The Wedding Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  A tiny smile curved across the duchess’s youthful lips; her eyes twinkled. “Hmm, just so, for we all know that is what men use to think with when they are around an attractive female.”

  And that, Kit thought, is precisely the problem.

  Eliza Hammond was not what any man would describe as a stunner. It wasn’t that she was homely—quite the opposite, if one took the trouble to look closely enough—it was just that she did nothing to enhance what attributes she did possess.

  Instead of looking thick and lustrous, her brown hair appeared ordinary, yanked back into a boring knot at the nape of her neck. Although unblemished by the sun, her white skin often seemed sallow and wan. Quite likely she possessed a pleasant figure, but who could tell since she hid her slender body inside one shapeless, hideous dress after another—though he supposed her nip-cheese aunt could be blamed in large measure for the state of Eliza’s meager wardrobe, now dyed black for mourning.

  She had good eyes, though, bright and luminous despite their soft, unremarkable gray color. And lovely bone structure, with a classical sweep to her jaw and a cute, finely bridged nose.

  Still, turning Eliza from a frump into a fashion plate would be a truly monumental achievement. He nearly sighed aloud at the idea.

  This scheme is doomed to fail.

  This plan will never work, Eliza railed inside her head.

  What was Violet thinking to suggest such a ridiculous thing? Imagine wanting to toss her and Kit together as mentor and pupil? She could not do it. Would not do it, even if he had once helped Violet overcome her diffident nature and step comfortably into her role as wife to one of the most powerful aristocrats in England. Besides, Kit obviously did not wish to help her. She could see it in his eyes. The doubt. And yes, the pity, no matter that he said otherwise.

  “Please, Violet,” she implored, “I am sure Lord Christopher has other, more important things to do with his time than spend it instructing me.”

  “I cannot imagine what that might be. Kit was just telling me the other day how bored he is with the same old round of amusements and so few people yet in Town. Is that not so, Kit?”

  “I believe I confessed to feeling a slight ennui, but that does not mean I have nothing to do. Somehow, I manage to fill my days quite admirably.”

  “But only think how much more admirably your time would be employed assisting Eliza. With her residing here, it will be an easy thing for you to teach her.”

  He wiped his fingers on a linen napkin, dusting off crumbs. “If you’ll remember, I’m in the process of locating bachelor’s quarters and moving my things in there. If I don’t find something soon, they’ll be nothing decent left to rent.”

  “Maybe you could put that plan on hold for a while. I mean, would it really be so dreadful if you stayed here with the family for a little while longer? You mentioned that you’ve nearly gone through your quarterly allowance again, and I know how you detest applying to Adrian for additional funds.”

  “Remind me in future to stop telling you things, Vi. You remember far too much, far too well.”

  Violet sent him a sympathetic smile. “I also remember that you will be coming into your own money on your birthday this August when you receive your grandfather’s bequest. Until then, why don’t you simply remain here at Raeburn House and economize a bit? Only think how easy it will be for you and Eliza to work together. A few hours in the morning, then you can each go about your usual routine. You’ll scarcely notice the difference.”

  She would notice the difference, Eliza thought. Until now, living in the same abode with Kit had been tolerable due in great measure to the sheer enormity of the townhouse. Her and Kit’s paths rarely crossed except for the occasional meal en famille and the infrequent afternoon visit with Violet, such as now. But to be daily in his company? To have Kit, of all people, coaching her on ways to overcome her shyness…well, it seemed too intimate, far too personal.

  Despite knowing that her infatuation for him had waned, she wasn’t certain she would feel comfortable being so near him so often. Yet would she not be a fool to refuse his help? Assuming, of course, that he agreed to help. Assuming she even wished him to.

  He sat back again in his chair, obviously wrestling with his thoughts as he rubbed a knuckle against his expressive lips. “I suppose I could stay and assist Miss Hammond.”

  Violet clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, I knew you would see the merit of my idea.”

  “But only if she wishes me to do so, that is,” Kit added.

  Eliza and Kit’s eyes met, his clear hazel irises appearing more green than gold today, the shade enhanced by the elegantly tailored bottle green cutaway coat he wore.

  Her pulse skipped at such scrutiny. What could she say? How could she refuse under the circumstances? She lowered her gaze. “At your pleasure, my lord.”

  “Very well, then. But if we are to proceed with this plan, I must be blunt and tell you both that it will take more than a few lessons in social comportment and style to turn the trick. Miss Hammond must put herself entirely in my hands and do as she is instructed, and that includes making an adjustment to her appearance.”

  Her head came up. “M-my appearance?” She was fully aware she was not the most beautiful of women. Nevertheless it hurt to hear him discuss such matters aloud.

  “Hmm. If you want men who are more than fortune hunters and rogues to offer you marriage, then half measures will not do.”

  “Of what precisely are you thinking?” Violet questioned.

  “A complete makeover from head to foot. Hair and clothes to start—”

  “But I am still in mourning,” Eliza protested. Defensively, she plucked at her black skirts, knowing how severe they were. Even so, they were more becoming than most of the unsightly shades her aunt had been in the habit of choosing for her. When duty had required her to dye all her old dresses black, it had come as no great loss.

  “Well,” he said, “you shan’t be in mourning forever, and when you are not you will need a new wardrobe. You’ve plenty of blunt for it now, what with the inheritance you received from your aunt.”

  He was right about that, she mused. Although even now, weeks later, she had still not gotten used to the realization that her aunt Doris—who had never shown her anything but scorn and disapproval in her whole life—had made Eliza the sole beneficiary of a vast fortune.

  All two hundred thousand pounds of it!

  Eliza had not had so much as an inkling that her aunt possessed such great wealth. Why would she when the woman had forced them to live like virtual paupers? Spending the winters, no matter how harsh, bundled into layer upon layer of thick wool rather than pay to burn a few extra logs in the fireplace. Refusing to let Eliza buy new handkerchiefs or fresh gloves until the old ones were so worn through they were just a few threads shy of resembling Swiss cheese. Scoffing at the notion of purchasing a reliable team of horses, maintaining that a pair of tired, old rented hacks could do the job satisfactorily enough.

  Apparently even Aunt Doris’s son, Philip Pettigrew, had not realized the size of his mother’s estate. At the reading of the will, he had looked as stunned as Eliza had felt, clearly reeling as much from learning the amount of his mother’s fortune as by the fact that he had just been cut off from it.

  Even now she remembered the sick cast to her cousin’s complexion once the solicitor had finished that day. She also recalled the instant of fierce hatred that had raged in her cousin’s cold black eyes before he had willed the expression away.

  She shivered at the memory, pushing it aside.

  Since then she had spent very little of her new wealth, and nothing on herself. She had given all of her aunt’s servants a healthy, and long overdue, increase in wages. She had also instructed her aunt’s man of business to pay for several much needed repairs to her aunt’s London townhouse. Now her townhouse, since the abode had also been left to her in the will. But as a single woman, living there alone would not have been proper. And truth be told,
she did not wish to live alone, not even with a hired companion.

  Thank heaven for Violet and Adrian. Bless them, she thought, for so graciously inviting her into their home.

  She supposed under the circumstances it was her duty to spend some of her inheritance. She gazed at Violet and knew her friend only had her well-being at heart. And considering all of Violet’s many kindnesses, how could she do anything but give way?

  “A new wardrobe would not come amiss, I suppose,” she agreed.

  “Good.” Kit nodded, flashing her a quick smile. He paused to draw his gold watch out of his vest pocket, snapping open the case to check the time. “As for the rest, why don’t we talk of it tomorrow? I have plans scheduled this evening and if I don’t get ready now, I shall be late.”

  He stood.

  “Of course, go on.” Violet reached out her hands, clasped Kit’s to give them a friendly parting squeeze. “You won’t regret agreeing to help.”

  “Hmm. Only time shall tell,” he murmured. “Miss Hammond, until the morrow.”

  She nodded her head. “My lord.”

  She waited until he was gone from the room. Only then did she become aware of her fingers and how tightly she had them clasped together in her lap. Pain shot through her hands, blood flowing normally again as she loosened her grip. Abashed, she sighed.

  Dear heavens, what have I done?

  Chapter Two

  “Keep up your left, my lord. That’s right. Excellent.”

  The impact of his padded gloves connecting with his opponent’s broad, muscled rib cage sang along Kit’s arms like flesh hitting stone. One, two, three, then away. He swung around and narrowly missed taking a sharp jab to the head as he dipped and weaved. Sweat beaded on his bare chest, dampened his brow and trickled in a slow line along his temple.

  The other man circled, his dark eyes searching for an opening. Kit did the same, studying the situation, knowing his reactions would have to be lightning quick, nearly instinctual, if he was to prevail. His sparing partner for the day was built like an oak, huge and solid and every bit as mighty.

  No easy pickings here.

  But then, Gentleman Jackson never pitted him against any of the lesser boxers who fought in his salon, knowing Kit preferred a challenge and wasn’t the sort to complain if he came away with a bruise or two afterward.

  Suddenly the big man moved, coming in low in an effort to make Kit drop his gloves and fall prey to the feint. But Kit was on to the tactic and held steady, ignoring the burst of pain in his side as his opponent got in a solid punch.

  Before the other man had time to recover and raise his gloves, Kit struck, connecting with a solid right cross to the jaw, followed quickly by another pair of blows to the ribs. The man staggered back a few steps. Kit pursued and punched again, pummeling him with a series of clean, powerful blows.

  The big man swayed, then over he went, the wooden floor reverberating beneath Kit’s feet as his opponent crashed to the ground. A trainer rushed forward seconds later to help the downed man sit up, the bruiser shaking his head, clearly disoriented.

  A wash of satisfaction surged through Kit at his victory. Lungs straining for air, he bent double and braced his gloved fists on his thighs as he recovered from the exertion.

  A round of clapping commenced, a few gentlemen who had gathered to watch the bout expressing their approval.

  “Well done, my lord,” Gentleman Jackson declared, stepping forward. “Not many men can best Finke, who once defeated the great Tom Cribb himself early in his career. If you weren’t a nobleman, my lord, I’d set you up in a prizefight and put my money on you to win. I fear, however, your esteemed brother, the duke, would not approve.”

  No, Kit mused as he accepted help from the young servant boy, who hurried forward to unlace his gloves, Adrian most decidedly would not approve of his engaging in public fisticuffs, bloodying his hands in one of the bare-knuckle boxing matches so popular these days. A gentleman might box for sport or to settle a matter of honor in lieu of dueling with sword or pistol, but he would never fight for money or fame, certainly not in front of the masses.

  The gloves gone, Kit took a towel from the boy and used it to dry his damp face and rub the sweat from his chest. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, John. It means a lot coming from you. Good round today. It’s left me hungry.”

  Jackson laughed, Kit’s prodigious appetite being well known to all. “Glad to hear it, my lord. Will we see you next week at the usual time?”

  Kit opened his mouth to agree, then stopped.

  Deuced take it, he didn’t know, he realized. Might have to tutor Miss Hammond this time next week. “I am not yet sure of my plans,” he told the older man. “I’ll have to let you know.”

  “Very good, my lord. You are welcome here anytime it’s convenient.”

  Jackson strolled away, moving to attend to a few of the other pugilists in training. Kit turned and crossed to his sparing partner, who had regained his senses enough to be steady again on his feet. Kit shook the bigger man’s hand and thanked him for the match, then turned and exited the ring.

  Speaking of matches, Kit mused, how in the blue blazes did I let myself get talked into playing matchmaker for Eliza Hammond! Because, no matter what Violet chose to call it, that is what he had agreed to do. Granted, he wouldn’t have to handpick the men for Eliza, but he had been charged with vetting them, culling the honorable wheat from the fortune-hunting chaff, as it were.

  Worse, he had given his word to make her over, to turn her from a nondescript spinster into a charming Society belle—a transformation that would require nothing less than a miracle.

  Good God, what was I thinking?

  One minute he’d been girding himself to gently but politely refuse Violet’s outrageous request and sprint for the nearest door. The next he’d been sitting there chatting with the pair of them, agreeing to outline plans for improving Eliza’s coiffure and wardrobe.

  Insane, that’s what it was. He might be good with people but he was no mincing fop. He was an athlete. He boxed. He fenced. He rowed. He rode and drove horses. He even still partook of the occasional footrace.

  He did not help women dress their hair and pick out clothing.

  But it looked as if he was about to, beginning this afternoon. Bloody hell, if any of his fellows got wind of this, they would laugh him out the door. Laugh him out of the city, more like.

  Well, at least rehabilitating Eliza Hammond would be a challenge. Mayhap the effort would help stave off some of the relentless boredom that had gripped him ever since his return from abroad. He had enjoyed the Continent, thrived on meeting new people, exploring new places. If he’d had his druthers, he would have stayed away longer. Gone on to India, the Orient, even the Americas, perhaps. But Adrian had written, telling him their mother missed him and wanted him home. Asking him when he was going to settle down, take up some sort of profession, get married and start a family.

  He didn’t want a wife and a family, at least not yet.

  He was only five and twenty, after all, far too young for such unbreakable ties and obligations. Even Adrian—the one in the family who never shirked his duty—hadn’t fallen prey to the parson’s noose until his thirty-second year. But Adrian had gotten lucky. He’d found a wonderful woman he loved. A woman who loved him back just as fiercely. A wife who made every day a pleasure, and the blessing of children, who, Kit knew, made Adrian grateful for each moment he was alive and able to see them grow and prosper.

  But Kit wasn’t ready for marriage. And although he wouldn’t mind something meaningful with which to occupy his time, he had no interest whatsoever in the usual livelihoods available for the younger son of a duke. The military and its rigid discipline would stifle the life out of him. As for the clergy…well, let’s just say he enjoyed the varied pleasures of the flesh a bit too much to ever consider taking ecclesiastical orders. Which left little else to do other than wait for his inheritance to come through in six months’ time and hope fo
r something interesting to transpire in the meanwhile.

  A hard palm suddenly slapped him on the shoulder. “Winter. What a splendid dustup. Caught the very last of it when you knocked that chap to the deck. Well done.”

  Kit turned, found a pair of his friends loitering near his elbow. “Lloyd, Selway, what brings you round here? Didn’t know you cared for the pugilistic arts.”

  “Oh, I don’t for myself,” Lloyd volunteered. “I’ve too fine a sense of self-preservation to risk ruining this handsome face. But I never mind watching the rest of you foolhardy types take to beating each other stupid. Which is why Selway and I came by. We are off to a mill this afternoon in Hampstead. Thought you’d want to join us.”

  The offer was tempting. Damned tempting and for a long moment he considered sending a note to Violet to beg off from this afternoon’s meeting with her and Eliza. But a promise was a promise and he was nothing if not a man of his word.

  “Sorry, but I’ll have to join you another day,” Kit said. “Previous engagement.”

  “What sort of engagement could be more important than a mill?” Selway gave a disgusted cluck of his tongue. “Oh, unless you’ve received another summons from your brother?”

  Kit said nothing, deciding to let them think what they liked. If they wanted to blame Adrian for Kit’s refusal to join them, then it seemed a proper sacrifice for his brother to make.

  “Well, at least say you can join the pair of us for breakfast,” Lloyd said.

  At the mention of food, Kit’s stomach rumbled. “As you well know, I never turn down a proper meal. Give me a few minutes to wash and change, and I will be at your disposal.”

  He strode toward the changing rooms, his mind filled with thoughts of the miracle he would be expected to perform later that day. “And now for my next trick, ladies and gentlemen,” he murmured under his breath, “I shall attempt to part the Red Sea.”

  “…seven one hundred, eight one hundred, nine one hundred, ten. Ready or not, here I come.”