The Husband Trap (2 page)

Then suddenly it was over. He straightened and tucked her arm in the crook of his own to lead her back down the aisle.

“Smile, my dear,” Adrian said for her ears only. “You look pale as death. Although that kiss seems to have put a touch of color back in your cheeks.”

At his mention of the kiss, her blush deepened. Because he had asked, she planted a beatific smile upon her lips and beamed at the blurry mass of guests as they walked past.
Look happy,
she told herself.
Look like Jeannette.
She playacted and did her best to keep from shivering.

She kept pace as they retraced their steps down the long quire, past additional rows of smiling guests seated in the carved dark oak pews, before stepping into a crowd of well-wishers gathered in the cathedral’s wide, domed transept.

Adrian kept her close at his side. She clung gratefully to his supporting arm and did her best to smile and chat instead of withdrawing into shy silence the way she longed to do.

Thankfully they were soon interrupted. One of the Archbishop’s assistants appeared, drawing her and Adrian aside after a few murmured words to the duke. Words she wasn’t able to overhear. Violet said nothing as the man led them into the quiet privacy of a nearby chamber, turning to inform them with grave politeness that the Archbishop would wait upon them directly.

Then he closed the door, leaving her and Adrian alone.

She shot a quick glance at her new husband from beneath her lashes, checking to see if his demeanor might hint at why they were here. He didn’t look angry or upset. Although he was good at shielding his thoughts when he wished. She had come to understand him well enough over the past few months to know that much.

Had he guessed the truth? Had the Archbishop? Is that why the pair of them had been escorted here to await the clergyman? Because he knew? Because they all knew?

Legs weak, palms damp with perspiration, she sank down onto a nearby chair. One of two positioned in front of a massive walnut desk that had angels carved across the frontpiece and sides, cherubs along the legs. She could barely make out the fine detail, her close-up vision not much better than an indistinct blur without her spectacles.

Under other circumstances—and had she been allowed the use of her eyeglasses—she would have bent down to study the magnificent desk. But she’d had to forfeit her spectacles to her twin that morning. Jeannette, of course, had no need for the corrective lenses, her vision utterly perfect.

But without her glasses Violet could not fully appreciate the glorious furniture—a pity, considering her love of art. Painting, sculpture, architecture—she took pleasure in all things of beauty and creative distinction. The arts, music and literature were, she believed, some of the few things that truly lifted man above himself into the realm of the heavens.

At this moment, though, she had other more important concerns to attend to. Such as not being found out.

“La,” she declared in her best imitation of her sister, “’tis frightful warm, I must say.”

“That likelihood was broached, as I recall, when the wedding plans were discussed,” Adrian replied. “You are the one who decided to hold the ceremony in mid-July.”

Insisted, more like. Violet remembered the incident and the hand-wringing it had caused the household, especially her mother. Any woman could be a June bride, Jeannette had declared, but only a woman of true distinction could persuade the members of the Ton to stay in London for two whole weeks after the end of the Season. Her wedding would be memorable, Jeannette promised. The most spectacular event held since the last royal wedding.

Adrian poured two small glasses of red wine from a crystal decanter on the side table, extending the first one to her. “Here, my dear, you appear as though you could use this.” After she accepted, he took a drink of his own wine. “Are you all right?” he asked in a casual tone.

“In what way?”

“You looked near ready to pass out for a few moments during the ceremony. I could literally feel you shaking in your shoes.”

Her mind raced, scrambling for a response. She decided to use one as close to the truth as possible. “Bridal nerves, if you must know. I’ve been feeling a bit peaked all morning. Couldn’t eat, hardly closed my eyes last night. But I am nearly recovered now.” She gave him a small, reassuring smile.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear it is nothing more serious than that. When you were so late arriving today I thought perhaps you had changed your mind.”

She swallowed hastily, nearly sputtering on the small sip of wine she had just taken. Had he guessed about Jeannette’s change of heart? Adrian was far more observant than her sister gave him credit for. The very reason she herself had had such doubts about the success of this insane plan.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, faintly breathless.

“I mean I wondered if you were about to desert me at the altar.”

Now what was she supposed to say? Battling down a bubble of panic, she went with her instincts, tossed her head back and laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Of course I wasn’t about to desert you. Whyever would I want to do that?”

He drank another swallow of wine, obviously not yet convinced.

“It was my hair,” she continued gamely.

“Your hair?”

“Yes. Jacobs—she is my dresser, you know—well, she could not get the style right. It took her simply hours, but I had to wait until my coiffure was perfect. I couldn’t appear at my own wedding looking less than my best, now could I?”

He met her eyes for a long moment while she held her breath and awaited his response.

Abruptly he relaxed, smiled as humor shone in his gaze. “No, of course you could not, and your efforts were well worth the wait. You look beautiful. You are beautiful.” He stepped close, lifted her hand into his own. “The most beautiful bride any man could have.” He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist against the delicate blue veins that traced just beneath her skin. She trembled, this time from something that had nothing to do with nerves.

The door opened and the Archbishop strode in, his vestments flapping around his ankles. “I apologize for keeping your Graces waiting. I know you must be anxious to proceed on with this very special of days. I have the marriage register just in the adjoining room. You have only to sign, then our business here will be happily concluded.”

Marriage register? Violet realized both she and Adrian would have to sign the book to make their union official.
Oh, dear.
Well, she would have to forge Jeannette’s name, that was all.

Yet when it was her turn to step up to the register, Adrian having inscribed his name first, she hesitated. To begin with, the heavy vellum page before her was a great muddled blur. She could barely make out what he had written on the line next to the one she was supposed to use. Now more than ever she bemoaned the loss of her spectacles.

As she prepared to sign her sister’s name, an uncomfortable thought occurred to her. Legally, if she wrote down her twin’s name, wouldn’t it mean Adrian was really married to Jeannette? Even if she, Violet, was the one who’d actually gone through with the ceremony? Oh, Lord, she had no idea. She wasn’t a solicitor.

Suddenly, forcefully, she was loath to give up the one last remaining trace of her own identity. Even if it might be a foolhardy risk.

Only a single letter separated her first name from her twin’s. A simple
e
that gave the pronunciation of Jeannette’s name an elegant French twist, and left her own sounding oh so plain and boringly English. Maybe if she made a messy scrawl of her first name and omitted her middle name entirely, the signature would pass muster. Assuming, of course, she could squint hard enough to see where she needed to place her pen.

She wished she could plead illiteracy and simply mark an X in the spot. But sadly, not even Jeannette—her less than scholarly sister—was that ignorant.

Knowing she dare not dally a moment longer, she bent to the task and scribbled her given name,
Jannette Brantford,
across the page. She wondered wistfully if it would be the last time she would ever be able to do so again.

“All finished, your Grace?”

She whirled. “Yes, yes, quite finished,” she said, trying to act as if the Archbishop and his innocent question hadn’t scared her near to death.

She waited, heart kicking like a hammer against an anvil, to see if he would read her signature, if he would notice the discrepancy. But after no more than a cursory glance, he dusted the vellum with a few fine grains of sand to dry the ink, brushed them away and closed the book.

“Allow me to be one of the first to offer my heartfelt wishes for your future happiness, your Grace,” the clergyman told her with a smile, taking her hands in his own. “May your life and his Grace’s be blessed.”

There it was again.

Your Grace.

How odd that sounded. How frightening. What did she know about being a duchess? How was she ever to cope? Why had she gone along with Jeannette’s impulsive scheme? Heaven knows, their hoax would lead to nothing but disaster.

Then she looked up at Adrian, where he waited a few feet away, and remembered why.

God help her, but she loved him.
May he never find out who she truly was.

Chapter Two

The remainder of the morning and the long afternoon to follow passed by in an unreal haze. Some moments slow, other perilously fast as she waited, with every hand she pressed, every smile she exchanged, every murmured word of thanks, for someone to realize exactly who she was.

But they didn’t.

And the longer they didn’t the better able she was to portray her chosen role.

As children, she and Jeannette used to switch places occasionally. Despite their innate personality differences, the game of pretend had come easily to them both. Emboldened, adventurous, they’d tried out their tricks on their parents, their governess, the servants, even their friends, managing to fool them all. Afterward, they’d sit together in the nursery, arms clasped around their updrawn knees as they giggled and grinned at their prank.

Thinking back to those nearly forgotten times, she resurrected the old skills, the old bluffs, different now since she and Jeannette were no longer children, yet somehow comfortably, strangely the same.

Still, she quaked and quivered inside as she struggled to project an aura of elegant vivaciousness the way she knew her twin would have done. Smiling and chatting, she traded kisses and compliments with literally hundreds of people as the day wore on. Luckily, as the bride she was able to flit from group to group like a majestic butterfly, pausing only long enough to acknowledge them before winging away to the safety of a fresh location.

Her worst moment came when Jeannette’s best friend, Christabel Morgan, caught up to her in between conversations, pulling her aside for a quick, private coze. Flirty and fashionable, Christabel was a Ton favorite, earning high marks for her famous wit and rapier tongue. As Violet knew, Christabel could be generous and kind, even sweet. But only if she liked you and deemed you worthy of her regard. Unfortunately, Christabel did not approve of young women like Violet who enjoyed scholarship and learning. Such matters Christabel maintained, were the rightful province of men. Parties and fashion, shopping and feminine fun—that was the proper milieu of a lady.

So what acute irony, Violet thought, to be included in a bit of intimate girl talk with the illustrious Miss Morgan.

If only Christabel knew the truth!

“Oooh,” the girl squealed, linking their arms together as she maneuvered the two of them into semi-seclusion next to a leafy potted palm. “I am simply dripping with envy. How ecstatic you must be. Wife of the handsomest man in the entire country, and a duchess besides. And you look so beautiful today, have I told you that already? I suppose I shall have to address you as ‘your Grace’ from now on. How terribly droll.”

Staring at her sister’s friend, Violet fought the urge to pull her arm free. She lifted her chin in a perfect imitation of Jeannette, raised a single eyebrow. “Of course you shall refer to me as ‘your Grace,’ but only when we are out in Society.” She smiled widely to soften the impact of her haughty statement.

Christabel smiled back, having obviously expected no other response.

“Would you look at that,” Christabel remarked, inclining her head toward a tall, pale walking stick of a man across the room.

Violet recognized him instantly even without her spectacles.

Ferdy Micklestone, a notorious man milliner, known as much for his frequent calamitous accidents as he was for the temple-high shirt points he insisted upon wearing. Today was no different, his collar rising a full eight inches, giving him the look of a racehorse done up in blinders.

“Oh, he’s spilled punch on Lord Chumley,” Christabel gasped. “Quite ruined his suit, I should imagine.”

Violet watched Ferdy brush frantically at the offending stain on the other man’s shirtfront. Plainly disgusted, the older gentleman—a distinguished member of Parliament—brushed Ferdy’s hands away, made some cutting remark, then stalked off. Ferdy turned bright as a ripe pomegranate, his head sunk so low that his chin vanished beneath his cravat.