She looked across to where the other girl stood, alone and forgotten. No, Eliza couldn’t help her, she decided, but perhaps she could help Eliza, if only a very little.
When Kit arrived nearly half an hour later, she motioned him over to her side. “Ask Miss Hammond to dance,” she said without preamble.
“Miss Hammond?”
She watched him scan the ballroom, saw when his gaze landed upon her friend. Seated on a straight-backed chair next to a pair of drowsy dowagers, Eliza looked as washed out as her gown of watered almond silk.
“Eliza Hammond, you mean?” He didn’t sound enthusiastic.
“She hasn’t danced all evening.”
“She never dances.”
“That’s because no one asks her. Be a gentleman and stand up with her. And when you’re done, get one of your cronies to take a turn with her as well.”
“I say, I don’t know if—”
“It’s only one dance. I’m not suggesting you marry her.”
Kit shuddered. “God forbid.” He straightened his cuffs. “Very well. One dance, as a favour to you. And perhaps I can convince Suttlersbury to do the deed as well. He’s always game for a dance. But don’t think I won’t remember this and call in my marker one of these days.”
She chuckled. “Never fear. I know you too well to ever doubt that.”
Adrian watched his wife and brother from across the room. Look at them, he thought, their heads together, whispering thick as thieves, cozy as lovers. His jaw tightened in a bone-grinding clench. Slamming down the tumbler of Madeira he’d been nursing, he stalked toward them.
Kit was just turning away as he approached. Their eyes met for a long, combative moment before the younger man gave a perfunctory nod and moved off.
The smile on Violet’s face faded as soon as he turned his attention toward her, her reaction increasing his anger. “Dance with me, madam.” He thrust out a gloved hand.
She hesitated, glanced to her left as a gentleman stepped forward. “I am sorry, your Grace, but I am promised to Sir Reginald for this set.”
He pinned hard eyes on the other man. “What do you say, Malmsey? You don’t mind if I cut in, now, do you? I want to dance with my wife.”
Sir Reginald swallowed audibly, his pale complexion lightening a shade. “N-no, your Grace. Think nothing of it. More than happy to oblige.” He gave a jerky bow, murmured something to her and scurried away.
Adrian held out his hand in a manner that brooked no defiance. “The musicians are beginning, madam.”
She laid her palm in his, walked beside him onto the dance floor.
He swung her into a waltz, her body lithe beneath his touch, her hand soft and familiar within his own. He didn’t know why he’d done this to himself. What had prompted him to demand they share a dance when he knew it would bring him nothing but pain? Yet it felt so traitorously good to hold her, to drink in her sweet scent, to gaze down upon her crown of lustrous golden hair.
Earlier that evening when she’d walked down the staircase at home, his necklace encircling her throat like a bouquet of glittering wildflowers, she’d stolen the breath from his body. It had taken everything he had not to let his feelings show. To behave as if he barely noticed, as if she no longer mattered to him. And damn it, she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t matter, not anymore. Yet somehow she still did.
Furious with himself and with her, he concentrated on keeping time to the steps of the dance, saying not a word.
Violet let him lead her around the room, the strains of violins and flutes sweet as perfume upon the air. He was tense. She could feel the barely leashed energy in his taut muscles. The fury that simmered just below the civilized surface.
She hazarded an upward glance, caught the hungry gleam of desire in his eyes. Startled, she looked immediately away, stared at his shirtfront as her heart quickened, gladdened. He hadn’t shown any interest in her since his return to Town. Was it possible something had changed? Was it possible he might want her again?
Her pulse beat a rough tandem in time to the music. She stole another upward glance, disappointed to see the look no longer there.
All too soon, the dance ended. He escorted her back to her circle of admirers, bowed and strode away. He hadn’t said a word the entire time, and for most of it he’d seemed resentful, angry. Why had he sought her out?
There was no understanding him these days. Yet she felt certain she hadn’t mistaken that glance of his, or the longing in it. Now the question was, how should she respond?
∗ ∗ ∗
She waited until she heard Adrian’s valet leave, his room growing quiet on the other side of the connecting door.
She gazed down at herself, appalled at her own daring. She was wearing the scandalous red silk night rail from Jeannette’s trousseau—the one garment she’d never had the nerve to don. The material clung to her body like a second skin.
Would Adrian want her?
Surely he would when he saw her like this. The gown was so shocking, she hadn’t even let Agnes see her in it. As soon as her maid departed for the evening, she’d exchanged her nightgown for this one. She looked almost naked. Broad swatches of lace, interspersed with thin strips of silk that covered only the most essential parts.
The lewd thing was even slit up the sides.
She’d buoyed her self-confidence by remembering the last time she’d set out to seduce Adrian. That interlude had gone well—really well, as she recalled—so why should this time be any different?
Perhaps because he hadn’t been angry and indifferent to her then, a little voice whispered. Perhaps because he’d still desired her then.
But there’d been that look in his eyes during their dance tonight. No matter how brief, she knew she hadn’t imagined it. In spite of his recent coldness, some part of him still wanted her. Now she had only to revive that need and show him she felt the same.
∗ ∗ ∗
Adrian tossed back the last of his brandy, set the snifter aside. He brooded, staring vacantly into the flames that snapped contentedly in the fireplace.
Jeannette.
He should never have danced with her tonight. Giving into impulse, to haste, to heat, had been a mistake. He spent his days trying not to think of her and ended up doing little else. His life had turned into an utter hell.
He was contemplating another brandy, so he might further drown his misery and have some chance of sleeping, when the connecting door opened.
There she came, gliding into the room on bare, silent feet. Her body was garbed in a blood red slash of silk that showed more flesh than it concealed. Glimpses of her bare legs showed as she walked. Her breasts were lush and firm, succulent fruits barely cloaked beneath a veil of passion-coloured lace.
His body reacted of its own accord, instant lust priming him the way the scent of a ready mare would a stallion. He clenched a single fist and fought to maintain an impassive facade.
“What is it?” Deliberately, he made his tone sound bored and disapproving.
She halted, hesitated. “I saw your light. I couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s late. You should ring Agnes, have her bring you some warm milk.”
She took a few steps forward. “I don’t want warm milk.”
“Some brandy, perhaps.” He grabbed his own empty snifter, rose from his chair, crossed the room. His back turned, he reached for a fresh glass, poured a large splash of liquor inside each.
He downed his own portion in a couple of healthy swallows. The alcohol burned its way along his throat, into his stomach, where it spread like fiery coals. He prayed the potent draught would deaden his senses, dull his carnal appetite.
He turned, held her glass out at arm’s length, careful to keep his eyes averted. “Here.”
“I remember the last time you plied me with liquor.”
He remembered too, and wished he didn’t. It made their current reality all the more painful to bear.
She moved closer. “What I need tonight isn’t spiri
ts.”
“Take it anyway and go.”
“Adrian, what is it? What’s wrong?” She rushed forward, slid her arms around him, pressed the warm, pliant curves of her body against his. “Don’t you want me anymore?”
Head buzzing from drink and desire, he stared into her eyes and began to drown. Without thought, without caring, he crushed his lips to hers, gave himself over to the hunger raging in his blood. The brandy snifter fell from his hand, liquor soaking into the carpet as the glass rolled away.
He poured all the need and want and frustration he’d been living under into his kiss, savaging her mouth in a hot, greedy mating that took more than it gave. She met and matched him, sighing beneath his touch as he stroked his hands everywhere. He lifted her, dying to be inside her where she was warm and wet. He couldn’t resist. Couldn’t deny himself what he had to have worse than his next breath.
They sank together onto the bed. Her hands caressed him, sleek and knowing, her mouth gliding over his neck and face and chest.
“Adrian,” she whispered. “Adrian, I’ve missed this. Missed you. I love you.”
He froze, desire dying in an instant. Memories beat viciously inside his mind. Finding the letter. Knowing she’d lied. Seeing her wrapped inside his brother’s arms. Imagining them together as she spoke those very same words to him. Kit, I love you.
What was wrong with him? How could he be touching her? How could he want her? Yet he did, even now, even knowing what she was. Worse, he loved her, despite her hollow lies, her treachery. He was disgusted by them both.
“Get out.” He rolled away from her, his words low, raw in his throat.
“What?” She reached for him again.
He flung himself off the bed. “Get out. Leave. Be gone.”
“But Adrian, I don’t understand—”
“Don’t you? What is there to understand? I don’t want you. Is that plain enough for you to comprehend, madam? I am no longer interested in sampling your fine feminine wares.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, one coursing down her cheek. “Why? What have I done?” she pleaded.
“Please, don’t persist in this charade,” he said with obvious distaste and derision. “You gave it a good try, but it’s over now. I know about you. I saw you.”
He expected her to break, confess.
Instead she sat up on the bed, confusion heavy in her gaze. “Know about what? What did you see? I don’t understand.”
God, what an actress she was. “I found the note, the one from your lover.”
Her face blanched.
“Ah, so you remember that, do you? You threw it in the fire, but it didn’t burn. I found it and I read it.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it? I followed you that night, to the party. I saw the two of you together. I saw you in his arms.”
He stalked away, to the fireplace, where he leaned an arm against the mantel, stared blindly into the flames. “How could you do it? How could you betray me with my own brother?” A sad, aching sickness filled him, a sorrow unlike any he’d ever known.
“Is that why you’ve been so beastly to both of us this past week? Because you believe I’m having an affair with Kit?” Astonishment rang in her voice.
“What else am I to believe?”
“He’s my friend, nothing more. He gave me a hug that night. He wasn’t…embracing me, not the way you think.”
He whirled, confronting her. “Then what about that note? Someone sent you that damned note. If not Kit, then who? Who in the hell is K?”
She linked her hands together, lowered her eyes. “I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He charged forward, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Tell me who he is. Who is your lover?” he demanded at a near shout.
With one final furious glare, he wrenched himself away, afraid he might actually do her physical harm.
She rubbed her shoulder and climbed off the bed. “Adrian, please, I know it looks bad, but it isn’t what you think. I—I don’t have a lover. You’re the only man I’ve ever—”
“No more.” He threw up a hand. “I won’t listen to another word. I’ve heard enough of your lies. Get out.”
When she didn’t move, he yelled at her, “Didn’t you hear me? I said get out. Get out. Now!”
She flinched. With silent tears streaming over her cheeks, she raised her chin, looked him in the eye. “You’re wrong. I haven’t betrayed you. Please let me—”
He took a menacing step forward.
She swallowed the rest of her words, then fled, slamming the door behind her.
He crossed the room, leaned over to pick up the forgotten brandy glass. The carpet would need to be cleaned, he thought unimportantly.
He stared at the glass for a long while, until anguish rushed up inside him, burning and bitter as gall. With a shout, he flung the snifter into the fire, where it splintered into a hundred pieces. Something else to be swept away, put to rights.
If only their lives could be so easily restored.
Unutterably weary, he sank into the armchair. Sleepless, he listened to her sob till the wee hours of the morning.
Chapter Eighteen
They left for the country two days later.
Christmas would soon be upon them, and per tradition the entire Winter family, even distant relations, would congregate at Winterlea to share the holiday season.
News of the birth of Sylvia’s newest baby had arrived in London only a few days before. To everyone’s delight, the child was a girl. Despite being only recently out of childbed, Adrian’s sister was determined to show off her prized infant. The dowager duchess would, of course, be returning with her daughter, Sylvia’s husband and their sizable brood in tow.
Violet had received a note from her parents. They would be driving up from their estate in Surrey to join the celebration. Darrin planned to arrive from Scotland, where he’d been sharing a hunting box with friends. However, Great-aunt Agatha and “Violet” would be remaining on the Continent until spring. At sixty-five, Agatha’s bones were simply too brittle to be subjected to the damp and cold of an English winter, even for the sake of Christmas.
And it was cold, blustery, with a few snowflakes twirling a giddy dance in the air. Violet watched them fall as she stared out the coach window, pulling the blanket higher on her lap to protect against the chill. She sat alone inside the coach. The men had decided to ride in spite of the weather. Though from what she could see, neither appeared to be enjoying the exercise.
Since that dreadful evening when she’d gone to him, she and Adrian had barely spoken to each other, passing less than a handful of minutes in each other’s company. Given the things said that night, what remained?
He believed she was an adulterous liar. And to be fair, he was half right.
She was a liar.
She wanted to defend herself, prove to him she hadn’t been unfaithful, but how could she? Not without giving away her other secret. In order to disprove one falsehood, she would have to reveal too much about the other. Like a loose thread in a tapestry, once picked free, the whole piece would soon come unravelled.
Perhaps she should simply admit the truth, confess her identity and end the charade. Then Adrian could decide to which of his many estates he would prefer banishing her. Or would he divorce her instead and simply turn her out? She shuddered at the horrifying prospect, knowing she was damned no matter which path she chose. She sighed, watched more delicate snowflakes wing toward the earth.
Outside, Kit rode beside his brother. After nearly two hours of silence, he was fed up with being ignored. He’d rather be traveling inside the coach with Violet. It would certainly be a damned sight more comfortable. But once he climbed inside, he knew Adrian would insist upon joining them. Leaving the three of them knee to knee in misery for the rest of the journey.
Enough was enough, he thought. How many times did a man have to explain himself?
Violet had told him
about Adrian’s accusation the morning after the Carters’ ball. He remembered his jaw literally dropping open at the news. The idea of a liaison with her was unimaginable. The pair of them were like brother and sister. Anyone with eyes could see that. Anyone, that is, except a lovesick fool too blinded by his own jealousy to recognize the truth.
The evidence—Markham’s letter and Adrian’s unfortunate witnessing of Kit embracing Violet—were damning indeed on the surface. Adrian demanded proof of their innocence, and with his own less than full explanation of events, his older brother’s suspicions remained. Twenty-two years of familial trust, it seemed, weren’t enough to sweep away a single night’s worth of misunderstandings and falsehoods.
But he refused to unmask Violet.
He’d made a promise to her and unless Adrian asked him point-blank about her identity, he wasn’t going to break that vow. He’d spent his whole life admiring his brother. Right now he just wanted to knock him a good one on the head.
“What a fool,” he mumbled under his breath.
Adrian’s head swung around. Kit’s soft words had apparently carried on the wind. “I beg your pardon?” he said, his words as frosty as the air.
Kit squared his shoulders, raised his voice. “I said you’re a fool. You’re making yourself and everyone around you miserable over nothing.”
A muscle ticked in Adrian’s jaw. “You believe adultery is nothing?”
“She and I have both told you nothing happened. It’s the truth, if you’d simply care to see it. As undeniably beautiful as Jeannette is, I don’t find her even remotely appealing, not in a romantic sense, that is.”
“How reassuring. Now, if you are finished—”
“I’m not finished.” He plunged ahead, not stopping to wonder at his nerve. “That woman loves you, though God knows why, and you’re cutting her out of your life over little more than a misconception.”
The Husband Trap Page 24