The Husband Trap (18 page)

The gleam dimmed, the housekeeper’s mouth opening and closing for a long moment while she decided whether or not to argue. Then she lowered her eyes and curtseyed, stepping aside to let Violet pass. “As you wish, your Grace.”

“Good day, Mrs. Hardwick.” Violet swept past, allowing herself to tremble only after she rounded a corner in the corridor beyond.

In Violet’s bedroom, Agnes had set out a comfortable green-and-white-striped muslin day dress and green slippers to match. After bathing her face and hands, Violet let her maid assist her into the new outfit. Then she made her way through several long hallways to the family dining room.

Adrian arrived ten minutes later, striding in at a brisk pace. “Forgive my tardiness, my dear. Reams of correspondence cluttering my office. I left Dalton scribbling away. He claims he is content to catch a bite at his desk. That’s what comes from having your attention focused on other pursuits, too much work.”

He bent down, dusted his lips across her forehead, then crossed to assume his place at the head of the table. He spread his napkin onto his lap. “But I am sure you don’t wish to hear a lot of boring business talk. How was your morning?”

His business talk was not boring, she wanted to tell him. She would far rather hear about his day than discuss her own. After all, what could be more tedious than inspecting kitchen stores, bottles of wine and stacks of linens? Jeannette, however, would likely have shown little interest in the affairs of business, especially those of her own husband.

Doing her best to make her morning’s plight amusing, Violet launched into an abridged account of her explorations of Winterlea. She left out her misgivings concerning Mrs. Hardwick.

The woman made her uncomfortable. For a brief moment she considered telling Adrian, then dismissed the urge. It wasn’t as if the housekeeper had actually done anything wrong. She was very efficient,
too
efficient really. Perhaps that was the problem. The woman left Violet feeling as if she were an intruder in her new home. As if
she
were the servant and her abilities had been found distinctly lacking.

Perhaps it was her own sense of insecurity that made her feel that way. Jeannette certainly wouldn’t have had this problem. Pity was, she wasn’t Jeannette. She ate another mouthful of Chef’s delicious steak-and-kidney pie and kept her worries to herself.

“I do not mean to seem as if I am neglecting you, my dear,” Adrian said when the meal was concluded, the plates cleared away. “But I have some pressing matters that cannot wait. Would you be terribly distressed if we skipped the ride we’d planned for this afternoon? I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. We’ll spend the entire day together, if you like. Ride out and have a picnic. What do you think?”

He waited as if anticipating an argument.

From Jeannette he would likely have gotten one.

“I can’t claim not to be disappointed,” she said truthfully, “but I understand that you are quite busy. Therefore, I shall endeavor to occupy myself this afternoon.”

He relaxed, looking relieved. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain. You needn’t dance attendance upon me twenty-four hours a day. I am your wife now. I have duties too.”

After she had made her selfless statement, Violet wondered if she should have. In Jeannette’s mind, business might always be put off for later when there was pleasure to be had. Yet Violet could not regret her words. She did not want Adrian to think her overly demanding, regardless of how her sister might have behaved.

“But don’t imagine I won’t hold you to your promises about tomorrow. I shall be quite cross if you renege.”

Adrian rose, strode to her. All the footmen had withdrawn, leaving them alone in the room. He rested his hands on the arms of her chair and leaned close. “Never fear. I won’t renege.”

He kissed her, a leisurely blending of lips and tongues, gentle and sweet as a warm spring morning. “I believe, my dear, that I am a very lucky man. A very lucky man indeed to have a wife such as you.”

After he departed, Violet sat for a time, absorbing what he had said, how he had acted, the memory of his kiss still tingling upon her lips. Was he coming to love her? The word was never spoken between them, and yet…Her heart swelled with the joyous hope of it. Her next thought, however, plunged her painfully back to earth. Was it she he was falling in love with? Or only the woman he believed her to be?

Gloomy, she rose from the table.

That’s when she remembered the library and brightened a bit. Perhaps the afternoon wouldn’t be utterly dismal, after all.

Violet had never seen so many books assembled in one room in her entire life. The elegant leather-bound volumes ranged all four walls, climbing in two tiers to the very top of the twenty-five-foot-high ceiling. For a book lover such as herself, the effect was a truly monumental experience. Of course, she had viewed the library at Winterlea before, but this was the first opportunity she had had to explore its contents at her leisure.

Glancing over her shoulder to confirm she was alone, she withdrew from her pocket the spectacles she kept hidden in her keepsake box upstairs and slid them onto her nose.
Hallelujah,
she thought, as the world came once more into sharp focus. She could see. She blinked a couple of times to get used to the enhanced clarity, then began to scrutinize the selection of available books.

There were so many of them she could literally have spent hours doing nothing more than reading the titles. The classics were well represented: Euripides, Homer, Socrates and Plato. Violet considered taking down
Plutarch’s Lives,
but decided she wasn’t in the mood for such heavy reading. There were the collected works of William Shakespeare and a few volumes written by his contemporary, and supposed mentor, Christopher Marlowe.

Molière, Voltaire and Descartes were present in both the original French and the English translations. And there were several volumes of essays from such notable authors as Adam Smith, John Milton, Francis Bacon and Edmund Burke.

Concerned she was dawdling, she plucked down a volume of poetry by Robert Burns—romantic, relaxing and easily interrupted should she find herself in need of a quick retreat. She would have to be careful of her time, careful as well to make sure no one actually saw her reading in the library.

Luckily, the room possessed several splendid nooks, including one with a deep window seat. Arranging herself inside against a comfortable, plush blue cushion, she drew the draperies closed and shut herself into her own private little world. With a pleased smile flirting over her lips, she opened her book and began to read.

Three weeks later, Violet was arranging cut flowers into a vase in one of the downstairs drawing rooms when March gave a light tap upon the door. She bid him to enter.

“Good afternoon, your Grace.” He walked forward, a silver salver in hand. “Some correspondence has arrived for your attention.”

She slipped a peach-faced zinnia in amongst several tall hollyhocks whose sunny yellow petals burst like fairy puffs upon each long stalk. “Oh, thank you, March. Would you be so kind as to place them on the escritoire, please?” She reached for another zinnia, a crimson one this time.

The majordomo bowed. “My pleasure, your Grace.”

“March?”

He paused, waited politely. “Yes, your Grace?”

She took a step back, angled her head to one side. “What do you think?”

“Think, your Grace?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She nodded toward the vase of flowers. “What do you think of my arrangement?”

“It wouldn’t be my place to say.”

“Whyever not? You have eyes, do you not?”

“Well, yes, your Grace, but—”

“Please. I should value your opinion. You have a fine aesthetic sense. You never set anything but a perfect table and everything under your direction here in the house is done in the finest of taste.” She gazed again at the vase of flowers and sighed. “I fear I am not much of a hand at arrangements.”

Warmed by her words of praise, March let some of his usual stiff formality slip away. He studied the flowers, a riot of bold color and haphazard shape—stems, leaves and petals squeezed in so tightly, the vase seemed in imminent danger of exploding.

She caught his look. “I should prefer you to be honest.”

He paused for a long moment as he gathered his thoughts. “Your choice of color and flower type is delightful. Pastels cheerfully intermixed with a few bold primaries lend the arrangement visual interest. Tall and short stalks to give it movement. But if I might suggest, your design could be improved by using fewer flowers. Perhaps you could intersperse the taller ones throughout the design instead of clumping them all in the back.” He fell suddenly silent, fearing for an instant that he had voiced far too much of an opinion.

Yet the duchess did not seem angered. Squinting at the arrangement, she tipped her head in the opposite direction from before. “You know, I believe you are right.” She stepped close, yanked out nearly a dozen dripping stems. Putting them aside, she rearranged the others so that the long hollyhocks were more uniformly distributed.

She moved back again, hands clasped beneath her chin. She smiled. “Oh, that is exactly what it needed. Thank you, March. Thank you very much indeed.”

A slight wave of color stole into his cheeks, leaving him uncommonly discomposed. He hadn’t blushed in nearly forty years, he realized, not since he’d been a small lad enduring a scold. He cleared his throat. “You are most welcome, your Grace. I am pleased I was able to be of assistance.”

She smiled again, straight at him. Unable to repress the impulse, he smiled back.

Since the duke and his new bride had taken up residence, she had captivated them all. Showing surprisingly little resemblance to the spoiled girl who had visited Winterlea for a week last spring during the engagement period, this young woman was a pure delight. Warm, kind and thoughtful. Clearly marriage suited her.

They idolized the duke, respected and admired him. He was very good to them all. But they adored the duchess, every one of them her devotee.

Everyone except Mrs. Hardwick.

The duchess gathered up the flowers she’d removed from the vase and handed them to March. “I won’t be needing these. Do you think the staff would enjoy them? I believe they would brighten the belowstairs dining tables for this evening’s meal.”

March accepted the flowers, inclined his head. “Most kind, your Grace. It will be a cheerful addition indeed.”

A brief frown creased her forehead. “Oh, but there are not nearly enough. Please instruct Dobbins and the gardening staff to cut as many more as you need so that everyone may enjoy them.”

March nodded again, full dignity restored. “It shall be done as you wish.” He bowed, departed the room.

Alone, Violet studied the finished flower arrangement with justifiable pride. Even Jeannette could not have done better. She carried her floral work of art across to a wide, marble-topped table where she knew it would look good and carefully set it down. She admired it a moment more then turned away. She sighed as she caught sight of the small stack of correspondence March had brought in.

More invitations, she supposed. They’d started arriving a little less than a week ago, right after their neighbors began to call. The Miltons had been the first to arrive, a friendly older couple whose six children were all grown and married. Their eldest son was a barrister who now resided in London.

Squire Lyle and his wife, Joan, came next, their two eldest daughters in tow. Pretty, apple-cheeked girls of fifteen and sixteen years, the Lyle children had sat in wide-eyed silence while the adults talked. The only outburst came when the girls had fallen into a paroxysm of high-pitched giggling over a naked Greek figurine that stood in one of the hallway alcoves.

Vicar Thompkins, tall and solemn in black, arrived soon after with his wife, Emeline. A tiny, pale doe of a woman, Mrs. Thompkins only came up to her husband’s shoulder and spoke in a breathless sort of whisper one had to strain to hear.

And then there had been Lord and Lady Carter, the only couple with whom she and Jeannette had a prior acquaintance. Unlike the other neighbors, who knew her not at all, she’d had to be most on her guard with the Carters, striving to be as genial and lively as possible.

She’d nearly muffed it by splashing tea all over her skirt while she had been nervously pouring. Luckily, she’d caught herself just as the first drop was about to spill. Through sheer force of will, she’d made it through the rest of the visit without giving herself away.

She crossed now to the writing desk, and aware she was alone, pulled her spectacles out of her dress pocket. She balanced them on her nose, savoring her improved eyesight.

The first two items of correspondence were indeed invitations. She set them aside for later consideration.

The third was a letter posted from London, her title written across the heavy cream-colored vellum in a broad, dark hand. She broke the seal, her eyes widening as she began to read.

My dearest love,

You know not the torments I have suffered since your marriage…

She gasped.

A love letter.

My God, she had completely forgotten Jeannette’s admonition that letters of this sort might arrive. And if she’d had any doubt as to the sex of the mysterious “Kaye,” she didn’t any longer. Only he wasn’t “Kaye,” as she’d assumed. He was “K,” the single initial scrawled at the base of the missive.

Hastily, Violet snapped the letter shut.

What to do? Jeannette had told her to forward them on to her immediately. But should she? Did she have any right not to?

Unable to resist, she opened the letter again and read a little farther. It wasn’t a long note. But, oh my, the passion that leapt off the page with each and every word.

Who was this man her sister was involved with? What sort of person must he be to pursue a woman he thought married to another? A man desperately in love, she decided, the depth of his ardor unmistakable, as imprudent as it might be.