The Wedding Trap (8 page)

Earlier, she had been one of the select few invited to attend the christening ceremony. A couple weeks ago Violet had asked if she would serve as Georgianna’s godmother. Surprised and deeply touched, she had instantly said yes, honored to be given such an important and sacred responsibility.

Eliza hoped someday she would have a chance to ask Violet to do the same for her own child. Should she ever manage to have a child. How much easier it would be if she weren’t required to find a husband first. If she could simply choose a man for the job and invite him to do the deed, as it were, without the benefit of marriage.

She smiled to herself at the scandalous notion. Half the ladies in the room would faint dead away if they had any inkling of her thoughts. And she could only speculate about the reaction of the men.

“What are you daydreaming about?” inquired a warm masculine voice whose tone skimmed like a finger down her spine.

Her gaze flashed upward to meet Kit’s, scalding heat leaping into her cheeks. “N-nothing.”

Mercy sakes.
She had been so preoccupied she hadn’t even heard him approach.

He dropped into the chair at her side, tipping his head to peer at her. “Well, it must be something to turn you such an interesting shade.” He paused for a long moment, then settled back into his seat. “But I won’t plague you with teasing, I haven’t the energy.”

“Is it your head? Does it still hurt?”

She had noticed his frown all during the christening, the way he winced each time the vicar required him to speak his vows as godfather to little Georgianna. Darragh’s siblings Michael and Moira had fulfilled the same duties as godparents for baby Caitlyn, with Violet and Jeannette each acting as a second godmother for the other’s child.

Kit grunted faintly. “A bit, yes. My punishment, I suppose, for too much wine and not enough sleep last night.” He cast her a sideways glance. “My pardon if I’ve shocked you.”

“No. I had wondered if it might not be something of the sort. I confess I overheard you and Adrian talking before the coaches arrived for church this morning.”

Kit’s lips quirked. “Never can hide anything from big brother. It’s a genuine wonder Vi managed to keep her identity a secret from him all those months when they were first wed.”

Eliza still remembered her stunned amazement at learning the truth of Violet’s deception. But her initial burst of hurt and anger had quickly turned to forgiveness and delight when she saw what happiness her friend had found in her marriage.

Her gaze tracked Kit’s across the room to where Violet and Adrian stood, the pair of them laughing merrily at some tale Darragh was spinning with occasional gestured embellishments from Jeannette. The youthfully effervescent Dowager Duchess of Raeburn, two of Adrian’s sisters and their husbands, Adrian’s friend Peter Armitage and a pair of Brantford cousins rounded out the group.

“Of course, Vi doesn’t keep anything from him now,” Kit remarked.

She hasn’t the need,
Eliza thought.
When one truly loves there is no place for secrets.

Darragh and Jeannette shared a deep, loving intimacy as well, Eliza knew. One had only to see them together to understand the strength of their union, the depth of their obvious commitment and passion for each other.

What a joy it must be to know such love.

To distract herself from wistful thoughts, Eliza turned her attention back to Kit and his malady. “I could make you a posset.”

He raised an inquiring brow.

“For your head,” she explained. “I know a remedy that might help.”

“Thank you, you are most kind. But my valet already poured one concoction down my throat first thing this morning. Don’t think I could manage another.”

“This one is only warm milk and a spoonful of brandy.”

“No raw egg and pepper?”

She couldn’t bring herself to lie. “No pepper anyway.”

He shuddered. “I think I’ll pass and close my eyes for a minute instead, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.”

His eyelids came down, short dark lashes fanning in a sooty arc against his cheeks. She caught her breath at the sight, tracing the shape of his cheekbones, the refined sweep of his nose, down to his beautiful, kissable mouth.

Suddenly that mouth moved. “I thought we’d begin our lessons on Tuesday,” he murmured.

She jumped slightly, relieved to find his eyes still closed. “But that is only two days away.”

“Best not to waste too much time. The house should be quiet again by then, all the relations gone on their way.”

She gulped. “Oh.”

“If we are to proceed with this plan, we must begin. The Season will be upon us in only a few short weeks and by the time it arrives you will need to feel easy in company. No more scurrying off to hide in quiet corners.”

“I do not scurry,” she defended, saying nothing about the hiding part since he had her pegged quite correctly on that count.

“Never fear. I’ll teach you what you need in order to get on in Society.” His lids opened a slit, hazel eyes gleaming more gold than green today. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, that is.”

Part of her dearly wished she could say yes, she had. How easy to renege on their agreement and ease the ache of fearful worry that churned inside her belly. But she was resolute. She would not let herself fail. “I have not changed my mind.”

“Then Tuesday it shall be.”

Two days later at precisely ten o’clock, Eliza met Kit in Violet’s study. Violet had suggested they conduct their lessons there, thinking the pair would find the surroundings more relaxed and comfortable than using one of the much larger drawing rooms.

“Do not worry about me interrupting you,” the duchess had told her the evening before. “I plan to spend the morning at the park with Adrian and the children, then it’s off for luncheon at Jeannette’s townhouse. Mama is coming and Adrian’s mother as well. Thank heavens for Marguerite. She is always a marvel at keeping Mama from lapsing into lengthy complaints about her latest ailment. Adrian’s sisters will be there except for Sylvia, who has already left for the country with her brood. And Moira and Siobhan despite their not yet being out of the schoolroom.” Violet paused. “You did say you did not wish to attend, Eliza? For you are more than welcome, you know.”

Eliza shook her head. “Thank you but I shall be quite content to remain here.” Relieved actually, if truth be told, since Lady Wightbridge would likely stare at her again then pepper her with a series of uncomfortable questions. “Besides, I have lessons.”

Violet gave a conspiratorial grin. “Just so. When I return you must tell me all about your progress.”

And so now, as the ormolu mantel clock chimed the hour, Eliza took a seat on Violet’s pale blue silk-covered sofa. Not long after, Kit strolled in, handsomely attired in a corbeau coat and fawn trousers that emphasized the width of his shoulders and length of his strong, masculine legs. His dark hair carried a rebellious hint of wave that no amount of trimming could control, an unruly lock already fallen across his forehead in a most tempting manner.

“Good morning,” he greeted in a pleasant voice.

She clasped her hands in her lap, her muscles tight, her back unnaturally stiff. “G-good morning, my lord.”

“What’s that now? There’ll be no ‘my lords,’ remember? Just ‘Kit’ and ‘Eliza’ for the two of us, at least in private.”

“Yes, of course.” She dropped her chin, feeling the rebuke.
What is the matter with me?
she chided herself.
Why am I so nervous? It is only Kit, after all.

He took a seat next to her, settling back upon the cushions. “I told March to send along tea and biscuits. I thought we could use some refreshments to see things along.”

She had eaten breakfast not so very long ago and wasn’t in the least bit hungry. But perhaps the distraction of drinking tea would allay a few of her qualms. Kit, of course, was like a ravenous young boy—always eager for a meal, a trait she found curiously endearing.

A housemaid arrived a minute later, knocking before she entered. Setting the tray she carried onto the table in front of them, she quietly excused herself and exited the room.

Eliza sat for a moment, staring at the tea. Manners required that she pour. Her hands shook as she reached for the pot.

Kit stopped her. “Here now, put that down before you burn yourself. I’ll do it.”

She withdrew to let him arrange the cups and fill them, the tea hot and strong. He added milk the way she liked and passed her the cup.

“Don’t spill that or we’ll never get started,” he cautioned. “Here, have a piece of shortbread.”

When she made a murmur of refusal, he ignored it and slid a sugar-coated wedge onto her saucer.

He picked up another piece of pastry and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he lifted his own cup of tea. Helping himself to another treat, he leaned back against the cushions. “Why are you so nervous?”

Her cup rattled. Carefully she set it aside. “I-I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. First rule, whatever you do, act as if you meant to do it even if you’re sure you look like a fool.”

“But—”

“And no buts. They show hesitation and uncertainty. The Ton is like a pack of hounds. If they sense they’ve drawn blood, they’ll go straight for the kill.” He sipped his tea. “Tell me why you are anxious. You weren’t the other day when we talked.”

She pulled in a deep breath then slowly let it out. “I don’t know. Anticipation, I suppose. I am simply no good at…well, at conversation. Sorry.” She winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say sorry.”

A small smile curved his mouth. “Drink your tea. It should be cool enough by now not to scald you should you spill it.”

Kit watched her dutifully obey, taking up her cup with measured care before setting it to her lips. She drank, her throat working with an unconscious grace.

Today was going to be worse than he feared, he mused. She was touchy as a cat left out in a thunderstorm. If she didn’t relax, they would never make the least bit of progress.

What to do?

“Why don’t we play a game,” he suggested.

She frowned. “What sort of game?”

“A playacting game. You pretend to be me and I’ll be you. Ask me the sort of questions gentlemen ask ladies at parties, and I’ll do the answering.”

Her dove-colored eyes widened. “You’ll be
me
?”

“Mmm-hmm. Or do you doubt I can?” He fluttered his lashes in an exaggeratedly coquettish manner.

A laugh burst from her lips.

“There, that’s better already,” he said. “Now, ask me something.”

“Oh, please, I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Anything.”

A furrow formed between her brows. “Really, I can’t.” She fell silent, another “I’m sorry” lying unspoken between them.

He drank more tea and ate another piece of shortbread, letting the sweet, buttery pastry melt in his mouth. By the time he was done chewing, he had an idea. Downing the last of his tea, he sprang to his feet. “Come with me.”

“What? Where?”

He grabbed her hand and tugged her to her feet. “No questions, just follow me.”

“But Violet said we should conduct our lessons here.”

“Violet meant well, but you’ll never relax if we keep on as we are. So come along.”

She trotted in his wake as he pulled her out into the hallway. “But where are we going?”

“Now she speaks,” he remarked. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Through the mansion they went, footsteps padding soundlessly as they traveled from one luxurious Aubusson or Turkey carpet to another, her slippers and his boots ringing softly against the islands of sleek hardwood and glossy marble that lay interspersed between. Down the grand staircase he led her, the pair of them startling one of the housemaids, a feather duster drooping in her hand as they passed. Finally, they arrived at a set of inlayed double doors that Kit threw open with a flick of his wrist.

Inside the portal lay the music room.

A large pianoforte held a position of prominence between a trio of double-hung sash windows, sheer cream curtains drawn back to let a flood of winter sunshine pour like honey across the polished walnut floors. Cheerful vanilla-hued walls rose upward to a ceiling that featured delicate rococo stuccowork, while celery green appointments added refinement and a feeling of intimate warmth. Along one wall stood a gilded harp, chairs ranged in two semicircles east and west. An open area lay in the center of the room, allowing plenty of space for movement. Kit led her there, then stopped.

“Why are we here? You do not expect me to play, do you?” Eliza squeaked in an appalled voice.

Up went his eyebrows at her reaction. Did the notion of playing a musical instrument in his presence truly distress her? Come to think of it, he could not recall ever having seen Eliza perform at a social gathering as most young ladies were encouraged, and often eager, to do. Still, he knew Eliza was capable.

Only two weeks ago, he’d walked past this very room and stopped outside its closed doors to listen to the lovely Mozart sonata that was being played inside. When he complimented Violet later that day on her improved skill at the pianoforte, she had laughed and said her musical talents were as woefully mediocre as ever—the musician was none other than Eliza.

One of these times soon, he would have to speak to Eliza and convince her to stop hiding her musical abilities. She possessed a fine talent, one that truly ought to be shared with others. Most young ladies could only dream of playing as beautifully as Eliza. What a crime it would be to let her keep hiding her gift away from the world. But that, he mused, would have to be a lesson for another day.

“No,” he said, “I do not expect you to play, not this morning anyway. I thought we would dance.”

She gave him a blank stare.

“It is an excellent way for you to relax and learn,” he explained. “With your feet occupied you won’t have so much time to worry over every syllable that comes out of your mouth. Plus, it will be good practice for when you really are out on the dance floor with a partner. But blister it, I didn’t think this plan through very well, did I? We’ve no one to play for us.”