The Wedding Trap Page 7

Eliza trembled, her pulse bounding at the sensation of his warm, naked flesh curving around her own. Her bare palm fit small and unsteady within his hold, his controlled strength evident in his touch.

  Dear me. She hoped her hand didn’t begin to perspire. How mortifying that would be. She wished she could pull away and rub her palm against her skirt but knew the gauche gesture would only make matters worse.

  At least Kit didn’t seem to notice her heightened apprehension as he set his other hand upon her waist, his grasp firm yet undemanding. With a small tug, he drew her closer, careful to leave the proper distance between their bodies. She fixed her gaze upon his firm jaw and square chin, tracing the faint dimple that creased its center.

  Her pulse thumped again.

  Swallowing sharply, she lowered her gaze to his cravat.

  He took a step and propelled her into a waltz. Moving on blind instinct, she followed his lead.

  “Dah-daa-Dum, dah-daa-Dum, dah-dah-Dum, dah-dah-Dum, dah-dah-Dum…”

  Her eyes flashed upward as he swung her in a circle, a small giggle escaping her lips.

  The improvised melody ceased, Kit’s striking eyes alight with humor. “No good? I was trying to provide some music for us.”

  She couldn’t prevent a smile. “It is fine. Just unexpected. Pray continue.”

  “No, I can’t now, you’ve muddled the mood. But it’s all for the best, I suppose, since I can’t very well hum and talk at the same time, now can I?”

  He led her easily around the floor, her feet gliding in a smooth, effortless rhythm.

  “May I compliment you on your gown, Miss Hammond? It is a lovely shade of blue, if you don’t mind my saying so. Is it new?”

  This was it, she realized. The lesson had officially begun as Kit shifted the conversation into more formal territory, keeping his words light with just a touch of flirtatiousness.

  “Yes,” she said. Her monosyllabic response sounded stiff and dry as a slice of day-old toast, her neck muscles tightening as nerves returned. He waited politely for her to continue, but as usual she could think of nothing further to say.

  “Acknowledge the compliment with a slight inclination of your head,” he instructed in a gentle tone. “A blunt ‘yes’ won’t lead to further discussion.”

  Obediently, she dipped her chin.

  “Good. Now make some casual remark. Something perhaps about your preference for the color or where or with whom you made the purchase.”

  “I-I, all right. Thank you, my lord,” she said, resuming her role. “The Countess of Mulholland suggested the shade.”

  “The countess has exceptional taste. The color makes your eyes sparkle.”

  “Does it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I should not be wearing it, though.”

  “Oh, and why is that?”

  “I am still in mourning for my aunt, but the countess hates black and instructed her sister’s servants to burn all my old clothes.”

  Kit snorted, breaking character. “You didn’t tell me Jeannette had done away with your old things.”

  “Yes. The moment the first dresses began to arrive, she ordered my maid to toss everything out. Poor Lucy didn’t have the nerve to disobey her.”

  “And what about you? Did you scold Jeannette for her dictatorial ways when next you saw her?”

  Eliza shook her head, setting her curls bouncing around her cheeks. “Scold her? Gracious, no, I happen to like my skin exactly where it is.”

  Kit tossed out a laugh, white teeth flashing. “Ah, a sensible choice. I always say one should be wise in the battles one picks.”

  “Exactly so. The clothes were already lost by the time I learned of their sad fate. But I told Lucy if the countess comes around my room issuing orders again, Lucy has my permission to shut her out and lock the door.”

  He chuckled, flecks of green glittering like polished emeralds inside his lively eyes. He swung her into a gentle turn, his body moving with an unconscious grace that melted any last possibilities of concern on her part.

  She expelled a breath and relaxed into the movements of the dance. Without forethought, she smiled up at him.

  “So, Miss Hammond,” he said, his voice rich and warm as syrup, “how do you find the weather of late?”

  She blinked, not comprehending the innocuous question for a long, long moment. Then she recovered. The weather? But, of course, he had returned to their lesson.

  “T-the weather is fine for late February,” she said.

  “Not too cold for your tastes, then?”

  “No. Although I prefer spring. It is my very favorite time of year.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because everything blooms and begins anew in the spring.”

  “So, like most women, you enjoy the flowers,” he teased.

  “Of course, but it is more than just the flowers.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh, yes. The whole world seems to come alive in the spring,” she observed, getting caught up in the sentiment. “It never fails but to give me hope, watching what has lain cold and dormant all winter burst forth once more. I often think it is nature’s way of giving everything and everyone a chance to try again.”

  An arrested look came over his features. “A lovely thought. If only man could be half so generous in his actions, the world might yet be a better place.”

  Eliza nodded, pleased by the depth of his remark. “Yes, precisely.”

  Then Kit’s moment of serious reflection vanished as he began to hum a few strains of the waltz once more. He shot her a broad smile that she couldn’t help but return.

  “Well now,” he said after a long moment, “perhaps we should take a moment to discuss the basics.”

  “The basics of what?”

  “Polite conversation. We’ve exhausted the weather, always one of the safest of topics, good for any sort of occasion and company. What else? If we were at an actual entertainment, you might make some pleasant observation about the party, remark on the number of guests or the decorations. Or you could compliment the host and hostess, assuming, of course, you can find something genuinely pleasant to say. If they are utter bores, it tends to put you in a bit of a sticky situation. Whatever you do, never lie. Silence is better than a fabrication.”

  But wasn’t that always her difficulty? Being too silent?

  “Horses, hunting and dogs are fine topics to discuss with gentlemen.”

  “But I do not know much about horses and hunting, and the only dog with whom I’m familiar is Violet’s Great Dane, Horatio. What a big, loveable oaf he is.”

  “He’s a character, that is for certain. And so is Darragh’s wolfhound, Vitruvius. Talk about them. Any dog lover would be most amused to hear of their antics. As for horses and hunting, you shall have to learn more. You do know how to ride, do you not?”

  “Yes, but not well. Aunt Doris believed that money spent stabling a horse was a great waste. Eating machines, she used to call them, not worth the expense of feed and a groom to care for them. Hired hacks were her preference since she lived most of her life in London. Consequently, I have never spent much time around horses except for a few lessons in the country one summer.”

  Kit scowled. “I knew your aunt was a tightfisted old harridan but not so much that she wouldn’t even maintain a single steed. Well, we shall have to find time to reintroduce you to the joys of riding.”

  A faint shiver rippled through her. She liked horses, but they could be unpredictable creatures, especially with a new, inexperienced rider on their back. She didn’t relish the idea of being thrown. “Oh, it is all right. I do quite well as I am.”

  “But, at the very least, you must learn to feel comfortable again on a horse, in case you are asked to go riding. Don’t worry. Adrian has a magnificent stable. I’ll find you a sweet mare who will treat you like her dearest friend.”

  “Do horses have friends?” she blurted.

  “They do indeed.” He laughed and gave her a merry wink. “
Besides, you have three new riding habits in your wardrobe, as I recall. We can’t very well let them go unused.”

  To that she decided it wisest not to respond.

  Moments later he brought them to a stop but did not release his hold upon her. “Shall we continue a while longer? Take another turn around the room while we engage in a new practice conversation?”

  She did her best not to respond to his nearness, his body having drawn inexplicably closer since their dancing had ceased. Had he moved an inch toward her? Or had she moved toward him?

  Either way, he was deliciously close.

  She caught a fresh trace of the shaving soap that lingered on his clean-shaven cheeks. Enjoyed with her fingertips the soft texture of the finely wrought broadcloth that stretched across his powerful shoulders. Reveled in the sensation of her hand held so intimately within his own.

  But, of course, Kit noticed none of this. And neither, she knew, should she. “Yes, let us continue,” she said, determined to ignore her unwanted, wayward impulses.

  He spun them around the room again, making her skirts sway. She released an inaudible sigh, aware of his body settling once more into a smooth, natural rhythm with her own.

  “And how are you enjoying the delights of the city, Miss Hammond?” he began.

  “London is, as always, most pleasant.”

  “And what sights have you seen thus far?”

  “Oh, none of any note. T-there is still the last of my mourning to consider. I have not been out much this winter.”

  “Ah, yes. Quite correct of you.”

  “And then there is my mentor,” she continued. “From what the Duke and Duchess of Raeburn’s majordomo informs me, he keeps all my suitors at bay.”

  Now, from whence had that impish comment come? she marveled, amazed at herself.

  Kit’s lips quirked, easily catching on to the game. “A stern sort, this mentor of yours?”

  “About his duties, yes. He is very conscientious.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like the fellow I know. I have heard it said he is given to wiling away his life at trifling pursuits and idling pleasures.”

  “Oh, he enjoys himself, for sure, but I would not call him in any way trifling or of an idle nature.”

  “You ought to tell his brother that when your mentor next applies for his quarterly allowance.”

  A laugh burst from her mouth. “I shall strive to do so for his sake.”

  “Well, I have to admit I am not surprised to hear that your mentor takes his responsibilities seriously. Not with a student such as yourself. When the time arrives, he will have to beat the suitors off with a stick.”

  “Will he?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  She gazed into his eyes and felt herself begin to drown, just as a swimmer must the instant before the water closes over his head.

  What am I doing? she questioned. Am I flirting? With Kit! Moreover, is he flirting back?

  But no, she reminded herself, his responses were all pretense. Amusing, lighthearted deceits meant only to instruct and inform, none of them in any way real.

  Abruptly the pleasure drained out of her like a balloon pricked by an extremely sharp pin. Throat tight, she quit dancing and pulled away, wrenching her hand from his. “I-I am sorry. Do you mind if we stop?”

  Kit frowned. “What’s wrong? You were doing so well.”

  She lowered her gaze so he could not see her expression. “I-I am tired of a sudden. Perhaps I should not have agreed to continue the dancing, after all.”

  “Are you sure? You are not coming down with Violet’s stomach ague from a couple days past?”

  “No, I—” She took another step back from him. “Just a touch of the headache. I shall be fine.”

  “Why don’t you go up to your room and lie down, then? I’ll tell your maid you are unwell and have her bring you something for your discomfort.”

  If only there were something she could bring, Eliza thought with irony. If only things were so simply remedied.

  “T-thank you.”

  On a nod she spun and walked from the room. Alone in the hallway, she hurried faster until her walk all but turned into a run.

  Chapter Six

  Eliza angled her book closer to the weak light trickling in through the library window. The day was dreary and cold outside, and she hugged her patterned blue and white cashmere shawl closer around her shoulders and curled deeper into her chair, grateful for the warmth provided by the logs burning in the fireplace.

  Violet sat nearby, engrossed in the sensational horror novel Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus, a story Violet had promised to loan her as soon as she finished reading it. With his canine chin resting on his immense front paws, Horatio slumbered at her friend’s feet, an occasional snuffling snore whistling from the dog’s damp black nose.

  Turning a page, Eliza tried to focus her attention upon the words printed there. But after no more than a paragraph, her thoughts scattered, drifting like a handful of windblown petals to dwell on her lesson with Kit. She had scarcely thought of anything else since racing from the music room the day before.

  What a perfect pea goose she was, she chided herself for the hundredth time. She had gotten carried away, that’s all, overcome by Kit’s kind attentions and undeniable good looks. If she wasn’t careful, though, she might find herself once again succumbing to his myriad charms. And that she could not afford to do.

  Once, she had worn the willow for Kit, adoring him in silence, too timid to gain more than his most fleeting notice. The day he departed for the Continent, she’d thought she might shatter from the pain. For nights afterward, she had soaked her pillow in bitter tears until finally she was exhausted, with no more tears left to shed. From that moment onward, she put her stupid, useless, impossible feelings away, doing what it took to kill her love for Kit Winter.

  So why, when she no longer cared for him as any more than a friend, had she run from their lesson yesterday, fleeing like some foolish green girl discomforted by a crush?

  It was the dancing that had caused all the trouble, she decided. The dancing that had nostalgically reminded her of her first headlong plunge into hopeless infatuation.

  Even now, she remembered the long-ago evening in all its profuse detail. The warm glow of the candlelight, the thick crowd of people, the way she had felt as she sat along the edges of the ballroom, absently listening to a cluster of gray-haired matrons gossiping nearby. Painfully alone, that’s how she had felt. Painfully alone and utterly unwanted in her ugly dishwater brown taffeta dress.

  She was visually tracing the shape of the ribbons on her slippers when he appeared before her. Lord Christopher Winter in all his charismatic glory. Air wheezed in painful astonishment from her lungs as he bowed.

  “Miss Hammond,” he said, “would you give me the pleasure of a dance?”

  She couldn’t speak, not so much as a word, staring at him until he simply reached down and took her gloved hand to tug her gently to her feet. Sheer instinct was the only thing that kept her upright as they took to the floor, as he took her into his arms for the dance.

  Then the music began and they were whirling to the strains of a waltz. Smiling and attentive, he did his best to engage her in conversation despite her near inability to respond. With her heart beating in her throat, she managed to answer a few of his questions, though to this day she could not recall a single one. By the end of the dance, she was captivated. By the end of the evening, she was utterly in his thrall.

  All that night, young gentlemen approached to lead her to the floor, one after another after another. She wasn’t a fool. She realized immediately that the men were friends of Kit’s, their invitations no more than favors done for him.

  Perhaps she ought to have been offended, outraged that she was somehow being mocked. Instead she realized Kit’s actions stemmed from charitable intentions, his kindness more than anyone else had shown her in a long time. And at midnight, he had asked her to dance with him a second tim
e before taking her arm to escort her in to supper.

  Perhaps someone had put him up to it, she still didn’t know, but Kit Winter had given her one of the best nights of her life.

  And she had fallen in love.

  A log popped, sending a shower of red cinders blazing upward into the flue. Eliza awoke from her reverie, blinking in momentary confusion at the book that lay forgotten in her lap. A quick glance assured her that Violet had not noticed her woolgathering, her friend still completely engrossed in her own novel.

  Eliza swallowed a sigh as her thoughts returned to Kit. Being around him could prove dangerous, she realized. Obviously some part of her was still susceptible to his lure, however unconsciously he cast it out. But as much as a part of her longed to run and hide as she had done yesterday, a stronger part of her was determined to see these lessons through.

  She could succeed, she told herself. She would succeed, taking care to treat Kit as no more than a friend and teacher. If she did that, her heart would remain her own. But just to be safe she supposed she ought to give these lessons her best effort, work hard and push herself to learn everything she needed to know as rapidly as possible. The sooner she did, the sooner she could find a husband and get on with her life.

  Unless she could make Kit want her.

  She froze, astonished by the very notion.

  Kit as her husband, her lover. How sublime. How idiotically impossible. It could never happen, and yet…

  She was still debating the possibilities when Adrian strode into the room.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. “You both look cozy as a pair of cats, snuggled up with your books and your shawls. I almost hate to interrupt.”

  “Then pray do not,” Violet said, marking her page with a finger. “The monster has just gone on a rampage.”

  Adrian grinned. “He’ll still be rampaging by the time we get back from our ride. Or did you forget you promised to let me take you out in the new phaeton this afternoon?”

  She cast him a sheepish smile as she climbed to her feet. “I confess I had forgotten, probably because of this gloomy weather. Just let me run and get my warmest cloak and muff and I’ll be right back.”