The Wedding Trap (11 page)

“It is my pleasure to be of service, Miss Eliza.” The older man set down the heavy tray, positioning it for her easy access. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Please do not hesitate to ring should you require anything else, anything at all.”

She caught the look in his eyes and subtly nodded her understanding. “Thank you, March.”

Once he had gone, she busied herself with the painted china cups and plates, the pretty silver spoons and forks, praying she didn’t bungle the whole process and pour tea everywhere but in the cups. “Cream and sugar?”

“Neither. I prefer my tea plain.”

“Oh, of course, I remember now.”

How could she have forgotten? He was truly one of the most ascetic people she had ever met, less given to indulging in creature comforts than even her late aunt.

Into her own cup, Eliza added a generous spoonful of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream, enjoying the little defiance. Next, she lifted the teapot, her hand displaying only the faintest tremor as she filled both cups with careful precision. After passing her cousin his tea, she offered the selection of cakes and small sandwiches for his perusal.

Out of obvious politeness, he accepted a single cucumber and butter triangle and set it on his plate, then took a spare sip of tea. Had Kit been here, he already would have eaten at least three of the sandwiches and stacked a half dozen more onto his plate, Eliza realized, inwardly smiling at the thought. A pity he wasn’t here to amuse her with his antics.

“I see you have left off mourning.”

Her head came up at Pettigrew’s statement. Just barely, she restrained the urge to cringe. “That’s right. The mourning period is nearly done so there is no shame in wearing a few dark shades, like this purple.”

For a long uncomfortable moment, he stared at her out of deep-set black eyes. “Perhaps you are right. Your change in circumstances obviously agrees with you. I have never seen you look so well.”

“T-thank you.”

“Though I doubt Mama would have approved of the hair.”

She raised her hand, touched her fingers to the edges of her curls. “No, probably not.”

He set his teacup down. “But one thing of which I am sure she would have approved is seeing the two of us reconciled.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course.”

“But more than that, I think she would have wished to see us joined.”

“Hmm? What!”
Had he said “joined”?

“I am glad your friends are not here. Glad we have this opportunity to be alone so I may openly tell you of my feelings.”

What feelings? Philip Pettigrew didn’t have feelings, at least not the sort ordinary people expressed.

“I have never before spoken of this for fear of bruising your tender sensibilities, but you have always held a special place in my estimation. A partiality, if you will.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“I have heard the rumors and know you are seeking a husband, a life partner as it were. You need look no more. I know you, Eliza, know the sort of man you require. A strong protector to help guide you, help steer you through the rocky shoals of life. A man of conviction who will keep you from harm, and who will assume the sound and equitable management of your affairs so your delicate feminine nature does not cause you to foolishly squander your resources.”

Suddenly he was up and out of his seat, leaping from his chair faster than a bullfrog, to land on the sofa next to her. He grabbed for her hands.

“Eliza Hammond, will you marry me?”

She squirmed away. “No!”

“No?”

“Dear God, you are my cousin.” She wrenched her hands from his, or at least tried to, since he immediately reached for them again.

“How does that signify? Cousins marry all the time.”

Not first cousins!

Then again, she realized that some first cousins
did
wed. It was not illegal, after all, but probably should be as far as she was concerned. Marriage to him would be almost incestuous, not to mention abhorrently disgusting.

Ugh.

She gave a visible shudder and yanked her hands from his for a second time. “T-thank you for the honor of your proposal but again I must decline.”

“You are simply being emotional and have not had time to think this through.”

“I don’t need time. I will not marry you.” She leapt to her feet. “Now, I really must ask you to go.”

Something hard settled over his face. “Not yet. You have not listened to all I have to say.”

“But I have listened to all I care to hear. Leave, Philip. Now.”

“Yes,
Philip,
” ordered a firm, wonderfully familiar voice. “The lady has told you no. Accept her refusal and leave.”

Eliza’s gaze darted toward the doorway, to find Kit standing there like a guardian angel.
Thank the stars.

“Lord Christopher, I did not realize you were here. Cousin Eliza and I were just having a bit of a private discussion. Family matters, you understand.”

Kit strolled into the room. “Didn’t sound like family matters to me, sounded more like a marriage proposal. A proposal the lady rejected.”

Impotent fury turned Pettigrew’s eyes dark and cold as a moonless night. “This is not your concern.”

“Oh, but it is. Perhaps you didn’t realize, but Eliza is a protégé of mine. I’m instructing her in the finer points of social interaction, such as how to distinguish a gentleman from a cad. Your actions in the next half minute will determine which of those you are.”

Pettigrew’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared at Kit. Suddenly he let out a snarl and stalked from the room.

Eliza felt her whole body sag after he had gone, only then realizing how tautly she had been holding herself, how rapidly her heart was racing.

Kit crossed to her and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Unthinkingly, she leaned into him, resting a palm against the resolute strength of his chest. He’d been riding, she noticed, his clothes warm and fragrant with the scent of horses, clean perspiration and Kit.

She closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath, enjoying the sensation. “I am fine. Now.”

“The second I arrived, March told me Pettigrew was here with you in the salon. Did you know he planned to call?”

She shook her head. “He took me completely by surprise, as did his loathsome proposal. I had no inkling Philip had such a purpose in mind. Why would I, since he is my cousin?”

“Well, I am proud of you for tossing him out. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here sooner to hustle him through the door.”

“He certainly did not want to take no for an answer.” She considered the matter for a moment, releasing a sigh. “Hoping to reclaim his mother’s fortune, no doubt.”

“That and perhaps something more.”

“More? What more could there be?”

“
You,
my little wren.” He gave her arm a friendly squeeze. “You’ve grown so uncommonly fetching of late. I am sure once he beheld you in your pretty gown and saw your adorable curls, he wanted you as well.”

A jolt arrowed through her. Did Kit really find her fetching? Her? Reserved, nondescript Eliza Hammond, who had spent most of her life being looked
through
instead of being looked
at
?

“But he can’t have you,” Kit pronounced in a silky tone, “because you’ll soon be claimed by someone else.” Peering down at her, he raised a hand and drew the tip of one finger across her cheek. “Someone better.”

Her heart kicked, skin tingling in the wake of his tender, featherlight touch. Lips parting, she lost herself inside his mesmerizing gaze.

What was he saying? she wondered, half-dazed. Could he, by some impossible miracle, be speaking of himself? Was
he
the someone better?

“And once the Season officially begins,” Kit continued, “we’ll find that man. The perfect husband for you. But we’ll need to continue your lessons first. You have made definite progress, but there is much work yet to be done.”

As if he had plucked her up and dropped her off a cliff, she fell, crashing hard, the rosy glow around her bursting like a handful of soap bubbles.

Slowly she came back to her senses.

What a clothhead she was. What a ninnyhammer.

Using the hand still resting against his chest, she pushed herself away, moving out from under the circle of his arm.

He seemed not to notice her withdrawal. “Is your headache gone? We could have a lesson yet this afternoon if you feel well enough.”

She fixed her gaze on the carpet as she strained to compose herself. Abruptly, she looked up. “Yes, let’s have a lesson. As you say, the Season shall soon be here and I have much to learn. We had best not waste an instant.”

Chapter Seven

“More wine, Winter?” Edwin Lloyd invited, holding a freshly opened bottle of Malaga.

Kit inclined his head, barely glancing up from his cards. His friend poured, replenishing Kit’s glass with the fortified reddish-brown wine that was both strong and sweet. Lloyd topped off the glasses of the other men at the table, then did the same for himself before setting the now empty bottle aside.

The play continued, each of the five men taking his turn, hoping to capture the requisite trick so he would not be looed. Kit drank a single swallow of wine and waited, infinitely patient since he already held the one card guaranteed to beat everything else in the deck.

The other four groaned when he played that card at precisely the right time, tossing down what remained of their hands in defeated disgust.

With a mild grin, Kit scraped his winnings forward.

“You’ve the devil’s own luck tonight, Winter,” Selway said. “Should keep you flush for some while. Unless the angel of mercy finally flies off your shoulder and you start to lose.”

“Deal another round and we’ll see.” Kit broke off a lump of the Cheshire cheese that lay on a small plate near his elbow.

Selway was right, Kit acknowledged, as he enjoyed the slightly salty flavor of the food melting against his tongue. He was having a fine night at the tables. Making merry with his friends, drinking and talking and playing cards. So far he’d won nearly double the quarterly allowance Adrian provided, an allowance he would have need of for only six months longer. With his pockets filled and his independence within reach, Kit knew he ought to be ecstatic.

Instead what he felt was dissatisfaction. A kind of underlying boredom with his current way of life and the prospect of all the years that stretched out before him.

What in the hell was he going to do with all of them and with himself?

Seated opposite, Jeremy Brentholden—his old pal from university days—dealt the next round. Kit perused his cards and calculated whether or not his hand was good enough to play.

“Deuced fine mill in the offing tomorrow over near Charing Cross. Who’s up for it, eh?” Vickery raised his sandy eyebrows and scanned the group.

The others nodded their agreement.

Kit shook his head. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I’ll have to pass.”

“Have to pass!” Lloyd clicked his tongue in obvious exasperation. “This is the second mill you’ve passed on in recent memory. What’s amiss, Winter? Not going squeamish on us, are you? Sickened by the sight of all that blood.”

Kit tossed him a look. “No, I’m not going squeamish. In fact, I’d be more than happy to spill some of
your
blood if you’d ever risk that pretty face and step into the Gentleman’s ring.” He slid his cards together inside his palm and tapped them against the table. “If you must know, I have a prior engagement.”

“What sort of engagement?” Selway questioned. “Can’t be the duke again, surely.”

Kit kept his features impassive.

“If not your brother, then what?” Selway pressed. “Come to consider it, you seem to be having a lot of
engagements
of late.”

“Yes, Winter, he’s right,” Lloyd agreed. “You have been rather cagey about your schedule over the past couple weeks. What’s going on? We insist that you share.”

Kit fanned out the cards in his hand again and studied them. “Insist all you like. It’s a private matter and none of your business.”

“Don’t have something to do with that chit, does it?” Vickery said. “The one living in your brother’s house?”

“What chit is that?” Brentholden asked.

“Bluestocking friend of the duchess.” Vickery paused, then snapped his fingers. “What’s her name? Haywood? Hampton? No, no, Hammond. That’s it, Eliza Hammond.”

“Hammond?” Lloyd tossed a silver coin—a crown—into the center of the table as his opening bid. “Which gel is that?”

“You know the one,” Vickery said, wagging a finger. “Whey-faced chit who doesn’t have a word to say for herself, permanent member of the wallflower club. She dresses dowdier than a governess and is all but on the shelf. You’ve seen her over the years, I’m sure. By God, you must have done, she’s had so many Seasons by now they must be stacking into the double digits.”

The men laughed, all except Kit.

Lloyd shook his head in continued puzzlement. “Is she redheaded?”

“No, mousy brown. Always sits along the wall with the dowagers and matrons. Stares at her shoes.”