TheWifeTrap (6 page)

“Oh, of course,
child. However can I help?”

“Since the
workmen started late this morning, do you suppose they could continue to do so?
I have to confess, I’m used to keeping Town hours and I fear the strain of
having to rise at dawn may prove unhealthy to my constitution. I imagine it is
deleterious upon your health as well.”

“Oh, I’d never
thought,” Wilda said in surprise. “You see, I’m long used to rising early. But
if it will pose a misery for you, then I’ll see what I can do. Be forewarned,
however, we are dealing with men, and you know how contrary men can be.”

The comment
couldn’t help but bring Darragh O’Brien to mind. With his face swimming in her
thoughts, Jeannette finished spreading marmalade on her toast. Taking a savage
bite, she chewed, swallowed and patted her lips dry.

“Yes,” she
murmured, “I know precisely what you mean.”

Chapter Three

Bored.

She’d been here
less than a day and already she was so insanely bored she was all but ready to
be bound and gagged and carried off to Bedlam, or whatever similar facility
might exist here in this pitiful excuse for a country.

A light breeze
played over her skirts, the sun bright, the sky blue, the temperature pleasant
and not as warm as the day prior. As for the perpetual din that rang out in
steady intervals from the construction site…well, she did her best to ignore
that. She paused in her wanderings, used the toe of her slipper to nudge a few
pieces of loose gravel on the path that cut through the gardens behind the
house.

She heaved out a
desolate breath.

She supposed she
could read. A brief tour of the house had revealed the library—which thankfully
had not burned down—and the extensive selection of literary works it contained.

Yes, she decided,
a book might well be her only salvation.

A half smile
played at her lips as she thought how shocked those of her acquaintance would
be if they knew she was even contemplating such an act. Even her own her family
believed her to be practically illiterate. But it wasn’t true. Secretly she
enjoyed reading now and again, especially the lurid romantic novels printed by
the Minerva Press, though she rarely had an opportunity to indulge herself in
such pastimes.

During the months
when she’d been pretending to be her bookish twin, she’d had the opportunity to
openly bury her nose in several volumes, including the Jane Austen novel Violet
had been forced to abandon the day of their switch. The book had been quite
diverting as she remembered, quite diverting, indeed. She wondered if there
might be anything nearly as entertaining in the Merriweathers’ library.

Unlikely. Wilda
didn’t strike her as the literary type, and Jeannette couldn’t imagine Cuthbert
taking an interest in anything but dry scientific and botanical tomes.

She crinkled her
nose at the idea, already bored again.

Perhaps, on
second thought, a book might not be the wisest choice. Just because she was
away from home didn’t mean she needed to fall into bad habits. As she’d learned
long ago, ladies who wish to be admired by Society do not read, and if they
possess a brain, they make sure never to reveal it—especially to members of the
opposite sex.

She recalled a
day years ago when her maternal grandmother, the Marchioness of Colton, had
come to visit. A very great lady and undisputed leader of the fashionable set
in her heyday, she’d made a rare trip upstairs to the third-floor schoolroom to
visit her daughter’s children—Darrin, aged nine, and the twins, Jeannette and
Violet, not quite eleven.

Jeannette still
remembered the silken rustle of her grandmother’s magnificent jonquil gown, the
soft click of her heels against the hardwood floor and the scent of the lily of
the valley she wore that filled the space like a whisper of spring.

Usually bold, often to the point of folly, Jeannette had found
herself stricken by an acute case of nerves. Quickly she’d lowered her eyes,
praying her grandmother, whom she scarcely knew, would focus her attention upon
the Wightbridge heir, Darrin. But her wishes crashed at her feet moments later
when the marchioness strode over to her and reached out with an implacable
gloved hand to raise up her chin.

The older woman, still beautiful despite her years, stared down at
her out of critical lilac-hued eyes. She turned Jeannette’s head left then
right, inspecting her the way one might a horse or a dog. Abruptly, she
released her.

“She’s a pretty face, I’ll grant you,” the great lady pronounced,
“as does the other one.” She’d paused, cast a disapproving glance at Violet,
whose nose was pushed as far as it would go into the book she held.

“But you’d be well advised, Edith,” the marchioness counseled her
daughter, “to curtail all but the most cursory of their education. Too much
knowledge ruins a female, and if they turn bookish, well, it will prove their
downfall. There’ll be no marrying them off to anyone then, no matter how comely
they might be. A woman’s job, after all, is to learn to please a man so later
she may have the luxury of pleasing herself. Put samplers and watercolor brushes
in their hands now so they don’t end up old maids.”

Unlike her sister, who’d rolled her eyes and returned to her
reading, Jeannette had taken her grandmother’s remarks to heart. Even at her
young age she had known there could be no worse fate for a female than to end
up on the shelf, unmarried and unwanted.

From that day forward, she’d taken only indifferent interest in
her more academic studies, turning her attention to strictly feminine pursuits.
And truly, the change had been no great hardship, since she genuinely loved
fashion and furbelows, singing, playing the pianoforte, dancing and
painting—all skills at which she excelled. Her grandmother had been an arbiter
of style, an acknowledged leader of her set, and so too would she, Jeannette
decided. If she needed to conceal the fact that she possessed a brain in order
to achieve social success, then so be it. What, after all, was the loss of a
few books along the way in comparison to having the fashionable world at her
feet?

And once she married and married well, Jeannette knew she would be
able to live her life as she chose to live it, just as her grandmother had
foretold. If she decided at that time to reveal she wasn’t quite as impervious
to knowledge as some thought, then she would do so and give them all something
new about which to gossip.

But for now she must bide her time here in this purgatory, bored,
with no foreseeable relief in sight.

This morning while touring the house with Wilda, she’d inquired
about local Society, anything to wile away the hours. To her consternation,
Wilda had told her she and Bertie rarely entertained. Apparently the only
assemblies were in Waterford, which was far too long a trip for people their
age. Then she appalled Jeannette even further by telling her about the twice monthly
get-togethers Wilda had with the vicar’s wife, the squire’s wife and a pair of
local spinsters—not a single one of them younger than fifty. When Wilda invited
her to join them when next they met, she’d swallowed her gasp of horror then
very politely but firmly declined.

Ooh, she bemoaned, how could Mama and Papa subject her to such a
fate? It was quite the meanest thing her parents had ever done.

She kicked another pebble and gazed in gloomy contemplation at a
nearby cluster of vibrant scarlet poppies.

An exuberant round of barking filled the air, capturing her
attention. She turned, gazed up just in time to watch a huge gray beast lope
around the far corner of the house. She froze in shock as it sprinted toward
her, lean and almost wolflike in appearance. Before she could flee, it lunged
up onto its hind feet, set a pair of massive hairy paws onto her shoulders and
toppled her backward.

She screamed as she fell amongst the flowers, then screamed again
as the creature loomed above her, a great wet pink sponge of a tongue coming
out to swipe her across the face. She shuddered and tried to escape, the scent
of animal breath heavy in her nostrils. But the beast had her pinned, its
weight and size heavy as a sack of stones.

“Vitruvius, off.”

The creature tensed, having obviously heard the command. But it
stayed long enough to get in one more good lick, while all she could do was
whimper and roll her head in futile avoidance. Apparently knowing its time was
up, the beast sprang away.

“Vitruvius. Bad dog. Very bad dog.”

Dog?
More like monster, she grimaced, swiping her hand
across her lips in disgust, her face alarmingly sticky with slobber.
Ugh.

“He’s an ill-mannered brute. My apologies for his rudeness. Here
now, are you all right?”

For a moment the only thing she saw above her was azure sky and
lumbering white clouds. Then a face blocked them out as a man bent over her.
She stared at his ruggedly appealing features, then lower, taking in his
well-tailored though ordinary white cotton shirt, brown linen trousers and
waistcoat, a navy blue silk neckerchief tied at his throat. How odd that he
resembled that rogue Darragh O’Brien. How was it possible? Did all Irishmen
look alike? Then the appalling truth struck her like a plunge into an icy
winter lake.

He
was
Darragh O’Brien.

“You!”
she accused.

“Lady Jeannette?” he questioned. “Is it really yourself, lass?”

“Yes, it’s me. And for the last time, don’t call me lass.”

He quirked a smile and reached down a hand. “Here, let me help you
up.”

She slapped his hand away. “No, thank you.”

Ignoring him, she rolled to her knees, climbed rather shakily to
her feet. She beat at her mangled skirts while his beast animal sat watching,
huge tongue lolling sideways out of its toothy mouth.

“That…that creature,” she said, pointing at the dog, “is a menace.
It should be kept in a cage.”

“Don’t take on so, lass. Why, he’s naught but a puppy, too full of
high spirits and exuberance to expect too much out of him. He didn’t mean you
any harm. Did you, boy-o?”

Gazing down at Vitruvius, Darragh gave the animal an affectionate
scratch on the top of his head. The dog smiled up at his master and flopped his
tail against the gravel path.

“Puppy?” she said. “That beast is not a puppy, more like a bear or
a wolf. Why, he could have ripped out my throat.”

O’Brien snorted. “Not that one, no. He may be an Irish wolfhound,
but he’s docile to the core, despite the fierce origins of his breed. He’s
already done his worst to you, though I’ll be the first to admit that tongue of
his makes a fair and formidable weapon.”

“Don’t forget his paws. He pushed me to the ground.”

A look of genuine regret passed over O’Brien’s face. “He did, and
for that you’ve my sincere and honest apology. Did he hurt you, lass?”

Lass.
There was that word again. Did he not realize how
disrespectful he was being? That he had an obligation to address her properly
with the deference due her rank? Or was it merely that he did not care? She
rather suspected it was the latter, but what recourse did she have when the
infuriating man simply refused to obey? He and his unmanageable dog quite
obviously had a great deal in common.

As for her well-being, though she yearned to make a fuss and claim
serious and lasting injury, she knew she could not justify it. Especially given
the way she’d been able to climb almost immediately to her feet. Though she
wouldn’t be the least surprised if she awoke on the morrow to find herself
literally riddled with a kaleidoscope of bruises.

She pulled out her silk handkerchief, wiped her face and hands
before returning it to her pocket. “I’m as well as can be expected under the
circumstances but my gown is not. It is ruined. Look at it, covered with paw
prints. Great big huge muddy paw prints.” She choked back a wail as the full
realization hit her.

Oh, how could it be? Yet another of her favorite gowns destroyed
and in the span of only a day’s time. The injustice was not to be countenanced.
The blame indisputable, resting squarely at the feet of one man. She didn’t
know what she’d done to merit such a series of calamitous misadventures at his
hands.

She stared at him, forced to tilt her head back, way back, so she
could meet his gaze.
Gadzooks, he was tall.
Until that moment she
hadn’t realized precisely how tall. Nor how lanky, his lean build betraying
none of the muscled strength he’d displayed yesterday while carrying her from
the coach.

She remembered the sensation of being cradled in his embrace, a
disturbing fluttery tingle rippling through her middle. Disturbed by the
unwanted reaction, she went on the offensive. “And what exactly are you doing
here, Mr. O’Brien—”

“About that,” he interrupted, reaching up to scratch the side of
his firm jaw as if he was suddenly a mite uneasy. “You really haven’t the need
to call me ‘mister.’ Just plain O’Brien will do, or Darragh, since I’ve never
been one for the formalities. Though if you insist, I suppose you can call me
by my ti—”

“Mr. O’Brien shall do well enough.” Encouraging intimacy between
them, however innocently done, would not be proper. Nor would it be prudent,
particularly considering the unwanted effect he had on her pulse. “So, why are
you here? Have you business with my cousins? Or are you merely trespassing? You
and that untrained hound of yours.”

She cast a look of rebuke at the dog for his shabby manners.
Though to be fair, the fault didn’t really lay with the animal, but instead
with his master for failing to control him.