The Wedding Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  An amour?

  He scowled at how much he liked the outrageous thought. He could imagine it. How thrilling it would be to lead her off for further lessons, ones that went beyond a few heated kisses. But such a course was fraught with peril and temptation, forbidden temptation the likes of which a man such as him would do well to steer clear. Best, he decided, to do absolutely nothing. Besides, he wouldn’t miss her for long. By next week these aberrant feelings would have faded like an unwanted suntan.

  A volley of laughter carried faintly out of the downstairs salon.

  He growled under his breath and stalked to his room. With uncharacteristic temper, he slammed the door hard behind him.

  “Thank you for a lovely dance, my lord.”

  Eliza opened her fan and waved it slowly in front of her face as Lord Maplewood escorted her off the dance floor. Slight as it was, the air came as a refreshing relief against her overwarm cheeks, the ballroom far too close and crowded tonight.

  Apparently noticing her discomfort, Maplewood dipped his salt-and-pepper head her way. “Would you care for a glass of punch, Miss Hammond?”

  She raised her gaze to his. “Oh, I shouldn’t wish to put you to any trouble.”

  “It is no trouble. No trouble at all.” He gave a gentle smile, then removed her hand from his arm with infinite care. “Wait here and I shall be back in a thrice.”

  She stifled a sigh as she watched him disappear into the throng of milling partygoers, wishing that instead of punch, she might have asked to have the Raeburn carriage brought round so she could return home. But there were another few hours remaining before she could hope to make her excuses. After all, she was here to have fun, dance, converse and make merry until the wee hours of the morning.

  Not that she was miserable or having a dreadful time—quite the contrary. Her usual group of admirers had been keeping her well entertained, whirling her around the floor, then regaling her during the intervals with funny stories and bits of poetry designed to make her laugh and smile. But that was before she had seen Kit stroll by, a willowy redhead in a diaphanous, low-cut emerald green gown parading on his arm.

  The Dowager Marchioness of Pynchon, if she wasn’t mistaken, a young, beautiful widow who wasn’t more than a year older than Kit. Eliza’s stomach had given a sick squeeze, as she was unable to help but notice Kit and the widow flirt and cavort.

  Was she his mistress? Did Kit caress her? Stroke his hands over her while he devoured her mouth with clever kisses that turned her knees as weak and wobbly as a storm-tossed rowboat? Did they make love, entwine their naked bodies together in one of the postures Eliza had glimpsed between the pages of the naughty little green book? Well, whatever Kit and his widow did or did not do, it made no matter to her.

  In the days following their never-to-be-forgotten kissing lesson—at least never to be forgotten by her—a small, idiotic part of Eliza had hoped Kit would change his mind about their interlude and seek her out. Show her in words—or better yet in deed—that he had been as moved by their passionate encounter as she. But he had made no such overtures, his behavior toward her as friendly—and indifferent—as ever. Apparently he was relieved to be done with his duty now that she was successfully relaunched into Society. Glad that he was no longer forced to seek out her company.

  But to her great surprise, she did find herself in demand, with other eligible gentlemen seeking her out in a way that continued to amaze her even now, a full month into the Season. All that remained was to see which of her suitors, if any of them, offered for her hand in marriage. And more to the point, to which one she would say yes.

  She glanced again at Kit and the widow, relieved when Lord Maplewood returned with her glass of punch. She thanked him, then sipped the almond-flavored concoction, fanning her cheeks while she listened to him tell her about his five-year-old daughter, whom he quite clearly adored.

  At the end of the interval, Lord Brevard appeared at her elbow. “Good evening, Miss Hammond. You look lovely as a rose tonight, if I may be so bold.” He made her an elegant bow then showered her with a dazzling smile that would have made a dead woman’s heart tremble in her breast.

  Eliza discovered she was no exception.

  Ever polite, he nodded to Maplewood. “My lord. How are you enjoying the ball?”

  After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Lord Maplewood bowed to them and withdrew to seek out his next partner.

  Brevard extended his arm. “Shall we take to the floor? The next is a quadrille, I believe.”

  “My lord, would you mind terribly if we did not dance but went for a stroll instead? The room is so close and warm tonight.”

  “It is, is it not?” he agreed, sharing a conspiratorial grin. “A squeeze, as they say. Why do we not go out into the garden? I believe our hostess is known for her flowers, though it may yet be too early in the season to find any roses in bloom.”

  “Blooming roses or not, a walk through the garden sounds quite refreshing.”

  Setting her hand onto his sleeve of tailored black superfine, she strolled with him toward the doors that led down into the gardens beyond. A few night creatures hummed and croaked, playing a tune quite different from the lively one now coming from the ballroom.

  A light breeze stirred her skirts, easing some of the unpleasant warmth from her skin. Eliza breathed deeply, glad to be out of the crowd, if only for a few minutes.

  “Better?” Brevard inquired, their shoes crunching lightly against the pebbled pathway.

  “Very much so. I suppose I must seem a terrible goose for wishing to escape the festivities.”

  “Not at all. Some balls are best taken in small doses.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments.

  “I wanted to thank you again for escorting me to the opera last week,” Eliza said. “I so enjoyed it, the wonderful costumes and the glorious singers. It was a truly delightful evening.”

  He angled his head, showered her with another smile. “For me as well.”

  “And your sister is such a pleasant girl. I saw her earlier this evening just after I arrived. We had a most excellent conversation about art.”

  “Oh, Franny loves art. If you let her, she’ll talk your ear off on the subject. Mr. Turner is one of her favorites, so unless you wish to hear everything there is to know about the man and his painting, I warn you to say nothing.”

  He grinned and Eliza chuckled.

  “In fact,” the viscount continued, “Franny has just wrung a promise out of me to take her to the opening of the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy. Would you like to accompany us? You would make a perfect addition to our party.”

  She paused for moment, struck once more by his asking her to join him and his family on an outing. For most men, such an invitation might be construed as romantic interest. But he couldn’t be seriously courting her, she thought, not a man like Viscount Brevard. He could have any woman of his choosing. He couldn’t want her. She was sure he was only being kind.

  “Yes,” she said, “that sounds like a most entertaining afternoon. I should be glad to accept.”

  “Good.” He paused and set his gloved hand atop hers where it rested on his sleeve. “Now, has the air grown too chilly for you, or shall we stroll a bit more?”

  “The air seems fine to me. Let us stroll.”

  They walked deeper into the garden, the music playing dimly, the shadows heavy where the vegetation grew thick and leafy. Eliza caught a hint of lilac in the air, enjoying the sugary sweetness of its perfume.

  Brevard drew her to a halt. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  “I appreciate the compliment, my lord, but you need not flatter me. I know I am not beautiful.”

  “You do yourself a grave injustice, Miss Hammond, but then, you obviously cannot see yourself as I do.”

  “I suppose not. Nevertheless, you are very kind, my lord.”

  “No such thing. Friends do not lie, and I like to think we know each other well enou
gh now to consider ourselves friends?”

  She shared a genial smile. “Indeed, yes.”

  “Then, friend, might I be permitted to call you by your given name? Eliza?”

  She considered his request. “I can see no harm. Yes, of course you may.”

  “And you must call me Lance.”

  His voice floated deep and debonair on the night breeze. She thought of another person, another “friend” blessed with an equally compelling voice and wondered at her strong reaction to both men.

  She had told Kit she wanted comparison, although at the time her protestations had been nothing more than a ruse designed to invite his embrace. Yet here she was standing in a shadowed garden with a devastatingly handsome man. Given that, perhaps she ought to experiment, make good on her as yet unfulfilled declaration to spread her wings and test her new boundaries.

  A faint shiver ran through her at the idea.

  “You are cold,” he accused gently. “Here, let me take you back inside.”

  She turned to face him. “In a minute. First, I would ask you a question.”

  He waited, listening.

  She drew on every ounce of her nerve before gazing upward into his brilliant blue eyes. “Lance, would you kiss me?”

  She could read his surprise, one of his golden brows winging skyward. Then he smiled. “If you would like it, Eliza.”

  “I would like to see if I like it.”

  He gave a slow, leonine smile. “Then let us give it a try.”

  She drew in a preparatory breath, slowly releasing it as Lance drew her into his arms.

  How would his kiss feel? she wondered. Surely different from Kit’s, but would it be better or worse?

  He bent his head, joining their mouths an instant later. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax into the sensation. Nice, she thought, definitely pleasant, his lips warm and inviting as they moved against hers in confident certainty. Sensing her willingness, he deepened the embrace, demanding more.

  She kissed him back, parting her lips as she gave herself fully over to his touch. Suddenly she wanted passion and heat, wanted him to make her mind melt with desire, wanted him to burn clean the memory of everything she had ever felt for Kit Winter.

  She poured herself into the embrace in a kind of fragile desperation. Her heart sped faster, her skin growing warmer in spite of the cool air. But her mind remained completely, and all too indisputably, her own. Lance’s kiss was skilled and gratifying, and she was sure most women would by now be rendered half senseless by the power of his expert touch. His kisses were lovely, except for one thing.

  He was not Kit.

  She drew away, bending her head so he could not read the sadness that must surely show in her eyes. “You must think me dreadfully forward.”

  “No, I think you are delightful,” he said, winded as if he could not quite catch his breath.

  Had their kiss done that to him?

  She realized then that she ought not to have kissed him, since plainly he had liked it so much more than she. She forced herself to look up at him and smile.

  From behind a conveniently placed evergreen hedge, Kit watched Brevard kiss Eliza. He held back the shout of outrage that sprang to his lips, his hands curled so tight his knuckles ached from the strain.

  He’d come outside to indulge in a few quiet moments to himself, to enjoy a refreshing breath of night air. He had also wanted to put some much-needed distance between himself and Marvella Belquirt, the widowed Marchioness of Pynchon.

  He should never have begun a flirtation with her, nor kissed her three nights ago in the library at the Nightons’ ball. She had a reputation for taking lovers, young virile lovers who were the antithesis of everything her nearly eighty-year-old, now thankfully deceased, husband had been.

  Tangled in her embrace on the library sofa, he knew she would have let him enjoy a great deal more than a few kisses and a quick grope. How easy it would have been to toss up her skirts and sheath himself inside her feminine heat, to ease all his recent frustrations and confusions over another woman, for whom he knew he ought not have any feelings at all.

  But just the whisper of Eliza’s name inside his mind had been enough to deflate his lust and put a halt to the passionate tryst.

  So when Marvella had started flirting with him tonight, he should have put an immediate halt to her amorous overtures. But just as he had opened his mouth to send the widow away, Eliza had swung by on Brevard’s arm, laughing in obvious delight at whatever the other man was saying.

  And now Eliza was in Brevard’s arms and they were kissing!

  Testing out her newfound skills just as she had promised. Was Brevard the first or had she let others of her coterie lead her outside to partake of a small sample of her sweet lips? Had she let Maplewood kiss her? Or Vickery?

  In his heart he knew she had not, would not. For all her bold talk that day in Violet’s study, he knew Eliza was no tart, no tease, but a lady through to her bones. If she was kissing Brevard, it was because she must have feelings for the man.

  His supposition seemed to prove true when Brevard and Eliza drew apart. As Brevard held her, she bent her head and rested it against his shirtfront as though she was trying to steady herself. Was she so affected, then, so overcome by the passion of their kiss that she needed a moment to recover?

  Then she looked up at Brevard and smiled, brilliant and dazzling as if his touch had lighted up her entire world.

  Kit glanced away, unable to witness another moment.

  He wanted to leave but couldn’t, for fear they would hear him and realize they had been observed. So he waited until they returned to the ballroom.

  Only then did he emerge to make his way slowly inside.

  Kit patted sweat from his face, then flipped the towel back to the waiting servant boy, who caught it with a deft hand. He accepted a glass of cooled lemon water and drank it down in a few deep-throated gulps.

  Kit glanced over at his sparing partner. The big man was leaning against one wall of the boxing salon, quite literally attempting to catch his breath. He and Jackson’s man had enjoyed a good, long practice this morning, warming up by going through the various kinds of footwork before transitioning on to handwork—jabs and punches and feints and counterpunches.

  In what anyone would have confirmed was a surly mood had they been foolish enough to mention it, Kit had gone hard and straight into the practice. Refusing to pause between rounds, he had pressed even harder, moving from one skill to the next as if he were a man possessed.

  And perhaps he was at that, Kit had mused, hoping he could use a pair of boxing gloves and a healthy opponent to beat out the demons that lurked inside him. But all he had succeeded in doing was making his body sweat and tiring out his opponent. At length, he had realized what he was doing, realized that the other man needed to stop but couldn’t, not until ordered to do so by Kit or the Gentleman himself.

  So Kit had stopped.

  “Good round, Jones,” Kit told the other man. “Go on and get cleaned up.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Jones gave a weary nod then made his way from the practice room.

  Kit dropped down onto a smooth wooden bench and put his elbows to his knees. Despite the morning’s exertions, he was barely winded, pent-up energy still buzzing like an arc of electricity through his muscles and inside his veins. He supposed he could ask Jackson to provide him with a new sparing partner to work off the rest of his excess reserves, but the salon was busy and he didn’t want to make a bother of himself.

  Huffing out a breath, he decided he might as well give up for the day. Perhaps he would take Mars out to one of the less crowded parks, Green Park or even Richmond Park if he was in the mood to roam farther afield, and let the horse have his head. A good gallop might be exactly what he needed to clear his mind.

  He had just climbed to his feet when Brevard strode into the room. Brevard’s attire, an open-necked white linen shirt and loose-fitting tan breeches, was not much different
from the clothing Kit was wearing, though Kit had long since stripped off the shirt. He despised the sensation of sweat-dampened material clinging to his flesh.

  Noticing him, Brevard crossed the room. “Winter, good morrow.” He offered a hand.

  Kit accepted and returned the handshake, quick and extra firm.

  “Already went a few rounds this morning, I see,” Brevard remarked, eyeing the few drops of perspiration Kit knew still clung to his skin.

  Kit nodded. “Just practice, though, didn’t actually get into the ring.”

  “I’ve yet to warm up, but I am looking forward to a good session.”

  A good session. Isn’t that exactly what he’d been sitting here craving? Someone new he could pummel? A worthy opponent upon whom he could direct the force of all his excess energy? Not even the Gentleman himself would be a better adversary—especially since Kit didn’t have an urge to pound the Gentleman into the floor of the boxing ring.

  An image of Brevard kissing Eliza flashed through his mind. Old friend or not, Kit thought, I am going to enjoy this.

  “Why don’t we have that match,” Kit suggested, “when you’re ready, of course. You did promise me a bout, as I recall.”

  Brevard cast him a look of surprise. “Do you mean today?”

  “Yes, today. Both of us are here. Why wait?”

  “Don’t know if I’d feel right challenging you today. Doesn’t seem sporting somehow.”

  “Oh, how so?” Kit crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Well, you’ve been here for some time already, working and practicing, while I have only just arrived. Seems that would give me an unfair advantage, coming at it fresh as I am.”

  “Not at all. I was on the verge of asking Jackson for a new sparing partner anyway. I wore my first one out and had to send him off to recover his breath.”

  Brevard considered for a long moment. “If you are sure—”

  “Of course I am sure. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Kit did a few limbering stretches to keep his muscles warm while Brevard went through his own routine on the other side of the room. Anticipation hummed through Kit. He was barely able to keep himself still as he allowed one of the servant boys to lace him back into his gloves. Gloves on, he smacked one hard, padded fist into the other, enjoying the sense of power as the impact reverberated up his arms.