The Wedding Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  But soon he realized her reticence stemmed from something else entirely. As always, she was sweet and friendly to him, smiling and behaving very much as she had always done. Except that something essential was missing now. An underlying warmth that no longer shone in her eyes. A special radiance to her smile that she used to reserve exclusively for him, but no more.

  Out of necessity, their love lessons had come to an abrupt halt. Obviously without benefit of marriage their dalliance could not continue unchecked. Yet all the logic and good intentions in the world had not kept him from desiring her, could not prevent him from craving her with a kind of single-minded obsession that bordered on madness.

  During the day, he caught himself spinning fantasies, mental wanderings that left him semi-aroused, sometimes in the most untenable of locations and company. At night, she came to him in dreams. Hot, earthy, boldly sexual dreams that left him aching and unsatisfied, sheets twisted around his limbs, his loins throbbing when he came awake.

  But what of her? From everything he’d observed, Eliza appeared to have put their night behind her with a sort of cold finality. Could she really turn her passions on and off so precipitously? She said she had wanted him that night, said she had taken great pleasure in their joining. Innocent as she had been, he knew from her earnest, open responses that she had not been lying.

  And yet now that their passion was consummated, did she want nothing further? Had their lessons really meant no more to her than a chance to dip her fingers into the dark waters of the forbidden? To experiment in the secret world of libidinous delights, as she had once told him she wished to do?

  Such behavior didn’t seem like Eliza.

  Then again, her behavior of late didn’t seem like her either.

  He didn’t understand what she wanted. For that matter, he barely knew what he wanted, except for one thing.

  He wanted Eliza, needed her back in his arms, in his life. Desiring her with a hunger that burned as hot as flame even now. Whatever this spark was between them, he couldn’t let it die. But to have what he wanted meant marriage.

  And therein lay a stumbling block.

  He’d already proposed—twice—and she had said she did not want to wed him. But he realized now that his words had been those of duty and honor, couched in rather unemotional terms. Perhaps if she understood how much he wanted her, how desperately he craved her touch, she would consent. Many marriages had been built from far less than what the two of them shared. They were friends. If the passion between them should ever fade, their friendship would remain. If he had his druthers, he would wait to marry. And yet the more he considered the idea, the more he liked it.

  Yes, he thought, watching as Brevard finally began to row himself and Eliza to shore, Kit would propose to her again.

  Only this time she would accept.

  Eliza pushed aside her uneaten slice of cake.

  Although the bountiful fare at the outdoor luncheon was delicious, she’d found herself mostly picking at her food, using her fork to slide various offerings around on her plate in pretense of actually eating.

  Had she made the right choice? she pondered again, as she had done repeatedly over the course of the meal. Was her decision the best one for her future life, her future happiness?

  Her indecision was only compounded by her awareness of Kit. On some level, she was always aware of him whenever they were in proximity of each other. Yet today her senses were on the alert, catching his sharp, lazy-lidded gaze focused upon her more than once.

  She caught it again now, that gaze, as he lifted his wineglass to his lips and drank. She quivered, feeling the visual touch as acutely as if he had reached out and traced his fingertips slowly along the length of her spine.

  Stifling a sigh, she turned her face away so she could not see him anymore.

  She would not, could not, think of him that way again, she warned herself. Such intimacies were over and done with between them. They had to be, now that she had made her decision.

  Then suddenly that decision became all the more real, all the more fixed, as Viscount Brevard climbed to his feet. With a raised hand and a few effortlessly pitched words, the attention of the assembled guests turned his way. Radiating a comfortable, outgoing charm, he thanked their host and hostess for a lovely outing and a most memorable day. After a few more well-chosen words, he turned a smile upon Eliza.

  “My dear friends,” he said, “this day is special to me for another reason, one I hope you will all help me in celebrating. It is with great joy that I wish to make an announcement. This very afternoon, here in this idyllic setting, I asked Miss Eliza Hammond to be my wife. To my most profound relief, she agreed. Eliza?” Reaching down, Brevard pulled her to her feet, gasps and exclamations erupting into the air.

  Down the table, a thunk sounded as Kit’s glass toppled over, red wine flowing across the white linen like an obscene gush of blood.

  Eliza’s gaze collided with Kit’s. His jaw hung slack, an expression of profound shock marring his handsome features. But it was his eyes that stopped the breath in her lungs, his look one of puzzlement and, if she didn’t mistake, pain.

  Then she had no further time to consider what she had—or had not—seen, as well-wishers swarmed around her in a sea of congratulations.

  Violet caught her in a tight hug, releasing a cry of happiness and surprise, before alternately bombarding her with questions, and scolding her for not saying so much as a word about the viscount’s proposal.

  A long while later, the flurry of excitement died down enough for her to look for Kit.

  Moments after, she realized he was gone.

  Come with us to Newmarket.

  Kit’s friends had been urging him to join them at the race meeting for the past two weeks. Originally he’d been reluctant to agree, what with circumstances so unresolved with Eliza.

  Now he couldn’t wait to get away.

  “See to it these are carried down,” Kit’s valet, Cherry, instructed a footman, pointing to a large brown leather portmanteau and another small traveling case that sat near the door. The footman collected his burden and made his way out into the hallway.

  “If you need nothing further, my lord, I shall await you below.”

  Kit glanced at the other man. “Go on, Cherry. I’ll be along directly.”

  The servant nodded, gathered up a last couple of items of his own and exited the room.

  Kit checked the amount of money in his possession, then tucked his coin purse into his suit coat pocket. He added a small penknife and a silver brandy flask before crossing to pick up a copy of the latest racing news he planned to peruse on the journey north. Deciding he had everything he needed for his trip, he strode out into the corridor.

  Not expecting to encounter anyone this time of morning, he rounded the first corner at a brisk clip and nearly collided with Eliza.

  She let out a faint cry, obviously as startled as he, and took a stumbling step backward. Instinctively, he caught her, steadying her with a firm pair of hands on her upper arms. Becoming suddenly aware that he was holding her, and enjoying the sensation, he let her go, setting her away from him as if she carried the plague.

  “Kit. I didn’t see you.” Her voice sounded breathless, no doubt from her surprise.

  “Nor I you.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, an awkward silence between them.

  “Well, I had best be going.” Kit leaned down to retrieve the copy of the racing news he had dropped onto the floor.

  “Oh. Do you have an engagement?” she asked.

  He nodded brusquely. “Traveling up to Newmarket for a race meeting.”

  “Ah.”

  Another uncomfortable pause settled between them.

  He tried not to look directly at her but couldn’t help himself, tracing hungry eyes over her face. Drawing a quick breath, he immediately regretted the action, his body tightening as her familiar fragrance wound inside his head, sweet and intoxicating as apple blossoms
in the spring.

  Almost violently, he squeezed the pamphlet in his hand, fighting a battle of conflicting urges—half of him wanting to shake her for agreeing to marry another man, the other half wanting to yank her into his arms and kiss her senseless, kiss her until she begged for no one and nothing but him.

  He did neither, holding himself in check.

  “I never offered my best wishes on your upcoming nuptials,” he said, unsmiling.

  Her eyelashes fanned across her cheekbones. “No, you did not.”

  And I’m not going to either, by God, he growled to himself.

  Flattening a palm against the wall next to her head, he leaned close, effectively caging her with his much larger body. When he spoke, his voice registered barely above a whisper, sounding rough as gravel even to his own ears. “So? Does he know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About us? And more to the point, the fact that he won’t be getting a virgin bride.”

  She drew in a harsh breath, her gaze wide and deeply gray. Her shoulders stiffened. “Actually, he does know.”

  His brows arched. “Now I am shocked. How amazingly understanding of Brevard. He’s never struck me as the liberal sort. So he doesn’t mind sharing you with me, does he?”

  “He isn’t sharing me at all. And he doesn’t know it’s you, not specifically. I told him there was a man. I also told him the relationship between us is over.”

  A jagged pain lanced through his chest, a pain that made him want to strike back. “Over, is it? I wouldn’t be entirely certain of that. You may find after a few nights in his bed that you’d much rather be back in mine. If you ask nicely, I may decide to let you.”

  Before either of them knew what she meant to do, her hand flashed up, making solid contact with his cheek. The blow stung, but not as badly as the wound to his dignity, the damage to what remained of their old, comfortable friendship, tatters now of its former self.

  Nerves raw, he moved away, cursing himself for the punishing need that still roared inside his veins. Even now, he wanted her with a hunger he could barely control, and was helpless to deny.

  “I’m late and my carriage awaits me below.” He executed a curt bow. “Good day, Eliza.”

  Forcing himself not to look at her again, he strode away.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The last days of June arrived, each one warm and long and crammed full of activity. Word of Eliza’s engagement to Viscount Brevard spread quickly, like fire through an old-growth forest, an instant topic on everyone’s lips.

  As a result, Eliza had even less time to herself than before, deluged by a constant barrage of visits, inquiries and invitations from all manner of well-wishers and curiosity-seekers. Part of her took comfort in the frenzy since it helped keep her troubled thoughts and emotions at bay. Kept her from questioning her decision to marry Brevard. And more importantly, from dwelling on Kit, especially their last encounter with each other.

  Even now she couldn’t quite believe she’d slapped him. Until the moment her palm actually connected with his cheek, she hadn’t realized she was capable of such an action. But Kit seemed to draw the full range of emotions from her, from sweet tenderness to raging temper.

  How could he have said such things to her? Never before had she heard him be so scathing to anyone. For a second, it was as though he wanted to hurt her, as if she had injured him and he craved a measure of revenge at her expense.

  But why?

  Wounded pride, she supposed, his self-esteem pricked by her agreeing to marry another man so soon after his own proposal. She considered the glimpse of shock and pain she thought she’d seen in his eyes the day of the picnic, just after her engagement had been announced. Had the look been one of real distress? Surely if he did feel something more for her, he would have declared himself instead of saying such horrible things to her. Instead of making her cry.

  After their confrontation, she’d fled to her room and sobbed for an hour straight. The bout of tears left her nose stuffed, her eyes swollen and her head aching so fiercely she’d had no need to prevaricate to her maid, or to Violet, about feeling unwell.

  Later that evening, she had composed herself enough to attend the opera with Lance, telling herself over and over again that he would make her happy if only she would give him the chance.

  And in the days to follow, he had certainly tried. No woman could ask for a more attentive bridegroom. At every turn, he went out of his way to please her, seeing to her every comfort, surprising her with one gift after another.

  He’d begun first by presenting her with a magnificent diamond engagement ring, the stone so large and glittering, it drew envious comments from every woman who viewed it. And last night he’d given her a beautiful pearl and diamond bracelet to match. Ear bobs, he’d hinted, just might be next.

  She gazed down upon the gemstones now and sighed.

  At least the Season was nearly at an end. Soon Jeannette, Darragh and their family would return to Ireland, while she, Violet, Adrian and their children traveled to Winterlea. They would remain there for a month, then journey north to visit Lance and his sister in the Cotswolds, so she could become acquainted with her future home.

  The thought made her tremble. Quite frankly, she didn’t know if she was cut out to be a viscountess. Lance assured her she would do splendidly, leaving her to hope his prediction proved true.

  She took comfort in knowing he didn’t expect her to be a great hostess. Already he had assured her they could remain in the country much of the year, if that is what she preferred, saying that he loved the quiet, rural life.

  She was lucky to be marrying him, she told herself. Lance was a marvelous man and he loved her. If only she felt the same intense devotion for him. Guilt jabbed her with a nasty finger, then poked a second time when memories of Kit flooded into her mind.

  Closing her eyes, she fought to banish him from her traitorous thoughts.

  “Is everything all right?” Violet asked from her place next to Eliza on a bench in the Raeburn House garden. “That’s twice now that you’ve sighed.”

  “Is it?” Eliza murmured in consternation, watching the duke and his rambunctious sons playing on a nearby patch of green lawn. Adrian was giving the boys piggyback rides, much to their giggling delight.

  “Indeed it is,” Violet continued.

  “I am fine.”

  A small silence followed.

  “I wasn’t sure,” Violet said. “You have seemed…well, not always your usual, happy self lately.”

  “Have I not? Do not worry, I am only a touch weary of the heavy press of social rounds and obligations.”

  “Well, you have been running yourself ragged these past few weeks. Why don’t you stay in a little more. Adrian and I shan’t mind turning down a few invitations and having the occasional night at home, I assure you.”

  “I appreciate the suggestion, but I don’t want to disappoint Lance.”

  “Do you think he would be disappointed? We could invite him here to take dinner with the family. I do not believe he would object.”

  Eliza gave a genuine smile. “No, likely not. Yes, all right, but only for an evening or two.”

  Violet turned her eyes forward to watch her husband and children play. “And is everything well between you and Lance? You are glad of the engagement, are you not?”

  “Of course. Lance is everything a woman could want.”

  “And you love him, yes? I know that is what you wanted, to love and be loved in return. If you are not certain—”

  “Of course I am certain. I am very much in love.”

  Violet reached across and squeezed her hand. Eliza smiled and said nothing further to correct her friend’s mistaken assumption.

  She hadn’t lied, Eliza thought. She was in love. Just not with the man Violet imagined her to mean.

  Kit slumped in his chair before the fire.

  A few feet distant, his friends sat circled around a table in one of the inn’s two private parlors
, playing cards and drinking, the last of their dinner long since cleared away.

  Groans of defeat rose from three of the men, while a fourth crowed in victory as he scraped his winnings toward himself.

  Vickery grinned over at Kit. “Come play, Winter. We’re just about to begin a new game, and I could use fresh pickings.”

  Kit raised his glass of port in a silent salute, then waved the other man off. “I am content to remain here with my wine. Lost too much already at the races today.”

  Actually he hadn’t lost much at all, a pound or two in total, but he was in no mood tonight to indulge in cards. Lately he was in no mood for much of anything, and hadn’t been since he’d left London. He didn’t know how his friends tolerated him, he’d been in such a foul, black humor. When he’d arrived in Newmarket, he had hoped that convivial company, entertaining sport and a change of scenery would provide sufficient diversion to rid him of his impossible craving for Eliza.

  But it had not. If anything, his absence from her had only made his longing increase, made the terrible melancholy inside him grow deeper and darker. During the day, he tried to ignore his discontent, but at night such attempts became impossible as he tossed against the sheets in a torment of restless frustration, unable to escape thoughts of her even in his dreams.

  What was she doing tonight? he brooded. Out on the town no doubt with her fiancé. He tossed back his wine and set down the glass with a sharp snap that came close to breaking the stem.

  Engaged.

  He still couldn’t believe it, his mind even now shying away from the reality of that nightmarish day a little more than a week ago when he’d been slapped with the news.

  Why in the blazes had she done it? How could she have promised to marry Brevard when she had refused Kit only a couple weeks before?

  Well, if she preferred the viscount, so be it, he derided. The pair of them would probably bore each other to death with their incessant politeness and perfection, while he remained free to do as he chose without encumbrance or responsibility.