TheWifeTrap (38 page)

Four days ago, the pair of them had parted ways at a coaching inn
in London, much to his visible displeasure.

“Jeannette, dearest,” Toddy said, folding her hands inside his.
“Stay with me. Let me make you happy. I wronged you before, I know, and I am
more sorry than I can ever express. Please give me a chance to set things
right.” He kissed her knuckles, one hand then the other. “Remember all the fun
we used to have? We’ll have that again and more. I’ll lease a house, something
close to you. It won’t be so hard to see each other, especially with your
husband living an entire country away. Mulholland’s a fool, you know, to have
let you leave.”

She tugged her hands from his grasp. “Perhaps so, but he is still
my husband and I will not betray him by lying with another man. I do thank you,
however, for bringing me home.”

His lips thinned. “And that’s to be it? A simple
thank-you-for-escorting-me-home and nothing more?”

“There is nothing more. We’re finished, Toddy. We have been
finished for a long time.”

He reached for her again, but she eluded his grasp.

“I refuse to believe that,” he said. “You’re hurt, jealous. I love
you, Jeannette, and you still love me.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t. Not anymore.”

His skin paled, and for a moment she actually thought real pain
shone in his gaze. Then he blinked and with shoulders straight made her an
elegant bow. “I hope that buffleheaded husband of yours comes to his senses
soon and pleads for your forgiveness. He truly does not deserve you.”

And then Toddy was gone.

She gazed across at Betsy and shook off her reverie. “Finally we
are arrived. I am most glad, as I am sure you and Smoke must be too.”

When she’d left Caisleán Muir, she’d decided to take the kitten
with her. Except for a bit of meowing from inside his wide wicker basket, he’d
proven a good traveler. Trusting him to the care of Betsy and a footman, she
made her way into the house.

March, Winterlea’s stately majordomo, welcomed her with all the
deference due her rank, making her realize how used she had grown to the far
more relaxed, informal nature of the staff back in Ireland. Not that he was
unfriendly, merely precise, the epitome of everything the head servant of one
of the finest families in England should be.

“I shall inform the duke of your arrival. The duchess is in the
library, my lady,” he advised. “I will show you the way.”

She knew the way, but said nothing, etiquette demanding she be
announced, even to her sister.

Count on Violet, she mused, to be back among her beloved books,
even after having just given birth to twins. Ensconced in a cozy leather
armchair, Violet peered over her wire-rimmed spectacles as they entered the
room, an astonished smile lighting her features.

“Lady Mulholland, your Grace.” March bowed and left the sisters to
make their welcome.

Setting down her book, Violet hurried to her feet with far more
agility than the last time they had met, her figure lush yet clearly on its way
to returning to its usual slenderness. They exchanged a warm embrace. “Gads,
what are you doing here? You said nothing about coming for a visit.”

“When I received Adrian’s letter about the babies, I simply had to
see them and you. My turn this time to drop by and surprise everyone.”

“Well, you have, and delightfully so. You’ve just missed the
family, though. Everyone was here, as usual, for the holidays, even though
Adrian wanted to break with tradition this year because of the birth. But his
mother wouldn’t hear of it and really I did not mind. The hoards will descend
again in a month for the christening, but until then Adrian has shooed them
out. He says I need rest and quiet to recover my health, but in truth I think
he’s the one in need of recovery.” She grinned and glanced toward the doorway.
“So where is Darragh? Lagging behind with the coach, or has Adrian found him
already to bend his ear?”

Jeannette strolled toward a small table, picked up a book that lay
on top, then immediately set it back down. “No. He…um…he could not accompany
me. Estate business and one of his architecture clients, you know.”

She could have confided in Violet, as she had been wanting to do
for such a very long time. But now that the opportunity was upon her, she
hesitated, reluctant to reveal the shameful truth of her disastrous marriage.

“Oh,” Violet said. “Well, perhaps he can join us later, for the
christening.”

Jeannette refused to meet her twin’s gaze. “Hmm, perhaps.”

“You traveled all this way alone, then?”

“No, I…um…I was accompanied by my maid.” She decided not to
mention Toddy, knowing Violet’s less than favorable opinion of the man. “And my
kitten. I have an adorable new kitten. You don’t mind if he sleeps in my room,
do you?”

Violet tossed her a bemused smile. “Of course not, I love kittens.
What is his name?”

“Smoke. He was a wedding present from one of my neighbors.” No
longer her neighbor, Jeannette realized, since she no longer resided in County
Clare and might very likely not do so again.

“What’s this about smoke? Is something on fire?” Garbed in relaxed
country attire, yet still managing to look every inch a duke, Adrian strode
into the room.

Violet laughed. “No, not at all. Jeannette was just telling me
about her cat.”

Adrian bowed over Jeannette’s hand, murmured a quick hello. “You
have a cat?”

“I do. He’s a dear creature and a wonderful companion.”

She saw Violet and Adrian exchange a curious glance, but decided
not to let it trouble her. She had far too many things over which to be
troubled without adding another item to the list.

“It is so very lovely to be here at last,” Jeannette continued.
“The journey from Ireland was quite exhausting.”

“Of course it was,” Violet said. “When did you last eat? You must
be hungry and thirsty. Why don’t we all go into the drawing room and I’ll ring
for some refreshments.”

Jeannette agreed and the three of them walked upstairs, Adrian
pausing first to slip Violet’s arm through his own, obviously still cosseting
her, despite the fact that she seemed well recovered from the babies’ delivery.

“Where is Mulholland?” Adrian asked after they entered the drawing
room and took seats—she and Violet side by side on the sofa, Adrian across from
them in a chair. “I assume there’s no longer any need to call him O’Brien now.”

Jeannette’s lips tightened at the reminder of Darragh’s duplicity.
“No, no need at all. His true identity has been most thoroughly revealed, as I
related to you in my letter. Of course, you already knew the truth well before
any of the rest of us, did you not, your Grace?”

She met Adrian’s gaze.

He returned it with an unflinching one of his own. “I admit I did.
At the time, it seemed rather a case of tit for tat. One deception exchanged
for another.”

She paused for a long moment. “Then I guess you might say that
each of us knows the other’s pain. In appreciation of that, it would seem I owe
you an apology. Being hoodwinked is far from a pleasant experience, is it not?”

Surprise crossed his face. “You are right, it is not pleasant.”

His gaze shifted and settled upon Violet, turning warm and rich
with a love so profound Jeannette was forced to avert her own gaze, feeling
suddenly as if she were intruding.

“But I find I no longer mind. The rewards I’ve received,” he
murmured, “have more than made up for any discomfort along the way. I would not
trade a moment of the journey that led me to the life I have today.”

Violet beamed and reached out a hand. Adrian took hold, squeezing
tightly before releasing her hand.

Then he turned his attention back to Jeannette, nodding his head
to silently accept her overture at ending the hostilities that had stood
between them since their aborted wedding day.

Jeannette drew a breath. “So, in answer to your original question,
no, Darragh did not accompany me. He…had work in Ireland.”

Nothing more was said, a discreet tap at the door coming at just
the right moment. A pair of housemaids bustled in bearing a laden tea tray and
another tray stacked high with an array of delectable foodstuffs.

“Ah, good, the refreshments have arrived,” Violet declared. “Kit
will be sorry to have missed this.”

“Yes, where is Lord Christopher?” Jeannette drew off her gloves.

“With friends up at a hunting box in Yorkshire. He’ll be back in
time for the christening, however.”

Having learned the skills of a good hostess, Violet poured tea and
arranged plates of food for each of them before handing them around.

Jeannette sipped her tea and ate a single triangular sandwich
before setting her plate aside. “I hope you will not take it amiss, but I am
rather dreadfully tired all of a sudden. Would you mind terribly if I retired
to my room to rest and change out of these traveling clothes?”

“Oh, of course not. I should have thought.” Her sister made to
rise in order to ring for the housekeeper, but Adrian forestalled his wife and
crossed to pull the bell himself.

“Later this afternoon, I would love to see the babies,” Jeannette
said.

Radiant pleasure spread like sunshine over Violet’s face. “That
would be wonderful. I usually feed them at two. Why don’t you join me in the
nursery about two-thirty.”

“Two-thirty it is.”

At half-past two, Jeannette climbed the stairs to the third-floor
nursery. Bathed and rested and changed into a fresh gown, she felt far better,
far more in control of her volatile emotions.

Tapping softly upon the door, she entered the room. Cheery and pleasant
with bright spring green paint on the walls, rich walnut floors and
furnishings, the nursery was a place of security and contentment. Two large
cradles were set up at a perfect angle to the fireplace and windows so the
infants would have plenty of light and warmth, yet be sheltered from any
unhealthful effects.

Violet sat in a nearby rocking chair, one of the babies at her
breast. Jeannette exchanged a smile with her twin, then gave Violet time to
finish feeding her child without the interference of conversation.

A young, rosy-cheeked nursemaid appeared, crossing to help Violet
with the baby once he was done eating. Violet buttoned her dress into place,
then let the maid carry the sleeping baby to his cradle to tuck him in next to
his brother’s. As soundlessly as she had arrived, the maid departed.

“They are beautiful.” Jeannette stood at the foot of the cradles,
gazed down at the two slumbering infants.

Violet joined her, voice low. “Perhaps it’s motherly conceit, but
I think so too. I think they are the most adorable boys on the planet. They
have Adrian’s eyes.”

“And his stubborn chin, I see. I swear they’re as alike as we are.
Can you tell them apart?”

“Only by the hair on Noah’s head. He came out with a big hank
growing right on the crown. While little Sebastian is as bald as an egg.”

Jeannette looked closer, and sure enough, one of the babies
sported a tuft of black hair that peeked out from beneath the tiny white lace
cap on his head.

“Once they both grow hair, I’ll have to think up a new way to tell
one from the other.”

“No switching, hmm?”

A tiny grin curved over Violet’s lips. “Definitely no switching.
Any chance you might be expecting one of your own?”

Jeannette gazed at her nephews, unexpectedly wistful. “No. No
chance at all.”

During her journey to England, she’d gotten her menses. It should
have come as a great relief, since a pregnancy now would have only complicated
matters further between her and Darragh. Still, gazing down upon the babies,
her heart squeezed with sadness.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Violet asked after a long
silence.

Jeannette’s fingers tightened on the crib rail. “Talk about what?”

“The real reason you’re here. The reason your husband isn’t.”

She considered sticking to her earlier story and pretending
everything was just as it ought to be, but even as she opened her mouth to do
so, the whole sordid tale came tumbling out. Violet listened, saying nothing as
she let Jeannette give voice to her troubles.

“…and so we have…well, I suppose you might say we are separated. He
and I have different wants, different needs, and our marriage has never been
easy, even from the start. He wishes to live in Ireland and, well, I wish to
live here. I ask you, is it so unreasonable to want to live in your own
country?”

“No, for either of you. But Jeannette, he is your husband.”

“Which is why I gave him every opportunity to come with me. I
practically begged him and he refused.”

“Do you love him?”

She nodded. “Yes, but what does it matter? He and I are worlds
apart and not likely to meet anywhere in between.”

“Perhaps it’s not so hopeless—”

“He doesn’t love me. Sometimes I’ve thought he might, but he’s
never said the words. Oh, Violet, I think my marriage is over.”

Violet laid a hand over hers, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Then I am
sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Jeannette flipped her hand, squeezed back. “Yes. You can let me
stay here. Just for a while until I find my feet and arrange my affairs. It
won’t take me long, I promise. A few weeks perhaps.”

“Take as long as you like, as long as you need.”

“And Adrian?”

Violet shrugged. “What about him? You are my sister. Adrian will
simply have to get used to dealing with more than one set of twins in the
house.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Jeannette remained at Winterlea for four weeks.

While there she spent time with Violet and Adrian and the boys,
enjoying the babies far more than she would ever have imagined. Placing them on
a blanket on the drawing room floor in the afternoons, she liked to fuss over
them until she earned a smile from each. And once she thought she heard a
giggle from Sebastian, though no one believed her, since Violet had been asleep
in a nearby chair at the time, exhausted after a fractious night with the
twins. Despite the necessity of hiring a wet nurse, Violet wanted to
breast-feed the boys as much as she could, insisting the intimacy created an
irreplaceable bond.

For her part, Jeannette resumed her old habit of sleeping late and
letting Betsy and the other servants see to her every need. She was aware of
their efforts, though, as she had never been in the past, careful to thank them
for their service and not ask too much of them in the way of extra duties.

Which is why when she had trouble sleeping, as she often seemed to
lately, she went down to the kitchen and made herself a cup of hot milk. She
even banked the coals in the stove afterward, and scoured clean the pot and cup
so no one would know she had been there.

She had Darragh to thank for that, she supposed, for giving her
the knowledge and self-sufficiency to do something as ordinary as heat up her
own cup of milk. She had him to thank as well for her inability to sleep,
memories of their time together tormenting her in the dark, quiet hours, when
she was not occupied enough to hold such thoughts at bay. Yet whatever regrets
she might harbor, she refused to let them dissuade her from her chosen course.

The babies were christened during the final week of her visit,
family traveling from all parts of the country for the event, including her and
Violet’s parents.

Their initial reunion was awkward and strained, her parents
deluging her with a barrage of questions about this mysterious Irishman she had
married. Why, they demanded to know, had she not said in the first place that
he was an earl? And why had he only sent a gift and card for Violet and Adrian,
instead of attending the christening himself?

Two hours into the visit, however, her mother’s cool demeanor
began to thaw, then warmed to an easy flow over a discussion of the latest
fashion pages in
La Belle Assemblée.
By that evening, it was as if
none of the unpleasantness of the past months had occurred. Jeannette was
forgiven.

She was also forgiven by her friends, who wrote to her in droves.
By the end of her stay at Winterlea, she had invitations to four country-house
parties and a winter fête in Bath. She chose one of the house parties, an
entertainment hosted by her dear friend Christabel Morgan, now Lady Cloverly.

Christabel, it seems, had married in August while Jeannette had
been in residence at her cousins’ house in Ireland. Christabel’s new husband
was an older gentleman, a widower with a half-grown daughter and need of an
heir to carry on his title. In addition to an attractive estate in Kent, he
owned a luxurious townhouse in London, where he spent the majority of his time
as an active member of the House of Lords. Christabel loved that she would be
living in London and professed to be overjoyed by her prosperous alliance.

Clearly, Christabel’s marriage was not a love match, as Jeannette
witnessed for herself only a short time after her arrival in Kent. But just as
her friend would never experience love’s highs, she would also never experience
its lows. And Lord Cloverly was not a bad man, neither cruel nor unkind, simply
more interested in his work and his legacy than in entertaining a new young
bride.

Determined to enjoy everything now that she was back among old
friends, Jeannette threw herself into the house party with gusto. She and the
other fifteen guests rode horses and participated in target practice—archery
for the ladies, pistols for the gentlemen, weather permitting. On the days it
was too cold to venture out-of-doors, they played cards and charades, and
listened to the ladies, including herself, perform a variety of musical
selections—activities that continued well into the evening.

Christabel’s party was precisely the type of entertainment
Jeannette had always adored. And she was having fun. Of course she was. She
spent half the day laughing, did she not?

Yet somehow all the frivolity held a hollow ring, an emptiness at
its core that she could not seem to fill. And as each day drew to a close, and
she lay in bed waiting to fall asleep, a sense of dissatisfaction would sweep
through her, where only weary contentment should have been.

It was Darragh’s letter that was draining away her enjoyment, she
decided. Just before she left Winterlea, he’d written to her, a hard, crisp
businesslike missive that had left her frozen for a time in her chair.

In the letter, he informed her that he’d set up an account for her
in London on which she could draw, providing an allowance generous enough that
she could have no cause for complaint. Included as well was the deed to a
townhouse in Mayfair that now belonged to her, together with a rudimentary
staff that she could manage in any manner she saw fit. If she did not like the
house, she had his leave to locate another; arrangements would be made for its
purchase and sale of the first. Horses, a phaeton and a coach would be provided
as well. Had she need of anything further, she was to contact his man of
business in London to see to the matter.

Along with his letter, he enclosed notes from Moira and Siobhan,
who wrote to say they missed her, asking when she was coming home. From
Darragh, there was nothing of a personal nature. He’d said there would be no
divorce, but his actions felt like one nonetheless.

She’d cried for an entire afternoon and evening after his letter
arrived, twisting around and around and around the gold band he’d placed on her
finger on their wedding day. The next day she’d dried her eyes and determined
to put him from her mind, and her heart.

She should be ecstatic. She had everything she wanted. Her own
townhouse in London, a generous stipend and the freedom to move about in
Society as she willed, now that she was a married woman. It was the life of
which she’d always dreamed, and she didn’t even have to put up with a husband
to have it. He would live in Ireland, and she would live here. What could be
better? And should he decide sometime in the future that he wanted an heir, she
would do her duty and find it within herself to provide him with one.

But she wouldn’t dwell on that now. Now was the time to make
merry. And she would, especially once the Season began. Entertaining as
Christabel’s house party might be, it was still a country affair. She needed
the city again, Jeannette told herself. London, where there was never a lack of
thrilling things to do and see.

Once Christabel’s party ended, Jeannette had another house party
to attend, and one after that. By then spring would be in the air, and with it
Society’s return to Town. That’s when her new life would truly begin. The
moment when she would be happy once more. At least, that’s what she hoped.

“Your move.”

“Hmm?” Darragh murmured.

Michael shifted in his chair. “I said it’s your move, lad, and if
you don’t start minding the game, I’ll be capturing that rook of yours in
another pair of turns.”

“What?” Darragh roused himself from his mental wanderings, stared
hard at the chessboard.

Blister it,
he thought,
I have no idea what move to
make.
He couldn’t seem to keep his head in the game. Couldn’t seem to stay
focused on much of anything these days. Knowing his brother was waiting, he
forced a decision and slid a black marble knight forward to capture one of
Michael’s white pawns.

His brother clucked his tongue, making a quick move of his own
that let him sweep two black pawns off the board and left his queen in a position
to take Darragh’s rook, as promised, on the next play. “Why do you not admit
you’re miserable and go after her?”

Darragh shot him a scowl. “And why don’t you mind your own bloody
business and keep your nose out of mine?”

Michael raised his whiskey glass to his lips, took a swallow. “I
would if you weren’t driving us all mad with these blue-devils of yours. Your
temper’s so short these days I could use it to light my cheroots.” He lifted
the cigar in question and drew on it, releasing a long, slow puff of smoke into
the air. “Yesterday you made Moira cry.”

“I apologized to her for snapping. She understood.”

“Aye. We all of us understand. You need your wife back. So quit
stewing in your own sour juices and go get her.”

If only it were that easy, Darragh thought. Since Jeannette had
gone away, he had been wretched. At first he’d held on to the fragile hope that
she might change her mind, make that scoundrel Markham turn the coach around
and return. But she hadn’t. One day melted into two. Five into a week. Three
weeks into a month, then more, as winter cast its chill over the earth before
relinquishing its grip to the inexorable greening warmth of spring.

In all that time, he’d had only a pair of letters from her, each
of them brief. The first informed him that she had arrived safely in England
and would be residing for a time with her sister and brother-in-law at their
Derbyshire estate. The second letter arrived weeks later, thanking him for the
generous allowance he’d provided and for the London townhouse, which she
described as “attractive and comfortable.”

She made no mention of her feelings toward him. Said nothing about
whether or not she was still seeing Toddy Markham. And gave no indication she
had any intention of ever returning to Ireland.

Of course, he’d said virtually nothing in reply to her either, too
angry at first, then too desolate to make the effort.

He tossed back the last of his whiskey, taking grim satisfaction
in the discomfort that burned along his throat. “ ’Tis plain she doesn’t want
to come back. She made her wishes clear enough the day she left.”

“Then you’re a fool to have let her go.”

“And what would you have had me do to stop her? Chain her in the
old dungeon? Lock her in the round tower? She wanted to leave. What choice had
I but to set her free?”

“Did you think to tell her you love her?”

“She knows my feelings.”

But did she? Had he ever once actually said the words
I love
you
? He had thought them dozens of times, he knew. He had expressed them
in countless ways, especially when they made love. But perhaps because of their
troubles since arriving at Caisleán Muir, that particular sentiment had gotten
lost. Maybe if he had told her straight out how much he cared, she might have
stayed.

Still, after all they’d been through, could she really believe he
did not love her? With the depth of passion that raged between them, it seemed
impossible.

“What does it matter?” Darragh demanded, thumping his glass
against the table hard enough to make the chess pieces shift on the board. “She
says this isn’t her home, that she wants to live in England. Well, I want to
live here. Where is there any room in that for compromise?”

“There’s always room for compromise, if you want a thing badly
enough. The question is, how much is she worth to you? Do you love her enough
to set aside your worries and your stubborn Irish pride? Or will you give her
up and let her go for good? The choice is yours.”

Jeannette whirled in the arms of a handsome lord, surrounded by the
light of a hundred burning candles and the warm press of the three dozen other
couples squeezed onto the dance floor. Clove-scented honey water and an attar
of roses competed with the effervescence of champagne, hair pomade and human
perspiration, to make for a rather intense mix.

The soiree was what one might term “a sad crush,” guests packed in
the way sheep were herded into a market pen. Precisely as the hostess desired,
since her entertainment would now be deemed a complete success. Who had
attended, what they had worn and ate, who danced with whom and how many times
would all be written up in tomorrow’s Society column, fodder for the Ton and
the masses alike.

It was the kind of party Jeannette had always adored, but tonight
she admitted that, once again, she was not enjoying herself as she ought. Seven
weeks into the Season and the myriad fêtes, soirees, musicales, card parties,
breakfast parties, suppers and routs were all beginning to run together into an
indistinguishable blur. She’d had an entirely new wardrobe made, but the
novelty had waned already. And the pleasure of calling upon her friends to take
afternoon tea and gossip about the latest happenings and scandals had grown
into a wearisome chore. She didn’t even enjoy the eager attentions of the dozen
attractive men all vying to become her
cisisbeo.
She had no interest
in taking any of them as a lover, and after a while even the most elegant of
the pack were turning into bores.