The Husband Trap (31 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Violet dressed for the Carters’ ball. She wished she could beg off the engagement tonight and stay home. But the entertainment was being thrown in her honor—hers and Adrian’s—so there was no escape.

Agnes slipped a beautiful gown of emerald satin with an overskirt of white-dotted Swiss gauze over Violet’s head. The dress was low-cut and off-the-shoulder for evening, and it was a simple task to fasten the gown into place. Then it was on to her hair.

She sat at her dressing table, let her maid brush and arrange her long tresses into place. She stared at her own reflection in the mirror, studied her eyes and wondered if anyone else could see the unhappiness brimming within them.

Something was dreadfully amiss with Adrian.

Ever since his return from Winterlea last week, he’d been withdrawn. Abrupt, taciturn, humorless. She couldn’t imagine what might have happened at the estate to overset him in such a way. She’d even questioned the servants—discreetly, of course—including Wilcox, his valet. Yet none of them was able to provide so much as a clue.

After his ghastly first morning back, she’d been reluctant to question Adrian directly. Finally, she’d gathered her nerve and asked him why he was so troubled.

Eyes cold, he denied any such condition, rebuffing her and her inquiries. Wounded, she hadn’t asked again.

Neither had she asked why he no longer came to her bed. They hadn’t slept together or made love since he’d left for Winterlea. She feared to hear his reason.

He’d changed toward Kit as well. For reasons no one could fathom, Adrian had taken to baiting his brother, often over the most insignificant of matters.

Last night at dinner, he’d torn into Kit over his so-called gluttony when the younger man helped himself to a second serving of trifle for dessert. Kit always ate seconds. His
not
doing so would have been more likely to elicit a comment. So Adrian’s unexpected attack startled everyone, even the footmen on duty that evening, who’d watched in wide-eyed astonishment.

And two days prior, Adrian had lashed out at him over the purchase of a new waistcoat. How many striped waistcoats did one man need? he’d demanded in a scathing tone. Did Kit ever stop to consider the cost of such items? Surely he had better uses for his allowance than that. No wonder he was always so badly dipped, a hairsbreath from punting in the River Tick.

Kit’s cheeks had flushed scarlet as he stood beneath the storm of Adrian’s verbal castigation. She’d feared they might come to blows. Especially when Adrian impugned Kit’s virility by asking if he was turning into a man milliner, an effeminate sort who thought of nothing but his looks and the attractiveness of his wardrobe.

With Adrian’s sable brown eyes ablaze, his jaw fixed in a pugnacious tilt, she had gotten the distinct impression in that moment that Adrian
wanted
Kit to hit him. That he was inciting his brother to violence so he might have a chance to pummel him back. But why? It made no sense.

“Your Grace, would you like to wear your new necklace? The one his Grace gave you?” Agnes inquired, interrupting her musings.

She looked at the reflection of Agnes standing behind her in the mirror.

“Ooh, isn’t it lovely?” The maid held up the exquisite piece. “It will be a perfect accent to your gown.”

She stared at the necklace, reluctant to put it on. She’d loved it so at first. But Adrian’s curt, impersonal explanation for its purchase had dampened her pleasure like a faceful of icy water. Perhaps it might placate him in some small way if she wore his gift tonight. Perhaps he might feel pride in seeing the newest of the family jewels gracing her neck. Maybe it would bring a small glint of pleasure back into his eyes. Eyes that no longer seemed to shine, at least not for her.

She nodded permission, the stones cool against her throat as they were fastened into place. She studied her reflection one final time and knew, without vanity, that she looked resplendent, every inch the Duchess of Raeburn. Silently, she prayed Adrian would find her beautiful, desirable.

Waiting in the foyer, he spared her barely a glance before assisting her into her cloak, his touch as impersonal as a servant’s. Not by so much as an eyelash did she betray the aching disappointment that sliced through her like a blade. Head held high, she preceded him out to the carriage.

The trip to the Carters’ was made in silence. Kit wasn’t along to break the oppressive gloom, had he even been inclined to try. He’d accepted a dinner invitation with friends and planned to join her and Adrian at the ball later in the evening.

Adrian led her out for the first dance. She fixed a smile on her face, pretended all was well. Inside she wanted to weep. They spoke of trivialities, less intimate than strangers. Each step became a misery, each touch an exquisite torture.

She was losing him, she thought, and she didn’t even know why. Worse, she didn’t know what she could do to stop it.

When the song ended, she and Adrian parted, their duty done.

Lord Hamilton solicited her hand for the next dance. She placed her palm in his and let him lead the way.

She sat sipping a cup of negus, the evening nearly half over, when Eliza Hammond stole up next to her, quiet as a whisper.

“Pardon the intrusion, your Grace.” Eliza curtseyed in a respectful greeting.

Violet inclined her head in reply.

“When last we spoke,” Eliza continued, obviously reticent, “you said if I wrote to your sister, you would be willing to forward my letters on to her.”

She set down her drink. “Yes, I did.”

Eliza extended a thick piece of folded parchment.
Violet Brantford
was written in an efficient hand across the front.

She took the letter. “I’ll see she receives this.”

A smile spread across the other woman’s face. “Thank you, your Grace. You’re most kind.” Then she vanished, winging away like some quiet brown sparrow.

Violet wanted to call her back, find a comfortable corner where they could talk and share confidences as they used to do. When Eliza relaxed, her reticence fell away, her conversation as entertaining and animated as the most lively wit. And Eliza knew how to listen, able to jolly away the blue-devils with a sympathetic ear and a well-needed dose of optimistic encouragement. If only people would take the time to look beneath the surface, they would see, as she did, what a wonderful person and loyal friend Eliza was. And right now, Violet was dearly in need of a friend. But Eliza couldn’t help her. No one could help her.

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 favor 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 bloodred 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-colored lace.