TheWifeTrap (8 page)

He halted, then made a surprisingly elegant bow before extending
the parcel to her. “We’ve gotten off to a rough start, you and I, and I haven’t
felt right about what happened when last we met. Vitruvius knocking you over
and all. He’s a sweet pup, but wayward in his actions. ’Twas a fine frock he
ruined. And, of course, there was the other pretty one that day outside the
coach. That orangey thing you had on.”

Orangey? Why, yes, her beautiful Naccarat traveling dress. She
wished he hadn’t mentioned it. Since that miserable day, she had done her best
to forget the incident. An imperceptible shudder rippled through her, evoked by
a fear that she would never completely forget the dreadful sensation of being
covered from head to toe in mud.

“And this gift, I take it”—she nodded toward the parcel—“is your
way of making amends?”

How singular. How unexpected.

He rubbed a finger along his jaw. “Aye, I am sorry for your
trouble. I decided since Vitruvius is my responsibility, some recompense was in
order.”

The starch loosened from her spine, her shoulders relaxing without
conscious thought. Her fingers itched to take the present, yet she hesitated.

A lady was allowed to accept only certain gifts from a gentleman.
Flowers, bonbons, a book of sonnets. Or perhaps if he was especially daring, a
pair of gloves or a small bottle of perfume. Anything else was considered
scandalously improper.

But then, she reminded herself, Darragh O’Brien was no gentleman
and his behavior never in any way proper. So why did the knowledge suddenly
make her want his gift even more?

She forced her hands to remain loose at her sides. “What is it?”

Amusement danced in his eyes. “Well now, if I were to tell you
that, it would ruin the surprise. You’ll have to take it and find out for
yourself.” He edged the bundle a half inch closer, urging her to take his
present.

She swallowed, knowing she should reject the offering, push him
and his gift away. Instead she hesitated only a moment more before plucking the
gift from his hands.

Light, far lighter than she had expected, the package rested
easily in her grasp. Her interest piqued even further, she nearly raised it to
her ear to shake, but stopped herself at the last second. Ladies didn’t shake
presents—at least not in front of witnesses.

Tall and long-legged, he rocked back on his heels, then up on his
toes, his strong hands settled against his lean hips. “So, are you not going to
open it, then?”

She shook her head. “I shall do so later.”

In case the gift actually was something improper. That way she
wouldn’t have to pretend to be scandalized. Though what sort of scandalous gift
he might have given her she couldn’t imagine.

“Well,” she said, “evening approaches and I haven’t had my walk.
If I am to do so in time to change for dinner, then I had better be off. My
cousins keep early hours.” Very early, she thought, dining at the gauche hour
of six o’clock each day, early even by country standards. With a nod, she
turned to go.

He stopped her with another light touch upon her arm. “Are you not
forgetting something?”

“I cannot think what.”

“Can you not? Or don’t English ladies thank a man when he gives
them a gift?”

A twinge of shame went through her, abashed that she had forgotten
to be polite in her hurry to rush away and open the present.

She tilted her head at an imperious angle to salvage some measure
of her pride. “Well then, thank you.”

“That didn’t sound terribly sincere.”

“Nevertheless, you have been thanked.”

“Have I now?” He stepped closer and wrapped one large hand around
her upper arm.

Her heart beat faster at his touch.

A spark flashed in his eyes. “I think you can do better. Give it a
try.”

“Release me, sir.”

Instead he caught hold of her other arm and closed the distance
between them. “I shall, once I’ve had my satisfaction. Now, shall you thank me
nicely, or would you rather show me your gratitude?”

Show him?

Her senses tingled, the scents of plain soap and the clean sweat
of an honest day’s work filling her nostrils. She wasn’t used to such elemental
scents. Earthy, powerful, rugged scents that made her stomach quiver, her mouth
grow dry.

Her gaze clashed with his. She refused to look away, refused to capitulate
by even the smallest measure. His own stubborn determination showed clearly,
every inch as resolute as her own.

Just two tiny heartfelt words and he would set her free, she knew
he would. Yet her pride refused to let her back down. Her pride and something
more, something dangerous and wicked enough to make her pulse points throb in
her wrists, to make the air sough in shallow breaths from between her parted
lips.

When she said nothing, he drew her to him, the package she held by
its slender string all but forgotten in her grasp.

“As you prefer, my lady,” he murmured.

Suddenly his lips were upon her own, bold and relentless as he
held her steady for his kiss. At first she resisted, but he met her resistance
with demand, compelling her to surrender.

She nipped at his lips. He nipped back, snagging her lower lip
between his teeth for a quick tug before laving the spot with his tongue in a
warm, soothing stroke. She shivered, vulnerable to the blatant masculinity of
his touch.

Without warning, he changed tactics, his mouth gentling against
her own, turning sultry and seductive and achingly irresistible. Her thoughts
grew muzzy. Her resistance weakening like a flower whose petals had been
plucked free and left to scatter in the wind.

The man was a pure devil, she mused dreamily, and he kissed like
one too. Lucifer couldn’t have done better at his most beguiling. Her feet
tingled inside her shoes, her body turned lax and liquid.

She whimpered and pressed her breasts against his chest. Opening
her mouth, she slid her tongue between his lips.

After a long minute, he broke away. “I see you know what you’re
about, for all that you’re a maiden. You’ve been well and thoroughly kissed by
one man or another.”

His statement drove the air from her lungs as if he’d struck her.
For an instant, she considered denying his charge, but he would know she was
lying. Besides, why not tell the truth? What did she care for his opinion, good
or ill?

“You are correct,” she flung back. “I have been kissed, and by far
better men than you.”

His eyes narrowed, their translucent color deepening, ripening
like a sky before a storm.

“Is that so?” he murmured. “You ought to be careful in your
impressions. They might not always be as accurate as you imagine.”

What in the blazes did he mean by that cryptic comment? she
wondered.

“As to the superior quality of those other men, I cannot comment.”
His gaze lowered to her lips. “As for the kisses, I can safely say you’ll never
find better than mine.”

Reaching down with nimble fingers, he loosened the ribbon beneath
her chin and tipped her bonnet so it dangled halfway down her back. Cupping her
face in one hand, he angled her chin to his liking and settled his mouth upon
her own.

As if bewitched by a spell, she let him take her lips once more.
She ought to fight him, she knew. Ought to be struggling against his embrace
instead of turning in to it like a tender plant that wanted, even needed, to
drink more deeply of the sun.

Her eyes fell shut, the world sliding away as he again proved the
truth of his words, the undeniable mastery of his skills.

Curving an arm around her waist, Darragh fit her more snuggly
against him as he worked to increase her enjoyment. He knew he should stop.
Knew this whole game had begun to spiral wildly out of control.

All he’d intended was a simple kiss. A quick embrace to tease and
teach her a lesson for her snobbish ways. Yet he was the one getting the lesson
as she brought him a pleasure so intense his head fairly swam with the delight
of it.

Ah, good Christ, she tasted like the finest golden honey. Sweet
and rich and succulent. Well worth the risk of earning a little sting for his
trouble. And trouble she was. Wicked bad trouble, the kind for which he had no
earthly use.

How easy it would be to completely lose his head, to lay her down
in this fragrant garden and spoil another one of her pretty frocks by staining
it green with grass.

He imagined tumbling her gently downward, lying over her while he plundered
her moist pink lips as he was doing now, his fingers easing beneath her bodice
to cup a lush, full breast. Ah, her flesh would surely feel like a slice of
heaven in his grasp. Her legs would shift, passion sparking hot between them as
he slid his lips lower to take her nipple in his mouth, his other hand gliding
downward over a rounded satiny hip.

Need pounded in his blood like a fever, ached like a wound between
his thighs. He took a single step forward, on the verge of succumbing to sheer
carnal impulse. A bird screeched in a nearby tree, awakening his rational mind
enough for him to remember exactly where it was the pair of them stood.

In plain view of the house.

In eyeshot of the Merriweathers—who, amiable as they might be,
certainly wouldn’t appreciate finding him making love to their young cousin.
She’d been sent to Ireland as the result of one scandal. He had no wish to find
himself at the center of another.

A fair temptress she was and there was no denying it.

Stifling a groan, he forced himself to break off the kiss. If they
hadn’t been caught already, there was no point in taking further risk.

Jeannette swayed on her feet, blinked twice.

“What is it?” she murmured in a breathy voice that whispered down
his spine like a teasing finger.

“Past time you were going inside, that’s what it is. If you stay
out here much longer, it’s for sure you’ll be missed. Unless you still mean to
take that walk.”

“What walk?” she asked.

Doing his best to steady his trembling hands, he lifted her bonnet
back into place, retied the drooping bow. His gaze roamed over her, noting the
heightened color in her flushed cheeks, the ruddy, glistening lips, which
looked well and thoroughly kissed.

He could never send her inside like that. Everyone who saw her
would know.

Drawing a deep breath, he pinned a deliberately arrogant,
self-satisfied smile upon his lips. “I must say that was a fine thank-you, Lady
Jeannette. Well worth the trouble of getting it.”

The look of dazed passion drained from her eyes, color sparking
higher in her cheeks. Pain glistening in her gaze, she lifted a hand and
slapped him. “There,” she said. “Was it still worth the trouble?”

Alarmingly, he realized it was, setting a hand over his stinging
cheek and the reddened imprint he assumed she had left behind.

Without waiting for his response, Jeannette gripped the
paper-wrapped present he’d given her, whirled and ran.

Visually, he followed her progress as she made her way toward the
house. He’d meant to startle her back to her senses, but regretted the necessity
as well as the result.

He sighed. ’Twas better she hate him, he supposed. For anything
else would surely lead to disappointment and heartache.

Chapter Five

Jeannette raced into the house and up the stairs as if snarling
hellhounds nipped at her feet.

When she reached her bedchamber, she slammed the door shut, then
wiped a hand across her mouth in an attempt to rid herself of the kisses that
tingled even now upon her passion-swollen lips. Her body still throbbed,
flushed with a latent desire she could not seem to control.

Ignoring the sensations, she concentrated on her anger, letting
her outrage and affront sweep the other feelings away.

How dare he. To think he’d laid his coarse hands upon her. To
think he’d had those crude, Irish-accented lips upon her own, taking her mouth
as though he had a right, a claim.

But he had no claim. He was a thief, just as she’d thought him
from the start.

Of course, there at the last he’d had her participation, her
agreement as she’d enthusiastically returned his embrace, matching him kiss for
kiss, touch for touch. And in those moments she’d been far from a victim.

Appalled by the knowledge, she sank upon the mattress and covered
her heated cheeks with her hands.

Gracious, after today she’d never be able to set foot outside the
house again for fear of encountering him. And she couldn’t complain to her
cousins or insist he be dismissed. On what grounds? That he’d kissed her and
she’d liked it?

And she
had
liked it, there was no denying the truth.

Did that make her wanton?

Many would say so, considering she’d kissed her fair share of men
over the years, starting with a sinfully handsome stable boy when she’d been
only sixteen. Yet the dalliance had gone no further than a few innocent pecks,
occasional caresses that were more tantalizing than titillating. Until her
parents found out and sent the poor boy away. She’d tried to protect him but
they would hear none of her words, turning him away without so much as a
reference. For long months after, she had felt guilty about it, often wondering
what had become of him, and if he had found other acceptable work.

Since then she’d been careful to confine her amorous explorations
and curiosity to a select few, who could at least refer to themselves as
gentlemen. If one applied oneself, the game of seduction became simple. Stolen
moments in the garden. A brief clasp of bare hands behind a conveniently placed
pillar or potted palm.

Yet she’d always made sure to keep careful control, making certain
nothing went too far. A lady had to protect her virtue and her reputation,
after all. Even with Adrian, to whom she’d been engaged, she’d made sure the
most they ever shared were a few harmless kisses. Considering he was now her
sister’s husband, she was relieved. Such a history between them might have
proven rather awkward and embarrassing otherwise.

Then there’d been Toddy. She squeezed her eyes tight at the memory
of all he had taken. Her love, her pride and so much more.

But no,
she told herself,
I will not think of him.
Toddy Markham belonged in her past, and there he would firmly remain. Lowering
her hands to her lap, she curled her fingers into loose fists.

How could she have let that Irish rogue take such advantage of
her? How could she have so completely lost her head? If he hadn’t broken off
their embrace when he had, heaven knows what liberties she might have allowed
him to take. There outside in the garden where anyone might have come upon them
or spied them through a window.

Gadzooks, she hoped no one
had
seen them. Oh, the shame
of it was not to be borne.

A moment later her gaze fell upon the gift O’Brien had given her.
When she’d first rushed into the room, she’d tossed it onto the floor. Its
utilitarian wrapping appeared quite ordinary lying against the intricate amber
and green wool carpeting. Rather out of place inside the delicate, feminine
room.

Intrigued despite best efforts not to be, she crossed and bent to
pick it up. Setting the package upon the bed, she untied the rough hemp twine,
heavy paper crinkling audibly as she pushed it aside.

Delicate, rose-tinted silk leapt out at her, spilling in a
luxurious wash across the light yellow counterpane.

It was a dress, and a lovely one at that, even if the style wasn’t
quite up to the latest fashion. Unfolding the garment, she held it aloft to
inspect it more closely.

With a square, rather low-cut bodice, the dress had short,
straight sleeves decorated along the edges by a narrow pink velvet ribbon. But
it was the flounce that caught her attention; the lower quarter of the skirt
embroidered with a broad band of exquisitely beautiful flowers, white roses and
green leaves in full luxuriant bloom. Like a small garden brought to life. She
almost expected to find birds or butterflies hidden among the pattern.

She traced a finger over a single petal, the stitchery smooth
beneath her skin.

Magnificent.

And outrageously improper, particularly since it was an evening
gown and a rather diaphanous one at that. What sort of man gave an unmarried
lady a dress? Most especially a dress like this!

Had he bought it? Or did it belong to some woman he knew?

She felt a sharp frown descend over her face at the idea. Is that
where he’d come by the dress? Had he procured it from one of his women? His
mistress perhaps or some local widow he’d lately taken to bedding? She was sure
he wasn’t the type of man to do without female companionship for long, no
matter his marital status.

Perhaps she was wealthy, this widow. That would certainly account
for the fine quality of the garment. Unless O’Brien made enough as an architect
to pay for such a gown. She hadn’t the faintest notion what men in such a
profession might earn per annum. And if he did earn a reasonable living by
middle-class standards, then perhaps the gown didn’t belong to his mistress but
instead to his wife.

Jeannette drew in a sharp breath.
Was he married?

She squeezed a handful of the material within her fist, her
stomach lurching in a most unpleasant manner. Imagine kissing her
half-senseless in the garden, while all the time he had a wife waiting for him at
home. For all she knew, he had five children too.

Then again, she didn’t know any such thing. She was allowing her
thoughts to run amok, to leap to all sorts of wild possibilities and erroneous
conclusions. She might be condemning him out of turn. O’Brien might not be
married at all and might have no serious amorous ties whatsoever.

Besides, why did she care if he had some other woman?

Because he’d kissed her, that’s why!

Striving for calm, she pulled in a pair of slow, deep breaths.

Gazing again at the dress, she reached out and ran her fingers
over the delicate material, tracing a beautifully wrought petal.

It would have to be returned, of course. Propriety permitted no
other choice. A great shame really, since the garment was lovely. She pouted
for a brief moment before shaking off the emotion.

Suddenly she paused, struck by an interesting notion. True, she
had to give back the dress, but perhaps she could turn the situation to her
advantage.

Hmm. She would have to think about the possibilities. Indeed, she
would.

Darragh ran a set of fingers through his hair and leaned over to
consult his drawings.

The last of the north wall was in place, the masons doing a fine
job cutting and placing the stone. His crew knew how to put in a full day’s
work, and if they kept to their present schedule they should be able to
complete the wing nearly on time.

He’d hired on a number of local lads, fellows brought in mostly to
work the heavy tasks. But many of the others had worked with him on other
construction sites in other places. Skilled master craftsmen, they were men who
came from all parts of Ireland and beyond. His stucco workers were native
Italians, genuine
stuccatori,
who would be traveling all the way from
Italy in the next several weeks to finish the intricate interior and exterior
plasterwork. And for the cornice work and moldings, he’d commissioned a
Prussian woodcrafter whose carvings were nothing short of brilliant. All in
all, they were a good lot, his men.

He was too involved in the everyday details, some might say of
him, especially for a titled gentleman. As he knew, most architects didn’t
believe in getting their hands dirty. Many confined themselves to drawing up
the elevations, finishing out the plans and renderings, then letting others
take them from idea to fact. The actual physical labor would fall to a foreman
and a team of laborers and skilled journeymen. But he preferred a more direct
approach. That way if problems should arise, he’d be on-site to catch them, to
offer a quick solution instead of slowing the work and wasting his clients’
money in the waiting.

Others might also condemn him for accepting payment for his
talents and services. Many transplanted Anglo-Irish aristocrats looked down
upon him for dabbling in trade, as they were wont to call it. They would rather
lose their estates from lack of funds than take up a profitable profession.

He saw things differently. The act of saving his family through
hard work and ingenuity was preferable to living along the fringes of society
as a hanger-on, forcing his siblings and himself to marry for the expediency of
money. He refused, believing marriage should be for love, and in no manner
related to the making of profit.

So after returning from a long period of study on the Continent,
mainly in Italy, he’d put his architectural training to good use. Over the past
eight years he’d built quite a reputation for himself, one of which he was
justifiably proud. No longer was money in short supply. No longer did he spend
his days worrying about the security of his family, about preserving the
ancient legacy of his name and his estate.

Squinting up at the sun and the full arc of light just beginning
to droop in the sky, he noted ’twas time they were quitting for the day. His
crew knew as well, so attuned to the elements none needed watches to judge the
hour.

The work site fell quiet as labor slowed then ceased, men climbing
down from scaffolding, packing away their tools and starting the walk or wagon
ride home.

Darragh had just finished discussing a final item with his chief
mason, all the other men having gone home, when a flash of blue caught his
attention. Turning his head, he watched Lady Jeannette Brantford saunter into
view.

What was the Little Rosebush doing here? She never came to the
construction site, avoiding it as if he and his men were a colony of lepers.
Yet here she was, looking beautiful as a sunrise over blossoming heather,
striding toward him with a gait that set her vivid skirts swaying.

“Good afternoon, Lady Jeannette,” he said as she drew to a halt.
“What brings you this way?”

“You, Mr. O’Brien, and this.”

That’s when he noticed the package in her hands and its familiar
brown wrapping. Was that the present he’d given her?

She cast a sideways glance at his chief mason, who stood watching
them with obvious interest. “Although I had hoped we might have a bit of
privacy.”

“Oh, aye, of course.” He looked across at the older man. “Seamus,
what are you still doing here? Go home before the dinner your good wife is
cooking for you goes to ruin.”

A grin split the mason’s face. “Right you are about that. She
hates it when I’m late. Good night, then, boss. Miss.” Tipping his cap, the
other man crossed to gather a few belongings before making his way from the
work site.

As soon as he departed, Darragh turned to her. “Now, lass, what’s
on your mind?”

“This.” She thrust the package toward him. “I cannot accept this.”

So she
was
returning the gift, he thought, asking his
next question aloud. “But why? Was the dress not to your liking?”

“Whether or not I like the dress has nothing to do with the
matter. I cannot keep such a gift.”

“I thought you’d look a picture in that pink, but if you don’t
care for the color—”

“It isn’t the color.”

“The stitchery, then. The dressmaker told me it was done special
in Dublin for a lady who failed to…well, let’s say she ran into financial
difficulties and never claimed the garment.”

“So the dress isn’t your wife’s?”

Wife?
“What gave you that notion?”

“A gown like this isn’t something a single man generally owns.”

“I didn’t own it, as I just said.” He folded his arms over his
chest and smiled.
Was she jealous?
He knew he shouldn’t, but he
discovered he liked the idea. “Is that why you don’t want it? You’re worried
I’m married?”

“Are you?”

He smiled wider, gave a slow shake of his head. “I am not.”

An expression that looked vaguely like relief passed over her
face. “What about a mistress? Does the dress belong to her?”