The Wedding Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “Ten minutes or I am coming up after you.”

  Violet strolled to him and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You’d better not. Remember what happened the last time you came looking for me while I dressed.”

  His eyes heated, gazing at her as if he wanted to kiss her. “Nine minutes now, minx, so you had better get moving.”

  Violet laughed and went on her way. Horatio lumbered to his feet to follow.

  Eliza quickly looked away and pretended that she hadn’t heard a word of her friends’ intimate exchange.

  Adrian strolled forward and took a seat in his wife’s abandoned chair. Eliza glanced up at him, struck as she often was by the marked resemblance he shared with Kit. Both men were dark-haired, broad-shouldered and handsome, leaving no doubt they were related. She suspected Kit would come to look even more like his older, more powerfully built brother as the years went on.

  “And what is it you are reading?” Adrian inquired.

  She flipped the book over so the fine leather cover showed. “Oh, a volume of Keats’s. Endymion. Have you read it?”

  He nodded. “I have had the pleasure, although a few of the critics have been less than kind. I hear he is to issue a new volume soon, perhaps it will prove a better success. A shame about recent reports concerning his health, though. Consumption, or so I am given to understand.”

  “Oh, I had not heard. How very dreadful.”

  She and Adrian sat for a moment in contemplative silence.

  “Perhaps we should speak on a more cheerful topic,” Adrian said. “How go your lessons with my little brother?”

  “Is that more cheerful?” she blurted.

  He laughed.

  “P-please d-don’t misunderstand me. The lessons are going well, though we have only had one so far.” Her nerves jittered at being so abruptly reminded of Kit and her recent musings about him. “But I fear that his kind efforts may yet be in vain. I am rather hopeless at making small talk and polite conversation.”

  Adrian smiled. “You and I are talking now. I suspect you are rather better at conversation than you imagine.”

  “Oh, but I know you, your Grace. It is strangers who prove my undoing.”

  “Then you must strive to make everyone your friend.”

  She gazed at him, struck by the unique wisdom of his statement.

  Footsteps rang out in the hallway.

  “Ah, that must be Violet returning.” Adrian stood, casting a glance toward the library casement clock. “You made it with one minute to spare. Well done, my dear.”

  Violet crossed into the room. “You are most welcome, love. I thought I owed it to you for nearly forgetting our outing. We mustn’t tarry, though. Georgianna won’t sleep much above an hour, and I know she’ll be hungry when she wakes.”

  “Then we had best depart. I don’t want you or Georgianna to suffer any ill effects.”

  As soon as Adrian and Violet said their good-byes and left, Eliza turned once more to her book. She actually managed to put Kit from her thoughts long enough to read a few stanzas, when a discreet knock sounded on the door.

  March glided on soundless shoes into the room. “My pardon, Miss Eliza, but a gentleman has arrived. Your cousin, he says.”

  She scowled. “My cousin? Mr. Pettigrew, do you mean?”

  March inclined his graying head. “I have put him in the main salon.”

  How singular, she mused. Philip Pettigrew here? What can he want?

  Ordinarily, with Violet and Adrian absent from the house, it would be most improper for her to entertain a gentleman caller. Even Kit was away, out visiting with some friends, she assumed, since she had canceled their lesson this morning, pleading lingering effects from yesterday’s headache.

  But Philip Pettigrew wasn’t really a caller, she reminded herself. As her cousin, Pettigrew was family, distasteful as the connection might seem. Through the years she had done her best to be civil and pleasant when in his company, though truth be told, she had never liked her aunt’s son. She still recalled how he used to collect spiders and toads when they were children, leaving them in unlikely places for her to find.

  For years she had been afraid to reach into her sewing basket for fear of discovering something that crawled or hopped. And once when she was thirteen, he had slipped a cricket into her dress pocket at church. When she found the creature, her screams had shaken the walls of the stone chapel, the commotion upsetting the entire congregation and ruining Sunday service.

  Even now, she cringed to remember the whipping she’d received when she arrived home, her aunt refusing to listen to a single explanation, certain Eliza had played a deliberate prank.

  No, she had never liked Philip Pettigrew.

  Fighting the urge to have March turn him away, she set her book aside and rose to her feet. “Thank you, I will attend to my cousin directly.”

  “Shall I bring refreshments?” the majordomo inquired.

  “Yes, I suppose you ought.” Though really she wished Pettigrew wouldn’t stay long enough to drink tea or eat cakes. But maybe fiddling with the tea tray would provide her with some welcome distraction.

  Smoothing her deep purple skirts, she made her way to the salon.

  Pettigrew turned at her entrance, his black hair slicked straight back from his thin face to hang just a bit too long and lank around his collar. She had always thought scrawny the best word to describe him—scrawny and humorless, gravely serious as if a smile might do permanent damage to his face. Not that he had any looks to protect, she mused, his hooked nose and lantern jaw enough to send a shudder through any unsuspecting child.

  In fact, as Eliza recalled, Pettigrew had made more than a few toddlers burst into fits of messy tears in his time, the tots terrified by his fearsome countenance and grim demeanor. Eliza was thankful Noah, Sebastian and Georgianna were tucked safely away in the upstairs nursery or he would surely have set them to wailing too.

  Garbed entirely in black—his preferred color even before his mother’s death—he reminded her of a crow. A carrion crow come ready to pick flesh off bones. A shiver rippled just below her skin as he approached, his large, faintly yellow teeth displayed in something that was not entirely a smile.

  “Cousin Eliza, how pleasant it is to see you. It has indeed been far too long since last we met.”

  Had it been? She rather doubted his statement, since the last time they had seen each other was at the reading of Aunt Doris’s will—cold rage radiating from every inch of his body after he learned he’d been entirely cut out of the inheritance.

  What, she wondered again, did he want? She couldn’t believe this was just a friendly social call, though perhaps she was being unfairly harsh in her assumptions. Maybe his initial anger about the will had cooled over the intervening weeks. She supposed in deference to their familial connection she ought to at least hear him out before passing judgment.

  Pettigrew extended a hand for her to take. She hesitated, loath to touch him. To cover her revulsion, she pretended not to see his offered palm as she brushed past on her way to the sofa. She sank down and gestured to the armchair opposite. “Won’t you have a seat, cousin?”

  His arm lowered to his side. To her relief, he made no comment, seating himself where she suggested.

  “I am sorry the duke and duchess are not here to receive you,” she said, running a finger along a seam in her skirt. “They left shortly before your arrival. A ride in the park in the duke’s new phaeton.”

  “How unfortunate my timing was not more propitious. Though to be truthful—”

  A tap came at the door. Grateful for the interruption, Eliza watched March enter the room, laden tea tray in hand. His presence surprised her since she had expected him to send in one of the housemaids as usual. Was he worried about her? Had he decided to personally perform the task in order to assure himself of her well-being within her cousin’s unctuous company? Her spirits lightened at his thoughtful concern, a wide smile of appreciation on her face. “Oh, this looks lovely
. Thank you so much.”

  “It is my pleasure to be of service, Miss Eliza.” The older man set down the heavy tray, positioning it for her easy access. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Please do not hesitate to ring should you require anything else, anything at all.”

  She caught the look in his eyes and subtly nodded her understanding. “Thank you, March.”

  Once he had gone, she busied herself with the painted china cups and plates, the pretty silver spoons and forks, praying she didn’t bungle the whole process and pour tea everywhere but in the cups. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Neither. I prefer my tea plain.”

  “Oh, of course, I remember now.”

  How could she have forgotten? He was truly one of the most ascetic people she had ever met, less given to indulging in creature comforts than even her late aunt.

  Into her own cup, Eliza added a generous spoonful of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream, enjoying the little defiance. Next, she lifted the teapot, her hand displaying only the faintest tremor as she filled both cups with careful precision. After passing her cousin his tea, she offered the selection of cakes and small sandwiches for his perusal.

  Out of obvious politeness, he accepted a single cucumber and butter triangle and set it on his plate, then took a spare sip of tea. Had Kit been here, he already would have eaten at least three of the sandwiches and stacked a half dozen more onto his plate, Eliza realized, inwardly smiling at the thought. A pity he wasn’t here to amuse her with his antics.

  “I see you have left off mourning.”

  Her head came up at Pettigrew’s statement. Just barely, she restrained the urge to cringe. “That’s right. The mourning period is nearly done so there is no shame in wearing a few dark shades, like this purple.”

  For a long uncomfortable moment, he stared at her out of deep-set black eyes. “Perhaps you are right. Your change in circumstances obviously agrees with you. I have never seen you look so well.”

  “T-thank you.”

  “Though I doubt Mama would have approved of the hair.”

  She raised her hand, touched her fingers to the edges of her curls. “No, probably not.”

  He set his teacup down. “But one thing of which I am sure she would have approved is seeing the two of us reconciled.”

  “Oh, well, yes, of course.”

  “But more than that, I think she would have wished to see us joined.”

  “Hmm? What!” Had he said “joined”?

  “I am glad your friends are not here. Glad we have this opportunity to be alone so I may openly tell you of my feelings.”

  What feelings? Philip Pettigrew didn’t have feelings, at least not the sort ordinary people expressed.

  “I have never before spoken of this for fear of bruising your tender sensibilities, but you have always held a special place in my estimation. A partiality, if you will.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “I have heard the rumors and know you are seeking a husband, a life partner as it were. You need look no more. I know you, Eliza, know the sort of man you require. A strong protector to help guide you, help steer you through the rocky shoals of life. A man of conviction who will keep you from harm, and who will assume the sound and equitable management of your affairs so your delicate feminine nature does not cause you to foolishly squander your resources.”

  Suddenly he was up and out of his seat, leaping from his chair faster than a bullfrog, to land on the sofa next to her. He grabbed for her hands.

  “Eliza Hammond, will you marry me?”

  She squirmed away. “No!”

  “No?”

  “Dear God, you are my cousin.” She wrenched her hands from his, or at least tried to, since he immediately reached for them again.

  “How does that signify? Cousins marry all the time.”

  Not first cousins!

  Then again, she realized that some first cousins did wed. It was not illegal, after all, but probably should be as far as she was concerned. Marriage to him would be almost incestuous, not to mention abhorrently disgusting.

  Ugh.

  She gave a visible shudder and yanked her hands from his for a second time. “T-thank you for the honor of your proposal but again I must decline.”

  “You are simply being emotional and have not had time to think this through.”

  “I don’t need time. I will not marry you.” She leapt to her feet. “Now, I really must ask you to go.”

  Something hard settled over his face. “Not yet. You have not listened to all I have to say.”

  “But I have listened to all I care to hear. Leave, Philip. Now.”

  “Yes, Philip,” ordered a firm, wonderfully familiar voice. “The lady has told you no. Accept her refusal and leave.”

  Eliza’s gaze darted toward the doorway, to find Kit standing there like a guardian angel. Thank the stars.

  “Lord Christopher, I did not realize you were here. Cousin Eliza and I were just having a bit of a private discussion. Family matters, you understand.”

  Kit strolled into the room. “Didn’t sound like family matters to me, sounded more like a marriage proposal. A proposal the lady rejected.”

  Impotent fury turned Pettigrew’s eyes dark and cold as a moonless night. “This is not your concern.”

  “Oh, but it is. Perhaps you didn’t realize, but Eliza is a protégé of mine. I’m instructing her in the finer points of social interaction, such as how to distinguish a gentleman from a cad. Your actions in the next half minute will determine which of those you are.”

  Pettigrew’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared at Kit. Suddenly he let out a snarl and stalked from the room.

  Eliza felt her whole body sag after he had gone, only then realizing how tautly she had been holding herself, how rapidly her heart was racing.

  Kit crossed to her and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  Unthinkingly, she leaned into him, resting a palm against the resolute strength of his chest. He’d been riding, she noticed, his clothes warm and fragrant with the scent of horses, clean perspiration and Kit.

  She closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath, enjoying the sensation. “I am fine. Now.”

  “The second I arrived, March told me Pettigrew was here with you in the salon. Did you know he planned to call?”

  She shook her head. “He took me completely by surprise, as did his loathsome proposal. I had no inkling Philip had such a purpose in mind. Why would I, since he is my cousin?”

  “Well, I am proud of you for tossing him out. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here sooner to hustle him through the door.”

  “He certainly did not want to take no for an answer.” She considered the matter for a moment, releasing a sigh. “Hoping to reclaim his mother’s fortune, no doubt.”

  “That and perhaps something more.”

  “More? What more could there be?”

  “You, my little wren.” He gave her arm a friendly squeeze. “You’ve grown so uncommonly fetching of late. I am sure once he beheld you in your pretty gown and saw your adorable curls, he wanted you as well.”

  A jolt arrowed through her. Did Kit really find her fetching? Her? Reserved, nondescript Eliza Hammond, who had spent most of her life being looked through instead of being looked at?

  “But he can’t have you,” Kit pronounced in a silky tone, “because you’ll soon be claimed by someone else.” Peering down at her, he raised a hand and drew the tip of one finger across her cheek. “Someone better.”

  Her heart kicked, skin tingling in the wake of his tender, featherlight touch. Lips parting, she lost herself inside his mesmerizing gaze.

  What was he saying? she wondered, half-dazed. Could he, by some impossible miracle, be speaking of himself? Was he the someone better?

  “And once the Season officially begins,” Kit continued, “we’ll find that man. The perfect husband for you. But we’ll need
to continue your lessons first. You have made definite progress, but there is much work yet to be done.”

  As if he had plucked her up and dropped her off a cliff, she fell, crashing hard, the rosy glow around her bursting like a handful of soap bubbles.

  Slowly she came back to her senses.

  What a clothhead she was. What a ninnyhammer.

  Using the hand still resting against his chest, she pushed herself away, moving out from under the circle of his arm.

  He seemed not to notice her withdrawal. “Is your headache gone? We could have a lesson yet this afternoon if you feel well enough.”

  She fixed her gaze on the carpet as she strained to compose herself. Abruptly, she looked up. “Yes, let’s have a lesson. As you say, the Season shall soon be here and I have much to learn. We had best not waste an instant.”

  Chapter Seven

  “More wine, Winter?” Edwin Lloyd invited, holding a freshly opened bottle of Malaga.

  Kit inclined his head, barely glancing up from his cards. His friend poured, replenishing Kit’s glass with the fortified reddish-brown wine that was both strong and sweet. Lloyd topped off the glasses of the other men at the table, then did the same for himself before setting the now empty bottle aside.

  The play continued, each of the five men taking his turn, hoping to capture the requisite trick so he would not be looed. Kit drank a single swallow of wine and waited, infinitely patient since he already held the one card guaranteed to beat everything else in the deck.

  The other four groaned when he played that card at precisely the right time, tossing down what remained of their hands in defeated disgust.

  With a mild grin, Kit scraped his winnings forward.

  “You’ve the devil’s own luck tonight, Winter,” Selway said. “Should keep you flush for some while. Unless the angel of mercy finally flies off your shoulder and you start to lose.”

  “Deal another round and we’ll see.” Kit broke off a lump of the Cheshire cheese that lay on a small plate near his elbow.

  Selway was right, Kit acknowledged, as he enjoyed the slightly salty flavor of the food melting against his tongue. He was having a fine night at the tables. Making merry with his friends, drinking and talking and playing cards. So far he’d won nearly double the quarterly allowance Adrian provided, an allowance he would have need of for only six months longer. With his pockets filled and his independence within reach, Kit knew he ought to be ecstatic.