TheWifeTrap (40 page)

Read on for a sneak peek at

the final tantalizing book in the Trap trilogy!

London, February 1820

This business of acquiring a husband is going to be far from
pleasant,
Eliza Hammond decided from her place on the saffron-and-white-striped
sofa in the upstairs family drawing room of Raeburn House.

Considering this would be her fifth Season—a lowering realization
indeed—she knew she would need all the assistance she could get, despite the
immense fortune her late aunt had quite unexpectedly left to her only six weeks
ago. At least she knew she would be able to count on the steadfast support of
her dear friend, Violet Brantford Winter, Duchess of Raeburn. Perhaps with
Violet’s assistance, the process would not be as dreadful as she feared. Then
again, thinking of the assorted ne’er-do-wells and fortune hunters already
vying for her hand, perhaps it would.

“There is Mr. Newcomb,” Violet stated as she reviewed the current
selection of Eliza’s prospective suitors. “He seems a very pleasant sort of
gentleman with a genuine interest in the arts.”

“Yes, he was most attentive when we happened upon each other at
the gallery the other day,” Eliza agreed, recalling the man’s even features and
straight auburn hair, a shade that had put her in mind of a glossy-coated Irish
setter. “He demonstrated a definite command of the great masters. Perhaps he
has an interest in historical subjects as well.”

“What he has is an interest in card playing, followed a close
second by a love of the dice,” interrupted a deep, smooth male voice that never
failed to send a pleasurable tingle down Eliza’s spine no matter how firmly she
tried to suppress it.

She shifted her gaze toward Lord Christopher Winter, better known
to his family and friends as Kit. Tall, broad-shouldered and ruggedly lean, he
sat relaxed in a leisurely all-male sprawl upon a nearby chair. Having spent
the past twenty minutes eating his way through a stack of small watercress,
cucumber and chicken sandwiches, he leaned forward now to conduct a perusal of
the dessert tray.

A lock of his dark wavy brown hair fell across his handsome
forehead as he selected a pair of lime tarts and a thin slice of rum cake. As
he transferred the sweets to his plate, he got a smudge of whipped cream on one
of his knuckles. Eliza’s stomach tightened as she watched him lick it away.

She forced her gaze down to her shoes. Kit was Violet’s
brother-in-law and nothing more, she reminded herself. Certainly he was nothing
more to
her
. True, she had once nursed a secret infatuation for him,
but such silliness was long since over and done. During the nearly year and a
half he had been away traveling on the Continent, she had ruthlessly purged him
from her heart. And by the time he returned to England this Christmas past, she
had long since grown used to giving him scarcely a thought.

Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire him for the gorgeous
male specimen he was. And Kit Winter, with his beautiful, lazy-lidded green and
gold eyes, sensuous lips and infectiously charming smile, was a gorgeous man
indeed. One with an infamously prodigious appetite that seemed to make no
impact at all upon his trim, well-muscled physique.

He bit into one of the tarts from his plate, a tiny smile of
gustatory delight on his lips as he settled back into his chair. Engrossed in
the confection, he seemed utterly oblivious to the volley of disappointment he
had just lobbed into the room.

Violet shot him a mighty frown. “What do you mean by that remark,
Kit?”

He swallowed, glanced upward. “Hmm?” He took a drink of tea, then
politely patted his mouth with his napkin. “Oh, about Newcomb, do you mean?”

“Yes, of course about Newcomb. Of whom else have Eliza and I been
conversing?”

“Well, there’s no need to come up cross, Vi. Just thought I ought
to give you fair warning the chap is close to being dipped. Last I heard, he
lost twenty thousand quid to Plimpton playing high-stakes whist, and his luck
hasn’t turned for the good since.”

Violet and Eliza released a pair of mutual sighs.

“If that is the case, then he is out,” Violet declared, turning
her bespectacled blue-green gaze upon Eliza. “You certainly don’t want to take
an inveterate gambler to husband.”

Eliza silently agreed, contented herself by sipping her tea.

“There is Sir Silas Jones,” Violet continued. “He sent you that
sweet nosegay of hothouse roses last week. I hear he comes from a lovely part
of Kent. Owns an estate that produces a most bountiful harvest of cherries and
apples each year. Has quite the way with plants, I am given to understand.”

“That’s not all he’s good at planting,” murmured Kit as he
polished off the last of the sweets on his plate and leaned forward for more.

Violet angled her attractively coiffured blond head. “I suppose by
that you mean there is something wrong with him as well?”

“Depends upon your point of view. Some might say there’s nothing
wrong with him at all.” He ate a guinea-sized crumpet topped with a generous
spoonful of gooseberry jam, then silently held out his empty Meissen cup for
more tea.

Without pause, Violet lifted the heavy silver teapot from a
matching silver tray and poured. A delicate tendril of steam spiraled off the
surface of the beverage for a moment before Kit brought the cup to his lips.

“So?” Violet encouraged when he failed to say more.

Kit set his teacup onto its saucer with a faint
clink.
“Man’s a womanizer. Has six by-blows by four different women and those are only
the ones he acknowledges. One might say Jones is a man who likes to plow a
field.”

Eliza felt her cheeks pinken. A small guffaw escaped the duchess
before Violet recovered herself.

“Kit,” Violet said in reproof. “Might I remind you there are
ladies present, myself included. That is no kind of talk for the drawing room.”

He forced an irreverent grin from his lips. “Sorry. You are right,
of course. My apologies, ladies.”

“Nevertheless, I am glad to learn that Sir Silas is not a man to
whom my dear friend should direct her time or attentions.” Violet tapped a
thoughtful nail against the scrolled sofa arm. “Of the other gentlemen who have
recently extended their regards to Eliza, we know Viscount Coyle and Mr.
Washburn are not to be received, the both of them known fortune hunters forever
on the lookout for a likely heiress to replenish their pocketbooks.”

“What of Lord Luffensby?” Eliza said. “He sent me that very
pleasant book of sonnets.” Wordsworth, she recalled with pleasure, the poet one
of her favorites.

“Of course. I only met him once and very briefly, but he struck me
as a most amiable man. Very considerate and gently spoken.”

A soft but unmistakable snort erupted from Kit.

Violet shot him another look, one of exasperation this time. “Pray
do not tell me there is something amiss with Lord Luffensby too? Surely not. I
know his cousin, and she gave me to understand that he has a most comfortable
income and no predilections for the usual vices.”

“No, not the usual ones, that’s for certain.”

Violet waited for a long moment. “Oh, do go on before Eliza and I
both expire of curiosity.”

“I am not sure I ought to say. As you already reminded me, there
are ladies present.” Kit paused, glanced at Eliza. “Unmarried ladies.”

“Well, dear heavens, what is it? Surely it cannot be so terrible
Eliza cannot be allowed to hear. And it isn’t as if she is a miss just out of
the schoolroom.”

Kit tapped a considering finger against his lips. “He has a
nickname among certain fellows. Lord Poofensby.”

Poofensby?
Eliza frowned. Was Kit referring to the man’s
wardrobe? Luffensby did tend toward being a bit of a dandy but nothing too
extreme. She looked over at Violet, whose brows were also furrowed in
confusion.

“I am sorry, but you’ll have to be clearer,” Violet said.

“Clearer?” Kit rolled his eyes, heaved a beleaguered sigh. “You
know, for a woman who reads Greek and Latin and speaks five languages, you can
sometimes be remarkably ignorant.”

“There is no need to be insulting. Just say it out. I am sure it
cannot be so very bad.”

“All right. He…um…has a liking for men.”

“Well, what is so remarkable about that? A great many gentlemen
enjoy the company of others of their sex. I don’t see why you are making such
a—Oh.” Violet broke off, her eyebrows rising. “Oh!
Oooh.
”

Eliza looked between them, still not entirely understanding the
message that had just been passed. Then suddenly she remembered a bit of text
she had read once in one of her books on ancient history about men who cared
for other men in an amorous way. She had found the notion quite astonishing at
the time, yet never considered such things might still go on. Certainly not
here in present-day England!

A blush stole over her cheeks.

“Quite so.” Kit stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankle.
“Not the sort of fellow likely to give you a family, assuming that is what you
want?”

A family, Eliza thought, was exactly what she wanted. It was the
single most important reason she had decided to find a husband and wed. Her
shoulders dipped; she was disheartened by the entire conversation.

“Well, who else is there?” Violet withdrew a white silk
handkerchief from her dress pocket, then removed her spectacles and began to
polish the lenses. “You have received so many bouquets and trinkets, there must
be someone suitable in the bunch.”

“But there is not,” Eliza bemoaned. “Oh, Violet, don’t you see, it
is simply no use. They are all of them unsuitable in one way or another. Either
they are after my fortune or they have some dreadful personal difficulty they
wish to conceal through a convenient marriage.”

Violet slipped her eyeglasses back on, then reached out and patted
the top of Eliza’s hand. “Now, do not let this discourage you. The Season has
not even begun yet. There is no telling all the eligible bachelors who will be
arriving in the city over the next few weeks. Men who would give their eyeteeth
to have you for their wife.”

“Perhaps a single rotten molar but no more.” Eliza shook her head.
“No, the facts must be faced. The sad truth is that no suitable gentlemen
wanted me before my aunt died and none of them wants me now. Some days I wish
my aunt had not gotten angry with Cousin Philip and cut him out of the will.
Some days poverty seems a remarkably easier choice.”

“Poverty is never easy, and do not spout such self-defeating
nonsense. I know you would never wish to go back to that life. You lived under
that old woman’s miserly thumb far too many years—forgive my harsh sentiments
toward the dead—not to enjoy a little comfort now. If anyone deserves her
fortune, it is you.”

“Maybe, but it does not seem to be doing me much good.”

“What you need is a mentor,” Violet said. “Someone who knows
Society and could smooth your way. Teach you how to be easier in company, have
more confidence so your shyness does not leave you tongue-tied and silent among
others, unable to show what a lovely personality you possess.”

Violet paused, tapped a thumb against the knee of her elegant
lavender merino wool day dress. “As you will recall, I once had the same
problem as you. So shy in public I could barely string a pair of words
together. Then during those insane months when I switched places with Jeannette
and married Adrian in her stead, well, I had no choice but to change my ways.
Why, if it had not been for Kit—” She broke off, stared at her brother-in-law
for a long, pregnant moment. Suddenly a merry laugh bubbled from her lips.
“Well, of course! Why did I not think of it before?”

“Think of what?” Eliza asked.

“Of you and Kit. Why, it is perfect. Kit will help you find a
worthy husband.”

“I’ll do what!” Kit jerked upright in his seat, his cup rattling
precariously on its saucer. Only his innate sense of balance kept him from
spilling hot tea all over his fashionably tight buckskin pantaloons. In no mood
to risk a burn, especially in so vulnerable an area of his anatomy, he steadied
the china and set it onto a nearby side table.

Eliza Hammond, he noticed, looked as shocked as he felt, her pale
lips parted, her slender jaw slack with obvious astonishment.

He straightened his waistcoat with a firm double-handed tug. “I
must have misheard you. Sounded like you just suggested I play matchmaker for
Miss Hammond here.”

“Not matchmaker, no. Eliza and I will be able to locate gentlemen
aplenty, I suspect. Your role will be more in the way of mentor, just as I
said. You can help vet her prospective suitors, but more importantly you can do
for her what you did for me. Teach her how to be more confident in company.
Give her techniques and ways of interacting in Society so she need not feel so
reticent.”