The Husband Trap

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  “Of course I’m certain. You needn’t dance attendance upon me twenty-four hours a day. I am your wife now. I have duties too.”

  After she had made her selfless statement, Violet wondered if she should have. In Jeannette’s mind, business might always be put off for later when there was pleasure to be had. Yet Violet could not regret her words. She did not want Adrian to think her overly demanding, regardless of how her sister might have behaved.

  “But don’t imagine I won’t hold you to your promises about tomorrow. I shall be quite cross if you renege.”

  Adrian rose, strode to her. All the footmen had withdrawn, leaving them alone in the room. He rested his hands on the arms of her chair and leaned close. “Never fear. I won’t renege.”

  He kissed her, a leisurely blending of lips and tongues, gentle and sweet as a warm spring morning. “I believe, my dear, that I am a very lucky man. A very lucky man indeed to have a wife such as you.”

  After he departed, Violet sat for a time, absorbing what he had said, how he had acted, the memory of his kiss still tingling upon her lips. Was he coming to love her? The word was never spoken between them, and yet…Her heart swelled with the joyous hope of it. Her next thought, however, plunged her painfully back to earth. Was it she he was falling in love with? Or only the woman he believed her to be?

  Gloomy, she rose from the table.

  That’s when she remembered the library and brightened a bit. Perhaps the afternoon wouldn’t be utterly dismal, after all.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Violet had never seen so many books assembled in one room in her entire life. The elegant leather-bound volumes ranged all four walls, climbing in two tiers to the very top of the twenty-five-foot-high ceiling. For a book lover such as herself, the effect was a truly monumental experience. Of course, she had viewed the library at Winterlea before, but this was the first opportunity she had had to explore its contents at her leisure.

  Glancing over her shoulder to confirm she was alone, she withdrew from her pocket the spectacles she kept hidden in her keepsake box upstairs and slid them onto her nose. Hallelujah, she thought, as the world came once more into sharp focus. She could see. She blinked a couple of times to get used to the enhanced clarity, then began to scrutinize the selection of available books.

  There were so many of them she could literally have spent hours doing nothing more than reading the titles. The classics were well represented: Euripides, Homer, Socrates and Plato. Violet considered taking down Plutarch’s Lives, but decided she wasn’t in the mood for such heavy reading. There were the collected works of William Shakespeare and a few volumes written by his contemporary and supposed mentor, Christopher Marlowe.

  Molière, Voltaire and Descartes were present in both the original French and the English translations. And there were several volumes of essays from such notable authors as Adam Smith, John Milton, Francis Bacon and Edmund Burke.

  Concerned she was dawdling, she plucked down a volume of poetry by Robert Burns—romantic, relaxing and easily interrupted should she find herself in need of a quick retreat. She would have to be careful of her time, careful as well to make sure no one actually saw her reading in the library.

  Luckily, the room possessed several splendid nooks, including one with a deep window seat. Arranging herself inside against a comfortable, plush blue cushion, she drew the draperies closed and shut herself into her own private little world. With a pleased smile flirting over her lips, she opened her book and began to read.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Three weeks later, Violet was arranging cut flowers into a vase in one of the downstairs drawing rooms when March gave a light tap upon the door. She bid him to enter.

  “Good afternoon, your Grace.” He walked forward, a silver salver in hand. “Some correspondence has arrived for your attention.”

  She slipped a peach-faced zinnia in amongst several tall hollyhocks whose sunny yellow petals burst like fairy puffs upon each long stalk. “Oh, thank you, March. Would you be so kind as to place them on the escritoire, please?” She reached for another zinnia, a crimson one this time.

  The majordomo bowed. “My pleasure, your Grace.”

  “March?”

  He paused, waited politely. “Yes, your Grace?”

  She took a step back, angled her head to one side. “What do you think?”

  “Think, your Grace?” he repeated.

  “Yes.” She nodded toward the vase of flowers. “What do you think of my arrangement?”

  “It wouldn’t be my place to say.”

  “Whyever not? You have eyes, do you not?”

  “Well, yes, your Grace, but—”

  “Please. I should value your opinion. You have a fine aesthetic sense. You never set anything but a perfect table and everything under your direction here in the house is done in the finest of taste.” She gazed again at the vase of flowers and sighed. “I fear I am not much of a hand at arrangements.”

  Warmed by her words of praise, March let some of his usual stiff formality slip away. He studied the flowers, a riot of bold colour and haphazard shape—stems, leaves and petals squeezed in so tightly, the vase seemed in imminent danger of exploding.

  She caught his look. “I should prefer you to be honest.”

  He paused for a long moment as he gathered his thoughts. “Your choice of colour and flower type is delightful. Pastels cheerfully intermixed with a few bold primaries lend the arrangement visual interest. Tall and short stalks to give it movement. But if I might suggest, your design could be improved by using fewer flowers. Perhaps you could intersperse the taller ones throughout the design instead of clumping them all in the back.” He fell suddenly silent, fearing for an instant that he had voiced far too much of an opinion.

  Yet the duchess did not seem angered. Squinting at the arrangement, she tipped her head in the opposite direction from before. “You know, I believe you are right.” She stepped close, yanked out nearly a dozen dripping stems. Putting them aside, she rearranged the others so that the long hollyhocks were more uniformly distributed.

  She moved back again, hands clasped beneath her chin. She smiled. “Oh, that is exactly what it needed. Thank you, March. Thank you very much indeed.”

  A slight wave of colour stole into his cheeks, leaving him uncommonly discomposed. He hadn’t blushed in nearly forty years, he realized, not since he’d been a small lad enduring a scold. He cleared his throat. “You are most welcome, your Grace. I am pleased I was able to be of assistance.”

  She smiled again, straight at him. Unable to repress the impulse, he smiled back.

  Since the duke and his new bride had taken up residence, she had captivated them all. Showing surprisingly little resemblance to the spoiled girl who had visited Winterlea for a week last spring during the engagement period, this young woman was a pure delight. Warm, kind and thoughtful. Clearly marriage suited her.

  They idolized the duke, respected and admired him. He was very good to them all. But they adored the duchess, every one of them her devotee.

  Everyone except Mrs Hardwick.

  The duchess gathered up the flowers she’d removed from the vase and handed them to March. “I won’t be needing these. Do you think the staff would enjoy them? I believe they would brighten the below stairs dining tables for this evening’s meal.”

  March accepted the flowers, inclined his head. “Most kind, your Grace. It will be a cheerful addition indeed.”

  A brief frown creased her forehead. “Oh, but there are not nearly enough. Please instruct Dobbins and the gardening staff to cut as many more as you need so that everyone may enjoy them.”

  March nodded again, full dignity restored. “It shall be done as you wish.” He bowed, departed the room.

  Alone, Violet studied the finished flower arrangement with justifiable pride. Even Jeannette could not have done better. She carried her floral work of art across to a wide, marble-topped table where she knew it would look good and carefully set it down. She admired it
a moment more then turned away. She sighed as she caught sight of the small stack of correspondence March had brought in.

  More invitations, she supposed. They’d started arriving a little less than a week ago, right after their neighbours began to call. The Miltons had been the first to arrive, a friendly older couple whose six children were all grown and married. Their eldest son was a barrister who now resided in London.

  Squire Lyle and his wife, Joan, came next, their two eldest daughters in tow. Pretty, apple-cheeked girls of fifteen and sixteen years, the Lyle children had sat in wide-eyed silence while the adults talked. The only outburst came when the girls had fallen into a paroxysm of high-pitched giggling over a naked Greek figurine that stood in one of the hallway alcoves.

  Vicar Thompkins, tall and solemn in black, arrived soon after with his wife, Emeline. A tiny, pale doe of a woman, Mrs Thompkins only came up to her husband’s shoulder and spoke in a breathless sort of whisper one had to strain to hear.

  And then there had been Lord and Lady Carter, the only couple with whom she and Jeannette had a prior acquaintance. Unlike the other neighbours, who knew her not at all, she’d had to be most on her guard with the Carters, striving to be as genial and lively as possible.

  She’d nearly muffed it by splashing tea all over her skirt while she had been nervously pouring. Luckily, she’d caught herself just as the first drop was about to spill. Through sheer force of will, she’d made it through the rest of the visit without giving herself away.

  She crossed now to the writing desk, and aware she was alone, pulled her spectacles out of her dress pocket. She balanced them on her nose, savoring her improved eyesight.

  The first two items of correspondence were indeed invitations. She set them aside for later consideration.

  The third was a letter posted from London, her title written across the heavy cream-coloured vellum in a broad, dark hand. She broke the seal, her eyes widening as she began to read.

  My dearest love,

  You know not the torments I have suffered since your marriage…

  She gasped.

  A love letter.

  My God, she had completely forgotten Jeannette’s admonition that letters of this sort might arrive. And if she’d had any doubt as to the sex of the mysterious “Kaye,” she didn’t any longer. Only he wasn’t “Kaye,” as she’d assumed. He was “K,” the single initial scrawled at the base of the missive.

  Hastily, Violet snapped the letter shut.

  What to do? Jeannette had told her to forward them on to her immediately. But should she? Did she have any right not to?

  Unable to resist, she opened the letter again and read a little farther. It wasn’t a long note. But, oh my, the passion that leapt off the page with each and every word.

  Who was this man her sister was involved with? What sort of person must he be to pursue a woman he thought married to another? A man desperately in love, she decided, the depth of his ardour unmistakable, as imprudent as it might be.

  And what of Jeannette, did she return his regard?

  Oh, heavens, Violet sighed, what a tangle each of them had woven for the other.

  To date, she had received only one letter from Jeannette. A brief, hastily scribbled missive typical of her twin’s careless style. Jeannette had assured her all was well, giving her current direction in Italy. She and Great-aunt Agatha were having a splendid time, she’d written, attending many elegant parties and meeting dozens of fascinating people. “Violet,” it seemed, was beginning to come out of her shell, much to the amazed approval of their aunt.

  Violet prayed Jeannette was not overdoing it, would not end up revealing their deception. But her twin was clever. It wasn’t likely she’d give herself away.

  They planned to stay in Naples through the last week of August, then journey south to Florence, where they would remain for at least a month. Jeannette had said she would write again with news and the location of their new accommodations after they arrived. Violet had yet to receive another letter from her twin.

  She tapped the illicit billet-doux against her hand, supposing she ought to send the blighted thing on to Italy. The wisest course of action, though, would be to destroy it. It was all very well for her to know to whom the letters really belonged, but if anyone else should see? If Adrian should ever read…she couldn’t bear to contemplate the horrendous outcome of that.

  No, the letters must stop.

  Yet Jeannette would never forgive her if she destroyed the thing. And there was another problem besides. No matter what action she took, what was to prevent K from sending another letter, even if she did succeed in getting rid of this one?

  She would have to write Jeannette. Make her agree to sever the connection with this mystery man. What other solution could there be? Perhaps in time he might develop a tendre for “Violet” and all could be well. Assuming her sister truly had feelings for this K person and wished a future with him.

  Violet slipped the letter into her pocket, then seated herself at the desk. She reached for a fresh sheet of writing paper. Totally engrossed, she did not immediately hear the footsteps behind her. When she did, she flicked a glance over her shoulder and dropped her pen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Violet’s breath squeezed hard in her lungs as Adrian approached. Powerfully aware of the spectacles perched on her face, she whipped them off, clutched them inside her palm. As casually as possible, she lowered her hand and the incriminating eyewear, concealing both within the folds of her skirt.

  Oh, Lord, had he seen them?

  Her gaze fell upon the letter she’d been writing, her heart jack-knifing up into her throat. She couldn’t let him see that either and he was almost upon her.

  She edged a sheet of plain paper over the one upon which she had been writing, then pivoted abruptly in her chair.

  “Adrian,” she greeted, flashing him a wide smile. “What a happy surprise. Are you returned already? I thought you said your appointment with Mr McDougal would last the entire afternoon.”

  He stopped, gave her a curious smile. “Our business took less time than expected.” He glanced over at the desk, then looked slowly back. “What have you been doing, madam? Writing letters?”

  She stood, careful to face him as she deliberately moved away from the desk. She angled the hand holding her spectacles behind her back.

  “Yes,” she said. “We received two more invitations, though I haven’t had a chance to review them yet. I was composing a letter to…umm, Violet. She is due to leave for Florence soon and I did not want to miss her before she departed on the next leg of her journey.”

  “How is your sister?”

  “Very well, last she wrote. Italy agrees with her, it would seem.”

  “Jealous of her adventures?” he questioned.

  “Of course,” she replied with the kind of breezy candor she knew Jeannette might have employed. “But I console myself with the surety that one day you shall take me there. You have promised, have you not?”

  “Yes. One day we shall visit the Continent, Italy included.”

  She smiled.

  He smiled in return. “Well, are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  He nodded toward her concealed hand. “Whatever it is you are trying so desperately to hide behind your back.”

  Blast. And she had thought he had not noticed. What to do? Her heart pounded furiously, realizing there was no hiding them, not now, not anymore. Unless she could brazen her way out.

  Going on the defensive, she said, “It is nothing. If I wanted you to know, I would tell you.”

  He took a step forward, idly clasped his hands at his back. “Why don’t you wish to tell me?”

  Violet raised her chin in a haughty tilt. “It is a private matter.”

  “A private matter? Here in the downstairs drawing room?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “Yes, and I would thank you not to inquire further.”

  For a hopeful moment she though
t he was going to desist. Then he swung his arms free, took another step forward. “That tactic may work on everyone else of your acquaintance, but it won’t wash with me.” He held out an insistent hand. “Let’s see.”

  Her shoulders dropped, together with her defiant posture. “Adrian, please. It’s nothing important. Let it be.”

  But his curiosity was roused and once Adrian was curious about something, there was no stopping him. “Show me or I fear I shall be forced to resort to stronger methods.”

  He reached out before she could step away, snagged her wrist and brought it forward. He unfolded her clenched fist.

  “Spectacles?”

  Violet tried not to let her worry show. “I need them to read, if you must know.”

  Surprise showed plainly upon his face. “I had no idea. And you’ve been hiding your glasses from me all this time?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Imperfect eyesight is an affliction I share with my sister. But unlike her, I do not choose to broadcast the impairment to the world. A woman never shows to advantage wearing eyeglasses, you know.” She expressed the sentiments easily, repeating the same phrases her sister and mother had said to her a thousand times over.

  “They cannot look so very bad,” Adrian insisted gently.

  “You never said they looked good on my twin.” The words were out of her mouth before she could prevent them.

  “The question did not arise. But I never thought your sister looked plain in her spectacles, if that is what you mean.”

  An inexplicable breathlessness stole over her. “Did you not?”

  “You are both beautiful women. You are twins, after all. Put on the glasses.”

  “No! I couldn’t.”

  “Put them on,” he urged in a gentle voice.

  She stood mute. Trembling, and trying not to show it, she realized she had no choice. She was well and truly trapped. With great reluctance, she slid the spectacles onto her nose, then looked up at him through the glass lenses, his dear face for once in clear, sharp focus. She waited, hands clutched, heart thumping rabbit fast. He would see the truth now, wouldn’t he? Know who she really was?