The Wedding Trap Read online

  Violet’s mouth dropped open. “You are beyond anything, do you know that?” She paused, casting a plainly apologetic glance toward Eliza. “And we really ought not to be discussing such things.”

  “Why not? Oh, you mean you’re worried about Eliza’s delicate sensibilities? Well, if she is serious about getting married, then a little education on the subject might not go awry.”

  “I am not showing her this book!”

  “I never suggested you do, but I hardly think being privy to our conversation is going to ruin her.” Jeannette focused her gaze on Eliza. “What do you think, Eliza? Do you want to scurry out of the room like a demure little maiden or stay and listen?”

  Her imagination run amok, Eliza sat mute and unmoving, waiting for the next act of this very interesting drama to unfold. Just what, she was dying to know, was inside that book?

  “See,” Jeannette declared, “she doesn’t want to leave.”

  “Here, take it back.” Violet shoved the book toward her sister. “I know you meant well, but I couldn’t possibly keep it.”

  “Oh, but it’s yours. I have the original still at home. This is a copy I asked a rather discreet bookseller here in London to ferret out for me. I thought it would make a delightful gift that you and Adrian could both enjoy.”

  Violet flushed again. “Adrian and I do not need books. We do quite well in that area all on our own.”

  Jeannette grinned, refusing to accept the volume Violet was trying to push at her. “I am sure you do very well, but a little variety never hurt anyone. Just thought you’d have some fun.”

  “We have fun. Plenty of fun, so thank you but no thank you.” She tossed the book into Jeannette’s lap. “Give it to your friend Christabel. Now, there’s someone who looks like she could use a bit of assistance in the bedroom.”

  Jeannette clutched the small book in her hands and burst into renewed laughter. “Oh, Violet, I must say you’ve developed an edge. It’s what must come of having spent all those months pretending to be me. But here, I insist you have the book. Try at least one of the sixteen. If you don’t like it, I promise I’ll take the volume back and say nothing of it again.”

  Violet shook her head and sprang to her feet. “Adrian and I are very happy as we are, and our private life is…well, private. Now, you had best be getting back to your own townhouse so you can get ready for tonight’s dinner. I shall see you then.”

  Jeannette stood and opened her mouth as if to argue, then released a sigh. “Very well, but let me know if you change your mind—about the book, I mean.”

  “I shan’t but thank you again for the…the thought.” Violet crossed the room and went out into the hallway.

  Eliza stood and started to follow her friend from the room. At the doorway, she turned in time to see Jeannette hurry across to a small ladies escritoire on the far side of the room, a desk Violet used on the occasional evening. Sliding open the top drawer, Jeannette popped the book inside, then turned with a conspiratorial grin.

  “Shh,” Jeannette said, setting a finger across her lips. “Let her find it. I know she’ll be glad.” Crossing, she took Eliza’s arm. “Best hurry before she wonders what is keeping us.”

  Eliza cast one last curious glance back at the escritoire, then accompanied Jeannette from the room.

  Convivial laughter and smiles filled the music room as the assembled guests watched Jeannette and Violet open their birthday gifts. Side by side on the damask-covered sofa, they made a perfect tableau, Eliza thought, their lovely blond heads bent to their work as each unwrapped present after present.

  By far the more impatient of the pair, Jeannette ripped into her gifts with unencumbered relish, tossing paper and ribbon aside to land where it willed. Violet took a milder approach, devoting more time to the process, yet collecting a small mountain of wrappings at her feet just the same.

  From her place on the sofa opposite, Eliza sipped a slender glass of after-dinner ratafia and enjoyed the twins’ patent expressions of delight. Jeannette squealed like a schoolgirl when she opened Darragh’s gift, leaping to her feet and into her husband’s arms for an enthusiastic hug and kiss before turning around so he could fasten around her throat the glittering ruby necklace he had given her. Violet, for her part, was every inch as thrilled with the gift she received from Adrian, a very rare and delicate volume of ancient history that nearly brought tears to Violet’s eyes when she opened it.

  The unique book was certainly a far cry from the one Jeannette had presented to Violet only hours past. Eliza considered the racy bit of literature that was even now residing in the upstairs escritoire, wondering if it was truly as shocking as Violet’s reaction suggested. So what would Violet do when she found the book? Send it straight back to Jeanette? Or decide to keep it, after all, and maybe even give it a try?

  Eliza felt her cheeks warm and hoped anyone looking at her would assume her blush had been caused by the spirits she drank.

  As soon as all the presents were opened, the servants slipping discreetly in and out to carry away the discarded wrappings, Darragh got to his feet.

  “Shall we have some music, then?” he declared. “What do you say, Moira. Will you give us a tune?” He glanced at his sister, who returned his grin with a quiet smile of her own. “She plays a grand melody on the harp. Be a good lass and pleasure us with your skills.”

  “Yes, Moira, do,” encouraged her brothers Finn and Michael.

  At barely sixteen, Moira was not yet out. During their nuncheon, Jeannette had told Eliza and Violet how excited Moira was to be included in tonight’s celebration, since girls her age were not usually invited to adult parties. But considering this was a private gathering with only family and a few select friends in attendance, Jeannette and Darragh had agreed it would be acceptable.

  On the other hand, his youngest sister, thirteen-year-old Siobhan, had been mightily put out when she discovered she would have to remain at home. But no amount of tears and pleading on her part had convinced them to change their minds, despite the pangs of guilt the girl had roused in them both.

  Pretty and personable, auburn-haired Moira gave her brothers another becoming smile, then got to her feet and crossed the room.

  The girl has more nerve than I do, Eliza thought, glad she wouldn’t be called upon to perform. Despite the enjoyment she derived from playing piano, her efforts were strictly for her own amusement. Years ago, she had once tried to play for a group of her aunt’s friends and had ended up shaming herself and her aunt when she froze at the keys, unable to hit more than a few stumbling notes. As she recalled, the notes she had managed to play had sounded worse than an organ-grinder’s monkey. She’d left the room in tears. From that day forward, she had vowed never to make such a public mockery of herself again.

  As Moira settled gracefully onto the harp stool, Eliza sensed Kit walk up to stand behind her, leaving only the sofa back between them.

  He touched a hand to her arm. “Would you care for another glass of wine?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I believe I have had more than I ought, as it is.”

  He bent down so his mouth was close to her ear. “You are doing very well tonight, by the way. I wanted to commend you.”

  A delicious quiver trickled down her spine; his voice was as darkly intoxicating as the fragrance of his brandy-scented breath.

  She turned her head to meet his gaze, ethereal notes of harp music floating like shimmering diamonds upon the air. “I have been trying to remember all my lessons.”

  “I can tell. Bravo.” He gave her shoulder a light, almost barely noticeable squeeze, then straightened, his touch withdrawn as abruptly as it had been bestowed. Still, he didn’t walk away, towering solid and strong, his presence a distraction and yet a comfort at the same time.

  All through dinner she had wished him at her side instead of a half a dozen seats away, but even she had to concede the evening would not have offered much of a test with Kit at her elbow.

  Instead she ha
d found herself seated between the Dowager Duchess of Raeburn on one side and Michael O’Brien on the other. She’d surprised herself by managing to hold reasonably entertaining conversations with both, finding Violet’s flamboyantly French mother-in-law reassuring and kind, while Michael O’Brien made her laugh more than once with lively tales of his life as a country veterinarian, told in his lilting Irish-accented voice.

  The half hour after dinner had proven more difficult, the ladies leaving the gentlemen to their brandy by retiring to the drawing room to talk and sip tea and cordials. Eliza had nearly choked on her tea when Jeannette’s old friend Christabel Morgan—now Lady Cloverly—sat down in a chair directly across from her.

  Eliza marveled to think they were both of an age—only three and twenty years. Compared with Christabel and the veneer of practiced sophistication she wore like a second skin, Eliza felt green as new-mown grass.

  Christabel stared out of dark eyes that Eliza had always found coolly beautiful. “I hear tell you are on the lookout for a husband again this year,” Christabel drawled.

  Eliza forced herself not to squirm and raised her chin a notch instead. “That is right, my lady.”

  The other woman raked her gaze up and down. “Well, at least you are making an honest attempt at it this time. That gown is very becoming.”

  It took her a moment to respond, since Christabel had never before breathed so much as a kind word in her direction. “Lady Mulholland chose it for me.”

  “Jeannette has always had exceptional taste. Heed it, and you may actually get an offer. Assuming you give up those books of yours. Gentlemen don’t care for too educated a female.”

  Eliza bit her tongue and swallowed her rebuttal. She might not often have much to say, but on this particular subject she could be quite vocal. How easy to point out the fact that Violet was a lady who could be termed a “too educated female” and yet it had not hurt her reputation. Then again, Violet was the Duchess of Raeburn, a title that had earned her forgiveness on many fronts. Yet remembering Kit’s advice to never, ever be argumentative in company no matter the provocation, Eliza consigned herself to a noncommittal nod.

  Shortly afterward the gentlemen had joined the ladies, everyone repairing to the music room to continue the birthday festivities.

  Now harp strings resonated on a few final sugar-spun notes, the melody as lovely as the youthful musician who had made only a pair of barely noticeable mistakes throughout her endearing performance. Applause rang out at the end of the song, Moira’s fair complexion pinking up in pleased reaction.

  As the girl stood to return to her seat, Kit leaned down and spoke in a low voice. “Eliza, why do you not go next? It would be a wonderful opportunity for you to share your talent with everyone.”

  Her stomach flip-flopped in abrupt horror. “N-no, I could not,” she whispered, shaking her head in fierce resistance against the idea.

  “Why not?” he pressed softly. “You are among friends here. Go on, you need the practice and it would be an excellent chance for you to perform in front of others.”

  “Oh, do you also play the harp, Eliza?” Darragh asked, having overheard the last of the nearby exchange.

  “The p-piano, m-my lord. B-but not well, I am afraid.”

  “Nonsense,” Kit retorted in a carrying tone. “I have heard her and she plays like an angel. A veritable virtuoso in our midst.”

  Inwardly, Eliza cringed and closed her eyes. How could Kit do this to her? How could he trap her into such a situation, push her into doing something he must surely have known she would never voluntarily have agreed to do?

  And that’s when she realized he was doing it deliberately. That he had lain in wait like some predatory jungle cat for exactly the right moment to pounce, betting she would give in to his urgings rather than humiliate them both in so public a forum.

  Her lips tightened with anger. Raw, resentful anger, an emotion she had never before felt toward Kit.

  It would serve him right, she thought, if she kept her seat and shook her head in stubborn refusal. But to do so would ruin all her hard work, make jest of her lessons and shatter her future plans. After all, as Kit said, if she could not perform here in front of these people, who were in large measure her friends, then how would she ever be able to cope in front of strangers during the Season?

  Knowing Kit had her neatly ensnared, she climbed to her feet. She just prayed her legs didn’t give out between the sofa and the piano bench. “Very well, I shall play,” she said in as brave a voice as she could muster. “But don’t say I did not warn you all beforehand.”

  A few people laughed at her quip as Kit accompanied her across the room. Refusing to look at him, she sank down upon the padded seat.

  With his back to the group, Kit bent near. “You’re angry.”

  She flipped through a few sheets of music, trying not to let her hands tremble, so nervous she could barely read the printed titles, let alone concentrate on the notes.

  “I knew you would be cross with me,” Kit said for her ears alone, “but I didn’t know any other way to get you to play.”

  “Get me to make a fool of myself, you mean,” she accused under her breath.

  His compelling green-gold gaze caught and held her own. “You won’t look a fool. You play far too beautifully for that. Remember what I’ve been telling you all these weeks, believe in yourself and have faith you will not fail.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to perform.”

  “I’ll stay with you if you like. I can turn the pages.”

  “Of what? I cannot even choose a song,” she hissed in panic.

  “Relax and play what you were playing the afternoon I heard you. It was Mozart, I believe.”

  Mozart, one of her favorites. Yes, she supposed she might be able to pick out the melody and not make too bad a hash of the more difficult passages. But where was the sheet music?

  Kit had already found the precisely inked score, setting it on the stand and opening it to the first page of notes. “You’ll be fine, and I’ll be with you.”

  Kit stepped slightly aside to reveal Eliza to her waiting audience. She took a deep breath and set her fingers, icy cold with nerves, onto the keys.

  Trembling, she forced herself to begin. She played ten quick notes before she hit the wrong keys in a resounding, cringe-inducing mistake. As abruptly as she had begun, she stopped, tears stinging the insides of her eyelids. Wanting to die on the spot, she hung her head in shame.

  “Eliza, look at me,” Kit commanded. “Look at me.”

  Slowly, she forced up her head and gazed in misery into his eyes.

  “Begin again.”

  She shook her head.

  “You can do this. Forget about them and just play. Play as if there were no one else here. Pretend there are only the two of us in the room. Play for me, Eliza. Can you do that? Can you play just for me?”

  And suddenly, as she stared into his warm, steady, beautiful eyes, she felt her nerves dissolve, untangling like strands of silk caught in a pale breeze. She took a breath, in and out, and steadied her fingers once again over the keys.

  She began to play again.

  The notes flowed out of her this time as if the composer himself sat before the instrument. Rapid then slow, then rapid again, changing tempo and rhythm in smooth precision as the melody directed. Lyrical and haunting, the music built toward a gradual crescendo that was as sweet and passionate as a heated summer night. She lost herself to it, to those evocative strains that filled her spirit with a quiet, almost invincible jubilation.

  Kit stood beside her, turning the pages to music she no longer needed to consult. And in those moments, he truly did become the only other person in the room. On she played, adrift upon their small island of two. Then the piece concluded, her fingers racing over the keys in a last powerful flourish.

  Silence engulfed the room as the final note faded away. Stunned by the experience, she listened to her heart hammer in her breast, fearing for a
n instant that no one but her had liked it.

  In the next second, all she could hear was applause. Warm, genuine, real applause. She blinked in amazement as the outpouring washed over her, before glancing upward to meet Kit’s triumphant gaze as he too brought his palms together in hard claps of obvious pride.

  “Bravo, Miss Hammond,” Adrian called.

  “Yes, well done,” several of the others exclaimed. “Superb.”

  She smiled, uncertain how to behave in the face of such glowing approbation—approval the likes of which she had not experienced in her entire life.

  Kit captured her hand and drew her to her feet, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Magnificent, Eliza. You outdid even my grandest expectations.”

  She tingled beneath his touch, feeling as if her feet were no longer touching the floor. Then she laughed, surprising everyone in the room yet again.

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later, Eliza was still floating in the aftermath of her success. Even now she couldn’t quite believe how well she had performed, how her nerves had eased and she had been able to play as she had never played before in her life.

  Even Jeannette and Christabel had been impressed with her musical ability, insisting she must exhibit her skills this Season whenever the opportunity might arise.

  Eliza just hoped her newfound confidence didn’t fade. Without Kit at her side, she did not know if she would be able to find the courage to perform in front of a crowd, in front of strangers. But as he had shown her last night, perhaps she owed it to herself—and him—to try. Despite his underhanded maneuvering, and her subsequent distress, he had taught her a valuable lesson, one she knew she would never again forget.

  Only a few days now remained before Easter and the official start to the Season. Invitations had already begun to arrive at the townhouse, many of them with her name on them, much to her great surprise. As for her former bevy of fortune-hunting suitors, Kit had sent each and every one of them on his way. If more should appear, he promised he would send them packing as well.