The Wedding Trap (22 page)

Kit forced away a frown. “Yes, of course, very delighted.”

Seconds later, a tall man in a dark blue coat strode out of the salon, his footsteps sounding on the marble floor.

Kit’s eyebrows rose upward. “Vickery? What are you doing here?”

The man looked up, a faint expression of chagrin on his face. “Winter. Have you just returned from the Ray-croft sale?”

“Yes, just.” Kit crossed his arms. “I had rather thought to find you there as well. An impressive selection of prime horseflesh on the auction block, a shame you missed it.”

“True, but I’ve a full stable already, and I had…um, other plans for the day.”

So he could see. How long had this been going on? Vickery paying court to Eliza Hammond? To think the man had once sat across from him and verbally sliced Eliza to shreds. Would she turn Vickery away if she knew?

“Well, good to see you,” Vickery said. “I suppose we might bump into each other again tomorrow since I am promised to take Miss Hammond driving in my high-perch phaeton.”

Now the man was taking her driving. How serious was this?

Kit repressed the urge to scowl. “See to it you don’t drive so fast she falls out when you round a sharp corner.”

Vickery stared at him for a long moment, then smiled, assuming Kit spoke in jest. “
Ha-ha,
don’t worry, she’ll be safe as a baby in a cradle.”

“Cradles have been known to tip too.”

“This one won’t. She will be fine. I’ll make sure.”

“I trust you will.”

Vickery flashed him an uncertain half smile then gratefully accepted his hat from March. He jammed it on his head and went on his way with a nod.

Before March could close the door behind him, another gentleman arrived.

“Hello, March,” Viscount Lancelot Brevard greeted with obvious familiarity. “How are you this fine afternoon?”

“Very well, my lord. And yourself?”

“Splendid.”

“Miss Hammond is in the salon, my lord,” March volunteered, clearly aware of the purpose of the viscount’s visit.

Brevard thanked the servant, then turned his blond head. His eyes flashed. “Winter. Didn’t see you standing there.”

Kit thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Didn’t realize I was lurking.”

Brevard chuckled. “Are you about to go in?” More laughter issued from the salon. “Sounds as though everyone is having a lively time.”

“So it would appear. But no, I am on my way to my rooms.” He flicked a finger across the lapel of his coat. “Plans tonight.”

“Ah, then we won’t see you at the opera, I suppose.”

“We?”

“Yes, Miss Hammond has agreed to accompany my sister and me there this evening. I have come to apprise her of all the last-minute details.”

“Don’t much care for the opera as a general rule.”

“Well, yes, it can be an acquired taste.” Brevard rested a set of knuckles against one hip. “Sorry to have missed you the other day at Gentleman Jackson’s. You have quite the reputation there. Hear you pummeled yet another of Jackson’s best.”

Kit inclined his head. “I keep my hand in the game.”

“We must have a match one of these mornings,” Brevard invited with a cheerful grin.

“Indeed. Sounds like fun.”

“Well, best go make my bow to the ladies. Good day to you, Winter.”

“Good day.”

Brevard strolled into the salon, Eliza’s gently melodic greeting ringing out above the fray.

So she was going to the opera tonight with Brevard? He hadn’t even realized. Actually, he no longer knew a great deal about her daily schedule, not as he once had done. In the three weeks since the Lymondhams’ ball and her reentrance into Society, their lives had gradually drifted apart.

For one thing, their lessons were done—no more mornings of instruction and practice conversations. Neither did they ride together in the mornings, Eliza taking Cassiopeia out in the afternoon now to promenade in the park. Caught up in the social whirl of constant balls and parties, she had taken up the Town habit of sleeping late and frequently taking breakfast in her room. Often, he caught glimpses of her at various entertainments, but she was always surrounded by her small but dedicated coterie of admirers, so he left her to them and did not interfere.

Of course, he still kept watch over her. When a rake with a less than stellar reputation at both the gaming table and with the ladies began to insinuate himself into Eliza’s circle, Kit had quietly taken the man aside and let him know his overtures were not welcome.

In fact, Kit’s fierce protectiveness of Eliza had not gone unnoticed, a few of his cronies ribbing him about his new little “sister” until they realized he was not amused and decided it might be safer to keep their quips to themselves.

Kit stared at the door to the salon. For a long moment, he considered following Brevard inside. Instead he turned on his heel and strode across to the staircase, racing upward two steps at a time. He had no interest, absolutely none, in watching Eliza flirt and flutter with her beaux. For a woman who used to be so timid she would barely dare to meet a fellow’s gaze, she had certainly taken to her new role of charming ingenue with alacrity, he sniffed. Some days he barely recognized her, wondering where the sweet, shy girl he’d once known had gone.

But hadn’t that been the whole point of their lessons—to make the old Eliza disappear in favor of the newer, bolder version? He ought to be delighted with her, as well as for her.

Instead he felt…hell, he didn’t know what he felt anymore. All he knew for certain was that he missed her.

He stopped, hand gripped tightly around the banister.

Missed her?
Missed quiet, reticent, academically minded Eliza Hammond, for whom he’d once held so little regard that years earlier Violet had practically pushed him out onto the dance floor in order to get him to stand up with her?

But as he’d only just seconds ago reminded himself, Eliza was no longer particularly quiet nor reticent, and he had long since gotten over any reluctance to lead her into a dance. Nor did he mind her company. In point of fact, he’d come to enjoy it, rather a lot, he realized.

Her soft smiles and intelligent observations. Her laughter and the deliberate way she would let a sentence hang before delivering the choicest part. Her gentle manners and occasional uncertainty, looking to him for guidance with those dove-hued eyes before rousing her own kind of bravery from within. When she spoke, it was with interesting purpose. When she fell silent…well, he no longer found her silences awkward, but restful, like a peaceful breeze on a warm, sunny day.

And her kisses. His loins tightened at the memory of her kisses. He shook his head and continued up the stairs. He had no time for such thoughts. No time for missing her either. Eliza Hammond was destined for a life that did not include him, except perhaps as an occasional friend.

The idea brought a frown to his face. No, he mused, he definitely did not want her for a friend. What then did he want her for?

An amour?

He scowled at how much he liked the outrageous thought. He could imagine it. How thrilling it would be to lead her off for further lessons, ones that went beyond a few heated kisses. But such a course was fraught with peril and temptation, forbidden temptation the likes of which a man such as him would do well to steer clear. Best, he decided, to do absolutely nothing. Besides, he wouldn’t miss her for long. By next week these aberrant feelings would have faded like an unwanted suntan.

A volley of laughter carried faintly out of the downstairs salon.

He growled under his breath and stalked to his room. With uncharacteristic temper, he slammed the door hard behind him.

“Thank you for a lovely dance, my lord.”

Eliza opened her fan and waved it slowly in front of her face as Lord Maplewood escorted her off the dance floor. Slight as it was, the air came as a refreshing relief against her overwarm cheeks, the ballroom far too close and crowded tonight.

Apparently noticing her discomfort, Maplewood dipped his salt-and-pepper head her way. “Would you care for a glass of punch, Miss Hammond?”

She raised her gaze to his. “Oh, I shouldn’t wish to put you to any trouble.”

“It is no trouble. No trouble at all.” He gave a gentle smile, then removed her hand from his arm with infinite care. “Wait here and I shall be back in a thrice.”

She stifled a sigh as she watched him disappear into the throng of milling partygoers, wishing that instead of punch, she might have asked to have the Raeburn carriage brought round so she could return home. But there were another few hours remaining before she could hope to make her excuses. After all, she was here to have fun, dance, converse and make merry until the wee hours of the morning.

Not that she was miserable or having a dreadful time—quite the contrary. Her usual group of admirers had been keeping her well entertained, whirling her around the floor, then regaling her during the intervals with funny stories and bits of poetry designed to make her laugh and smile. But that was before she had seen Kit stroll by, a willowy redhead in a diaphanous, low-cut emerald green gown parading on his arm.

The Dowager Marchioness of Pynchon, if she wasn’t mistaken, a young, beautiful widow who wasn’t more than a year older than Kit. Eliza’s stomach had given a sick squeeze, as she was unable to help but notice Kit and the widow flirt and cavort.

Was she his mistress? Did Kit caress her? Stroke his hands over her while he devoured her mouth with clever kisses that turned her knees as weak and wobbly as a storm-tossed rowboat? Did they make love, entwine their naked bodies together in one of the postures Eliza had glimpsed between the pages of the naughty little green book? Well, whatever Kit and his widow did or did not do, it made no matter to her.

In the days following their never-to-be-forgotten kissing lesson—at least never to be forgotten by her—a small, idiotic part of Eliza had hoped Kit would change his mind about their interlude and seek her out. Show her in words—or better yet in deed—that he had been as moved by their passionate encounter as she. But he had made no such overtures, his behavior toward her as friendly—and indifferent—as ever. Apparently he was relieved to be done with his duty now that she was successfully relaunched into Society. Glad that he was no longer forced to seek out her company.

But to her great surprise, she did find herself in demand, with other eligible gentlemen seeking her out in a way that continued to amaze her even now, a full month into the Season. All that remained was to see which of her suitors, if any of them, offered for her hand in marriage. And more to the point, to which one she would say yes.

She glanced again at Kit and the widow, relieved when Lord Maplewood returned with her glass of punch. She thanked him, then sipped the almond-flavored concoction, fanning her cheeks while she listened to him tell her about his five-year-old daughter, whom he quite clearly adored.

At the end of the interval, Lord Brevard appeared at her elbow. “Good evening, Miss Hammond. You look lovely as a rose tonight, if I may be so bold.” He made her an elegant bow then showered her with a dazzling smile that would have made a dead woman’s heart tremble in her breast.

Eliza discovered she was no exception.

Ever polite, he nodded to Maplewood. “My lord. How are you enjoying the ball?”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Lord Maplewood bowed to them and withdrew to seek out his next partner.

Brevard extended his arm. “Shall we take to the floor? The next is a quadrille, I believe.”

“My lord, would you mind terribly if we did not dance but went for a stroll instead? The room is so close and warm tonight.”

“It is, is it not?” he agreed, sharing a conspiratorial grin. “A squeeze, as they say. Why do we not go out into the garden? I believe our hostess is known for her flowers, though it may yet be too early in the season to find any roses in bloom.”

“Blooming roses or not, a walk through the garden sounds quite refreshing.”

Setting her hand onto his sleeve of tailored black superfine, she strolled with him toward the doors that led down into the gardens beyond. A few night creatures hummed and croaked, playing a tune quite different from the lively one now coming from the ballroom.

A light breeze stirred her skirts, easing some of the unpleasant warmth from her skin. Eliza breathed deeply, glad to be out of the crowd, if only for a few minutes.

“Better?” Brevard inquired, their shoes crunching lightly against the pebbled pathway.

“Very much so. I suppose I must seem a terrible goose for wishing to escape the festivities.”

“Not at all. Some balls are best taken in small doses.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“I wanted to thank you again for escorting me to the opera last week,” Eliza said. “I so enjoyed it, the wonderful costumes and the glorious singers. It was a truly delightful evening.”

He angled his head, showered her with another smile. “For me as well.”

“And your sister is such a pleasant girl. I saw her earlier this evening just after I arrived. We had a most excellent conversation about art.”

“Oh, Franny loves art. If you let her, she’ll talk your ear off on the subject. Mr. Turner is one of her favorites, so unless you wish to hear everything there is to know about the man and his painting, I warn you to say nothing.”

He grinned and Eliza chuckled.

“In fact,” the viscount continued, “Franny has just wrung a promise out of me to take her to the opening of the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy. Would you like to accompany us? You would make a perfect addition to our party.”

She paused for moment, struck once more by his asking her to join him and his family on an outing. For most men, such an invitation might be construed as romantic interest. But he couldn’t be seriously courting her, she thought, not a man like Viscount Brevard. He could have any woman of his choosing. He couldn’t want her. She was sure he was only being kind.

“Yes,” she said, “that sounds like a most entertaining afternoon. I should be glad to accept.”

“Good.” He paused and set his gloved hand atop hers where it rested on his sleeve. “Now, has the air grown too chilly for you, or shall we stroll a bit more?”