Free The Wedding Trap by Tracy Anne Warren Page A

“What sort of game?”
    “A playacting game. You pretend to be me and I’ll be you. Ask me the sort of questions gentlemen ask ladies at parties, and I’ll do the answering.”
    Her dove-colored eyes widened. “You’ll be
me
?”
    “Mmm-hmm. Or do you doubt I can?” He fluttered his lashes in an exaggeratedly coquettish manner.
    A laugh burst from her lips.
    “There, that’s better already,” he said. “Now, ask me something.”
    “Oh, please, I wouldn’t know what to say.”
    “Anything.”
    A furrow formed between her brows. “Really, I can’t.” She fell silent, another “I’m sorry” lying unspoken between them.
    He drank more tea and ate another piece of shortbread, letting the sweet, buttery pastry melt in his mouth. By the time he was done chewing, he had an idea. Downing the last of his tea, he sprang to his feet. “Come with me.”
    “What? Where?”
    He grabbed her hand and tugged her to her feet. “No questions, just follow me.”
    “But Violet said we should conduct our lessons here.”
    “Violet meant well, but you’ll never relax if we keep on as we are. So come along.”
    She trotted in his wake as he pulled her out into the hallway. “But where are we going?”
    “Now she speaks,” he remarked. “You’ll see soon enough.”
    Through the mansion they went, footsteps padding soundlessly as they traveled from one luxurious Aubusson or Turkey carpet to another, her slippers and his boots ringing softly against the islands of sleek hardwood and glossy marble that lay interspersed between. Down the grand staircase he led her, the pair of them startling one of the housemaids, a feather duster drooping in her hand as they passed. Finally, they arrived at a set of inlayed double doors that Kit threw open with a flick of his wrist.
    Inside the portal lay the music room.
    A large pianoforte held a position of prominence between a trio of double-hung sash windows, sheer cream curtains drawn back to let a flood of winter sunshine pour like honey across the polished walnut floors. Cheerful vanilla-hued walls rose upward to a ceiling that featured delicate rococo stuccowork, while celery green appointments added refinement and a feeling of intimate warmth. Along one wall stood a gilded harp, chairs ranged in two semicircles east and west. An open area lay in the center of the room, allowing plenty of space for movement. Kit led her there, then stopped.
    “Why are we here? You do not expect me to play, do you?” Eliza squeaked in an appalled voice.
    Up went his eyebrows at her reaction. Did the notion of playing a musical instrument in his presence truly distress her? Come to think of it, he could not recall ever having seen Eliza perform at a social gathering as most young ladies were encouraged, and often eager, to do. Still, he knew Eliza was capable.
    Only two weeks ago, he’d walked past this very room and stopped outside its closed doors to listen to the lovely Mozart sonata that was being played inside. When he complimented Violet later that day on her improved skill at the pianoforte, she had laughed and said her musical talents were as woefully mediocre as ever—the musician was none other than Eliza.
    One of these times soon, he would have to speak to Eliza and convince her to stop hiding her musical abilities. She possessed a fine talent, one that truly ought to be shared with others. Most young ladies could only dream of playing as beautifully as Eliza. What a crime it would be to let her keep hiding her gift away from the world. But that, he mused, would have to be a lesson for another day.
    “No,” he said, “I do not expect you to play, not this morning anyway. I thought we would dance.”
    She gave him a blank stare.
    “It is an excellent way for you to relax and learn,” he explained. “With your feet occupied you won’t have so much time to worry over every syllable that comes out of your mouth. Plus, it will be good practice for when you really are out on the dance