The Husband Trap

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  Knowing there was no use dissembling, she gave a tight nod.

  “Does Raeburn know?” He barked out a laugh. “Of course he doesn’t, otherwise he would have booted you out on your lying derriere weeks ago. Incredible.” He walked a few steps one way, then back. “Where is she? Where is Jeannette?”

  “In Italy with our great-aunt.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Of course. She’s pretending to be you. The strain must be killing her. I shall journey southward and see what I can do to ease her dreadful burden.” He paused, eyes narrowing like a wolf’s. “She didn’t know about this, did she? This effort tonight to cast me aside?”

  “She knew nothing about it.” She twisted her fingers together. “What will you do about Adrian? Will you tell him?”

  He raised a brow. “I ought to. It would serve you right for lying. But I fear it might spoil my fun on the Continent. Besides, if Raeburn is a big enough dupe not to realize the truth, then he deserves you. Rather funny that, having an imposter for a wife.” He leaned in. “Are you really pregnant?”

  Her cheeks heated at his query. “No.”

  He laughed again. “If you want to keep him, do yourself a favour and get that way. Once there’s a child involved, he won’t divorce you. Although he may hire a wet nurse and ship you off to one of his less hospitable estates to live out the rest of your days in lonely solitude.” He patted her cheek. “Don’t worry. I promise he won’t hear it from me.”

  He turned, strode away.

  Only when he’d left did she realize she was trembling.

  Kit came to her, enfolded her in a consoling brotherly embrace. Glad of his support, she hugged him back.

  “At least he’s gone,” he told her. “At least he’s out of your life.”

  “It’s having him in Jeannette’s life that worries me. I pray it doesn’t all turn to disaster.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Midnight had come and gone when Adrian strode into the Lymondham conservatory.

  There had been a carriage accident on the way, his progress hampered while horses and drivers were sorted out and sent on their way. Once he’d arrived at the ball, he found himself waylaid by no fewer than a dozen people, all wishing to say hello and express their pleasure at his return to the city.

  Quiet abounded as he walked through the greenery-laden room, a distant murmur of voices slowly intruding into the silence. His wife and her lover or someone else? He followed the sound, weaving his way amongst the exotic plants that were his host’s pleasure and pride. He would confront them, but first he wanted to see the evidence. Positioning himself on the opposite side of a large, flowering bush, he peered through at the couple.

  His heart took its second jarring kick of the evening.

  There they were, Jeannette and Kit wrapped in each other’s arms. For a moment, he didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Then the words in the note stabbed into his mind, the cryptic signature at the bottom. K. That’s how her lover had penned his name. K for Kit?

  Sickness came upon him like a sweat. He turned away, fearing he might actually vomit, breath wheezing in and out of his lungs.

  His brother and his wife? Impossible.

  Yet he’d seen them together, holding each other. He’d seen them together another time as well, secretive and suspicious now that he considered, that day in the folly at Winterlea. He remembered too the way she’d insisted Kit accompany them to London. And he’d read the note tonight, the most damning evidence of all.

  My God, what was he to do? Any other man he would have called out, met on the field of honour and done his level best to kill. But Kit was his brother. He couldn’t call out his brother, couldn’t murder his own flesh and blood.

  Were they in love? His senses screamed at the thought.

  Jeannette and Kit were of an age, less than two years apart. He’d witnessed their closeness, had been pleased to see their familial bond, little suspecting all the while that it might be something else.

  What of her vows to him? Her words of love? Her pledges of fidelity?

  Lies, all of it lies.

  How far had it gone between them? Were they sleeping together? While he’d been away, had Kit taken his place in their bed? Had he been the one to bring a flush of colour to her skin, sighs of pleasure to her lips, ecstasy cresting inside her body?

  A red haze of rage swam before his eyes, his hands trembling. He clenched them and fought for control. Lord in heaven, what was he to do? How was he to bear this?

  He had to leave. Now. He had to be alone.

  The idea of exchanging pleasantries and banal talk for the remainder of the evening was an anathema that could not be endured.

  Footsteps quiet so Kit and Jeannette would not hear, he retraced his steps. Making his excuses to his puzzled hostess, he fled out into the cold night.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Violet rapped on the connecting door to Adrian’s bedchamber. When she heard no reply, she turned the knob and went inside. The room stood empty, bathed in a mellow wash of firelight. A small branch of candles set on a side table earlier in the evening had long since sputtered out.

  She added another log to the fire, watched the flames give a greedy, orange-red lick before she took a seat in a nearby armchair. On her knees she balanced the black-velvet jeweler’s box she’d been stunned to discover on her dressing table. Her breath had literally left her lungs the instant she’d glimpsed the extravagant necklace.

  Opening the lid, she traced reverent fingertips over the pretty stones that sparkled even in the low light. No one had ever given her such an exquisite present. And for no particular reason either. It wasn’t her birthday and Christmas was still more than a full month away.

  She desperately wanted to thank him. She’d never seen something so extraordinarily beautiful in her life.

  Adrian was back in Town. In addition to the jewelry, one of the footmen had confirmed his arrival when she and Kit returned home tonight. If rumour was to be believed, he’d put in a brief appearance at the Lymondhams’ ball, though neither she nor Kit had caught so much as a glimpse of him. Odd that he would return from Winterlea only to immediately absent himself again.

  The mantel clock chimed half-past three in the morning. Where could he be? She hoped nothing untoward had befallen him. Ignoring a small twinge of unease, she settled more deeply into the armchair to wait.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  She startled awake, a soft grey predawn light scratching at the windows, the hushed murmuring of housemaids as they passed in the hallway to begin their day’s work. She sat up, stretched, stiff from having fallen asleep in the chair.

  Nearly seven o’clock. Her eyes flew to the bed, its coverlet undisturbed, as precisely made as it had been for all the days he’d been gone.

  Adrian hadn’t come home last night.

  Alarmed, she hurried out into the hallway without considering her attire—robe and slippers, her long, sleep-mussed hair streaming down her back. He should be home by now, she fretted. Something terrible must have happened. An accident, an illness. Even now, he might be lying in pain, or worse.

  She raced along the corridor. Betty was the first servant she found, the girl down on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor.

  The maid looked up, clearly startled. “Your Grace, whatever’s amiss?”

  “Betty, thank heavens. Have you seen the duke this morning?”

  “No, ma’am, I haven’t but—”

  She didn’t listen any further, just hurried on.

  She dashed down the main staircase, oblivious to the stares of the servants she passed. Entering the main hall, she rushed toward March.

  The majordomo turned, his blue eyes widening. “Your Grace, are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she panted, pausing a moment to catch her breath. “His Grace. He didn’t come home last night and I’m dreadfully worried that something might have happened to him. Have you heard from him? Perhaps we should contact the authoriti
es, his friends, anyone who might have seen him last.”

  A footstep sounded in the hallway. “There is no need of that, madam. As you can plainly see, I am fine.”

  She whirled at the sound of Adrian’s voice. Setting a hand over her heart, she flew to where he stood in the doorway of the breakfast room, then threw her arms around him in a fierce hug.

  His entire body stiffened. Too overcome with relief, she didn’t immediately notice his lack of response.

  With firm hands, he set her away.

  “Such melodrama,” he said, his voice cold as a frozen lake. “No doubt I am supposed to be moved by your concern. Look at my wife, March, so distraught over me she couldn’t even be bothered to dress.”

  She flushed, only then realizing she stood in her nightclothes. She tugged the sides of her robe more tightly around her body. “I was worried. I waited up for you…” she lowered her voice “…in your room. You never came to bed.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this matter where we can be private.” He stepped aside, waited for her to enter the morning room. Dismissing the single servant inside, he closed the door, leaving them alone. He crossed to the breakfast table and resumed his seat in front of his abandoned plate.

  She hovered, oddly ill at ease. “Where were you last night?”

  “Would you care for one of these sausages?” He motioned toward a silver platter. “They’re quite good.”

  “Adrian, please. What is wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong. I’m very well, breaking my fast with a hearty meal.” He ate a forkful of scrambled eggs. “You must try some. Perhaps a cup of tea as well.”

  “I don’t want eggs or sausages or tea. I want to know where you were last night.”

  He shot her a quick, hard glare, then lowered his eyes. He cut a piece of sausage, his knife scraping discordantly against the china. “At my club, since you are so interested.”

  “Your club? All night?”

  “Yes. Mystery solved. Now, I suggest you go put on some suitable clothing. You have the look of a doxy about you this morn.”

  She gasped, her cheeks reddening. “I was concerned about you. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.” She hugged her arms around herself, stared down at the carpeting. She blinked back a sudden rush of tears.

  Something was dreadfully wrong, she thought. Where was the man she knew? It was as if the real Adrian had gone away and a stranger had returned in his place. His harsh words, the chill in his eyes. For a moment, she’d almost imagined he hated her. A shiver passed along her spine.

  “I’ll go now,” she murmured.

  He set down his silverware, stared at her.

  Why did he feel as if he’d just kicked a puppy? She looked so young, so beautiful. So innocent. If he weren’t privy to the truth, he would have believed her and her distraught concern for his welfare. Would have believed she loved him, if not for the betrayal he’d witnessed last night.

  “Why were you waiting for me?” The words escaped him.

  “Oh. I…I wanted to thank you, for the necklace. It is so exquisite. The most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me.”

  The necklace. He’d forgotten all about the damned thing.

  His features hardened as he remembered his naive, foolish delight, his happy anticipation over the present. How she would have laughed had she seen it.

  “It is an attractive piece that will look well around your neck,” he commented in a businesslike tone. “The family jewels haven’t been updated for half a century at least. I thought it time they were refreshed.”

  She wilted, a small spark of pleasure dying in her eyes. “Oh, I see. I should return to my room now.”

  “Yes.” He picked up his fork in dismissal. “My meal grows cold.”

  When she’d gone, he set the utensil down again. He pushed his plate away, no longer the least bit hungry.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Violet dressed for the Carters’ ball. She wished she could beg off the engagement tonight and stay home. But the entertainment was being thrown in her honour—hers and Adrian’s—so there was no escape.

  Agnes slipped a beautiful gown of emerald satin with an overskirt of white-dotted Swiss gauze over Violet’s head. The dress was low-cut and off-the-shoulder for evening, and it was a simple task to fasten the gown into place. Then it was on to her hair.

  She sat at her dressing table, let her maid brush and arrange her long tresses into place. She stared at her own reflection in the mirror, studied her eyes and wondered if anyone else could see the unhappiness brimming within them.

  Something was dreadfully amiss with Adrian.

  Ever since his return from Winterlea last week, he’d been withdrawn. Abrupt, taciturn, humorless. She couldn’t imagine what might have happened at the estate to overset him in such a way. She’d even questioned the servants—discreetly, of course—including Wilcox, his valet. Yet none of them was able to provide so much as a clue.

  After his ghastly first morning back, she’d been reluctant to question Adrian directly. Finally, she’d gathered her nerve and asked him why he was so troubled.

  Eyes cold, he denied any such condition, rebuffing her and her inquiries. Wounded, she hadn’t asked again.

  Neither had she asked why he no longer came to her bed. They hadn’t slept together or made love since he’d left for Winterlea. She feared to hear his reason.

  He’d changed toward Kit as well. For reasons no one could fathom, Adrian had taken to baiting his brother, often over the most insignificant of matters.

  Last night at dinner, he’d torn into Kit over his so-called gluttony when the younger man helped himself to a second serving of trifle for dessert. Kit always ate seconds. His not doing so would have been more likely to elicit a comment. So Adrian’s unexpected attack startled everyone, even the footmen on duty that evening, who’d watched in wide-eyed astonishment.

  And two days prior, Adrian had lashed out at him over the purchase of a new waistcoat. How many striped waistcoats did one man need? he’d demanded in a scathing tone. Did Kit ever stop to consider the cost of such items? Surely he had better uses for his allowance than that. No wonder he was always so badly dipped, a hairsbreadth from punting in the River Tick.

  Kit’s cheeks had flushed scarlet as he stood beneath the storm of Adrian’s verbal castigation. She’d feared they might come to blows. Especially when Adrian impugned Kit’s virility by asking if he was turning into a man milliner, an effeminate sort who thought of nothing but his looks and the attractiveness of his wardrobe.

  With Adrian’s sable brown eyes ablaze, his jaw fixed in a pugnacious tilt, she had gotten the distinct impression in that moment that Adrian wanted Kit to hit him. That he was inciting his brother to violence so he might have a chance to pummel him back. But why? It made no sense.

  “Your Grace, would you like to wear your new necklace? The one his Grace gave you?” Agnes inquired, interrupting her musings.

  She looked at the reflection of Agnes standing behind her in the mirror.

  “Ooh, isn’t it lovely?” The maid held up the exquisite piece. “It will be a perfect accent to your gown.”

  She stared at the necklace, reluctant to put it on. She’d loved it so at first. But Adrian’s curt, impersonal explanation for its purchase had dampened her pleasure like a faceful of icy water. Perhaps it might placate him in some small way if she wore his gift tonight. Perhaps he might feel pride in seeing the newest of the family jewels gracing her neck. Maybe it would bring a small glint of pleasure back into his eyes. Eyes that no longer seemed to shine, at least not for her.

  She nodded permission, the stones cool against her throat as they were fastened into place. She studied her reflection one final time and knew, without vanity, that she looked resplendent, every inch the Duchess of Raeburn. Silently, she prayed Adrian would find her beautiful, desirable.

  Waiting in the foyer, he spared her barely a glance before assisting her into her cloak, his touch as impersonal as a servant’s. No
t by so much as an eyelash did she betray the aching disappointment that sliced through her like a blade. Head held high, she preceded him out to the carriage.

  The trip to the Carters’ was made in silence. Kit wasn’t along to break the oppressive gloom, had he even been inclined to try. He’d accepted a dinner invitation with friends and planned to join her and Adrian at the ball later in the evening.

  Adrian led her out for the first dance. She fixed a smile on her face, pretended all was well. Inside she wanted to weep. They spoke of trivialities, less intimate than strangers. Each step became a misery, each touch an exquisite torture.

  She was losing him, she thought, and she didn’t even know why. Worse, she didn’t know what she could do to stop it.

  When the song ended, she and Adrian parted, their duty done.

  Lord Hamilton solicited her hand for the next dance. She placed her palm in his and let him lead the way.

  She sat sipping a cup of negus, the evening nearly half over, when Eliza Hammond stole up next to her, quiet as a whisper.

  “Pardon the intrusion, your Grace.” Eliza curtseyed in a respectful greeting.

  Violet inclined her head in reply.

  “When last we spoke,” Eliza continued, obviously reticent, “you said if I wrote to your sister, you would be willing to forward my letters on to her.”

  She set down her drink. “Yes, I did.”

  Eliza extended a thick piece of folded parchment. Violet Brantford was written in an efficient hand across the front.

  She took the letter. “I’ll see she receives this.”

  A smile spread across the other woman’s face. “Thank you, your Grace. You’re most kind.” Then she vanished, winging away like some quiet brown sparrow.

  Violet wanted to call her back, find a comfortable corner where they could talk and share confidences as they used to do. When Eliza relaxed, her reticence fell away, her conversation as entertaining and animated as the most lively wit. And Eliza knew how to listen, able to jolly away the blue-devils with a sympathetic ear and a well-needed dose of optimistic encouragement. If only people would take the time to look beneath the surface, they would see, as she did, what a wonderful person and loyal friend Eliza was. And right now, Violet was dearly in need of a friend. But Eliza couldn’t help her. No one could help her.