The Husband Trap

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  She swallowed hastily, nearly sputtering on the small sip of wine she had just taken. Had he guessed about Jeannette’s change of heart? Adrian was far more observant than her sister gave him credit for. The very reason she herself had had such doubts about the success of this insane plan.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, faintly breathless.

  “I mean I wondered if you were about to desert me at the altar.”

  Now what was she supposed to say? Battling down a bubble of panic, she went with her instincts, tossed her head back and laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Of course I wasn’t about to desert you. Whyever would I want to do that?”

  He drank another swallow of wine, obviously not yet convinced.

  “It was my hair,” she continued gamely.

  “Your hair?”

  “Yes. Jacobs—she is my dresser, you know—well, she could not get the style right. It took her simply hours, but I had to wait until my coiffure was perfect. I couldn’t appear at my own wedding looking less than my best, now could I?”

  He met her eyes for a long moment while she held her breath and awaited his response.

  Abruptly he relaxed, smiled as humour shone in his gaze. “No, of course you could not, and your efforts were well worth the wait. You look beautiful. You are beautiful.” He stepped close, lifted her hand into his own. “The most beautiful bride any man could have.” He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist against the delicate blue veins that traced just beneath her skin. She trembled, this time from something that had nothing to do with nerves.

  The door opened and the Archbishop strode in, his vestments flapping around his ankles. “I apologize for keeping your Graces waiting. I know you must be anxious to proceed on with this very special of days. I have the marriage register just in the adjoining room. You have only to sign, then our business here will be happily concluded.”

  Marriage register? Violet realized both she and Adrian would have to sign the book to make their union official. Oh, dear. Well, she would have to forge Jeannette’s name, that was all.

  Yet when it was her turn to step up to the register, Adrian having inscribed his name first, she hesitated. To begin with, the heavy vellum page before her was a great muddled blur. She could barely make out what he had written on the line next to the one she was supposed to use. Now more than ever she bemoaned the loss of her spectacles.

  As she prepared to sign her sister’s name, an uncomfortable thought occurred to her. Legally, if she wrote down her twin’s name, wouldn’t it mean Adrian was really married to Jeannette? Even if she, Violet, was the one who’d actually gone through with the ceremony? Oh, Lord, she had no idea. She wasn’t a solicitor.

  Suddenly, forcefully, she was loath to give up the one last remaining trace of her own identity. Even if it might be a foolhardy risk.

  Only a single letter separated her first name from her twin’s. A simple e that gave the pronunciation of Jeannette’s name an elegant French twist, and left her own sounding oh so plain and boringly English. Maybe if she made a messy scrawl of her first name and omitted her middle name entirely, the signature would pass muster. Assuming, of course, she could squint hard enough to see where she needed to place her pen.

  She wished she could plead illiteracy and simply mark an X in the spot. But sadly, not even Jeannette—her less than scholarly sister—was that ignorant.

  Knowing she dare not dally a moment longer, she bent to the task and scribbled her given name, Jannette Brantford, across the page. She wondered wistfully if it would be the last time she would ever be able to do so again.

  “All finished, your Grace?”

  She whirled. “Yes, yes, quite finished,” she said, trying to act as if the Archbishop and his innocent question hadn’t scared her near to death.

  She waited, heart kicking like a hammer against an anvil, to see if he would read her signature, if he would notice the discrepancy. But after no more than a cursory glance, he dusted the vellum with a few fine grains of sand to dry the ink, brushed them away and closed the book.

  “Allow me to be one of the first to offer my heartfelt wishes for your future happiness, your Grace,” the clergyman told her with a smile, taking her hands in his own. “May your life and his Grace’s be blessed.”

  There it was again.

  Your Grace.

  How odd that sounded. How frightening. What did she know about being a duchess? How was she ever to cope? Why had she gone along with Jeannette’s impulsive scheme? Heaven knows, their hoax would lead to nothing but disaster.

  Then she looked up at Adrian, where he waited a few feet away, and remembered why.

  God help her, but she loved him. May he never find out who she truly was.

  Chapter Two

  The remainder of the morning and the long afternoon to follow passed by in an unreal haze. Some moments slow, other perilously fast as she waited, with every hand she pressed, every smile she exchanged, every murmured word of thanks, for someone to realize exactly who she was.

  But they didn’t.

  And the longer they didn’t the better able she was to portray her chosen role.

  As children, she and Jeannette used to switch places occasionally. Despite their innate personality differences, the game of pretend had come easily to them both. Emboldened, adventurous, they’d tried out their tricks on their parents, their governess, the servants, even their friends, managing to fool them all. Afterward, they’d sit together in the nursery, arms clasped around their updrawn knees as they giggled and grinned at their prank.

  Thinking back to those nearly forgotten times, she resurrected the old skills, the old bluffs, different now since she and Jeannette were no longer children, yet somehow comfortably, strangely the same.

  Still, she quaked and quivered inside as she struggled to project an aura of elegant vivaciousness the way she knew her twin would have done. Smiling and chatting, she traded kisses and compliments with literally hundreds of people as the day wore on. Luckily, as the bride she was able to flit from group to group like a majestic butterfly, pausing only long enough to acknowledge them before winging away to the safety of a fresh location.

  Her worst moment came when Jeannette’s best friend, Christabel Morgan, caught up to her in between conversations, pulling her aside for a quick, private coze. Flirty and fashionable, Christabel was a Ton favourite, earning high marks for her famous wit and rapier tongue. As Violet knew, Christabel could be generous and kind, even sweet. But only if she liked you and deemed you worthy of her regard. Unfortunately, Christabel did not approve of young women like Violet who enjoyed scholarship and learning. Such matters Christabel maintained, were the rightful province of men. Parties and fashion, shopping and feminine fun—that was the proper milieu of a lady.

  So what acute irony, Violet thought, to be included in a bit of intimate girl talk with the illustrious Miss Morgan.

  If only Christabel knew the truth!

  “Oooh,” the girl squealed, linking their arms together as she maneuvered the two of them into semi-seclusion next to a leafy potted palm. “I am simply dripping with envy. How ecstatic you must be. Wife of the handsomest man in the entire country, and a duchess besides. And you look so beautiful today, have I told you that already? I suppose I shall have to address you as ‘your Grace’ from now on. How terribly droll.”

  Staring at her sister’s friend, Violet fought the urge to pull her arm free. She lifted her chin in a perfect imitation of Jeannette, raised a single eyebrow. “Of course you shall refer to me as ‘your Grace,’ but only when we are out in Society.” She smiled widely to soften the impact of her haughty statement.

  Christabel smiled back, having obviously expected no other response.

  “Would you look at that,” Christabel remarked, inclining her head toward a tall, pale walking stick of a man across the room.

  Violet recognized him instantly even without her spectacles.

  Ferdy Micklestone, a notorious man milliner, known as much
for his frequent calamitous accidents as he was for the temple-high shirt points he insisted upon wearing. Today was no different, his collar rising a full eight inches, giving him the look of a racehorse done up in blinders.

  “Oh, he’s spilled punch on Lord Chumley,” Christabel gasped. “Quite ruined his suit, I should imagine.”

  Violet watched Ferdy brush frantically at the offending stain on the other man’s shirtfront. Plainly disgusted, the older gentleman—a distinguished member of Parliament—brushed Ferdy’s hands away, made some cutting remark, then stalked off. Ferdy turned bright as a ripe pomegranate, his head sunk so low that his chin vanished beneath his cravat.

  “What a foolish little man,” Christabel said. “He really ought to come with the word hazard stitched onto his lapel, do you not agree?”

  Violet tittered because she knew it was expected. Inwardly, she felt rather sorry for him. She knew how it was to be mocked. How it felt to have interests and proclivities that set one apart from the crowd.

  For the next several minutes, Christabel launched into an animated discussion of some delicious gossip she’d heard, when suddenly she paused, nudged her elbow softly into Violet’s side.

  “Look, across the room,” Christabel whispered. “It’s your sister and that dowdy bluestocking, Eliza Hammond. Whatever does Violet see in the girl? If I were you, I would forbid the association. A woman of your status shouldn’t have to abide such a distasteful alliance. Only consider how it might reflect upon your plans to one day become a patroness.”

  Violet gritted her teeth, stifled the defence of her friend that sprang instantly to her lips. Sadly, she knew her twin would probably have agreed with Christabel. She couldn’t count the number of occasions on which her sister and their mother had expressed similar sentiments, chastising her for her friendship with the unfashionable Eliza. Consorting with such a bookish nobody would do nothing but drive eligible suitors away, they’d warned. Stubbornly, she’d chosen to ignore them and continue her relationship with her friend. She liked Eliza, fashionable or not, and that was good enough for her.

  “Ooh-hoo, my eyes may be deceiving me,” Christabel observed, “but if I am not mistaken, Violet is giving the horrendous Miss Hammond the cut direct. Perhaps seeing you so splendidly married today has forced your sister to come to her senses at long last.”

  Not in this lifetime, Violet thought, watching helplessly as her twin turned a dismissive shoulder upon her best friend, then strode away. The confused hurt on Eliza’s gentle face was apparent.

  She wanted to rush across the room and console her friend. She wanted to explain to Eliza that it was Jeannette she had been speaking to and not her.

  But she couldn’t go to her, couldn’t explain, all too aware how dangerous it would be to reveal her deception, even to a person as trustworthy as Eliza. One tiny slip and this house of cards she and Jeannette had built would come toppling down around them. She promised herself she would make it up to Eliza someday. Somehow she would find a way to make amends for Jeannette’s slight.

  Christabel sighed. “How eminently diverting. Did you not think so?”

  Violet realized she was supposed to nod and chuckle in agreement, make some witty reply. But she couldn’t, too sad inside to muster even a false humour. Instead she found herself staring into Christabel’s limpid blue gaze.

  Hateful girl, she thought. Slowly she retrieved the solitary use of her arm, unable to bear Christabel’s touch any longer, pulling away as though escaping Medusa’s reptilian clutch.

  Christabel frowned and stared. “Is something amiss? You look peculiar all of a sudden. You aren’t ill, are you?”

  Her newfound bravado temporarily deserted her, her tongue welding itself suddenly to the bottom of her mouth. Silent, she shook her head, forced a smile, sure if she even attempted to speak she would give herself away.

  Christabel continued to stare, obviously unconvinced, when Adrian appeared at Violet’s elbow.

  “Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” he said, all congeniality. “I hope you do not mind, Miss Morgan, but I fear I must steal my bride away. It is time Jeannette and I begin the dancing.” He showered them both with a debonair smile.

  Reluctantly, Christabel curtseyed, and they exchanged parting nods.

  Violet turned into his arms with a grateful inner sigh, allowed him to lead her away. He had no idea, she thought, the invaluable service he had just rendered her.

  As they danced, his long arms enfolded her in a warm, stalwart embrace and she relaxed. Safe for the first time since she’d walked down the aisle on her father’s arm that morning. Ridiculous, she scoffed, considering he was the one person with whom she need always to be on her guard. The one man who, should he discover her real identity, had the power to crush her, heart and soul. And yet she was his wife.

  His wife.

  What wonderful, improbable words. Until that morning, until those unbelievable moments of shock, denial, apprehension and hope after Jeannette had declared she would not marry Adrian, Violet had never dared to dream such a thing might be possible. Never let herself truly imagine he could ever be hers.

  She thought back to those seconds just after Jeannette made her bold declaration not to marry Adrian, recalling the way she’d gaped and sputtered. And the way, after she’d had a moment to collect her wits, she’d argued. Much as she despised the idea of her sister marrying the man she herself loved, she’d realized instantly the ramifications of Jeannette’s refusal.

  Yet in spite of all her pleas that Jeannette reconsider, her twin had remained adamant.

  “Her happiness,” Jeannette declared, “was far too important to worry over mundane details like money and social strictures. For a time she’d fancied herself in love with Raeburn, but she’d been mistaken in her feelings. He was an uncaring bully and she would not be chained to him for a lifetime,” she had stated with dramatic hyperbole. “She would not be used for the benefit of the family like some slave bartered at market.”

  Then Jeannette had uttered the words that had irrevocably altered their lives.

  If you care so much about saving everyone, if you want to act the martyr and sacrifice yourself on the family pyre, why don’t you marry him?

  The statement had hung between them, dramatic as a cannon blast.

  Marry Adrian? Dear God, Violet could think of nothing she would like better. But to deceive him? Beguile him by trading identities with her twin? To consign herself to living her life in a permanent game of pretend?

  No, she’d reasoned, it would be wicked. A villainous crime no decent person would dare perpetrate, certainly not a shy, genteel young woman like her. Why, the very concept was laughable. No one would believe her capable of committing such a brazen hoax, she’d argued.

  But wasn’t that what made it all so perfect, so possible? Jeannette had urged. Who, after all, would even think to suspect?

  Despite her reservations, her terror of potential discovery, her knowledge that what she contemplated was wrong, she had not been able to resist. Her one chance, her opportunity to be with the man she adored, how could she pass that up? If she refused now, Adrian Winter would walk out of her life as surely as the sun would set in the sky that evening.

  What did it matter if he thought she was her sister, as long as she could be with him?

  She considered her decision again now as they danced, as she smiled up into his beautiful, expressive eyes. It’s worth it, she thought, for however long it lasts.

  Somehow she made it through the rest of the day, due in great measure, she realized, to Adrian’s rock-steady presence at her side. If not for his support, she feared she would have collapsed into a shivering heap, disgracing herself before one and all.

  And if he noticed a difference in her, in Jeannette, he didn’t remark upon it. Attributing her lapses, she prayed, to the unusual strain of the day. For despite doing her utmost to act like her sister, she worried her performance was a pale imitation. Dull as paste stones displayed next to diamonds
.

  Finally, after many long hours, after the dancing and the small talk and the elaborate meal—most of which she’d pushed around her plate, unable to eat—she was allowed to retreat upstairs to change into the clothing she would wear for the honeymoon trip.

  “There you are, darling, nearly ready for your journey.” Her mother, the Countess of Wightbridge, sailed into Jeannette’s bedchamber. A pair of maidservants flitted around the room busily packing last-minute essentials. Her mother believed she was Jeannette. She couldn’t falter now. She had to keep Mama believing. Just a few minutes more, Violet told herself, as nausea swelled like a queasy tide inside her belly.

  “Oh, it will be so hard to see you go, my sweet child,” her mother moaned. “How we shall all miss you.”

  “Yes, and I shall miss you,” Violet said, striving for the breezy tone she was certain Jeannette would have affected. “But a woman must learn to accept these things once she marries and leaves to set up a household of her own.”

  “Oh, married and a duchess.” Her mother clasped her hands together in delight. “Your father and I are so pleased. The wedding was everything to be hoped for.”

  “It was, was it not?”

  “Although I still think it perfectly beastly of Raeburn to have cancelled your wedding trip abroad. I know how crushed you are. How much you were looking forward to seeing the Continent—France and Holland and Belgium—now that that fiend Napoleon has finally been defeated and locked away. Problems on Raeburn’s estate! Pshaw. I am sure they are far less serious than he claims. But then, men are stubborn about these things. Never understanding how important special occasions like a honeymoon are to a woman. And they claim to be the smarter sex.”

  Violet knew all about the cancelled European tour. Every single member of the Brantford household did, down to the lowliest tweeny. Jeannette had cried and wailed and pouted over it for nearly the whole of last week, drying her eyes just in time for the wedding.

  Only, Jeannette had not gone through with the wedding.