The Husband Trap

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  Letters? He’d written letters. And she’d written back? She remembered the letter she’d passed on for Jeannette, forwarded to a post-office box in London. Her mind reeled at the implication.

  “My God, you’re K.”

  “Of course I’m K. What nonsense are you spouting? K. K for Kenneth, my middle name. We agreed to use it so no one would suspect. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing, nothing is the matter. You’ve taken me by surprise, is all, jumping out at me from the darkness. Don’t frighten me that way again.”

  “My apologies. I couldn’t help myself, especially knowing Raeburn is away. Meet me tonight. Let me see you, touch you. It’s been so long.”

  He stepped forward.

  She stepped back. “I—I can’t.”

  His jaw tightened, visible even in the shadows. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  “It’s difficult. You don’t understand. I can’t just leave the house, someone will know. And Kit, he…he watches me,” she lied. “Quite the little spy, Adrian’s brother. Who would have thought?”

  “You seem to have an affinity for spies.” He reached out, traced a thumb over the curve of her cheek. “Very well, I’ll wait. But not for long. You may be his wife, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t still mine to love.” He swooped down before she could prevent it, planted another hard kiss upon her lips.

  As quickly as he’d come, he was gone, disappearing like a wraith into the night.

  She stood, her heart stuttering in her chest as if she’d just run a race. A shiver passed over her, cold seeping through the material of her dress. She hurried inside, anxious to be warm, desperate to be safe.

  Scanning the crowd, she searched for Kit.

  The Earl of Allensby intercepted her; it was time for his dance. She tried to slough him off, pleading a headache—which wasn’t much of a lie, since she felt one coming on. Gentleman that he was, Allensby insisted on escorting her to her brother-in-law.

  “Jeannette.” Kit rose from the table where he was playing cards, tossed down his hand. “You look white as a sheet. Whatever has overset you?”

  “Kit, take me home, please.”

  They thanked the earl, who bowed and wished her a speedy recovery then departed.

  Without a word, Kit found a servant to retrieve their outer garments and alert their coachman they were ready to leave.

  Only when they found sanctuary inside the carriage was she able to speak. She told him of her encounter with Markham, of her sister’s involvement with him and about the letters.

  “The villain.” Kit’s anger reverberated like harp strings in the air between them. “I ought to call him out.”

  “Oh, Kit, no. That would only make matters worse, don’t you see?” She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, hung her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything to you.”

  “Don’t be silly, of course you should have.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Don’t worry. We’ll think of some way to discourage the bounder. I only wish I could tell Adrian the foul nature of his friend.” At her exclamation of dismay, he added, “Mum’s the word. I won’t divulge a thing. Now, let’s get to thinking.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Five days later she barged in upon Kit while he was studying in the library.

  She closed the door tightly at her back. “He wants to meet.”

  He peered up from a volume on the Peloponnesian War, a tome so dry he thought each copy should come with a stimulant. “He who?”

  “Who do you think? Markham, of course. He says he’s tired of being put off and that if I don’t agree to meet him tonight in the conservatory at the Lymondham ball, he will have to take more drastic measures. Here, read for yourself.” She thrust the note she’d received toward him.

  He took it, scanned the contents. “Cheeky bastard, ain’t he? Damned shame you won’t let me skewer him. I’d relish having his blood on the end of my sword.”

  “Kit, please, be sensible. What am I to do?”

  For nearly a week now, what she had been doing was hiding in plain sight. With Kit’s wholehearted assistance, she’d been using him as a shield, of sorts. Keeping him close enough to prevent any unwanted advances, choosing entertainments that by their very nature squashed Markham’s attempts to catch her alone and unawares.

  Obviously that strategy had run its course.

  Kit tapped the note against his thigh. “You should meet him.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Yes, I think it’s time you told him how you really feel. Whatever the two of you shared in the past, it’s over now. You’ve decided you want to make your marriage work. You don’t want to see him anymore and you hope he’ll understand.”

  “Are you insane?” she hissed. “He isn’t the type to understand.”

  “Oh, I think he will, so long as you put it to him correctly. Tell him you loved him once but your feelings have changed. Adrian is your future. He is your husband and there’s no possibility of divorce, especially now that you are with child.”

  “But I am not with child.” A modest blush spread over her cheeks.

  “Ah, but he doesn’t know that. Having you enceinte with another man’s offspring is bound to cool his ardour.”

  She paced a few steps, then stopped. “I’m not sure. What if he doesn’t believe me? What if he doesn’t care? After all, he isn’t above having an affair with a married woman.”

  “He thinks he loves you. When you say you don’t feel the same anymore, he’ll have no choice but to go.”

  She paced a few more steps, stopped again. “All right. I suppose it’s worth a try. But what about my sister? She won’t like this. She won’t like this at all.” Brows puckered, she hugged her arms around herself.

  “She should have thought about that before she convinced the two of you to switch places. You haven’t any choice. Tell her it had to be done. Who knows, maybe Markham will meet up with Violet someday and fall in love with her.”

  She tossed him a withering glance. “God forbid. All right, I’ll do it.” She fluttered her hands, nerves showing. “I hope tonight is the end. Then I hope Adrian comes back, so everything can feel right again.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The coach and four raced through the evening darkness, the dimly lighted outskirts of the city coming into view.

  He wasn’t expected back in London for two more days, but Adrian had done everything that could be done about the tragic accident at Winterlea. He’d looked into the circumstances surrounding the farmer’s demise. Consoled his grieving widow and her family. Paid his respects at the burial. Condoled with the community to set them once more at ease.

  Death was never a pleasant business and he was anxious to put it behind him and return to Town.

  The plain truth was, he missed his wife.

  He thought of her at least a hundred times a day. Pausing at odd moments to reflect upon something he’d once heard her say or seen her do, committing to memory fresh topics and events he longed to share anew. The nights since he’d been gone were long. He hadn’t slept soundly once. He’d never before realized how lonely his bed could be without her warm, womanly form curled beside him.

  Before he’d left the city, the two of them had drifted apart, social obligation and convention doing its worst to lead them down separate paths.

  But all that was going to change, he vowed.

  As soon as he saw her, they were going to rectify the situation. He would convince her to cut back on the number of their engagements. Choose activities that would naturally keep them in closer contact, and spend a few more nights together at home. Society was wrong to dictate that husbands and wives should conduct their lives apart. He wanted to be with her, and conventional or not, he planned to be.

  He would also tell her he loved her.

  It was time. What was the point anymore of concealing the truth, from himself or from Jeannette? She’d revealed her feelings to him. He should be man enough to do the same.


  He was grinning, his good humour bubbling over, when the coach pulled up to the townhouse.

  March opened the door, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Your Grace, we weren’t expecting you before Friday.”

  “Decided to come home early. Where’s my wife? Has she already gone out for the evening?”

  “The duchess and Lord Christopher departed some time ago. The Lymondham’s ball, I believe.”

  “Tell Josephs I’ll be wanting the carriage again in an hour’s time. And send Wilcox up to prepare a bath and set out a change of attire. I’ll be joining her Grace and my brother at the ball.”

  He bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Halfway up, he paused. “Oh, March, did a messenger bring over a special-delivery package from Rundle and Bridge?”

  “Yes, your Grace. It arrived yesterday and was placed in the safe in your study.”

  “Would you have it brought up to my room, please?”

  “I’ll see to it myself.”

  Ever efficient, Wilcox had a hot bath waiting by the time Adrian stripped down, and a fresh set of evening clothes laid out across the bed when he’d finished. A small plate of cheese, crackers and fruit, plus a glass of Burgundy waited as well to ease his hunger after the long journey.

  Refreshed and invigorated, he slipped into his formal attire. Breeches, cutaway coat and pumps—all black—contrasted with crisp white linen—shirt, waistcoat, stockings, neck cloth and gloves.

  A velvet-covered jeweller’s box lay discreetly on the dresser where March had left it. He popped the lid, gazed at the emerald, amethyst and diamond necklace he’d commissioned for Jeannette. Stunning, the piece was designed to resemble clusters of flowers, trailing leaves and sparkling dewdrops.

  Perhaps he should have chosen a design that featured rubies or pink diamonds instead. Colours more closely matching her middle name, Rose. But when he’d seen the sketch for this necklace, he’d known it was the one for her. Oddly enough, it seemed to suit her better.

  He imagined surprising her with the gift, envisioned her reaction. But when and where to do the deed?

  Struck by sudden inspiration, he crossed into her bedroom. Lid open, he set the jewelry box in the centre of her dressing table. The necklace glittered in the candlelight, so magnificent it would be impossible to miss. Tonight, when she arrived home, she would walk in and find it.

  He grinned, imagining what he hoped would be her overjoyed response. Perhaps he could even persuade her to wear the necklace—and nothing else—tonight in his bed. His body quickened at the thought.

  As he turned to leave, he sighted a piece of paper that had fallen out of the fireplace and onto the hearth. Ordinarily he would have ignored it, let one of the maids do the cleaning up. But Jeannette’s name was written on the outside in a bold, looping hand, a single edge of the paper blackened to ash.

  Curious, he scooped it up and flipped open the missive.

  His heart slammed to a halt inside his chest.

  My dearest love…

  He looked away, a rush of blood swimming in his head, pounding between his ears. Swallowing past the tightness lodged in his throat, he forced his eyes to the page.

  My dearest love, I cannot bear this agony a moment longer. Pray relieve my heart, my mind, and meet me tonight in the Lymondham conservatory. Be there at midnight and come alone. No more games. If you do not appear, I shall be forced to act in a manner neither of us would wish. I know your heart is mine. Do not despair, we shall find a way. Until this evening.

  Yours, K

  K? Who the hell was K?

  The man his wife was having an affair with, that’s who.

  Adrian crushed the note in his hand, knuckles turned bloodless against the strain. He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to fight the sickness that coated his insides like acid, the anguish that made him want to rage, to lash out, to scream and roar.

  He cast the note into the fire and watched the flames feed until the paper had vanished like the happiness in his heart.

  Midnight. The note had said they were to meet at midnight. He consulted the clock on the mantel, saw it was already well past eleven. If he hurried, he could intercept them. Discover the identity of her mystery lover, perhaps catch them in the very act. Is that what he wanted? Is that what he really wished to find out?

  Anger, agony consumed him and he knew he had to have the truth. Had to see it with his own two eyes. Grim, he steeled himself for the hell that was to come and strode from the room.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Violet refused two separate offers to dance, carefully monitoring the time by the Lymondhams’ magnificent grandfather clock.

  Almost midnight.

  She fought her nerves. Half sick with tension, she’d been unable to eat a single bite all evening. Hoping it would relax her, she’d drunk some wine, and regretted it. Instead of bolstering her courage, the alcohol had left her feeling muzzy-headed and unsteady on her feet. Luckily, she’d consumed it early enough in the evening for its effects to be wearing off.

  She checked the time again.

  Two minutes.

  Better to slip away now while she could, before an acquaintance or a hopeful dance partner appeared. Kit had promised he would come with her despite the note’s warning that she come alone. He’d promised to hide well out of range, close enough for comfort but far enough away not to be seen. Moving on lithe feet, she slipped into the conservatory.

  A jungle of vegetation surrounded her, the syrupy fragrance of gardenias floating like a mist in the air. Deep shadows engulfed the space, her soft footfalls the only sound as she made her way deeper into the gloom. Low-burning braziers, ignited to keep off the chill, provided the room’s only illumination.

  As if materializing from nowhere, Markham stepped out from behind the cover of a large potted palm. “I wasn’t certain you’d come.”

  “I’m here.”

  He reached for her hand.

  She evaded his touch, her insides as wiggly as a blancmange. “What is it you wish to say to me?”

  “Why so cold? Have you turned against me, love?”

  “Don’t call me that. I am not your love, not anymore.” She scoured her mind to recall the dialogue she and Kit had rehearsed last night and again this morning. God, she hoped she got it right. “I…I am sorry, T-Toddy, but this romance between us cannot continue. I am a married woman now, and although I had feelings for you at one time, those feelings have changed. I love my husband and must ask that you accept that. I cannot see you ever again.”

  Markham’s face turned dark as a thundercloud. She braced for the gathering storm, not at all comfortable with what she saw.

  “I don’t believe you.” He balled his hands into fists. “You can’t mean it. Has that interfering whelp of a brother-in-law put you up to this? He’s been trailing you like a bloodhound these past few days. Is it blackmail? Has he threatened you? Because if he has, there are ways to remedy the problem.”

  “No,” she said, aghast at the thought of what “ways” he might mean. “Kit has done nothing, so leave him alone. I asked him to stay close.”

  She decided it was time to play her trump card. She only prayed the lie would work. “If you must know, I’m with ch-child. Raeburn’s child. Any future relationship between us is impossible now, you must see that. I belong with him. Please accept that and go away.”

  A shadow of pain washed across his face. He turned as though she’d stabbed him, his eyes cast down. After a long moment, he drew in a deep breath, turned back. “It doesn’t matter. Have the child, then come to me.”

  Come to him?

  That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. He was supposed to tell her good-bye. Oh, dear Lord, what was she going to do now?

  She shook her head vehemently. “No, I’ve told you, it’s impossible.” Her voice rose to a high-pitched squeak. “It’s over.”

  “No. I won’t let it be over. I love you.”

  “Well, I don’t love you.” That was one state
ment she could make with utter sincerity.

  “That’s not what you said in your letter, when you begged me to wait. When you wrote that your heart would be mine forever and on into eternity.”

  She barely kept from rolling her eyes. Her twin could be so melodramatic sometimes. “I—I’m sorry, but my feelings have changed. I don’t want you, not anymore.”

  He reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders. “I don’t believe you.”

  She jumped beneath his touch. “Let me go.”

  He scowled, pushed her backward, closer to a pool of light shining from a nearby brazier. Then he stared, really stared, peering into her eyes as if he was trying to read her thoughts.

  “Who in the bloody hell are you?” he demanded.

  Her body jolted again. “Jeannette Brantford Winter, Duchess of Raeburn.”

  “You may be the Duchess of Raeburn, but you aren’t Jeannette Brantford, not the one I knew at least.”

  “How dare you. Let me go.”

  “Not before I prove I’m right.” Without warning, he spun her around, tugged down the sleeve of her gown to expose her bare shoulder and a portion of her back. “It’s not there.”

  “What’s not there?”

  “Your birthmark. You remember, the one shaped like a little cat? We used to laugh about it because it seemed so perfectly suited to your nature. It isn’t there.” He traced a pair of fingers over the spot even as she tried to wriggle free of his touch. “It isn’t there because you aren’t Jeannette. My God, you’re her twin, aren’t you?”

  She pulled away, yanked her gown back into place. Over Markham’s shoulder, she glimpsed Kit rushing to her rescue. She met his eyes, gave a small warning shake of her head. He stopped, hovered, his frustration palpable. At her direction, he eased back into the leafy shadows of a nearby bush.

  “I knew there was something odd about you,” Markham said, “but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The two of you switched. Her idea, of course.”