The Wedding Trap (15 page)

“I can tell. Bravo.” He gave her shoulder a light, almost barely noticeable squeeze, then straightened, his touch withdrawn as abruptly as it had been bestowed. Still, he didn’t walk away, towering solid and strong, his presence a distraction and yet a comfort at the same time.

All through dinner she had wished him at her side instead of a half a dozen seats away, but even she had to concede the evening would not have offered much of a test with Kit at her elbow.

Instead she had found herself seated between the Dowager Duchess of Raeburn on one side and Michael O’Brien on the other. She’d surprised herself by managing to hold reasonably entertaining conversations with both, finding Violet’s flamboyantly French mother-in-law reassuring and kind, while Michael O’Brien made her laugh more than once with lively tales of his life as a country veterinarian, told in his lilting Irish-accented voice.

The half hour after dinner had proven more difficult, the ladies leaving the gentlemen to their brandy by retiring to the drawing room to talk and sip tea and cordials. Eliza had nearly choked on her tea when Jeannette’s old friend Christabel Morgan—now Lady Cloverly—sat down in a chair directly across from her.

Eliza marveled to think they were both of an age—only three and twenty years. Compared with Christabel and the veneer of practiced sophistication she wore like a second skin, Eliza felt green as new-mown grass.

Christabel stared out of dark eyes that Eliza had always found coolly beautiful. “I hear tell you are on the lookout for a husband again this year,” Christabel drawled.

Eliza forced herself not to squirm and raised her chin a notch instead. “That is right, my lady.”

The other woman raked her gaze up and down. “Well, at least you are making an honest attempt at it this time. That gown is very becoming.”

It took her a moment to respond, since Christabel had never before breathed so much as a kind word in her direction. “Lady Mulholland chose it for me.”

“Jeannette has always had exceptional taste. Heed it, and you may actually get an offer. Assuming you give up those books of yours. Gentlemen don’t care for too educated a female.”

Eliza bit her tongue and swallowed her rebuttal. She might not often have much to say, but on this particular subject she could be quite vocal. How easy to point out the fact that Violet was a lady who could be termed a “too educated female” and yet it had not hurt her reputation. Then again, Violet was the Duchess of Raeburn, a title that had earned her forgiveness on many fronts. Yet remembering Kit’s advice to never, ever be argumentative in company no matter the provocation, Eliza consigned herself to a noncommittal nod.

Shortly afterward the gentlemen had joined the ladies, everyone repairing to the music room to continue the birthday festivities.

Now harp strings resonated on a few final sugar-spun notes, the melody as lovely as the youthful musician who had made only a pair of barely noticeable mistakes throughout her endearing performance. Applause rang out at the end of the song, Moira’s fair complexion pinking up in pleased reaction.

As the girl stood to return to her seat, Kit leaned down and spoke in a low voice. “Eliza, why do you not go next? It would be a wonderful opportunity for you to share your talent with everyone.”

Her stomach flip-flopped in abrupt horror. “N-no, I could not,” she whispered, shaking her head in fierce resistance against the idea.

“Why not?” he pressed softly. “You are among friends here. Go on, you need the practice and it would be an excellent chance for you to perform in front of others.”

“Oh, do you also play the harp, Eliza?” Darragh asked, having overheard the last of the nearby exchange.

“The p-piano, m-my lord. B-but not well, I am afraid.”

“Nonsense,” Kit retorted in a carrying tone. “I have heard her and she plays like an angel. A veritable virtuoso in our midst.”

Inwardly, Eliza cringed and closed her eyes. How could Kit do this to her? How could he trap her into such a situation, push her into doing something he must surely have known she would never voluntarily have agreed to do?

And that’s when she realized he was doing it deliberately. That he had lain in wait like some predatory jungle cat for exactly the right moment to pounce, betting she would give in to his urgings rather than humiliate them both in so public a forum.

Her lips tightened with anger. Raw, resentful anger, an emotion she had never before felt toward Kit.

It would serve him right, she thought, if she kept her seat and shook her head in stubborn refusal. But to do so would ruin all her hard work, make jest of her lessons and shatter her future plans. After all, as Kit said, if she could not perform here in front of these people, who were in large measure her friends, then how would she ever be able to cope in front of strangers during the Season?

Knowing Kit had her neatly ensnared, she climbed to her feet. She just prayed her legs didn’t give out between the sofa and the piano bench. “Very well, I shall play,” she said in as brave a voice as she could muster. “But don’t say I did not warn you all beforehand.”

A few people laughed at her quip as Kit accompanied her across the room. Refusing to look at him, she sank down upon the padded seat.

With his back to the group, Kit bent near. “You’re angry.”

She flipped through a few sheets of music, trying not to let her hands tremble, so nervous she could barely read the printed titles, let alone concentrate on the notes.

“I knew you would be cross with me,” Kit said for her ears alone, “but I didn’t know any other way to get you to play.”

“Get me to make a fool of myself, you mean,” she accused under her breath.

His compelling green-gold gaze caught and held her own. “You won’t look a fool. You play far too beautifully for that. Remember what I’ve been telling you all these weeks, believe in yourself and have faith you will not fail.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to perform.”

“I’ll stay with you if you like. I can turn the pages.”

“Of what? I cannot even choose a song,” she hissed in panic.

“Relax and play what you were playing the afternoon I heard you. It was Mozart, I believe.”

Mozart, one of her favorites. Yes, she supposed she might be able to pick out the melody and not make too bad a hash of the more difficult passages. But where was the sheet music?

Kit had already found the precisely inked score, setting it on the stand and opening it to the first page of notes. “You’ll be fine, and I’ll be with you.”

Kit stepped slightly aside to reveal Eliza to her waiting audience. She took a deep breath and set her fingers, icy cold with nerves, onto the keys.

Trembling, she forced herself to begin. She played ten quick notes before she hit the wrong keys in a resounding, cringe-inducing mistake. As abruptly as she had begun, she stopped, tears stinging the insides of her eyelids. Wanting to die on the spot, she hung her head in shame.

“Eliza, look at me,” Kit commanded. “Look at me.”

Slowly, she forced up her head and gazed in misery into his eyes.

“Begin again.”

She shook her head.

“You can do this. Forget about them and just play. Play as if there were no one else here. Pretend there are only the two of us in the room. Play for me, Eliza. Can you do that? Can you play just for me?”

And suddenly, as she stared into his warm, steady, beautiful eyes, she felt her nerves dissolve, untangling like strands of silk caught in a pale breeze. She took a breath, in and out, and steadied her fingers once again over the keys.

She began to play again.

The notes flowed out of her this time as if the composer himself sat before the instrument. Rapid then slow, then rapid again, changing tempo and rhythm in smooth precision as the melody directed. Lyrical and haunting, the music built toward a gradual crescendo that was as sweet and passionate as a heated summer night. She lost herself to it, to those evocative strains that filled her spirit with a quiet, almost invincible jubilation.

Kit stood beside her, turning the pages to music she no longer needed to consult. And in those moments, he truly did become the only other person in the room. On she played, adrift upon their small island of two. Then the piece concluded, her fingers racing over the keys in a last powerful flourish.

Silence engulfed the room as the final note faded away. Stunned by the experience, she listened to her heart hammer in her breast, fearing for an instant that no one but her had liked it.

In the next second, all she could hear was applause. Warm, genuine, real applause. She blinked in amazement as the outpouring washed over her, before glancing upward to meet Kit’s triumphant gaze as he too brought his palms together in hard claps of obvious pride.

“Bravo, Miss Hammond,” Adrian called.

“Yes, well done,” several of the others exclaimed. “Superb.”

She smiled, uncertain how to behave in the face of such glowing approbation—approval the likes of which she had not experienced in her entire life.

Kit captured her hand and drew her to her feet, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Magnificent, Eliza. You outdid even my grandest expectations.”

She tingled beneath his touch, feeling as if her feet were no longer touching the floor. Then she laughed, surprising everyone in the room yet again.

Chapter Nine

Two days later, Eliza was still floating in the aftermath of her success. Even now she couldn’t quite believe how well she had performed, how her nerves had eased and she had been able to play as she had never played before in her life.

Even Jeannette and Christabel had been impressed with her musical ability, insisting she must exhibit her skills this Season whenever the opportunity might arise.

Eliza just hoped her newfound confidence didn’t fade. Without Kit at her side, she did not know if she would be able to find the courage to perform in front of a crowd, in front of strangers. But as he had shown her last night, perhaps she owed it to herself—and him—to try. Despite his underhanded maneuvering, and her subsequent distress, he had taught her a valuable lesson, one she knew she would never again forget.

Only a few days now remained before Easter and the official start to the Season. Invitations had already begun to arrive at the townhouse, many of them with her name on them, much to her great surprise. As for her former bevy of fortune-hunting suitors, Kit had sent each and every one of them on his way. If more should appear, he promised he would send them packing as well.

For a young lordling with a reputation for carefree irresponsibility, Kit had become a fearsome protector. If only he didn’t see himself as her surrogate brother, she mused. If only he could somehow feel more.

Putting aside such foolhardy thoughts, Eliza made her way into the family drawing room.

Up until a few minutes ago, she had been with Violet and the children in the nursery, enjoying another round of hide-and-go-seek with the boys before pausing to rock baby Georgianna in her arms for a few delightful minutes. Then nap time arrived for the twins, as had a meal at Violet’s breast for little Georgianna.

With her lessons complete for the day, and Kit out of the house, busy with his usual round of activities and his legion of friends, Eliza had decided to busy herself by answering correspondence from her barrister, Mr. Pimm.

Along with inheriting her aunt’s money, she had also inherited a plethora of business concerns—investments, annuities and the management of a few rental properties. In general, Mr. Pimm handled the day-to-day details, but he needed her authorization to proceed on several matters.

In search of pen and paper, she crossed to the rosewood escritoire and pulled open the drawer. She froze, her gaze riveted to the little green book lying inside.

The naughty little green book that Jeannette had placed there for Violet to discover. Obviously Violet had not yet found her twin’s prurient birthday offering, unaware the book even remained in the house.

Trying to ignore it, Eliza withdrew a few sheets of foolscap and a quill pen, then set the items on top of the desk. She moved to close the drawer but paused, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone.

Alone and free to peek.

What could it hurt? No one would ever know but her.

Fingers hovering, she hesitated for a last few seconds before succumbing to the delectable temptation. Flipping open the book, she let the pages settle where they would, landing on a section of verse somewhere near the center. The text was written in old Italian that likely dated from the fifteenth or sixteenth century. She read a couple lines of the flowing, heavy black script.

Mercy,
she mused,
does that mean what I think it means?
She read it again and frowned, unsure if she understood the stanza, after all. Perhaps her Italian was getting rusty. She turned a page and felt herself grow saucer-eyed. Though well executed and drawn in a lush Renaissance-style pen and ink, the illustration was indeed explicit—depicting a naked man and an equally naked woman passionately entwined on a bed. The man lay atop the woman between her spread legs, her ankles hooked, of all things, over his shoulders! His wide palms clutched the woman’s large, overflowing breasts, his bent knees and taut, naked buttocks and the back of his powerful thighs prominently revealed.