The Husband Trap

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  “Here?” she asked, gazing around her, out across the broad stretch of undulating blue waves, gulls riding high on the shifting air currents.

  “Only if you want.” He held out a hand.

  She shivered, amazed at her own daring. She placed her hand into his. “I want.”

  He drew her down onto the makeshift pallet and began to love her with slow, deliberate care. The scents and sounds of the ocean surrounded them. The air played upon her skin, teasing and tantalizing in delicate, erotic strokes. Time slowed, inhibitions faded as Violet let him bare her flesh to the elements. Her hands roved over his body as if possessed, as if she were indeed some other woman. Not her sister but her own other self, a woman free of shyness and restrictions, able to express her feelings, her needs, without hesitation or regret.

  And when he came into her, she gloried in the possession. She wished they could stay this way forever, only the two of them here in this place. Together and happy. Without demands or expectations, without obligations or duties or roles. Without anything but themselves and their passion. Here she could be fully herself with nothing to hide, no lies, no pretences, only the raging depths of her love for him.

  She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the moment, refusing to think about the difficulties that might come in the future. Then she couldn’t think at all as the demands of her body engulfed her in a long, unrelenting cascade of ecstasy.

  When she climaxed, the wind stole her cries of repletion. The birds were the only witnesses to her movements as she clutched Adrian in fierce arms and entwined legs, holding on tight even after he had found his own release inside her.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Violet watched the passing scenery as the coach rolled away from the house. She wished she could don her spectacles so she might fully appreciate its beauty before it faded from sight. After a week of viewing the world through a placid haze, she had adapted, or mostly adapted, to the limitations of her uncorrected vision. Still, those limitations proved quite vexing at times, such as now.

  She sighed and rested a gloved hand on the seat between them.

  He covered it with his own gloved palm, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t be melancholy, my dear. We will return one of these days.”

  “I know.” She forced a smile. “And I am not melancholy—or rather, I shall not let myself be. There is so much to look forward to, after all. We’re traveling home to Winterlea.”

  His eyes warmed at the mention of his principal estate. “It will be good to be there again. I always miss it when I’ve been too long away. I hope you shall come to feel the same. Come to love it as I do, now that you are its duchess.”

  Duchess. The word shot a shudder of terror through her veins. How was she ever going to live up to the obligations her new status would require of her? Overseeing the domestic management of one of the grandest homes in all of England. She had been trained in housekeeping, of course, as any well-bred lady was expected to be. Yet never had she considered that one day she would be required to assume the weighty mantle of responsibility for an estate as vast as Winterlea.

  She would simply have to put aside her qualms and adapt, she told herself. Perhaps if she looked upon it as a discpline to be mastered, it wouldn’t prove to be so very dreadful. Teaching herself Greek, after all, had not been easy at first, nor come instantaneously, but she had applied herself and become proficient over time. With an optimistic attitude and a bit of determination, learning to be Winterlea’s duchess could be the same.

  Yet when they arrived three days later, weary from the journey and from being confined inside the coach for so long, she was no more ready to assume her duties than she had been when they’d left Dorset. Anxiety clutched a fist inside her stomach as the coach drove through the gates, down the mile-long corridor of giant oak trees that lined the entrance to the estate.

  She had been to Adrian’s principal residence once before. Invited along with her parents, her brother and Jeannette late last spring, during her twin’s engagement. The grounds were extensive, covering over fifteen thousand acres that included within them: a park and vast woodlands; a deep, natural lake stocked with over twenty different species of fish; several bridged waterways and an orchard, which at the time had been ablaze with colour and fragrance from hundreds of blossoming trees.

  A series of elegant formal gardens led up to, and around, the house; landscaping that could keep a person wandering quite happily for hours. She vividly recalled the beauty of the Elizabethan garden near the oldest section of the house, built in the 1580’s, if she remembered correctly. Columbine, cupid’s dart, foxglove, woodbine, all had raised their sweet flower faces to the sun. Horse chestnut and maple trees, unfurling new coats of leaves, provided areas of shade and shelter for later in the season.

  The house itself was immense, more along the lines of a palace. It boasted four wings done in three separate architectural styles and numbered 145 rooms, not including the servants’ quarters found on the third story. The most recent and most major renovations to the house had been commissioned by the third Duke of Raeburn, beginning in 1763. His contribution had been the addition of the east and west wings, and the central facade of the U-shaped house, done in the Palladian style. Great stone steps led up to massive Ionic columns that held up a carved pedimented entryway.

  The interior of the house was every bit as sumptuous as its exterior. The entrance hall glorious, with a central dome that cast natural sunlight down into the pink-marbled hallway before drawing the eye upward to witness a painting of an idyllic Venetian village scene by Robert Adams.

  Only the finest furnishings and draperies were used. Each room containing at least one—and often two—well-tended fireplaces, capped by hand-carved marble mantels. Soft, hand-sewn Aubusson and Turkey carpets cushioned the floors. Antiques and priceless works of art, paintings, sculptures and friezes graced each and every corridor, hallway and room.

  During her stay, Violet had been able to enjoy no more than a fraction of the beautiful art and architecture on display. As the new duchess, she would have ample time to study the objects at her leisure. If only the duties that went along with her new position didn’t make her gulp in an agony of terror.

  As the coach continued onward, she reacquainted herself with the grandeur of the house and its grounds. Her eyes widened at the spectacle of the servants lined up in rows, four deep, before the entrance.

  She took a steadying breath and forced herself not to tremble. Greeting the servants at the house in Dorset had gone well. This would be no different, she assured herself.

  Adrian assisted her from the coach. Horatio, who had been riding with them, leapt out immediately after, tail wagging with pleased enthusiasm as soon as his large paws hit the ground. Robert, the footman, came forward to take him in hand.

  Adrian tucked Violet’s arm into the crook of his, then led her forward. She scanned the mass of expectant faces. Oh, dear, there were so many of them. A hundred at least. This wasn’t anything like Dorset!

  March, the majordomo, stepped forward. He was an impressive figure with a ramrod-straight bearing and piercing blue eyes. “Welcome home, your Grace.” He greeted Adrian first, then turned to acknowledge her. “Your Grace.” He nodded respectfully. Violet inclined her head in reply. “I hope your journey was a pleasant one,” he said.

  “Quite pleasant,” Adrian replied. “I see you have assembled the staff.”

  “Yes, your Grace. I took the liberty. May I speak for everyone by extending our most heartfelt congratulations to you and her Grace on your marriage. May the years to come be happy, fruitful ones.”

  “Thank you, March. Thank you all. It is good to be home.”

  Adrian and Violet smiled.

  The small army of people smiled back.

  Adrian introduced her to the senior staff, including the housekeeper, Mrs Hardwick, a tall, thin bird of a woman with a bun of steel grey hair wrapped so tightly over her skull it seemed a wonder she could blink her eyes. And
François, Adrian’s French chef, who in his youth had worked as a kitchen’s assistant at Versailles in service to King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. His hazel eyes twinkled when he told her he had made cream puffs in the shape of swans in honour of her and the duke’s homecoming.

  Thankfully she was not expected to say much. As a result, her nerves began to simmer down. She felt nearly relaxed by the time she and Adrian moved to enter the house.

  Before they could, the majordomo discreetly drew Adrian’s attention, speaking in a quiet aside. “Your Grace, a moment, if I might.”

  Adrian stopped, turned his head. “Yes, March? What is it?”

  “I wanted to inform you that her Grace is in the drawing room. She arrived this morning from the dower house.”

  Violet’s throat squeezed closed at the news.

  Adrian’s mother was here.

  Chapter Nine

  “Adrian, ma chou, finally you are arrived. Come and give me a kiss.” From her place on the sofa that was upholstered in golden watered silk, the Dowager Duchess of Raeburn stretched her arms wide. She made no effort to rise, seated regally as a queen greeting her subjects.

  “Hello, Maman.” Adrian bent, returned her embrace as he dusted his lips across his mother’s flawless cheeks. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Humour lit his sable brown eyes.

  “I am sure you do not find it pleasant at all,” she retorted with blunt honesty, her French accent still very much in evidence despite her having lived in England for over thirty-five years. “Barging in on you, only just returned from your honeymoon. You must forgive me, but it could not be helped. See?” She gestured with a hand. “Jeannette, she will not even speak to me.”

  Violet stepped away from the doors where she had been hovering. She swallowed past the hard knot in her throat as she prepared to greet Adrian’s mother.

  Marguerite Le Richeaux Winter was like a Gallic whirlwind, passionate and highly unpredictable. During the engagement, the dowager duchess and Jeannette had been scrupulously polite to each other but far from bosom beaux. Violet knew she would need to tread lightly, at least in the beginning, around her new mother-in-law.

  “You could not be more mistaken, your Grace.” Violet came forward to clasp the dowager’s hands. “Of course I will speak to you. You are most welcome here.” She leaned down, brushed a kiss over the woman’s perfumed cheek.

  “Why, thank you, my child. How gracious you are. And you must call me Maman, now that we are mother and daughter.”

  “Of course, Maman,” Violet dutifully repeated.

  The dowager released her hands. Violet crossed, sank gratefully into a wing chair opposite the sofa.

  “I already rang for tea,” Adrian’s mother announced. “I hope you don’t mind, my child.” She lifted a single dark eyebrow in a gesture very reminiscent of one Adrian often used.

  Violet paused, wondering how she ought to respond. Jeannette, she knew, would be anxious to establish her preeminence as the new duchess.

  “I don’t mind in the least.” Violet smiled, pointedly gracious. “I shall be certain to do the same for you the next time you come to visit.”

  The dowager acknowledged the riposte with a slight tilt of her sensuous lips, another trait she had passed on to her son.

  The resemblance between mother and son was quite strong, particularly around the eyes and mouth. It wasn’t hard to see where Adrian got his dark, magnetic beauty. Barely into her fifties, the dowager duchess was still an extremely attractive woman. Only a few threads of silver glistened in her lustrous black hair. Her creamy white complexion was youthful as a girl’s, the faintest fanning of lines visible at the corners of her eyes and in the slight creases that ran along either side of her nose.

  Adrian strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter.

  “How was your trip?” his mother asked. “I can see it must have been pleasant. You both look positively refreshed.”

  Adrian took a sip from his glass. “Yes, it was quite pleasant.” His eyes moved to Violet, passed over her in a long, slow, intimate sweep. “Quite tolerably pleasant indeed.”

  The tea arrived. The dowager duchess poured. Having forgone luncheon on the road, Violet and Adrian both accepted the plates of sandwiches and cakes the dowager passed. He refused the tea, however, preferring to keep his wine.

  “How are all the family?” He sank into a wing chair that matched Violet’s. “Still hale, I presume, since last we saw them at the wedding.”

  His mother patted her lips with her napkin, ignoring the amused sarcasm in his query. “Everyone is well,” she began. “Though dear cousin Filbert was confined to his bed with a sprain for several days after the reception. Apparently he tripped on Lady Rankin’s dress that evening while they were walking near the gardens. Took a tumble down a few steps, by all accounts.”

  No doubt the result of too much champagne and a well-deserved push from Lady Rankin, Adrian mused. Filbert was an inveterate, though mostly harmless, flirt who often misplaced his better judgment when he imbibed too freely. Lady Rankin, an attractive young widow, had presumably decided the word no was not having a sufficient effect and had resorted to a more physical means of refusal.

  “I hope he did not suffer greatly?”

  He and the dowager turned their eyes to Jeannette and her words of innocent concern. It was obvious his wife was unaware of cousin Filbert’s notorious reputation. Surprising, Adrian thought. Stories about Filbert were a frequent source of amusement with the London set. Although perhaps not, it would seem, among respectable young ladies.

  Each day she did something to surprise him anew, please him anew. Smiling softly, he ate one of the small sandwiches on his plate.

  “Filbert is quite recovered,” the dowager reassured. “However, Sylvia is not.”

  Adrian’s attention piqued at mention of his eldest sister. “What is wrong with Sylvia?”

  “She is enceinte, as you know, and Herbert is of absolutely no help to her at all.”

  Sylvia, Lady Bramley, was nearly six months pregnant with her fifth child, the first four boys. She and Herbert were trying again for the daughter Sylvia desperately wanted. Sons, she would complain, were all very well, but they had no use for dresses and parties and feminine pursuits. A woman was entitled to have a little girl to fuss and coo over, to send down the aisle when the time came. What if she never got to be mother of the bride? she often fretted. Every woman longed to plan her daughter’s nuptials someday.

  Everyone on both sides of the family was fervently praying this next baby would be a girl.

  “Oh, that,” he grunted.

  “Yes, that,” the dowager scolded. “It is very cruel of you to make light of your sister’s discomfort. You know how sorry she was to miss your wedding.”

  “I am not making light of Sylvia’s condition, and I am sorry if she feels unwell. But one would think by this time she would be well used to the complications that come from being in a family way.”

  “Each baby is different. She writes her ankles are quite dreadfully swollen. The reason for my impromptu visit today.”

  “To tell us about Sylvia’s swollen ankles?”

  “Non, do not be ridiculous. I have decided to go stay with her for the rest of her confinement. Make sure she is healthy and well cared for.”

  “I am positive Bramley has retained the best physician available.”

  “Certainement. But a woman needs another woman at such a time, a daughter her maman. Besides, she says the boys are driving her quite mad. I shall go play grand-mère for a time. I am packed already. I leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? So soon? In that case, you must stay to dinner,” he invited.

  “Yes,” Violet concurred softly, “of course, you must stay.”

  The dowager smiled, her face lighting up. “Merci beaucoup, I accept.” She gave her daughter-in-law a probing look. “You are very quiet today, my child. Is anything wrong?”

  Violet just
barely kept herself from jumping. “Why, no…no, of course not. I’m…a bit fatigued from the journey, is all.”

  “Naturellement. And I am a selfish beast to keep you here. Do not think you must stay to entertain me.” The dowager made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on to your rooms. Lie down. I will bend my son’s ear for a little while longer, non?”

  “Thank you, your Grace. It would be most pleasant to refresh my attire,” Violet said.

  The dowager shook a reproving finger. “It is Maman now, remember.”

  “Yes, Maman.” Violet stood, gave her a smile. She turned, shared a more intimate smile with Adrian.

  “March will have Mrs Hardwick show you to your rooms.” He stood, walked with her to the door. He drew a fingertip down her cheek. “Rest well, my dear. I shall see you at dinner.”

  “Until then, your Grace,” she replied softly.

  Adrian crossed back into the room, selected a tiny wedge-shaped sandwich of herb cheese and ham from the silver serving tray. He popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “So what are you really doing here today, Maman?”

  Feigning astonishment, the dowager raised a hand to her chest. “I told you, ma mie, I wanted a chance to see you before I leave for Herefordshire. I will be away until Martinmas at the very least.”

  “And Jeannette and I shall be quite bereft without your company until then. But that is not why you have come.”

  “Well, there is another small matter. Some repairs at the dower house that need attention. The drawing-room door squeaks like a little mouse every time it is opened or closed. And there is a draft in one of the upstairs maid’s rooms. Obviously, the roof, it requires an inspection.”

  “Did you consult with McDougal?” Ewan McDougal was Adrian’s chief steward with oversight of Winterlea, its grounds, tenant houses, outbuildings and the dower house.

  “Non, I am consulting with you.”

  He gave a half smile, well used to her ways. She never liked to speak directly with Mr McDougal. She said she could understand only half of what the Scot said.