The Wedding Trap (23 page)

“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 enough 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.

Oh, yes, I am going to enjoy this.

Then Brevard strode across, stepped up and into the ring. Kit followed, swinging inside the boxing area with easy familiarity. This was his territory, and he knew exactly how to put it to use.

Various practice matches ceased around the room, gentlemen and commoners alike gathering to watch the bout. Towel boys hunkered low, slipping through the crowd to the front like lithe little monkeys, so they would be able to see the action. Even the retired champion himself, Gentleman Jackson, strolled over to witness the competition.

Inside the ring, Kit and Brevard touched gloves in a sportsmanlike salute, then the fight was on.

Kit danced backward, gloves instantly raised and ready. He circled slowly, studying his opponent, judging and measuring as he tried to anticipate what Brevard’s opening move might be.

That move came an instant later in the form of a jab toward his ribs. Kit was prepared, tucking his arms tight to his chest to deflect the blow. He countered with a jab of his own, a sharp uppercut that connected with Brevard’s jaw. He heard the smack as leather met skin, Brevard’s head snapping sharply to one side.

The viscount shook his head, the blow plainly harder than he had been expecting. “I heard you had a solid punch, Winter. Now I know what they mean.”

“What? That little tap?” Kit jogged a few steps in place, shook out his arms. “Ready to go again?”

Brevard pinned him with a faintly wary look. “This is a friendly match we’re having, right?”

“What else would it be? Are we not both gentlemen?”

The viscount’s gaze cleared. “Quite right. Let us proceed.”

They moved around each other, gloves poised for action. Kit let Brevard come at him in his own time and at his own pace. When he did, Kit met his jabs, glancing blows he countered without strain. He waited, repelling two more series of jabs and counterjabs, giving the other man enough space to lure him where he wanted him.

Then suddenly the moment was right. One, two, and straight into Brevard’s ribs. The viscount winced, instinctively tucking in his elbows after it was already too late. The blows must have hurt, Kit knew, but they hadn’t been hard enough to break anything.