The Husband Trap (22 page)

Careful to cut only a few stems from each bush, she moved slowly along the row. She paused every now and then to brush her fingertips over a satiny petal or two, to breathe in an extra-deep draught of the intoxicating fragrance.

She was bent over a particularly magnificent specimen of palest pink, debating whether she should leave it untouched or clip it free of its stem, when Horatio let out a single, throaty woof.

She straightened and peered over her shoulder. Her brother-in-law stood a few feet away.

“Kit,” she said, “I didn’t hear you approach.”

“I tread on cats’ feet, or so I have been told.” He walked closer. “Sorry. It wasn’t my intention to startle you.”

“You did not.” She set her scissors in the basket, turned to face him. “At least not much. Did the vicar give you a few minutes’ break or have you come in search of a new sanctuary?”

“I have been released for the day, thank the stars. Vicar Dittlesby feared the storm might worsen, and decided to travel home early. I am to continue the last lesson on my own.” He rolled his eyes, then settled an intent look upon her. “Perhaps you could help me.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She raised surprised eyes to his own, a tiny laugh escaping her. There it was again, she thought. That look. A frisson of alarm tingled down her spine.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just desperate, that’s all.”

She relaxed fractionally. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. You seem…tense.”

“Do I?” He reached down, touched one of the blossoms that lay inside her basket. “I shouldn’t think why. Roses, hmm?”

“Yes. I am planning an arrangement for the family drawing room. I thought these would be cheerfully fragrant.”

“Undoubtedly so. Rose is your middle name, is it not?”

She frowned for an instant before forcibly clearing her brow.

“Yes. Jeannette Rose.”

“Roses are lovely, are they not?” he continued. “Such luxurious flowers, so soft and sweet-looking yet plagued with thorns. A cunning bloom, dangerous to the unwary.”

A horrible dread raced through her. He couldn’t know, could he? It wasn’t possible.

“They’re not like other flowers,” he mused. “Take the violet, for example. An equally attractive flower in its own way, just as soft, just as sweet, yet curiously benign.”

He trapped her in his gaze. “So which one are you? A rose or a violet?”

Her eyes popped wide before she could prevent the reaction, her heart fluttering like an erratic little bird trapped in a cage.

“What silliness are you spouting?” She turned away to dismiss him.

He stopped her, grabbed hold of the basket handle still hooked over her arm. “Don’t bother with the charade. I know who you are.” He leaned in close.
“Violet.”

She made one final attempt to keep her deception alive. She laughed, a trilling noise that spilled upward into the rafters. “You think I am my sister? How remarkable. No doubt Violet will be exceptionally diverted when I write to tell her. The story will give her and Great-aunt Agatha a hearty chuckle.”

A glimmer of doubt seeped into his gaze. Then as abruptly as it had appeared, it vanished. “Good try, but I’m not buying. I found your book. The one written in Latin that you have hidden beneath the seat cushion of your chair in the study.”

“What book?” she prevaricated. “I know nothing about any book. I don’t even like to read.”

“Yes you do.
And
you know
Latin.
I heard you speaking it. You recited my lesson with me yesterday. You got the answers right too. All of them,” he added, sounding affronted at the notion.

Heard her?
Panic snatched at her throat like a suffocating hand. She remembered mumbling a word or two under her breath in the drawing room, but certainly nothing loud enough to be overheard. She supposed the impulse had come from her years of reciting Latin declensions aloud in order to memorize them. My God, how could she have been so stupidly careless?

“I have excellent hearing,” he said as if he could read her thoughts. “Everyone in the family knows that. I’ve been accused on many occasions of being part basset hound. Great ears, sharp nose. But then, you are new to the family, are you not? How new? That’s what I want to know. When did you and the real Jeannette switch places? How long has this ruse been going on? More to the point, why did you do it? Tell me. I want some answers.”

She crumpled under his inquisition, shoulders slumping. The basket of flowers tumbled to the floor, metal scissors ringing as they struck the flagstones. “Please, you don’t understand.”

“On the contrary, I believe I understand quite well. Now, let’s hear some truth.”

Horatio sprang to his feet, positioned himself in front of her. Tense, he pressed his large dappled body against her skirts.

She laid a calming hand on the dog’s head.

Kit flicked a downward glance at her canine champion. “It’s all right, boy,” he said in a soothing voice. “Everything’s fine.”

Horatio relaxed but did not lower his guard.

“I won’t be put off by him, you know.”

She debated how to handle the situation. “I know. Let me take him to Robert, then I will return and we can talk.”

He nodded his assent.

Wanting to run and keep on running, Violet forced herself to stroll from the room. Back erect, she out-wardly displayed none of the turmoil battering her system like a gale-force wind.

She located Robert within minutes, asked him to take Horatio for a walk. The dog resisted at first, whimpering, unwilling to be parted from her. She stroked him, long reassuring pats that made his muscles quiver with obvious delight. Soon he quieted, let Robert, his frequent companion, lead him outside.

She turned back, walking with the enthusiasm of a prisoner facing the gallows.

Kit had righted the overturned basket, neatly stacked the cut flowers back inside. She spared them barely a glance, her gaze flying straight to her brother-in-law.

“Would you rather sit or stand?” he asked. “There is a bench not far from here.”

She trembled. “Sit, I believe.” She feared her legs might not support her much longer.

And so they sat, beneath a graceful arch covered over in jasmine, the scent light and airy as a cloud. A full minute passed before she spoke. “She would not marry him.”

“What?”

“Jeannette,” she said, her voice low. “The morning of the wedding. She would not marry Adrian. She confided in me, only me, at the last minute. I could not persuade her otherwise. She was determined in her course, despite the scandal it would bring down upon my family and yours.”

“So your solution was to switch places? Dupe Adrian with a false bride?”

“It wasn’t planned, it just sort of happened. There was no time to really think anything through, and in that moment trading places seemed the lesser of two evils.”

“With scant consideration for the wishes or feelings of my brother.”

She flushed, threaded her fingers together in her lap. “Are you going to tell him?” Her words were strangled, moisture stinging at the back of her eyelids.

“Give me one good reason why I should not.”

“Because I love him, if that makes any difference.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Whatever wrong I may have committed, it was never my intention to hurt Adrian. I’ve done my best to be a good wife. So far he hasn’t seemed to object.”

Kit met her earnest gaze, heard the truth of her words. From all appearances, she was right.

Just the other evening he had watched the two of them as they sat side by side on the sofa. He and Adrian had been discussing something ordinary—horses, he thought—while Jeannette…that is, Violet…listened as she sipped a cup of tea. When she set the beverage aside moments later, Adrian had gathered her hand into his. He’d stroked his thumb back and forth across the top of her skin in a lazy, absent glide. Apparently not even aware of what he was doing, as if his need to touch her was instinctual, visceral.

Kit remembered other instances. Casual glances. Brief touches and small gestures that spoke volumes about the success of his brother’s marriage. Adrian seemed happy in a way he had never been before. Adrian had even remarked to Kit one afternoon that he found life with his new bride unexpectedly pleasurable and to his relief nothing at all like their own parents’ less than satisfactory union. Did Kit have the right to disrupt that harmony simply because he had discovered a startling truth about the bride?

“He is living a lie,” he argued, as much to himself as to her. “He’ll have to know sometime.”

“Will he? It’s gone too far for regrets.”

“So you are willing to live as another woman for the rest of your life?”

“If I must, yes. If that is what is required to keep both of our families from ruin. The shame of it could not be borne.” Her ocean-colored eyes beseeched him. “She does not love him, Kit. She never did. But I do. Please, I beg of you, do not give my secret away.”

“He may yet figure out your ruse all on his own. Adrian is no pea brain, you realize.”

“I know. It’s a chance I have to take.”

He leaned forward, dangled his clasped hands between his knees as he weighed his choices. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Will you take tonight at least? Say nothing until you have had a chance to think things through? What can a few more hours hurt?”

She looked desperate, features taut, her beautiful face more vulnerable than he had ever thought to see it.

He sighed. “All right. For tonight, then, you are still Jeannette. As to the future, we’ll see. But I want it understood, here and now, that I will not lie to him for you if he should ever ask. If he questions me directly about your identity, I shall tell him the truth.”

She nodded. “I understand. Why don’t you meet me tomorrow at the folly. Say, ten o’clock. He’ll be out inspecting the repairs made to the Oxleys’ farm. He mentioned it to me this morning.”

Kit frowned, uncomfortable with such skullduggery. “Very well. Tomorrow at ten.”

Silence fell between them. What more was there to say? For now at least.

Kit departed, the echo of his footsteps ringing quietly behind him.

For a very long time afterward, Violet remained seated. She hung her head and let a pair of tears trace over her cheeks, desolation filling her heart.

Chapter Thirteen

The remainder of the afternoon and evening proved to be a tortuous ordeal.

She could scarcely bear to look at Kit, yet knew she had to behave as if nothing was wrong. As if he did not hold her world in his hands. As if he did not have the power to shatter that world utterly with only a few simple words come the morrow.

At dinner, she tried to eat, but each bite stuck in her throat, threatening to choke her. She tried to smile and converse. Her best efforts fell flat, sounding leaden even to her own ears. When Adrian expressed concern, she pleaded a headache and begged to be excused.

The brothers stood as she exited the room.

Once she reached her bedroom, she could not relax, pacing from one end of the spacious chamber to the other. Agnes arrived, alerted to Violet’s condition by Adrian. Her maid bore a compress soaked in lavender water for her head and a glass of warm milk to help her rest.

She allowed herself to be cosseted even though it was the last thing she desired. Once Violet was changed into her nightgown, tucked between the sheets, Agnes finally departed. As soon as she did, Violet swung back out of bed, too overwrought to sleep.

She wrung her hands as she set to pacing once more.

She heard Adrian enter the adjoining bedchamber, the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to his valet.

Would this be her last night with him?

The thought nearly stopped her heart, so unbearable the idea. If Kit told him the truth, would Adrian turn away from her? She very much feared he would.

Perhaps she should simply tell him herself. Confess all, then throw herself at his feet and beg him to forgive her. Beg him not to cast her aside. Beg him to keep her as his wife.

She knew Kit was right. Adrian deserved to know the truth. But at what cost? She hugged her arms around herself.

Before she could give herself a second more to think, she yanked on her robe, strode across the room and pulled open the connecting door to his suite.

Adrian and his valet turned at her abrupt entrance.

In the course of their marriage, this was the first time she had come into Adrian’s bedroom without prior invitation. She drew her robe closer around her body, suddenly self-conscious.

“My dear, is something amiss?” Adrian stood clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers, stockings on his feet. His discarded cravat and shoes dangled in his valet’s grasp. The older man inclined his head in a respectful nod, then exercised discretion and moved away.

Her heart rabbited in her chest, her mouth turning dry as stale toast. Whatever words she had been planning to speak evaporated from her mind.

Adrian walked forward, drew her farther into the room. “How is your headache? I was going to come check on you once I had changed my clothing.”