Brevard gave a sad shake of his head. “No, I fear a tragic end yet awaits poor Desdemona. The fair lady is doomed to die.”
The viscount, his sister and one of Franny’s young friends, Miss Twitchell, had joined Eliza and the rest of the duke’s party at the theater tonight. Seated in the ducal box, Eliza had an excellent view of the entertainment.
She also had an excellent view of Kit, who had arrived solo, then sought out a group of his cronies in a box across the way. Despite her best attempts, the action on the stage had not held her attention, not enough to keep her eyes from straying time and again toward Kit. He’d been watching her as well, she was sure of it, though it was difficult to tell for certain in the dim theater lighting.
Now the interval had arrived.
Would Kit seek her out? Her senses throbbed at the notion before she told herself to put away her fancies. Kit might continue to “instruct” her in private, but he was always careful to project an air of the benevolent, platonic friend whenever they were together in company. Sometimes she wished he would forget his practiced facade and let his passion for her show. Of course, what she truly wished was that he would join the ranks of her suitors, then order all of them to be gone, declaring to the world that she belonged to him.
But until that time she would continue to play the game, continue to let gentlemen like Viscount Brevard shower her with their attention. With that determination in mind, Eliza met Brevard’s gaze and shared a warm smile.
He smiled back, eyes as blue as a June sky.
His sister, blond and pretty as a spring daffodil, appeared beside them. “Lance, may Jane and I have permission to go across to Lady Margate’s box? Her daughters are in attendance, and we should very much like to talk with them.”
The viscount looked between his sister and Miss Twitchell, both girls waiting with expressions of eager hopefulness on their faces. “Very well—” he began.
The girls interrupted with claps and whoops.
“So long as Miss Hammond consents to accompany me,” Brevard continued. “We shall walk behind the pair of you, so I can be assured you have arrived at the Margates’ box without incident. Most people here in the upper levels are quite well mannered, but one never knows when a ruffian may slip up the stairs to accost unescorted young ladies.” He turned to Eliza. “So what do you say, Miss Hammond? Would you care for a stroll?”
Eliza nodded. “Yes, of course. Miss Brevard and Miss Twitchell would be quite cast down if I did not. And taking a turn around the theater sounds vastly refreshing.”
The viscount stood, then extended his arm for Eliza to take. She paused to let Violet and Adrian know their destination, then the four of them were on their way.
The girls, Franny and Jane, preceded them out into the corridor, walking arm in arm as they chatted to each other. Eliza and Brevard strolled behind, careful to give the pair enough room not to feel crowded.
They soon arrived at the Margates’ box, Lady Margate and her daughters cheered to receive them. A trio of handsome young gentlemen were also in the box. Another reason, Eliza surmised, that Franny and Jane had been so eager for the visit.
After a couple minutes of polite conversation, Lady Margate bid Eliza and the viscount farewell, promising to bring the girls back to the duke’s box before the play resumed. Assured of his sister’s and her friend’s safety, Eliza and Brevard resumed their stroll.
“Shall we continue on in the direction we have been walking before making our return?” Brevard inquired.
“Yes, let’s. There are several minutes left in the interval, and after so much sitting a stroll sounds just the thing.”
But their perambulations were slow due to the multitude of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen thronging the corridor. Conversation was also not as easy to conduct as one might imagine, the haze of noise so thick it drifted on the air like a cloud of smoke. Tiny, oil-burning wall sconces lighted the way, giving off a muted, almost golden light. She and the viscount stopped often, pausing to exchange pleasantries with one acquaintance after another.
They had made their turn at the end of the corridor, and were about halfway back to Violet and Adrian’s box when a tall, wiry man slithered through the crowd. With hair and eyes as black and flat as a bottomless chasm, he crept forward, his gaze scraping over her like the brush of an icy claw.
Philip Pettigrew.
She had not seen him since that unnerving encounter at Raeburn House the day he had practically demanded she marry him. Perhaps after that, he had gone away from Town. Obviously wherever he had slunk off to, he had now returned, dressed as usual like an undertaker in unrelenting black.
She considered turning away and pretending she had not noticed him. But there was nowhere to retreat and if she publicly cut him, the incident would cause a stir among the gossipmongers. Steeling herself, she kept a firm hold on Brevard’s muscled arm and forced a pleasant expression onto her face.
“Cousin Eliza,” Pettigrew declared, drawing to a halt before them. “What a pleasure to find you here this evening. I did not realize you were in attendance until I happened to spy you among the crowd only a moment ago.”
Now, why, she wondered, did she think he was lying? Shaking off the unsettling feeling, she nodded her head in greeting. “Cousin.”
An awkward instant of silence fell, Pettigrew quite plainly waiting for an introduction.
“Lord Brevard,” she said, “pray let me make you known to my cousin, Mr. Philip Pettigrew.” She paused, not meeting Pettigrew’s gaze. “Cousin Philip, Viscount Lancelot Brevard. I assume you gentlemen do not have a prior acquaintance.”
“No, I have not had the occasion. Pettigrew.” The viscount thrust out a palm.
The men shook hands.
“I didn’t realize Miss Hammond had family in Town,” Brevard remarked.
“Cousin Eliza does not possess many relations,” Pettigrew said, “her own dear parents having long since gone to their maker. Her aunt and myself were really Eliza’s only close relatives. But now that Mama is gone, God bless her sainted soul, there is only myself. A shame we do not see more of each other, is it not, Cousin?”
Eliza stared at him, fighting a frown. If she said “No,” as he surely must know she longed to do, she would sound churlish. And if she agreed, he might take advantage of the opening to ingratiate himself upon her again.
Taking the middle path, she made a noncommittal noise. “Good to happen upon you, Cousin, but I believe his lordship and I should be returning to our seats now.”
“Oh, there is still plenty of time remaining in the interval, enough to chat for another minute or two.”
She cringed inside, wanting to walk away regardless of Pettigrew’s assertion, but manners long ingrained held her in place.
“You must be enjoying the Season this year, Cousin,” Pettigrew said. “Your name is on everyone’s lips, remarking on the swath you’ve been cutting among the Ton.” He paused, showing his discolored teeth. “Quite a change from your prior Seasons. How many were there?”
A gleam in her cousin’s eyes showed her he knew exactly how many there had been.
She stiffened and refused to rise to his obvious bait. “I really could not say.”
“Well, however many it is,” Pettigrew continued, blinking in a slow, direct way that put her in mind of a reptile, “ ’tis commendable of you to maintain your optimism. Most women of your years would have donned a spinster’s cap and set themselves firmly on the shelf ages ago. All your success this Season must be gratifying. Although I confess surprise that I have not yet heard news of an engagement.”
Brevard’s arm tensed beneath her hand, but before he could respond, a familiar voice entered the fray.
“I am sure the lady will reveal her choice of husband when she is ready to do so, and not a minute before,” Kit said, his tone carrying a hard, implacable edge she had never heard him use. “You can read the engagement announcement in the paper when the time comes, Pettigrew.”
“Lord Christopher,” her cousin said with false warmth, “a pleasure as always.”
“If you say.” Kit made no effort to greet the other man as good manners dictated.
“Obviously you feel I have overstepped, but I meant nothing untoward. As Cousin Eliza’s closest relation, I am merely concerned for her future welfare and happiness.”
“Oh, I am sure you are,” Kit said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “And still lamenting the loss of your mother’s money as well, no doubt.” He leaned forward, tall and intimidating despite the fact that he and Pettigrew were of a similar height. “Whatever wild permutations are rumbling around inside that head of yours, you can put them away. Eliza and her wealth are out of your reach. She refused you once, and she won’t be entertaining your unwelcome advances again.”
“You wound me, my lord. I merely stopped to converse and reacquaint myself with my cousin. Surely I have a right to speak with my own family?”
“You’ve spoken to her. Now be gone.”
An unnatural flush colored Pettigrew’s usually pallid complexion, his upper lip trembling. “I should call you out for your insulting behavior and the accusations you have made about myself and my intentions.”
Kit crossed his arms over his chest, clearly amused. “Want to fight, do you? I shall be happy to oblige. Brevard here can act as my second.”
The viscount gave a firm, tacit nod of agreement.
“So, what shall it be?” Kit dared. “Pistols or swords? Either choice makes little difference since I am proficient at both. Or if you’re worried about dying, we could meet in the ring at Gentleman Jackson’s. I am sure I could provide you entrée, since I know you do not hold a subscription.”
At the mention of violence, alarm squeezed inside Eliza’s chest. “Oh, Kit, please, stop. Do not do this.”
Without glancing her way, he reached out and patted the hand she had laid on his arm. Otherwise, he kept his attention centered on her cousin.
“Well, Pettigrew? I am waiting.”
To Eliza’s dismay, she saw that Kit was not the only one waiting. A small cluster of ladies and gentlemen had congregated and were pretending, not very successfully, to be minding their own business, when in actuality they were riveted to every word.
Visibly bristling, Pettigrew puffed out his scrawny chest and thrust forward his bony chin, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a buoy. Just when everyone was beginning to wonder if he might actually be foolish enough to agree to meet Kit, he growled low, spun on one heel and elbowed his way through the crowd.
“Appears his threats are as empty as his pocketbook,” Kit quipped in a voice loud enough to carry.
Their audience tittered and made a couple of choice remarks. Since the interval was about to end, they had the grace to quickly disburse and return to their seats.
Once the corridor stood deserted, Kit turned to Eliza. “Are you all right?”
She had not thought herself affected, but now that the entire encounter was over, she began to tremble.
Seeing her condition, Kit gazed at Brevard. “As you can see, Miss Hammond is overset. If you would be so good as to inform my brother and his wife of our departure, I shall escort Miss Hammond home.”
“There is no need for you to leave. I shall be fine,” she told Kit.
He shook his head. “You won’t be fine with half the audience watching you for the remainder of the evening. You know how quickly word spreads. Let me take you back to Raeburn House. Adrian and Violet can handle any uproar that follows. Since weathering their own scandal a couple years ago, they’ve grown quite skilled at quashing unwanted talk.”
“Winter is right, Miss Hammond,” Brevard urged. “You would only cause yourself unneeded grief if you remained. And most likely by the time you awaken tomorrow, there’ll be some new fodder for everyone to start chewing on, and they will forget all about yours.”
She worried her lower lip with her teeth, then nodded. “Very well. But please tell the duchess not to be alarmed and to stay for the rest of the play. I do not wish to be the ruin of her evening.”
“You won’t be,” Kit assured her before turning to the other man. “Thank you, Brevard, and good evening.”
She tossed a weak smile to the viscount. “Yes, thank you, my lord. Pray give my regards to your sister and Miss Twitchell.”
With a nod and a farewell, Brevard bowed, then strode away.
Kit offered her his arm. “Come, my little wren, let us away.”
She set her hand on his sleeve and together they departed.
Chapter Eighteen
Outside the theater, Kit took the coach seat opposite Eliza and waited while the servants closed the door and made ready to set the vehicle in motion.
All evening long, Kit had kept his distance from Eliza. At first, he’d fleetingly considered attending the theater with the rest of the family, but had known the wiser choice would be to sit with his friends across the gallery, instead of inside the box with Eliza. Being so near her, he knew he might give in to the temptation to steal a quick touch or two, a craving that lately was beginning to border on obsession.
So he’d contented himself by watching her instead, gratified to catch occasional glimpses of her watching him back from across the darkened venue.
But during the interval, when he’d come upon Pettigrew publicly accosting her, his intention to remain discreetly in the background had vanished, his only thought to come to her aid and erase the expression of distress from her face.
Now as they sat together alone in the coach, he was doubly glad he had.
The coach lurched slightly as the driver flicked the reins, giving a command to send the team forward. As soon as the horses were moving, so was Kit, levering himself up and across to sit beside Eliza.
Curling an arm over her shoulders, he pulled her close. “Feeling better?” he asked.
She nodded. “I am now.”
“Then what are these shivers?” he admonished gently, rubbing soothing fingers across the strip of bare skin that lay between the edge of her short, silk sleeve and the top of her elbow-length glove.
From underneath her lashes, she cast him a glance. “I am a little cold, I guess.”
“Here, then, let me warm you up.”
Without further warning, he lifted her off the seat and onto his lap, setting her snuggly against him, his arms wrapped tight. “Ah, now, this is better.”
She wiggled for a moment in obvious surprise, her bottom brushing against him in a way that drove a rush of longing straight to his loins. As if she knew exactly what sort of difficulty she’d put him in, she stopped squirming, but her efforts came too late.
He couldn’t complain, though, enjoying the sensation of holding her so near. On a quiet sigh, she leaned her head against his shoulder.
Stroking her arm, he gave her a light kiss. “Relax, sweet. You’re safe.”
“I know. Just as I know I was never in any real danger, it’s only that he’s so very dreadful.”
“That he is. A wart on the world’s backside. But Pettigrew is gone now, and I don’t want you worrying about your cousin bothering you anymore. I’ll keep you safe.”
Snuggling closer, she slid an arm around his waist. “I never did thank you for stepping in the way you did. I think Lord Brevard was about to try, but—”
“But he doesn’t know what a snake your cousin is, or what a coward. I guess everyone in the Ton will know now.”
Eliza raised her head to meet his gaze. “Philip was furious, Kit. You oughtn’t to have goaded him the way you did.”
“I wouldn’t have been in any real peril, I assure you, even if he had mustered the nerve to fight me.”
“Oh, I know that. I was only concerned that if you killed him, you would end up h
aving to flee the country, particularly considering the number of witnesses there were to the event.”
Kit stared at her for an instant before tossing his head back on a hearty laugh. He was still chuckling moments later. “That’s what is so enchanting about you, Eliza, you’re always so delightfully honest. It’s a refreshing quality that few people possess. Promise never to lose it, my little wren, no matter how old you may one day grow.”
A dreamy smile blossomed across her lips, her cheeks glowing with a pleasure visible even in the tenebrous interior of the coach. “I promise,” she murmured, her voice solemn and husky.
The humor inside him faded as quickly as it had come, desire stirring once again to life. Tightening his hold, he reached up and stroked the warm, satiny skin of her cheek, before roving downward in a gradual glide, tracing the slender column of her throat as he went. At the base, he curled gentle fingers against the underside of her jaw, then tipped back her head to position it for his kiss.
He dusted his lips across one cheek. “You said something about wanting to thank me.” He bent to pay homage to the other cheek. “I believe I know just the way. Why don’t you show me what I’ve taught you and exactly how much you’ve learned.”
With that invitation, he waited, earning his reward seconds later when she buried her fingers in his hair and dragged his lips down to hers. As Eliza plundered his mouth with impressive thoroughness, Kit realized she had indeed learned a great deal under his tutelage, her touch sending his senses reeling, turning his brain to mush.
Like she always did, Eliza experienced a blaze of emotion, a sizzle in her blood that by rights should have sent up sparks. Toes curling inside her satin evening slippers, she poured every ounce of passion and skill into her embrace.
His tongue tangled with hers in a wild dance, dynamic and intense, showing her that her efforts were proving effective. Groaning, he slid his hand lower to cup her breast, rubbing the taut peak of her nipple through the delicate silk of her gown.
The Wedding Trap Page 23
