The Husband Trap

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  Violet longed to find a quiet corner and curl up with a good book. She also longed for Adrian, the husband she rarely saw.

  They shared a house and a bed. He still came to her at night, both of them often too tired to do more than turn into each other’s arms and sleep. When he wasn’t occupied by business or at one of his clubs, he escorted her to a variety of functions. Once there, however, they would go their separate ways, as husbands and wives were supposed to do.

  There were times when an entire day would pass without so much as a glimpse of him. The imprint of his head on his pillow when she woke. The warm scent of him on the sheets when she slipped in late to find him already up and dressing for an early appointment that day.

  She considered talking to him, asking if she ought to refuse a few more of the dozens of invitations they received. Spend an occasional evening, perhaps even an entire day, together quietly at home. But she knew she dare not broach the subject. It would be too unlike Jeannette. In the country, her differences were excusable. Here in London, they would never be believed.

  She sipped a glass of champagne and studied the revelry around her through her lorgnette. She attended with only half an ear to the witty tale being spun by Mr Moncrief, a blond, puppy-eyed youth who had become one of her retinue of devoted gentleman followers.

  Adrian stood across the room, deep in conversation with Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister. Adrian sported a faint crease between his eyes, a sure sign he disagreed with whatever was being said. She knew enough of his opinions to realize he was a Whig. The Prime Minister was a hard-nosed Tory. Although Adrian wasn’t taking an active interest in his seat in the House of Lords, perhaps his mother was right, perhaps he did wish to pursue politics. Was he even now testing out his opposition?

  Moncrief recited the punch line of his story. Everyone laughed. She laughed with them, her practiced response sounding hollow to her own ears.

  Was this to be the rest of her life?

  Her eyes drifted again over the bold, saturnine features of her husband, across the contours of his tall, proud, handsome frame. She sighed silently. If it took listening to a thousand such stories to make him happy, then listen she would.

  She swallowed another sip of champagne and asked Lord Northcott about his new home in Sussex. He’d recently won it on the turn of a card, and never tired of retelling the tale or discussing his future plans for the property. The question was certain to keep him talking for half an hour at least.

  Adrian observed his wife out of the corner of his eye, while he listened with half an ear to Lord Liverpool expound upon the illiterate masses and the dangers they represented to the Crown. He’d heard it all before, disagreed with it all before, and he knew better than to argue with the great man. There was no amiable way of winning an argument with the Prime Minister. And he preferred to keep on friendly terms with as many of his peers as possible. Even the ones with whom he was philosophically opposed.

  It was all very well to banter politics over brandy and cigars. Quite another to trade in it on a daily basis, as some wished he would do. The notion of tossing his hat into the political arena made him shudder in horror. Politics might be his mother’s, and a few of his cronies’, fondest dream for him, but it wasn’t his.

  His wife laughed with her friends. She looked magnificent tonight—but then, she always did. Dressed in Prussian blue velvet, she reigned, the regal centrepiece in a tableau of elegant ladies and gentlemen.

  Mostly gentlemen, he noted, an unwanted spark of jealousy stinging him like a hot cinder. He ought to be glad she was popular, having fun. Isn’t that the kind of wife he’d wanted? A woman both personable and poised. A feminine jewel. Beautiful and refined enough to glitter on his arm when they were together, able to carry herself admirably when they were not.

  Why, then, did he wish she was a little less sought after? Why did part of him long for her to cast aside Society’s strictures regarding married couples and defiantly spend more of her time with him?

  Since they’d left Winterlea, it seemed as if an ever-widening gulf had developed between them; he on the one side, she on the other. They lived in the same house. Yet some days it seemed as though they were no more than passing strangers.

  He wished they might return home to the country. Yet how could he ask her to do so when they had only just arrived? When she was having such a grand time here in the city?

  Across the room, her laughter rang out, radiant as sunlight on a crisp spring morning. For a moment he let it drown out every other sound in the room.

  Then he turned his attention back to the Prime Minister. When a conversational opening appeared, he asked the other man if he might be interested in a game of cards.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Later that evening, Violet checked her image in a large wall mirror hanging in the ladies’ withdrawing room. She sighed, nearly ready to return to the ball when her old friend Eliza Hammond entered the room.

  She caught the other girl’s reflection in the mirror, seeing features that would have been pretty had Eliza not been dressed in an unbecoming mustard-coloured gown that drained every speck of colour from her fair cheeks, leaving her sallow and plain.

  The handiwork of Eliza’s aunt, she suspected. A devout penny-pincher, the woman’s choices were usually dictated by her pocketbook rather than any semblance of good taste. Sickly yellow had likely come cheap at the dressmaker’s the day they’d shopped for this dress.

  As she had a dozen times since her return to Town, Violet squashed the impulse to rush over and envelop her friend in a warm hug. She sat mute and let the other young woman disappear behind the privacy curtain that divided the room.

  When Eliza re-emerged a short while later, there were just the two of them, the room grown quiet after the departure of a quartet of chattering debutantes.

  What could it hurt if she spoke to her? Violet thought. Who would know except a single attendant, who looked too sleepy to care which ladies were in the room?

  Giving in to impulse, she swivelled around on her padded stool. “How do you do this evening, Miss Hammond?”

  Eliza stopped, blinked in obvious surprise at being acknowledged. She hesitated, then sank into a polite curtsey. “Your Grace. I am quite well. Thank you for inquiring. And yourself?”

  “Well enough, though I’m finding it a trifle stuffy tonight. Too many warm bodies packed into too small a space. But that’s a crush for you, isn’t it?”

  Eliza nodded, clearly ill at ease. No doubt she wondered what Jeannette—who’d rarely paused long enough to speak more than a handful of words to her in the past—could want. She wadded a lace handkerchief inside her palm as an awkward silence descended between them.

  “Are you here with your aunt?” Violet asked.

  “And her son,” Eliza confirmed.

  Violet knew all about Philip Pettigrew, an obnoxious toad who dressed like an undertaker and had less of a sense of humour than a corpse. He was studying to take ecclesiastic orders, and was actively searching for a prosperous living. Wherever he ended up, Violet pitied his future parishioners.

  “I’ve had a letter or two from my sister. She’s in Italy, you know.” Her courage sank a little when she saw Eliza stiffen at the mention of her former friend. “She wanted me to convey a message.”

  “Oh? What might that be?”

  “She asked me to express her apologies for her rather uncharacteristic behaviour when last you met. She wasn’t feeling…um…herself at the time.”

  Eliza unbent slightly. “Why didn’t she write to tell me that herself?”

  Yes, why hadn’t she? She racked her brain for a plausible answer. She couldn’t tell her it was because the letters would have been franked from Derbyshire and not Italy.

  “She is…um…traveling a great deal. Great-aunt Agatha likes to keep on the move, and my sister feared her letter to you might go astray.” She paused, gathering her breath and her thoughts. “To be candid, she wasn’t entirely certain you would accept a l
etter from her. Truly, she regrets the unfortunate incident that happened between you, and asked me to say how much she values your friendship. She would like to continue that friendship, if you will still have her for a friend, that is.”

  Throat tight, she waited for the answer.

  “Of course I will,” Eliza said in a relieved rush. “I knew there must be something amiss. She seemed so very odd that day. Actually, she behaved more like y—” The girl broke off, her grey eyes widening at the gaffe she’d nearly made.

  Violet forced herself to raise a haughty eyebrow in imitation of her twin. “You were saying?”

  “N-nothing. I’m relieved, that’s all. The loss of Violet’s friendship has been a great sorrow to me.”

  She kept herself from stretching out a comforting hand. “As it has been to her.”

  “How long does she plan to remain in Italy?”

  “Through the winter, I believe. Although her schedule is not yet fully decided.” Violet rose to her feet, brushed an idle hand over her skirt. “Her direction is not firmly fixed. If you wish to write to her, you may give the letters to me and I will see them properly forwarded. And I shall do the same with hers.”

  Surprise shone once again on Eliza’s features. “Thank you. I would be most grateful.”

  She inclined her head, wishing she could stay and talk, wishing she could put aside all pretence and reveal herself to her friend. But she didn’t dare. It would be much too much of a risk.

  “Well, I must be returning to the ballroom,” she said. “I am promised to Mr Canning for the next dance, and he will soon be searching everywhere for me. Good evening, Miss Hammond.”

  Eliza curtseyed. “Good evening, your Grace.”

  Violet returned to the party, to the press of the crowd, to the heat and light of a hundred blazing candelabras, to the scents of perfume and cologne and perspiring bodies. But the atmosphere did not weigh on her with its usual oppression, the load on her conscience lighter for the first time in months.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “There has been a tragic accident,” Adrian announced the following morning. “Ben Yardley, one of my tenant farmers, has been killed. I must leave for home directly.”

  Violet turned from her place on the drawing-room sofa. “Oh, Adrian, how dreadful. Of course you must go. I shall tell March to notify the staff that we will be returning to the country.”

  “I can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy the company, my dear, but there’s no need for you to come with me. You’re having such a splendid time here in the city, I wouldn’t want to spoil that. Besides, there’s nothing you can do at home. The poor man is already dead.”

  He stilled her when she opened her mouth to protest. “No, you stay here with Kit.” He cast a glance toward his brother. “He can escort you to any of the engagements you should like to attend. I won’t be away long, a week at most. You’ll scarcely even know I’m gone.” He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Stay and enjoy yourself.”

  A hint of uneasiness clouded the brilliant translucent depths of her eyes. Then it disappeared as her lips curved upward. “All right, my love. If that is what you wish.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Here is the translation I promised.” Violet passed a folded piece of paper to Kit, then continued along the upstairs hallway toward the staircase.

  He accepted the note with a smile, tucked it into his breeches pocket while he kept pace beside her. “Thanks, sis, you’re a rock. If it weren’t for your help, I’d be stuck here tonight racking my brain for answers instead of escorting you to Lord and Lady Taylor’s bash. Not that you’d have trouble finding another eager gentleman ready to step in.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’ve assumed you-know-who’s mantle quite admirably.”

  She stopped, turned to him. “Do you really think so, Kit? Sometimes I shake in my shoes waiting for one of them to notice. It would only take one, you know.”

  “Not to worry. On occasion, when I’m not paying full attention, you even fool me. And I already know.” He patted her shoulder reassuringly, careful to keep his voice down. “As your mentor, I’m justifiably proud. If you weren’t a duchess, I’d suggest you try out for the stage. You put Mrs Siddons to shame.”

  His comment should have made her smile. Instead she sighed. “I wish Adrian would return. It’s only been two days and I miss him dreadfully.”

  Which was foolish in the extreme, she thought, seeing how they’d barely spent two minutes together when he was here. Still, the bed felt empty at night. She hadn’t realized how accustomed she had grown to having him beside her, so warm and strong and comforting in the dark.

  “Never fear, he’ll be back before you know it,” Kit said. “This matter at home, sad as it is, can’t take long to resolve. Now come on, or we’ll be more than fashionably late.” He coaxed her to the main staircase.

  Resigned, she followed.

  The soirée was well under way by the time they arrived. Several pairs of eyes turned in their direction as she and Kit strolled into the room. He excused himself as her usual crowd soon clustered around her. Not long after, young Mr Moncrief dived into a sonnet he had composed in honour of her eyebrows. He’d entitled it “Angel Wings in Flight.” His soulful blue eyes grew moist with pride as he began his recitation.

  One of her brows shot up to hear such nonsense, eliciting a round of appreciative sighs from several of her other male admirers. All of them were competing to become her cisisbeo. They persisted in this quest despite her having informed them many times over that she was not in the market for an exclusive male “friend.”

  Christabel Morgan appeared at her elbow, anxious to pass on fresh snippets of gossip. Violet let her chatter away, making encouraging noises at the appropriate moments.

  Short of giving Christabel the cut direct, which Jeannette would never do, Violet had tried every way she could think to gently rid herself of the girl. But Christabel was like a pesky garden vine that refused to go away no matter how many times you yanked it out of the ground. So she resigned herself and suffered her company as best she could.

  The evening wore on, her slippered feet beginning to ache from too much dancing, her tongue pasty with the cloying aftertaste of one too many cups of sweet punch. In desperate need of solitude, she decided to brave the chill and slip out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air.

  The November night wrapped around her like a cool pair of arms. She stepped into its embrace, into the soothing, shadowy quiet that curled catlike along the edges of the house.

  Suddenly, a pair of long, sinewy arms—real arms—grasped and turned her, pulling her flush against a solid, masculine body. Lips descended, hard and hungry, capturing her mouth in a steamy, passionate kiss.

  She cried out in alarm, her distress muffled by the marauding mouth that had taken possession of her own. Too stunned to resist, she froze, her body corpse-stiff within the unwanted embrace.

  Soon she regained her senses, ineffectually trying to twist free. But his imprisoning arms were as unyielding as steel bars. She was rallying herself to let out a scream that would bring everyone running onto the balcony, when he abruptly broke the kiss.

  A splinter of light slashed across his face, illuminating his dangerous, familiar features.

  “Mr Markham,” she gasped on a panting breath.

  “Who else were you expecting?” Toddy Markham said on a near growl. “One of those puerile boys who trails after you, composing odes to your eyelashes?” He pressed another quick kiss upon her astonished lips. “I’m sorry if I scared you, darling, but when I saw you come out here, I couldn’t let the opportunity slip past. You must know I’ve been in agony. Wanting to see you, touch you, while being forced to stand aside and do nothing except watch and wait.”

  Her mouth fell open. She blinked and sputtered, sure she must look like a freshly caught trout laboring for air.

  “Mr Markham,” she repeated, sensible speech deserting her.

  He turned a gimlet eye her way. �
��Oh, are we being formal, your Grace? You seem to be taking this new title of yours a bit too seriously, don’t you think? ‘Jeannette’ was good enough for you before your marriage. ‘Toddy’ was fine when you cried out your pleasure in my arms. Surely Raeburn isn’t so skillful a lover you’ve forgotten what you had with me?”

  Her eyes bulged. She actually felt them strain and scrape in the sockets. She sent up a prayer of thankfulness for the concealing darkness.

  Markham tightened his hold, oblivious to her distress. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear about him.” He drew a harsh, impatient breath. “What I do want to know about are these little games you’ve been playing. Acting as if you barely know me. Refusing to accept my invitations to dance. Avoiding me at every possible turn. Whatever sort of clever tricks you think you’re up to, I don’t care for them one bit.”

  Blood rushed, throbbing in her temples, pounding in her ears. For an instant, she thought she might faint. She knew her twin had amours. She’d just never expected one of them to appear in the flesh and confront her in such an obviously physical manner. Or for it to be Markham, of all people. He was supposed to be Adrian’s friend. Obviously her instincts had been right on that count. She’d known from the moment she met him that he wasn’t to be trusted.

  What to do? What to do? She wondered, frantic. She had to think, only there wasn’t any time to think. And if she didn’t say something soon—other than his name—he might begin to wonder. He might start to question, start to notice a difference in her. Notice, for instance, that she was not the woman she claimed to be.

  “L-let me go, someone might see.” She pushed against his chest, using the defiant outburst to gather her scattered emotions as she stepped free. “D-do you want everyone to know?”

  He reached for her hand, but she evaded him. “I wouldn’t necessarily mind,” he said.

  “You forget. I am a married woman.”

  “No, my love, that I never forget.” He scowled, crossed his arms, his voice low, gruff. “Why did you go through with it? Why did you marry him when you said you couldn’t bear the thought? And you’ve written me only once in all this time, urging me to be patient. How can I be patient when my heart aches for you? When my only recourse is to send letters to you at his house, since you’ve forbidden any other contact?”