The Husband Trap

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The Husband Trap Page 27

by Warren, Tracy Anne


  “Are you my wife?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “We completed a ceremony together but you took vows using a false name. The banns read were for your sister and me, not for you.”

  “I signed my real name on the register.”

  He raised a brow. “How daring and unexpectedly forthright of you. But I doubt it will make any difference legally. Truly, I don’t know which one of you I’m married to. If I’m married to either of you at all. My guess, my dear, is that you and I have been living in sin all these months. Which makes you little better than a kept woman in the eyes of the law and Society.”

  She felt the blood drain out of her cheeks.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “What?” she asked, dazed, her thoughts reeling.

  “I asked if you are pregnant. I want to know if I can expect my firstborn child to be a bastard. Assuming it would be my child.”

  She gasped. “I’ve never been unfaithful to you, I told you that. The note you found was meant for Jeannette, not for me. She…she was seeing someone else before the wedding.”

  “So I have been informed. My little brother is a wealth of information.”

  “I swear you are the only man I’ve ever been intimate with.”

  “In that, at least, I believe you.” He leaned a hip against his desk. “So? Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Pregnant. Are you with child?”

  A flush heated her cheeks. She wished she were. She wanted his child, knew instinctively it might be enough to hold him. But she couldn’t lie to him anymore, and in this there would be no concealing the truth.

  “No.” The single word rasped from her throat like a small death.

  “That’s a relief. At least we won’t have to worry about ruining the life of some poor innocent child.”

  “Do—” She swallowed convulsively, then cleared her throat. “What do you intend to do about me?”

  His eyes grew sombre, reflective. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Let me stay, then.” She moved without conscious thought, rising up out of her chair to fling herself against him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her face to his shoulder. “I beg of you not to send me away. I know you may never be able to forgive me, but I love you. In that, I’ve never lied. If you let me stay, I promise I’ll be whatever you want, whomever you want. I can go on pretending to be her, if you can’t stand the thought of me. No one will ever have to know.”

  He gripped her shoulders, pulled her back far enough to gaze into her eyes. “But I will know. And so would you. You’re right about us being happy, for a while we were. But it was just an illusion, a part of your deception. The woman I believed was my wife doesn’t exist. She’s a fiction, a deceit. You’re not the sweet girl who once stood weeping over a litter of drowned kittens, so shy she could barely say my name. And you’re not your twin, I see that all too clearly now. You’re really nothing like her. You’re…well, I don’t know who you are. But you’ve lied to me, used me, made a fool of me in ways I don’t think I can ever forgive.”

  He pried her away, set her aside as if her touch disgusted him. A bleakness stole through her like a hollow wind, leaving her numb inside.

  He retreated behind his desk. “I must consult my solicitor concerning the legal status of our union. I hesitate to call it a marriage, since I doubt that’s what it is. Should I be in error on this point, suitable arrangements will be made. Otherwise…well, we shall see. It may prove necessary to consult your parents. I assume they are unaware of this matter?”

  Slowly, as if viewing it all through a fog, she nodded.

  “Very well, then. You may go.”

  And that was that. Interview over. Her life as she’d known it, done. All that remained now was waiting to receive her punishment, her sentence.

  She stood motionless for a long, long time, adrift inside her despair.

  Agnes appeared suddenly at her elbow. Had someone rung for her? She heard Adrian speak, something about her being unwell. She kept her eyes lowered. She couldn’t bear to look at him, not now, not anymore. March spoke, hovering around her in grave concern, then she was led from the room, led upstairs.

  Her maid dressed her in a warm nightgown, tucked her into bed. The drapes were drawn against the bright afternoon sun. Horatio gave a single bark. Since her troubles with Adrian had begun, the dog had become a fixture in her rooms. Trailing after her during the day, sleeping with her at night.

  He padded over to the bed, tunnelled his cold, wet nose beneath her limp palm and whimpered in concern.

  She curled toward him. Then she began to cry.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  She spent the entire day in bed, hoping if she slept long enough, she would wake to find it had all been a horrible dream.

  She rose the following morning, moving on bare feet to one of her bedroom windows to gaze out over the lawn. What she saw made the nightmare real. The traveling coach waited on the drive below.

  Adrian was returning to London.

  She clutched the curtains, her nails digging into the material as she watched him step into the vehicle. A muffled thud reverberated as the door was shut, the footman springing up onto his perch. Then Josephs snapped the whip and set the horses in motion.

  A wash of pain squeezed inside her chest as the coach disappeared from sight.

  Agnes bustled in a short time later, bearing Violet’s usual morning tray. Putting on a cheerful show, the maid worked and talked. She laid out a lovely rose-coloured day dress, matching slippers and a woollen shawl meant to keep away the drafts.

  Violet choked down a few bites of toast, drank enough tea to keep it from sticking in her throat. Listless, she let Agnes help her bathe and dress for the day.

  With Horatio trotting at her side, she wandered through the house, aware with each step that she no longer belonged, no longer had a right to call herself mistress here. If what Adrian suspected was true, she’d never even been his wife, duchess only by virtue of her ruse. Even now she could barely comprehend the fact that all of it, even their marriage, had been a lie.

  She strolled into the portrait gallery, studied the faces of Adrian’s ancestors. As she walked the long passageway, she noted the changing fashions and hairstyles, the similarity of a feature here and there.

  Lawrence’s magnificent portrait of Adrian hung in a central location. The painting had been completed not long after Adrian’s ascension to the dukedom. Reed slender, only nineteen years old, he had not yet grown to his full maturity. How innocent he looked, she thought. How serious too as he posed out-of-doors, standing beside a favourite horse, Winterlea’s tree-lined lake in the distance. He’d been weighed down by responsibilities even then, forced to accept duties that might have felled a lesser man.

  A new portrait was to have been commissioned in the spring, along with a companion painting of her as his duchess. There would be no new paintings now, and the next time she saw him would likely be her last.

  How many days, she wondered, before he returned to deliver the verdict? Before he banished her from his life forever? Agony tightened in her breast at the thought.

  She’d shamed him, she admitted now, besmirched his heritage, his family, his name. The fact that she’d never intended to do so made little difference. Worse, she’d made an utter fool of him, and of herself. She’d demeaned herself, begging him to keep her, hoping against hope he might love her enough to forgive. But she should have known better. Theirs had always been a one-sided affection. She’d known the risks, now she must pay the price.

  Waiting here like a dutiful wife would no doubt be the expected thing under the circumstances. But suddenly she didn’t feel very dutiful. The idea of being returned to her parents like a naughty child who’d been caught in the act made her shudder.

  An idea sprang fully formed into her mind, fear and desperation adding inspiration. No, she told herself as the thought took hold, she couldn’t. But she
had to look after herself now, didn’t she? Adrian had made it clear he wanted nothing further to do with her. Once he returned, she would be dead to him. And she knew her family would feel the same.

  Acting on instinct, she gave his portrait one last wistful look, then spun on her heel and hurried from the room.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “You may, of course, count upon my utmost discretion in this matter, your Grace. I shall file the appropriate motions once her Grace…that is, once Miss Brantford signs the annulment papers.” Horace Jaxon of Jaxon, Jaxon and Pritchard, attorneys-at-law to the Dukes of Raeburn for three generations, handed a thick packet of documents across Adrian’s desk to him.

  “Legally the annulment shouldn’t constitute a great deal of difficulty. From what you’ve told me, your marriage was invalid from the start. A true name must be given during the reading of the banns, which in this case clearly did not occur. However, since there was a true signature made in the register at St. Paul’s—I went to the cathedral myself just two days past to examine the document—her Grace…pardon me again, your Grace…Miss Brantford must agree to the annulment.”

  “And if she refuses?”

  “Then the issue would need to be argued before the court. A closed session with a single judge should suffice. Either way, the marriage will be dissolved with her consent or without.”

  Jaxon closed his leather satchel with steady fingers, little slowed by age. “The ecclesiastical courts must also be consulted in this matter. I’ve taken the liberty of broaching the subject with Bishop Canterly, a most knowledgeable and trustworthy individual. You’ve only to give your consent and he’ll begin the annulment process.”

  Adrian nodded. “You may advise him of my consent.”

  “That concludes our business for today, then, your Grace. I’ll leave you to your work.” Jaxon rose from his chair, smoothed a palm over his thinning white hair. “If I may, your Grace, please allow me to convey my condolences on this sorry state of affairs. Most unfortunate, most unfortunate indeed.”

  Adrian gave him an implacable stare. “Thank you for your time, Jaxon. I shall be in touch. Smythe will show you to the door.”

  The attorney bowed, satchel clutched in a tight grip. He followed the servant, who appeared wraithlike at the office door.

  Adrian shoved the packet of papers aside after Jaxon had gone.

  Intolerable, he thought. Forced to discuss his personal life with a gaggle of bishops and lawyers. Compelled to reveal intimate details of his sham of a marriage, publicly expose his own gullibility and shame. Once the annulment was complete, he would be forced to endure worse. There would be little chance of concealing the news that he was not, and never had been, legally wed to either of the Brantford sisters.

  All of Society would be agog. Astonished by the twins’ deception, tittering over his inability to tell one woman from the other. He could only imagine the ribald jests it would spawn in the clubs and elsewhere. His hands curled into fists as fresh anger flooded through him. God, what a mess.

  Jeannette and Violet would be ruined, of course. Particularly Violet, since she was indisputably damaged goods. He could almost pity her if he didn’t know firsthand what she’d done. If he hadn’t witnessed the brazen acts and deliberate falsehoods she’d perpetrated with such consummate skill.

  He still couldn’t fathom how she’d done it. She’d fooled not only him but everyone else, even her own parents. She’d deceived Society as well. A fact the Ton would not soon forget or forgive.

  As for himself, he’d buried whatever love he’d once believed he felt. If a wound lingered, leaking a bit of blood now and again, it would heal. In time.

  He would forget her too. In time.

  He could always keep her, he supposed, to avoid the stigma of scandal. Marry her in a secret ceremony. Pay off the lawyers and ministers to keep their silence, then bundle her off to some remote location where she could live out the rest of her days in obscurity and solitude. Perhaps that would be the more prudent path. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to give her that sort of satisfaction. To let her reap any kind of reward for the disgrace and pain she had wrought.

  As for her sister, the beautiful, mendacious Jeannette, she would do well never to let him set eyes upon her again. If she was really smart, she’d stay in Italy and lure Markham into marrying her. Toddy didn’t have a farthing to his name, it was true, but under the circumstances perhaps money would matter less to her mercenary little soul than respectability.

  He groaned and laid his head in his hands. Why had Violet done it? Had she really thought she could dupe him forever? She claimed to love him, but he couldn’t let himself believe her. How could he believe anything she’d said or would ever say again?

  Well, soon it wouldn’t matter. Once she signed the papers—and by God, he would see to it she signed them—he’d pack her off to her family. Let them decide what was to become of her.

  After that, he’d begin putting his life back together. Maybe he’d travel for a while. He owned a sugar plantation in the Caribbean. A few months baking beneath the hot, tropical sun might be exactly what he needed. He could sail. He’d heard glowing reports about the place. Crystal clear waters, magnificent blue skies and beaches lined in soft, pink sand.

  There, England and all its misery would be a world away.

  She would be a world away too.

  Chapter Twenty

  Adrian returned to Winterlea at the end of a two-week absence.

  In his possession he carried the annulment papers from both the Church of England and the English courts. His visit would be brief, only long enough for Violet to sign the documents, pack her belongings and accompany him to her parents’ estate in Surrey. Once there, he would explain the situation, then depart. Any further legal matters concerning the disposition of the marriage settlement could be argued over among their respective solicitors.

  Upon his arrival, he changed clothes, ate a light meal and flipped through the stack of correspondence that had collected while he’d been away. When he could delay the interview no longer, he rang for March.

  “Would you be good enough to ask my…um…wife to join me in the drawing room,” he ordered.

  Posture rigid, utterly formal, the majordomo fixed his gaze on a spot just past Adrian’s shoulder. “I am afraid I cannot do that, your Grace.”

  Adrian scowled. “What do you mean you can’t do it?”

  Disapproval radiated off the servant in an icy wave.

  In fact, since his arrival, he had noticed a distinct coolness emanating in his direction from the entire staff.

  “I mean that the duchess is not in residence at present, your Grace.”

  “Beg pardon? What did you say?”

  “Her Grace is not in residence—”

  “Yes, yes, I heard that. Where did she go? Is she out visiting someone in the neighbourhood?”

  “No, your Grace.”

  “Then where the devil is she?”

  “As I informed you, I do not know. Her Grace packed some of her belongings nearly a fortnight ago and left with her maid and her dog.”

  “A fortnight! And she took Horatio?”

  “Indeed. She requested a carriage and had Warton drive her to a coaching inn in Derby.”

  His scowl deepened. “Then what?”

  “She ordered him to leave. He, being rightly concerned for her well-being, insisted upon waiting until she and her maid were safely aboard the mail coach. Apparently there was a small difficulty about the dog, but she resolved it by purchasing all the seats.”

  “And he let her go?”

  “Yes, your Grace. Short of manhandling her, there was little he could do to prevent her departure.”

  His blood raced with fury and something else, something worse.

  Fear.

  Where could she have gone? Unfortunately, he didn’t need to ask why she had gone.

  “In which direction was she traveling?” he demanded.

  “South, I believe. B
ristol was the destination her driver mentioned.”

  Bristol? Who could she know in Bristol? But, of course, she didn’t know anyone there, he realized, the town was merely an embarkation point. From such a busy hub, she could journey anywhere in England. Anywhere at all.

  “Why was I not contacted immediately?”

  March hesitated for the first time. “She most specifically requested that I not contact you. Perhaps it is not my place to say, but the recent difficulties between you and her Grace have not gone unnoticed by the staff.”

  “You’re right, it’s not your place. You know nothing about the nature of our difficulties.”

  March straightened. “I know the duchess was near tears when she left. I know she has been abjectly despondent since that day she had to be escorted from your office. She requested that I give this to you.” He brought forth a letter.

  Adrian seized it. “I arrived here nearly two hours ago. What in the world took you so long to produce this?”

  March turned a baleful eye upon him. “I wanted to see how long it would take you to notice that her Grace had left.” He gave a clipped bow, then departed.

  If good old March hadn’t worked for the family since his father’s day, Adrian might have dismissed him on the spot for his insolence. Instead he turned on his heel and stalked into the drawing room, where he’d planned to present Violet with the annulment papers.

  He went to the window, stood where the sunshine provided the best light. He opened the letter.

  Adrian,

  When you read this I shall be gone. I have taken Agnes and Horatio with me; they shall provide adequate protection during my journey. I shan’t tell you my destination, although I presume you no longer care where I go so long as it is away from you. Do not worry that I shall presume upon you again. I know you must hate me now. I hate myself for deceiving you, for bringing shame upon you and your family. It was never my intention to cause you harm. I know what I did is unforgivable and that I shall spend the rest of my life trying to atone for the wrong I have caused. Yet I would be lying if I claimed to be wholly repentant. Love is what led me to make the choices I did, and for that alone, I cannot regret the time I shared with you. There are far too many beautiful memories to cherish for that.

 

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