The Wedding Trap (3 page)

Even now she remembered the sick cast to her cousin’s complexion once the solicitor had finished that day. She also recalled the instant of fierce hatred that had raged in her cousin’s cold black eyes before he had willed the expression away.

She shivered at the memory, pushing it aside.

Since then she had spent very little of her new wealth, and nothing on herself. She had given all of her aunt’s servants a healthy, and long overdue, increase in wages. She had also instructed her aunt’s man of business to pay for several much needed repairs to her aunt’s London townhouse. Now
her
townhouse, since the abode had also been left to her in the will. But as a single woman, living there alone would not have been proper. And truth be told, she did not wish to live alone, not even with a hired companion.

Thank heaven for Violet and Adrian. Bless them, she thought, for so graciously inviting her into their home.

She supposed under the circumstances it was her duty to spend some of her inheritance. She gazed at Violet and knew her friend only had her well-being at heart. And considering all of Violet’s many kindnesses, how could she do anything but give way?

“A new wardrobe would not come amiss, I suppose,” she agreed.

“Good.” Kit nodded, flashing her a quick smile. He paused to draw his gold watch out of his vest pocket, snapping open the case to check the time. “As for the rest, why don’t we talk of it tomorrow? I have plans scheduled this evening and if I don’t get ready now, I shall be late.”

He stood.

“Of course, go on.” Violet reached out her hands, clasped Kit’s to give them a friendly parting squeeze. “You won’t regret agreeing to help.”

“Hmm. Only time shall tell,” he murmured. “Miss Hammond, until the morrow.”

She nodded her head. “My lord.”

She waited until he was gone from the room. Only then did she become aware of her fingers and how tightly she had them clasped together in her lap. Pain shot through her hands, blood flowing normally again as she loosened her grip. Abashed, she sighed.

Dear heavens, what have I done?

Chapter Two

“Keep up your left, my lord. That’s right. Excellent.”

The impact of his padded gloves connecting with his opponent’s broad, muscled rib cage sang along Kit’s arms like flesh hitting stone.
One, two, three,
then away. He swung around and narrowly missed taking a sharp jab to the head as he dipped and weaved. Sweat beaded on his bare chest, dampened his brow and trickled in a slow line along his temple.

The other man circled, his dark eyes searching for an opening. Kit did the same, studying the situation, knowing his reactions would have to be lightning quick, nearly instinctual, if he was to prevail. His sparing partner for the day was built like an oak, huge and solid and every bit as mighty.

No easy pickings here.

But then, Gentleman Jackson never pitted him against any of the lesser boxers who fought in his salon, knowing Kit preferred a challenge and wasn’t the sort to complain if he came away with a bruise or two afterward.

Suddenly the big man moved, coming in low in an effort to make Kit drop his gloves and fall prey to the feint. But Kit was on to the tactic and held steady, ignoring the burst of pain in his side as his opponent got in a solid punch.

Before the other man had time to recover and raise his gloves, Kit struck, connecting with a solid right cross to the jaw, followed quickly by another pair of blows to the ribs. The man staggered back a few steps. Kit pursued and punched again, pummeling him with a series of clean, powerful blows.

The big man swayed, then over he went, the wooden floor reverberating beneath Kit’s feet as his opponent crashed to the ground. A trainer rushed forward seconds later to help the downed man sit up, the bruiser shaking his head, clearly disoriented.

A wash of satisfaction surged through Kit at his victory. Lungs straining for air, he bent double and braced his gloved fists on his thighs as he recovered from the exertion.

A round of clapping commenced, a few gentlemen who had gathered to watch the bout expressing their approval.

“Well done, my lord,” Gentleman Jackson declared, stepping forward. “Not many men can best Finke, who once defeated the great Tom Cribb himself early in his career. If you weren’t a nobleman, my lord, I’d set you up in a prizefight and put my money on you to win. I fear, however, your esteemed brother, the duke, would not approve.”

No, Kit mused as he accepted help from the young servant boy, who hurried forward to unlace his gloves, Adrian most decidedly would not approve of his engaging in public fisticuffs, bloodying his hands in one of the bare-knuckle boxing matches so popular these days. A gentleman might box for sport or to settle a matter of honor in lieu of dueling with sword or pistol, but he would never fight for money or fame, certainly not in front of the masses.

The gloves gone, Kit took a towel from the boy and used it to dry his damp face and rub the sweat from his chest. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, John. It means a lot coming from you. Good round today. It’s left me hungry.”

Jackson laughed, Kit’s prodigious appetite being well known to all. “Glad to hear it, my lord. Will we see you next week at the usual time?”

Kit opened his mouth to agree, then stopped.

Deuced take it, he didn’t know, he realized. Might have to tutor Miss Hammond this time next week. “I am not yet sure of my plans,” he told the older man. “I’ll have to let you know.”

“Very good, my lord. You are welcome here anytime it’s convenient.”

Jackson strolled away, moving to attend to a few of the other pugilists in training. Kit turned and crossed to his sparing partner, who had regained his senses enough to be steady again on his feet. Kit shook the bigger man’s hand and thanked him for the match, then turned and exited the ring.

Speaking of matches,
Kit mused,
how in the blue blazes did I let myself get talked into playing matchmaker for Eliza Hammond!
Because, no matter what Violet chose to call it, that is what he had agreed to do. Granted, he wouldn’t have to handpick the men for Eliza, but he had been charged with vetting them, culling the honorable wheat from the fortune-hunting chaff, as it were.

Worse, he had given his word to make her over, to turn her from a nondescript spinster into a charming Society belle—a transformation that would require nothing less than a miracle.

Good God, what was I thinking?

One minute he’d been girding himself to gently but politely refuse Violet’s outrageous request and sprint for the nearest door. The next he’d been sitting there chatting with the pair of them, agreeing to outline plans for improving Eliza’s coiffure and wardrobe.

Insane, that’s what it was. He might be good with people but he was no mincing fop. He was an athlete. He boxed. He fenced. He rowed. He rode and drove horses. He even still partook of the occasional footrace.

He did
not
help women dress their hair and pick out clothing.

But it looked as if he was about to, beginning this afternoon. Bloody hell, if any of his fellows got wind of this, they would laugh him out the door. Laugh him out of the city, more like.

Well, at least rehabilitating Eliza Hammond would be a challenge. Mayhap the effort would help stave off some of the relentless boredom that had gripped him ever since his return from abroad. He had enjoyed the Continent, thrived on meeting new people, exploring new places. If he’d had his druthers, he would have stayed away longer. Gone on to India, the Orient, even the Americas, perhaps. But Adrian had written, telling him their mother missed him and wanted him home. Asking him when he was going to settle down, take up some sort of profession, get married and start a family.

He didn’t want a wife and a family, at least not yet.

He was only five and twenty, after all, far too young for such unbreakable ties and obligations. Even Adrian—the one in the family who never shirked his duty—hadn’t fallen prey to the parson’s noose until his thirty-second year. But Adrian had gotten lucky. He’d found a wonderful woman he loved. A woman who loved him back just as fiercely. A wife who made every day a pleasure, and the blessing of children, who, Kit knew, made Adrian grateful for each moment he was alive and able to see them grow and prosper.

But Kit wasn’t ready for marriage. And although he wouldn’t mind something meaningful with which to occupy his time, he had no interest whatsoever in the usual livelihoods available for the younger son of a duke. The military and its rigid discipline would stifle the life out of him. As for the clergy…well, let’s just say he enjoyed the varied pleasures of the flesh a bit too much to ever consider taking ecclesiastical orders. Which left little else to do other than wait for his inheritance to come through in six months’ time and hope for something interesting to transpire in the meanwhile.

A hard palm suddenly slapped him on the shoulder. “Winter. What a splendid dustup. Caught the very last of it when you knocked that chap to the deck. Well done.”

Kit turned, found a pair of his friends loitering near his elbow. “Lloyd, Selway, what brings you round here? Didn’t know you cared for the pugilistic arts.”

“Oh, I don’t for myself,” Lloyd volunteered. “I’ve too fine a sense of self-preservation to risk ruining this handsome face. But I never mind watching the rest of you foolhardy types take to beating each other stupid. Which is why Selway and I came by. We are off to a mill this afternoon in Hampstead. Thought you’d want to join us.”

The offer was tempting. Damned tempting and for a long moment he considered sending a note to Violet to beg off from this afternoon’s meeting with her and Eliza. But a promise was a promise and he was nothing if not a man of his word.

“Sorry, but I’ll have to join you another day,” Kit said. “Previous engagement.”

“What sort of engagement could be more important than a mill?” Selway gave a disgusted cluck of his tongue. “Oh, unless you’ve received another summons from your brother?”

Kit said nothing, deciding to let them think what they liked. If they wanted to blame Adrian for Kit’s refusal to join them, then it seemed a proper sacrifice for his brother to make.

“Well, at least say you can join the pair of us for breakfast,” Lloyd said.

At the mention of food, Kit’s stomach rumbled. “As you well know, I never turn down a proper meal. Give me a few minutes to wash and change, and I will be at your disposal.”

He strode toward the changing rooms, his mind filled with thoughts of the miracle he would be expected to perform later that day. “And now for my next trick, ladies and gentlemen,” he murmured under his breath, “I shall attempt to part the Red Sea.”

“…seven one hundred, eight one hundred, nine one hundred, ten. Ready or not, here I come.”

With exaggerated drama, Eliza lowered her hands from her eyes and swung about, making a great show of peering around the large, sunny schoolroom painted in buoyant shades of blue.

“Now, where could those boys be hiding?” she wondered in a loud clear voice as if she were completely perplexed. “I don’t see them anywhere.” Setting her hands upon her hips, she turned a slow circle. “It is such a big room, how will I ever find them?”

A high-pitched childish giggle of excited delight drifted up, clearly originating from the room’s far corner where a large wooden rocking horse stood complete with a real leather saddle and toy crop. Beside it sat a huge chest, filled nearly to overflowing with toys.

Pretending she hadn’t heard so much as a peep, Eliza deliberately turned in the direction opposite the sound and walked slowly forward. “Could they be over here under this big chair?” She bent at the waist, looked beneath. “No, not there.”

She turned and walked toward the windows that overlooked the mews at the rear of the townhouse, her footsteps ringing softly against the polished oak floorboards.

“Could they be here behind this curtain?” She paused before taking hold of a nearby drapery and yanking the cloth aside with an overacted flourish. “Fustian! Not there either.”

She ambled toward the boys’ hiding spot, making sure not to get too close. She caught sight of a pair of small, dark shoes protruding an inch beyond the edge of the toy chest and smiled. Her mouth curved wider when a tiny gasp of breathless anticipation broke the silence, followed by a second, separate conspiratorial giggle. When she was near enough that she could have leaned over and grabbed them, she stopped and turned her back. “Hmm, I believe I am outfoxed. Noah? Sebastian? Where are you?”

“Here I am!” Up one of them jumped, the little boy’s body springing rabbit-quick out of his hidey hole.

Eliza spun in feigned surprise, a hand on her chest, her eyes wide. “Oh, you scared me,” she fibbed. “And where is your brother, Noah?”

“He’s not Noah. I am!” The second boy popped upright, a mirror image of the first, with short dark hair, keen brown eyes and cherub cheeks, the shape of which reminded her of their mother, Violet.

She knew which boy was which and had only been teasing them about their names, though it wasn’t always so easy to tell them apart. Physically they were as alike as like could be. But their personalities usually gave them away—the elder twin, Sebastian, a bit sweeter and more pliable, the one of the pair who could generally be counted upon to give up the game—and the most information—just as he had today.