The Wedding Trap (6 page)

All eyes turned upon him.

“Yes,” he said, a strange tightness in his throat. “It is quite fetching.”

“It is more than fetching. It is divine,” Violet said.

And it was divine, Kit silently agreed. The miracle they had needed. Since, quite beyond hope, a simple haircut had succeeded in turning Eliza Hammond into someone she had never been before—a strikingly attractive woman.

Where before there had been a sallow, almost grim cast to her complexion, there lay now a fresh, unexpected radiance. A gamine spark coaxed forth by the short curls that frothed and cavorted about her cheeks and forehead in a kind of wild, pagan dance. Gone was the heavy severity of her long, straight hair, as though cutting it had unleashed some great weight, freed her of an old confining burden.

And the color. The color was purely breathtaking, lush as a crisp autumn day. Her hair shone with vibrant life, glorious hints of red peeking out from beneath a mix of warm chestnut and burnt umber. How had Greenleaf achieved such a marvel? More to the point, why did the result leave Kit wanting to thread his fingers through those impish curls to see if they were as silky and seductive as they appeared?

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself doing that very thing. Crossing to Eliza and running his hands through that crazy, impulsive mass of hair, caressing her skull, making her turn and smile, then laugh up at him in a gleeful way he had never before seen her laugh. Her gray eyes sparkling only for him.

Unnerved by the fantasy, he quickly drove it away.

What nonsense,
he thought, giving himself a mental shake.

Obviously he must be in greater need of a woman than he imagined. But if he had such a reaction, just think how other men might respond.

Perhaps Violet was right. Perhaps this scheme of hers was not such a hopeless case, after all. Attired in the proper clothes, Eliza would look quite presentable. More than presentable, in truth. And with the promise of a hefty fortune to be had in exchange for a wedding ring, he surely could find her a suitable bridegroom.

But then he looked again, watched her shuffle in place and clasp her hands in the folds of her skirts in bashful discomfort at being once more beneath the scrutiny of others. And they were but three people, and with the possible exception of Mr. Greenleaf, her friends.

He caught himself in a sigh, realizing he had nearly forgotten the most difficult part of the task set before him.

Her shyness.

Her painful, abject, utterly withering shyness that left her all but paralyzed in moments when poise and boldness were essential for success. Her improved looks would help and help greatly but she needed to be able to do more than mutter a barely audible “Hello” then stare at her feet when she found herself in company.

Still, this new hairstyle was a marked improvement. With the right instruction and encouragement from him, perhaps the goal could yet be achieved.

At least that’s what he hoped. Lord, how he hoped.

“Well now, miss, did I not tell you?” Greenleaf said. “A fair beauty you’ve become and in less than a day with my brilliant assistance. But you will need me to return on a regular basis from now on. Precisely four weeks from today I will be back to do everything anew. Such splendor must be maintained.”

Eliza dipped her chin in a diffident nod. “Yes, sir. Four weeks from today.”

“And not a single day more. Do not think of postponing our next appointment or you will find yourself suffering the most profound of regrets. Well, I am off, more amazing, splendorous feats to achieve.”

Somehow the three of them managed to remain silent until the hairdresser was out of earshot, then they all began to laugh.

Kit was wiping a tear from the corner of one eye a minute later when Adrian walked in. Tall and formidable, his brother possessed a commanding presence that instantly filled the room.

“Do you know I just passed the most curious little fellow in the hallway,” Adrian remarked. “He was muttering something to himself about being bloody brilliant, your pardon, ladies, for repeating such language.”

Adrian turned and smiled at Violet, then quite absently glanced at Eliza.

He froze and stared, looking for a long instant as though he’d been smacked in the forehead by a cudgel. “Good God, Miss Hammond, whatever have you done to your hair!”

Chapter Four

“We shall have an afternoon dress in the primrose silk as well and another done in the dusty rose. Oh, and riding habits, she must have riding habits. Three at least, one made of that divine Sardinian-blue figured merino, I believe. A second in that sweet forest green poplin and the last in the amaranthus gros de Naples.” Grinning like a child turned loose inside a confectioner’s shop, Jeannette Brantford O’Brien clapped her gloved hands together. “Oh, how darling they shall be, do you not agree, Miss Hammond?”

Kit watched Eliza open her mouth to reply, but she didn’t get so much as a squeak past her lips before Violet’s twin rushed on, the countess mulling over the various trims and buttons available—the proprietress, Madame Thibodaux, all condescension and nodding agreement.

From his spot on the modiste’s satin-covered, scroll-backed divan, Kit observed the proceedings, not the least bit surprised by the ongoing exchange—or lack thereof, in poor Eliza’s case—since Jeannette had barely let the other girl get in a word from the moment they entered the dressmaker’s shop. As for asking Eliza’s opinion, Jeannette had taken over the shopping expedition like a general laying siege to a citadel, Eliza no more than a raw recruit expected to learn and obey.

As for himself, he was the superfluous male escort. Restraining a sigh, he reached for one of the pâté-topped toast points Madame Thibodaux’s assistant had offered not long after their arrival.

Why did I ever agree to accompany the women this morning?
he wondered as he ate the hors d’oeuvre. A man didn’t belong in a feminine bastion such as this. He raised his wineglass and drank, catching a fresh glimpse of Eliza’s face, her pallid cheeks smudged with raw color, and he remembered the reason. Remembered the anxious flash that had come into her eyes when she had realized Jeannette meant to accompany her to the modiste’s instead of Violet.

Violet was laid low with a touch of stomach flu and regrettably confined to her bed. When Jeannette—who had arrived two days before, along with her husband, Darragh, their infant daughter, Caitlyn, and Darragh’s siblings Michael, Finn, Moira and Siobhan—heard Eliza’s shopping expedition was to be postponed, she had eagerly offered to help.

Who better than she, Jeannette declared, to arrange for Eliza’s new wardrobe? With Jeannette’s love of fashion and all things feminine, she was the perfect choice for the task. Besides, she confessed, she had been dying for literally years to get her hands on Eliza and dress her in something other than frowsy furbelows and drab shades of brown. Now, at long last, she had grinned, her chance had arrived.

Knowing Jeannette wasn’t in the least exaggerating her talents in the fashionable arts, and that she really was the best person to outfit Eliza with a new wardrobe, Kit had found himself agreeing to Jeannette’s offer. What he had not planned on was accompanying the ladies on their expedition. But that desperate, pleading look from Eliza had persuaded him otherwise.

Sweet Jesu, he would have felt worse than a puppy killer to ignore her silent entreaty.

So here he sat, bored and out of place. At least the toast points were tolerable, he mused, as he leaned forward to select another.

“Now, let us start on evening gowns,” Jeannette pronounced. “I would say we’ll need a minimum of two dozen.”

“Two dozen!” Eliza gasped in a faint voice of distress.

“Of course.” Jeannette nodded. “A lady never wishes to be seen in the same gown twice, so come to think of it, let us say three dozen evening gowns, just to be safe.”

“But the expense—”

“You’ve plenty of funds. It’ll do you good to spend some of them, especially if you intend to find a husband.” Jeannette turned back to the modiste. “Let us begin with the oyster satin. Hmm, perhaps we should add a row of appliquéd roses along the hem? They are all the rage this Season, you know.”

“Yes, my lady, roses would look lovely, and mayhap a pale rose tulle underskirt, if I might suggest.”

“In what style? Have you a sketch?”

“Yes indeed. Let me find the pattern book.”

As the woman hurried away, Jeannette looked again at Eliza. “My dear Miss Hammond, why don’t you go to the changing room with Madame’s assistant before the poor thing faints from nerves. She’s been hovering so these many minutes past.”

Kit saw both women gaze toward the girl, the servant waiting along the room’s periphery exactly as Jeannette described.

“Your fitting must be seen to directly if the seamstresses are to have any hope of altering the pair of dresses Madame has set aside for you. Otherwise, they will not be ready by tomorrow,” Jeannette continued.

“I-I can wait a few days for my new gowns,” Eliza objected in a soft tone. “It is not as if I will be making any calls soon.”

“You’ll be attending the christening tomorrow. It won’t do for you to arrive at the church in black. It is such a depressing shade.”

“But I am in mourning.”

“
Half mourning.
No one will think ill of you if you wear a bit of color. Ah, here is Madame returned, so run along. She and I shall do quite well on our own for a time.”

For a moment, Eliza looked as if she intended to hold her ground and argue the point, but abruptly her shoulders drooped and she turned meekly away. She and the servant girl disappeared behind a curtain that led to a room in the back of the shop.

The tableau concluded, Kit propped his elbow onto the single, high arm of the divan and sipped his wine.

Less than five minutes later, Madame Thibodaux’s assistant shot out from behind the curtain, an expression of deep distress marring her cute, button-nosed face. A flurry of muffled conversation ensued between the girl and her employer.

“Your pardon, my lady. My lord,” the modiste said, a sharp frown etched upon her forehead. “Miss Hammond apparently requires my help. I shall return in but a moment.”

Jeannette paused in her assessment of the pattern book. “Is there some problem?”

“Oh, no, no problem. Just a small delay, it would seem.”

But it was more than a small delay, the modiste’s obvious pleadings issuing audibly from the dressing room a scant minute later.

Jeannette set down the book. “What on earth is the matter?”

Kit raised an eyebrow and met her puzzled gaze with a curious one of his own.

Madame emerged seconds later, lips pinched as if she’d eaten an unripened persimmon. “She won’t have them.”

“Who won’t have what?” Jeannette asked.

“Miss Hammond. She will not have the dresses we selected.”

The countess gave a dainty gasp. “Of course she will have them, do not be absurd.”

“I tell you, she is most adamant.”

“That doesn’t sound like her. Eliza Hammond is an exceptionally quiet, biddable female.”

“Well, not today, my lady. She does not want the gowns and I cannot force her into them. If she does not care for my creations then perhaps she should look elsewhere.”

“I am sure that is not it at all. Let me talk to her and find out what the difficulty is.”

Jeannette turned and walked into the back.

But to Kit’s amazement, Jeannette had no more luck persuading Eliza to try on the gowns than the other two women before her. Sea-colored eyes awash with tumult, Jeannette emerged from the dressing room, as plainly at a loss as the others.

“She’s being impossible,” Jeannette declared.

Kit set down his wine, came to his feet. “What did she say?”

“Nothing, that’s what she said. She just sits there and says, ‘No, I will not wear them,’ then stares at the floor.”

“Perhaps I should take a turn speaking to her,” he suggested.

“Well, you can try if you wish,” she said, her skepticism plain.

“In the meantime, why don’t you continue selecting clothing for Eliza’s wardrobe.”

“Even if she won’t wear what I choose?”

“Oh, she’ll wear it. Unless she wishes to renege on our agreement. She’s already given me her promise on the matter.”

Striding across the room, he easily located the entrance to the dressing room. A discreet tap on the frame announced his presence, then without further preamble he shoved aside the gold damask curtain that acted as a door to the elegantly appointed dressing chamber.

He found Eliza seated upon a blue velvet upholstered bench, her head down, her gaze fixed upon a very dull pair of black half boots. Her chin came up, eyes widening as he strode unceremoniously inside.

“My lord, what are you doing? You can’t be in here.”

“Don’t see why not. It’s not as if there was any risk of catching you in your unmentionables. From what I hear, you won’t take off so much as a stitch, let alone give either of those new frocks a try.”

Color flooded her cheeks. “Lord Christopher!”

“Kit. Please, call me Kit. Never have cared for ‘Lord Christopher,’ always puts me in mind of some stuffy old duffer. Besides, you and I have known each other long enough to safely dispense with the formalities, don’t you think?”