The Husband Trap (39 page)

Ceremony concluded, the three of them returned to Raeburn House in London for a quiet, celebratory dinner.

Afterward, Kit said his farewells and set out for Oxford.

Hours later, Violet lay in Adrian’s wide bed, flushed and radiant from lovemaking. Mentally, she reviewed the events of the past few days. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

He linked their fingers together, entwined hands cradled upon her belly. “About what?”

“Keeping my identity secret. Having me continue to pretend to be my sister.”

He shifted slightly, angling his head to see her face. “It’s what you wanted. Have you changed your mind?”

She remembered how firm her resolve had been only two days past. She’d argued her case to Adrian in favor of continuing the charade. He’d argued back. Willing, even eager, to let the truth be known to the world. She was his wife, he told her, his rightful duchess. Everyone from family to friends to casual acquaintances should know it.

But she had urged silence, fearful of the dreadful scandal the admission was sure to cause. She and Adrian had, after all, been living in sin all these months, even if they hadn’t known it at the time. Even if they were now legally husband and wife.

For herself, she didn’t care what other people thought. She could live out her days quite happily at Winterlea with her husband and her books and the children she hoped to have one day. Even if Society did its worst and shunned her as punishment for the impropriety of her actions, for having made fools of them all. Her true friends, like Eliza, would forgive her. At least they would once they got over the initial shock.

But there were other people’s feelings to consider. People who would be affected by what she had done, whether they wished to be or not.

Her parents would be shocked, mortified. Likely, her mother would retreat to her rooms for a month or more. Her father, of course, would spend all his time riding and hunting—his two favorite pursuits—scarcely affected by the uproar to all outward appearances. But in the end, the damage would be done. Quite probably, many of their most influential friends would drop them. And trips to London, excursions that had once been so pleasant, would become an ordeal neither would be willing to endure.

Darrin, she suspected, would laugh off the entire misadventure. Then resume his usual profligate activities with newfound gusto, dusting up several minor scandals of his own.

And Jeannette…well, Jeannette would emerge battered but unbowed.

Then there was Adrian.

Although she had refrained from voicing her fears to him, knowing he would brush them aside, she worried most of all for him. By some blessed miracle, he had forgiven her.

Others might not be so kind.

Through her actions, she had cast a stain upon his name, his reputation. And despite his solid standing with the Ton, there were those who might choose to disassociate themselves from him.

Adrian would argue he cared nothing for such people, self-righteous, moralistic hypocrites every one. Yet if he hoped someday to pursue high political office, as his mother predicted, Violet ached to think she might be the sole cause of his failure.

So, to save them all a world of embarrassment and shame, she had convinced Adrian to stay silent, to keep their secret.

She rolled, leaned up to brace her forearms against his chest. “I haven’t changed my mind. I know there may be difficulties. But I think it’s best, for everyone, if we say nothing.”

“What about your sister? What if she should wish to wed? What then?”

“Then she’ll have to tell the man. Together they’ll have to decide what is best.”

He huffed out a breath. “I still think we should admit the truth, even if it would upset a great many people. But since you’re so opposed, I’ll agree to continue the masquerade. But only when we’re in Society. Here at home, you are to be yourself, fully yourself, is that understood?”

“Yes, your Grace, fully understood.”

He brought his palm down across her bare bottom in a light, playful swat. “Don’t be smart.”

She laughed. “But I’m always smart, or hadn’t you noticed?”

There were half a dozen books in three different languages scattered around the room, left on various tables and chairs. Since her return a few days before, she’d openly taken to reading again, though lately she hadn’t had much time.

She leaned over, lifted her spectacles off the nightstand, slipped them onto her face. “There, I am being myself.” She threw a leg over his hips, straddled him. “What do you think?”

His eyes heated to a deep, melted brown, swept up and down her naked form in obvious appreciation and undisguised lust. “I think those glasses have a hidden appeal I’ve never entirely appreciated before.”

He smoothed his palms up over her thighs, then wrapped them around her hips to reposition her in a way that forced a moan from between her lips.

“Let’s leave them on,” he murmured as he fastened his mouth to her breast, “while we explore the issue in greater depth.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Winter melted into spring. Tender green shoots thrusting from the dark, moist earth to blossom and thrive, spreading color and life onto every square inch of land. Animals shed their heavy coats for cooler, lighter ones. Birds sang joyous songs to welcome in the warmer days.

At Winterlea, the estate bustled from dawn to dusk. Gardeners and undergardeners tended the grounds, caring for old trees and young spring plants alike. Carpenters, painters and masons covered the great house like an industrious team of ants, making various small repairs to keep the property in its usual tip-top condition. While, inside, Mrs. Litton commanded the staff, sending them forth like a small army to do a thorough spring cleaning for the upcoming festivities.

In only four days’ time, guests would begin to arrive for the house party Violet was throwing. Invitations had been sent out to neighbors, family and a few dozen close friends—most of whom would be in attendance only for the spectacular ball taking place on the final night. The celebration was being held in honor of Adrian’s thirty-third birthday, and would mark Violet’s very first solo foray into formal entertaining.

She listened now to the murmur and bustle of housemaids as she passed near the main ballroom. Several maids were down on hands and knees scrubbing and polishing the intricate parquet floors. While others unhooked the heavy midnight blue velvet draperies, carrying them outside into the fresh air to beat them free of dust.

She couldn’t deny a certain jittery fluttering every time she thought about the coming event. But hosting such an ambitious undertaking had been her idea.

All her idea.

When she’d broached the notion to Adrian, he’d urged her in a gentle voice to wait a few months. Begin with a small party at summer’s end, he’d said. When the gentlemen could shoot, and the ladies might amuse themselves out-of-doors, dabbling at watercolor painting or practicing their archery.

But Jeannette would already have hosted one party by now, if not more. And although she was under no pressure to do the same, Violet wanted to prove she could—to Adrian and to herself.

He said he didn’t care about entertaining, and she believed him. But she was his duchess, and being the Duchess of Raeburn came with certain social duties and obligations. She needed to live up to those responsibilities. Particularly now that he knew who she really was. She never wanted to give him reason to regret his choice. Above all, she wanted to make him proud.

And there was one more reason as well.

If what she suspected was true, she might not feel like hosting a party in late summer. If what she hoped was true, she would, by that time, be growing round with Adrian’s child.

She put a hand to her belly, wondering, dreaming. She’d missed her flow at the end of last month and was now almost three weeks late. Always in the past, it had come quite regularly, like clockwork. If she went another week, it would be twice missed and she would know for certain.

Only then would she tell Adrian.

Of course, she was dying to tell him now. But if it turned out to be a false alarm, she didn’t want to disappoint him by having to say there was no baby, after all. Besides, she’d decided the news would make a wonderful birthday present. If everything went as hoped, she planned to share her glad tidings with him the final night of the ball.

She hugged the knowledge to herself. Her thoughts drifting away into daydreams as they were wont to do these days, a silly grin lighting her face.

A half hour later, just as she and François were finishing their final review of the menus, a knock sounded on her study door.

She lifted her gaze toward March, who waited in the open doorway.

“Visitors have arrived, your Grace. Your family is here.”

“Dearest, it’s so wonderful to see you,” her mother declared, enfolding her in a warm, gardenia-scented hug.

March had put them in the family salon upstairs, all four of them: her parents, Darrin, who stood by the window wearing his usual expression of boredom, and Jeannette—or rather, “Violet”—whose appearance came as a small shock.

Fashionably dressed, though still more conservatively garbed than the real Jeannette would ever have chosen for herself, her twin looked distinctly unhappy. Subdued, mouth turned downward at the corners, her eyes dull and sullen, half-hidden behind the square-cut spectacles perched on her nose.

And that came as the most surprising sight of all. Jeannette was still wearing “Violet’s” glasses.

Violet returned her mother’s embrace for a long moment, then pulled away. “It’s good to see you too. Adrian and I weren’t expecting you for a few more days.”

The countess moved to take a seat on the wide sofa. “Well, that was our original plan, but it’s done nothing but rain in London for the past week. So we decided to come up early and surprise you. Are you surprised?”

“Yes, very. But pleasantly so. Let me ring for tea and have your rooms prepared. You must be tired from your journey.” She crossed to the bellpull.

“Fair number of ruts in the road,” her father complained from where he sat sprawled in one of the wing chairs. “Must remember to have a word with Raeburn about that. Can’t have people’s coaches rattling apart on the way to and fro.”

“As you say, it has been a wet spring.” She knew firsthand that Adrian kept his own road in excellent condition. He’d had teams of men out only a few days past filling holes in the driveway with dirt, sand and rocks. She decided not to remark that Adrian had no control over the main roads, since she knew her father would only scowl and grow more irritable. He got that way when he was hungry.

“How is London?” she inquired as she took a chair across from the sofa. “I’ve been quite anxious for news of all the goings-on.”

Jeannette moved silently into place beside their mother. Darrin maintained his stance at the window, brooding outward.

“The Season’s been off to a slow start this year, though I can’t say why,” her mother began. “Hilary Asquith’s chit is out. Whey-faced girl, shouldn’t think she’ll take at all. And the DeBrett child. Good complexion, tolerable eyes, but that voice. Lord, when she laughs it sends shudders down your spine. If her mother is wise, she’ll advise her to keep her mouth shut until she finds a good match.”

“And Italy. You haven’t told me about all your grand adventures, Violet.”

“Violet” looked up, an odd glint sparking in her gaze. “Italy was very pleasant. Aunt Agatha sends her regards.”

And that was all.

What had happened in Italy? she wondered. Jeannette’s first few letters from the Continent had been glowing. Then Toddy Markham had learned the truth, left for the Continent. There’d been no letters since. Had it gone badly between them? Was that the reason for Jeannette’s less than sunny demeanor?

The countess patted Jeannette’s hand. “I have great hopes for our Violet this year. Several gentlemen have seemed quite taken with her. And she’s finally decided to show some interest in her wardrobe. Isn’t this color most becoming?” Their mother nodded toward the peach-and-white-spotted India muslin Jeannette wore.

“Exquisite.” She forced a further show of interest. “What modiste did you employ?”

“Lord save me from all this feminine folderol,” her father cursed, scowling. “Where is that husband of yours?”

“Adrian rode out this morning with his estate agent, Papa. To inspect some tenant properties, I understand. He said he would try to return in time for tea, which I believe has just arrived.”

A pair of maids entered the room, bearing two heavy silver trays stacked with refreshments.

“About time,” the earl grumbled, perking up at the sight of food.

Darrin wandered over to take a plate.

Jeannette accepted a cup of tea and a single wafer-thin slice of Westphalia ham on a tiny biscuit. Nothing more.

“Not hungry,” Jeannette murmured at Violet’s questioning gaze.

Violet sipped at her own cup, her stomach lurching at the scents of deviled eggs and cold beef pie, which everyone else proclaimed delicious.

Further proof, she decided, that she might be in the family way.