The Wedding Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Instead what he felt was dissatisfaction. A kind of underlying boredom with his current way of life and the prospect of all the years that stretched out before him.

  What in the hell was he going to do with all of them and with himself?

  Seated opposite, Jeremy Brentholden—his old pal from university days—dealt the next round. Kit perused his cards and calculated whether or not his hand was good enough to play.

  “Deuced fine mill in the offing tomorrow over near Charing Cross. Who’s up for it, eh?” Vickery raised his sandy eyebrows and scanned the group.

  The others nodded their agreement.

  Kit shook his head. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I’ll have to pass.”

  “Have to pass!” Lloyd clicked his tongue in obvious exasperation. “This is the second mill you’ve passed on in recent memory. What’s amiss, Winter? Not going squeamish on us, are you? Sickened by the sight of all that blood.”

  Kit tossed him a look. “No, I’m not going squeamish. In fact, I’d be more than happy to spill some of your blood if you’d ever risk that pretty face and step into the Gentleman’s ring.” He slid his cards together inside his palm and tapped them against the table. “If you must know, I have a prior engagement.”

  “What sort of engagement?” Selway questioned. “Can’t be the duke again, surely.”

  Kit kept his features impassive.

  “If not your brother, then what?” Selway pressed. “Come to consider it, you seem to be having a lot of engagements of late.”

  “Yes, Winter, he’s right,” Lloyd agreed. “You have been rather cagey about your schedule over the past couple weeks. What’s going on? We insist that you share.”

  Kit fanned out the cards in his hand again and studied them. “Insist all you like. It’s a private matter and none of your business.”

  “Don’t have something to do with that chit, does it?” Vickery said. “The one living in your brother’s house?”

  “What chit is that?” Brentholden asked.

  “Bluestocking friend of the duchess.” Vickery paused, then snapped his fingers. “What’s her name? Haywood? Hampton? No, no, Hammond. That’s it, Eliza Hammond.”

  “Hammond?” Lloyd tossed a silver coin—a crown—into the center of the table as his opening bid. “Which gel is that?”

  “You know the one,” Vickery said, wagging a finger. “Whey-faced chit who doesn’t have a word to say for herself, permanent member of the wallflower club. She dresses dowdier than a governess and is all but on the shelf. You’ve seen her over the years, I’m sure. By God, you must have done, she’s had so many Seasons by now they must be stacking into the double digits.”

  The men laughed, all except Kit.

  Lloyd shook his head in continued puzzlement. “Is she redheaded?”

  “No, mousy brown. Always sits along the wall with the dowagers and matrons. Stares at her shoes.”

  “Well, Vickery, can’t say I spend much time looking at the dowagers and matrons.” Lloyd shot them all a youthful grin. “I much prefer the young, pretty girls.”

  Kit drank a long swallow of wine, hoping the liquor would ease the irritation brewing in his belly.

  “She’s the one who inherited that huge fortune a couple months ago,” Vickery said.

  A chorus of ohs resounded.

  “Now I know,” Lloyd declared. “Had the harpy aunt.”

  “Exactly.” Vickery tossed in his ante. “The fortune hunters are already salivating.”

  “For blunt like that, how can you blame them?” Selway placed his money into the pool. “There’s many a man would marry for that, even if she were as ugly as the ass end of a dog.”

  Kit smacked a hand against the table. “That is quite enough. I will remind you that you are speaking of a lady. I’ll not tolerate such blatant disrespect.”

  Selway’s dark eyes bulged. “Sorry, Winter. Didn’t mean to give offense.”

  Kit’s jaw tightened. “Well, you did. Miss Hammond is neither whey-faced nor is she ugly as a dog’s backside.”

  “Didn’t say she was,” Selway defended in a weak voice. “Just said if she were.”

  “Well, she isn’t,” Kit bit out. “She is a lovely lady and my sister-in-law’s friend. I’ll thank you not to speak of her again unless it is to proffer a compliment.”

  The other man bobbed his head. “Of course, Winter. Sorry, old chap. Won’t happen again.”

  Kit lifted his glass, tossed back the last of his wine.

  Vickery looked across the table. “So, it’s true, then, is it? What I’ve heard?”

  “And what have you heard?” Kit asked, one hand curling tight against his thigh.

  “That you’re coaching her. Miss Hammond, that is.”

  “Coaching her in what?” Brentholden questioned, breaking his silence.

  Kit meet Vickery’s gaze. “And where did you hear that?”

  Vickery tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Little birdie in the servants’ wing. You know how the staff grapevine goes.”

  Obviously one of the Raeburn House servants liked to gossip, Kit thought. He would have to have a word with Violet and March and see if anything could be done, though he supposed such things were inevitable.

  He shrugged. “As I said earlier, what I do with my time is none of your concern. Now, are we going to play cards or not?”

  “Oh, we’ll play after you divulge a measure of the truth.” Vickery rocked forward on his chair. “I hear you are her matchmaker.”

  Lloyd snorted, plainly amused by the notion.

  “I am not her matchmaker.” Kit scanned the expectant looks on his friends’ faces and knew he wouldn’t be getting out of this without providing some sort of explanation.

  He bit back a curse. Damn Vickery for his meddling ways. The man was a steady fellow, the kind you could count on to watch your back in a fight. But he was also a first-rate quidnunc, a veritable magnet for innuendo and rumor, lapping it up with the relish of a dog with his snout buried in a dish of black pudding.

  “The lady is shy, there is no denying the fact,” Kit said, rubbing a thumb along the stem of his glass. “She wishes to feel more at ease in company. I am merely providing her with some guidance, acting as a mentor, if you will.”

  Lloyd smirked. “Mentor, are you? Never thought to see you in such a role. No disrespect intended, but you’ve got your work cut out for you with that one.”

  “A regular Pygmalion, our Kit,” Vickery teased. “Be interesting to see if he can transform Miss Hammond into the fair Galatea, chisel a new version from the stone, as it were. I, for one, await the outcome with baited breath. So when will you be publicly revealing your creation?”

  “She isn’t my creation.” Kit scowled, not liking the direction of the conversation.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. And I would prefer not to continue this discussion.” Kit stared at Vickery for a long moment. “Why don’t you put yourself to some good use and fetch us another bottle of wine?”

  Vickery laughed then rose to do as he was told.

  The game resumed soon after, Kit losing a couple hands before quickly recouping his losses, plus a bit more.

  At the end of the evening, his pockets flush, Kit climbed into Brentholden’s carriage for the journey home. Selway and Vickery accompanied them, jumping down at their separate destinations to wave weary good nights.

  Now, at almost two in the morning, Mayfair’s residential streets stood in virtual emptiness, the sound of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels intruding rhythmically upon the night quiet, the mellow glow of the streetlamps helping to illuminate the way ahead.

  Kit leaned his head against the carriage’s plump, upholstered squabs and closed his eyes.

  “You like her, don’t you?”

  His eyes came open at Brentholden’s softly asked question. “Like who?”

  “Your little bluestocking. Miss Hammond.”

  “She’s not my little anything. She is merely a family
friend whom I am trying to help out.”

  “Family friend or not, I’ve never seen you so fierce about defending a lady’s honor.”

  “I’ve never before had cause to defend a lady’s honor, but it needed to be done. Didn’t care for the things Selway and Vickery were saying nor the way they were saying them. Miss Hammond is a sweet girl and doesn’t deserve to be mocked, not even behind her back.”

  “Just as I said, you like her.”

  He rolled the statement through his mind. “Maybe I do like her, but not in the way you are implying. I have no designs upon her if that’s what you are wondering. She’s more like a sister, a little sister who just needs a guiding hand. She wants a husband, a decent man, not some blasted fortune hunter who will make her life a misery.”

  Brentholden sniggered softly. “So you are her matchmaker.”

  “Nothing of the sort. I’m her mentor, there to smooth her way in Society. The matchmaking I leave strictly up to Miss Hammond and my sister-in-law.”

  “So you won’t mind if your plan succeeds and men start flocking around her in droves?”

  A quick fist knotted inside Kit’s stomach before he forced it to dissolve. “Lord, no. Why should I mind?”

  “Hmmph.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Hmmph?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking that this year’s Season should prove to be quite an interesting one, quite an interesting one indeed.”

  Kit made no further comment as the carriage continued on its way toward Raeburn House.

  Three days later, Eliza hooked her knee over the sidesaddle’s pommel before securing the foot of her opposite leg in the stirrup. She shifted, fighting to maintain her balance while surreptitiously attempting to arrange the voluminous skirts of her Sardinian blue riding habit in as ladylike a way as possible.

  Once she stopped squirming, Kit handed her the reins. From her perch, she peered down at him where he stood next to her mount.

  “How does that feel?” he asked.

  “High,” she confessed with complete honesty.

  He chuckled. “Cassiopeia isn’t all that large a horse, barely fifteen hands. If you want a tall horse, you should see the hunters, big brutes a couple of them are. But you have nothing to worry about with old Cassie here.” He stroked a palm along the bay’s neck, then gave it a gentle pat. “She’s as gentle as they come. A real darling, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he cooed to the horse.

  Cassiopeia’s ears flicked and she bobbed her head slightly as though agreeing.

  A couple of stable lads paused in their early-morning chores to watch the goings-on. Eliza pretended not to see them, relieved when a fierce look from the head groom sent them back to work.

  Kit clipped a lunge line to the horse’s bridle. “I’m going to lead you around the yard a couple times just until you feel comfortable.”

  She sat, ramrod stiff, as she waited for him to proceed.

  Kit touched her elbow. “Relax, you’ll be fine. You did say you know how to ride?”

  “Yes, but it’s been many years. What if I’ve forgotten?”

  “You never forget a thing like that. Once we go around a few times, it will all come back.”

  And Kit was right—the feel of the saddle, the movement of the animal beneath her, the clip-clop of hooves against the mews’s cobblestoned yard, the slight weight of the reins lying in her hands all soon combined to put her at ease. By the time Kit brought Cassiopeia to a halt, Eliza felt almost comfortable.

  He unclipped the lead. “You try it now. Take her around a couple times, just a gentle walk like before. Reins loose and keep your knee soft against her shoulder. Cassie’s a good girl, she doesn’t need much direction.”

  With barely a touch, the horse began to make the circuit once more. Eliza went around three times before she stopped, a smile on her lips. “That was fun.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Well done, Eliza. So well done, in fact, I suggest we go to the park. It’s early yet, no one but the birds up and about at this time of day.”

  Her hands tightened involuntarily, sending Cassiopeia back a step. She brought the horse to a halt with a gentle loosening of the reins. “I don’t know, Kit. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Let me get my mount.”

  Twenty minutes later they rode into nearby Hyde Park, Kit’s solid black gelding, Mars, walking at an easy stride beside Eliza’s mare. Just as Kit had predicted, the park stood nearly empty, the hour far too early for other members of the Ton to venture out. A street hawker, toting his small barrel of ink and basket of quills, hurried by, his head down as he cut through the park to his destination.

  Birds hopped and fluttered in the bare tree branches, singing out their avian delight in the sunny new day. A crisp breeze bumped lightly across Eliza’s cheeks, making her grateful for the comforting warmth of her riding habit and gloves. Still, she didn’t mind the brisk weather, too invigorated by her surroundings to have any real concern.

  Kit led them toward the Serpentine, where bands of ducks and geese congregated, a pair of white swans floating in majestic splendor upon the glassy surface of the lake.

  “This is lovely.” She turned her face up to a ray of yellow sun. “I am glad I let you convince me to rise so early for our riding lesson, though I am still surprised that you wanted to do so.”

  He tossed her a look of mock offense. “I am not the inveterate slug-a-bed you may think me. You would be surprised to know how often I am up in time to see the sunrise.”

  “See it, you mean, whilst coming home after a night on the town,” she teased.

  “Here now, miss, you had better watch that tongue. I can tell if I’m not careful it may yet turn sharp.”

  Her smile became a grin, one that he returned with alacrity.

  “Morning truly is the only time one can actually ride in the park,” he said, steering their conversation back to its original topic. “Even now, with the Season not yet begun, the grounds are so crowded in the afternoon there is scarce room to do more than travel at a sedate walk. Besides, I didn’t imagine you would enjoy having to stop and chat every few feet as you would be required to do were we to arrive here later in the day.”

  She shuddered faintly at the idea. “Definitely not, and my thanks for your thoughtfulness. Though I can tell you obviously planned all along for us to come here to the park this morning.”

  “So long as you didn’t fall off Cassiopeia back home in the stable yard, yes, I figured I’d see if I couldn’t coax you farther afield. What do you say we attempt a trot?”

  She met his eager, encouraging gaze, a spot of nervous tension lodging like a handful of warm pebbles beneath her breastbone. On a sharp exhale, she shoved the feeling aside and nodded her assent. After a series of quick and efficient instructions, Kit urged her and her obedient little mare into a trot that he soon pronounced “not half bad for a novice.”

  Eliza was just beginning to find her confidence in the clipped gait when Kit dared her to increase her speed even more.

  “Come on, Eliza,” he encouraged, grinning over at her from atop his impressive black steed. Kit controlled Mars with effortless ease but the horse’s pent-up excitement was almost palpable, the animal clearly longing to stretch out his powerful legs and enjoy a good run. Cassiopeia’s ears perked up as well as she sensed the possibilities. The instant Kit gave Mars his head, Eliza knew her mare would chase after the gelding.

  The little spot of anxiety re-formed inside her chest. “What if I fall off?” she asked, striving not the let her voice quaver.

  “You won’t fall off. You’ve got a good seat. Just settle your weight and let your horse do the rest.”

  If she told him no, she knew Kit would abide by her decision, and not even chide her for her temerity. But as tempting as a refusal might be, another part of her urged that she not take the coward’s way out. Isn’t that what she had spent most of her life doing? Knuckling under to her fears? Withdrawing into her own tight little cocoon so that
nothing and no one could harm her again?

  On that thought, she lifted her chin. “All right, let’s canter.”

  A wide smile split Kit’s mouth as he let out a very ungentlemanlike whoop. With a light flick of his reins, Mars sprang forward, hooves racing over the park’s grassy fields. Eliza’s small bay mare followed, sending Eliza’s heart leaping into her throat as Cassiopeia charged forward, speeding to keep pace with her stablemate.

  Eliza forced herself not to look down as the ground flashed by far too fast for comfort. And they were only going at an easy canter. Think how fast a gallop must be, she mused, awestruck at the realization. Still, she maintained her balance and trusted her mount to do most of the work, just as Kit had advised.

  The yards flew by, and as they did her fears began to dissolve, drifting away like acorn pinwheels in the brisk wind that whipped against her cheeks and tugged at her hair.

  She laughed and turned her head to meet Kit’s gaze.

  “Fun?” he called.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Up for a gallop?” he dared.

  Another laugh billowed from her throat. “No, no, this is quite fast enough for me.”

  He relented and held them to a canter. Side by side, they rode along the horse paths, startling birds from their roosts, making the occasional squirrel stop and stare as it hung suspended by its tiny clawed feet from the side of a tree before dashing away.

  Kit let his horse run the faintest bit faster, as if testing Eliza’s meddle. She increased her pace, keeping up admirably.

  Suddenly her hat came free of its mooring and flew off into the bushes. Kit reined in. She did the same, though Cassiopeia had already slowed to a walk, taking her lead from the other horse.

  A steady hand on the reins kept the bay mare from following as Kit turned Mars around to trot after Eliza’s lost millinery. He returned quickly, beating a smudge of dirt off the end of a bobbing ostrich feather.