They lay there on their backs. Each of them staring upward toward the bed canopy, which could not be seen in the dark.

After a time, Violet heard him take a deep breath.

“I am sorry for hurting you, my dear,” he said. “I am sorry I was not more gentle when I could have been. When I should have been. I hope tomorrow we might begin anew.”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat then turned on her side, scooting closer to lie against him. She wrapped her hand around his upper arm, pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “Go to sleep. It is late,” she murmured.

He raised his arm to snuggle her more tightly to him, her face pillowed against the smooth warmth of his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath her ear. She listened, finding its rhythm soothing and uniquely relaxing.

She closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

Her maid, Agnes, awakened her the next morning when she drew back the curtains. Crisp yellow sunlight streamed through the windows like a sunny pair of hands to shake Violet from her rest. She grumbled and rolled over, buried her head deeper into the nearest pillow.

It smelled of Adrian, male and a little musky.

Delicious.

Her eyes opened fully this time as memories of the night past flooded into her consciousness. She was alone in the bed. She wondered how long ago Adrian had left.

“Good morning, your Grace,” Agnes said. “I am sorry to wake you so early. But his Grace said he wants to be on the road no later than eight-o’-the-clock.”

Violet sat up, brushed her tousled hair away from her face. “Hmm.”

The girl gave her a look as if she half expected Violet to pitch a rebellion. Likely Jeannette would have done that very thing. She could imagine her flopping back into bed after delivering the message that the duke could be on the road any time he bloody well liked, but she was going to sleep in.

Violet didn’t have the energy for any early-morning rebellion pitching, however. Her sister’s juvenile temper tantrums had always been a sore spot with her. Pretending to be Jeannette notwithstanding, Violet decided she would curb that particular character trait starting this morning. Let the servants believe marriage had changed her, matured her. In this one respect, Violet was certain they would feel nothing but profound relief.

“I have your breakfast, your Grace. Would you like to take it in bed?”

Violet would have preferred to dine at the small table near the window. But she knew Jeannette never did anything—not even get out of bed—until she had drunk her first cup of tea.

“Here would be fine, Agnes.”

After arranging the pillows at her mistress’s back so that Violet could sit comfortably upright, Agnes placed the tray onto her lap. The maid said not a single word about the fact that Violet wore nothing but her robe. Nor did she comment on the condition of the torn, bloodied night rail. She merely removed the soiled garment from the chair where Violet had tossed it last night, then carried it away.

“I’ve unpacked your blue traveling dress, your Grace. Will that be satisfactory?”

Violet looked up from the slice of toast she had been smothering with lemon curd—her favorite—to give Agnes a blank stare. She knew absolutely nothing about fashion. And even less about the contents of her twin’s wardrobe. Ask her to quote Shakespeare or debate a point of historical fact and she would have been perfectly at ease. But clothes? For a split second, panic set in. Seconds passed as she got hold of herself once more, reined the emotion back in.

“Yes, the blue will be fine, thank you. Now, I should like to finish my morning repast, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, of course, your Grace.” Agnes bobbed a curtsey. “I will return in a few minutes to help you dress.”

Violet nodded, reminding herself to behave like her sister, then lifted the teapot to pour herself a steaming cup. As soon as the door clicked shut, she set the teapot down, closed her eyes in relief.

How was she ever going to keep up this pretense?

One day at a time, she told herself. One moment at a time, actually.

Nearly two hours later, Violet strolled down the main staircase, garbed in the elegant periwinkle traveling dress Agnes had selected. Matching accessories of hat, gloves and small high-heeled shoes made from the softest kid leather completed the outfit. Affecting an air of nonchalance that she in no way felt, Violet acted as if her tardy arrival was of no concern.

Jeannette was rarely on time.

A prompt appearance—particularly this morning—would have been tantamount to admitting she was impersonating her sister.

Adrian waited in the hall, ready to depart. It was nearly nine o’clock.

She caught the briefest hint of a frown on his face just before he saw her.

The look cleared and he smiled, coming forward to take her hand. “Good morning, my dear.” He dropped a kiss on the inside of her wrist in the spot he favored. “I trust you slept well?”

The usual tingle raced over her skin at his touch, heightened as her body recalled all of the other places he had kissed and caressed last night. It took every ounce of her determination to stem the blush that threatened to spread like a rash over her cheeks.

“Yes, quite well,” she replied. “And you?”

“Quite well.”

Their eyes met in a long speaking glance, each of them remembering the way it had felt to lie in the other’s arms through the quiet hours of the night. Soon, Adrian dropped her hand, crossed to a small table and picked up a pair of tan leather gloves.

Dressed for riding, he was a picture of casual masculine elegance. Snowy white shirt, buff breeches, black-and-white striped waistcoat, his Hessian boots polished to a gleam. His snug, dun-colored coat showed off every inch of his sturdy, broad shoulders.

“I take it you mean to ride out?” she said, stating the obvious.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” she denied.

With no book to read and no company, the hours ahead were bound to be long and boring. She wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the passing scenery. Not without her spectacles. But perhaps traveling solo would be for the best. Alone, she wouldn’t be forced to constantly keep up the pretense.

Adrian drew on his gloves. “Ready?”

She lifted her chin in a gesture she knew Jeannette would have used. “Quite ready.”

Morning crept into afternoon as their party made its way toward Dorset and England’s southern coast. Guilt crept upon Adrian for taking the coward’s way out, riding instead of passing the time with his new wife inside the coach. But after last night he felt in need of some solitude. Perhaps she did as well.

How could he have been so completely mistaken in his judgment of her? He had been convinced he knew the truth. Gleaned in large measure from the confidences related to him by his friend Theodore “Toddy” Markham, a man who had a unique ability to learn things about people they might prefer others didn’t know.

Most considered Toddy a harmless fop who spent far too much money on his clothing and horses and far too little time on other more sensible pursuits. Little did they realize he had served as one of Britain’s top spies during the war, gathering information on the home front and abroad and passing it along to the highest levels inside the British War Office. Adrian had been one of the select few chosen to serve as a contact to receive that vital information.

After suffering a nearly fatal wound at the first Siege of Badajoz in 1811, Adrian had been forced to resign his commission and take a less obvious role in the war effort. He’d traded the heat and gore of the battlefield for the cool anonymity of clandestine alleyways and dark smoky pubs. In such places he made contact with a variety of informants, some of an admittedly unsavory character, who were willing to trade information in exchange for money or favor or, upon occasion, for nothing more than the glory of pure patriotism. Toddy was one of the noble few, content merely to be of service to his nation.

Over the years, he and Toddy had developed a deep respect and affection for each other. Which is why Adrian had believed him when his friend reluctantly confided reports of some unsettling rumors he had heard about Adrian’s intended bride. Although Toddy’s warnings had come a bit too late, Adrian assured him he could handle the situation, whatever it might be.