TheWifeTrap (11 page)

“You tricked me.”

“Not a bit, lass. All I said was that a man likes to be asked
nicely. I never said if you did it I’d agree to your wishes.”

“Why, you…and to think I returned your plans. I should have burned
them instead.”

His jovial humor dropped away. “You ought to be glad you didn’t,
or there would be a heavy reckoning to pay.”

“You don’t scare me,” she declared, tilting her chin upward in
defiance.

“Be careful, or I might.”

“By doing what, pray tell?”

“Oh, I can think of a few choice things. Such as having the men
begin laboring at five.”

“But it’s dark then. They wouldn’t be able to see.”

“They’ll light lanterns.” And complain and moan and grumble about
the predawn hour, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

“Even my cousins wouldn’t like being awakened, not that early.”

“I’ll explain that it can’t be helped if we’re to finish on time.
The Merriweathers are amiable folk, I’m certain they’ll make allowances.”

A flood of emotions raced across her expressive features, chief
among them annoyance and frustration. To his own annoyance, fresh arousal
stirred inside him. He found her more appealing than ever, anger only
heightening her vibrant beauty. Prudence made him tighten his hands behind his
back, knowing so much as a light touch would be all the impetus he required to
reach out and take her in his arms.

“Shall it be seven again, then, lass?” he prodded.

An unladylike growl rumbled in her throat as she came forward and
swept past him, the skirts of her dressing gown swirling in a tempest around
her ankles.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he called toward her retreating back.

Moments later a door slammed, echoing through the house.

In relief, Darragh loosened his hands and smiled.

Upstairs in her room, Jeannette flopped onto her bed and gave vent
to the hurt and anger pouring through her.

O’Brien had played her, and played her well, she thought.

Beast.

Imagine manipulating her that way. Luring her with his charming
smile, rakish good looks and clever words. For a minute, she’d actually found
herself liking him, enjoying their light flirtation no matter how imprudent it
might be. But then he’d shown his true stripes, and made mock of her needs and
wishes.

The man had no heart. No compassion.

Couldn’t he see she was exhausted? She didn’t want much. Just the
simple right to slumber a few hours past dawn, as any respectable lady might
expect to do. Was that so great a thing to ask?

It wasn’t as though she had not made concessions. Before arriving
in Ireland, she couldn’t remember the last time she had awakened earlier than
ten o’clock, and even that hour had proven a hardship some mornings when she
had lived in London. Late-night parties, dancing until the wee hours, those
were the only times she had come close to seeing the sun rise—when she was
climbing
into
bed, not crawling out.

Inurned here in the country as she was, though, she supposed she
could try retiring earlier. Her cousins certainly dozed off betimes, sometimes
while sitting in their chairs in the drawing room after dinner—Wilda nodding
off over her sewing, Cuthbert rousing at infrequent intervals to the sound of
his own snuffling snores as he attempted to read one of his botany books. If
she hadn’t found being trapped with them so upsetting, their antics would be
funny.

But her cousins were old and couldn’t help their frail nature. She
was young and vibrant and enjoyed late evenings, even if there were no parties
and scarcely anything entertaining to do. Besides, she didn’t want to give up
her Town hours, since it would be the final capitulation to her fate.

Weariness crashed over her, a jaw-popping yawn catching her
unawares. Moisture pooled in the corners of her eyes. O’Brien’s fault, she
grumbled to herself, pulling the pillow over her head. Closing her eyes, she
tried to sleep.

But the effort proved futile, the incessant buzz of voices and
thuds and thumps raking across her nerves like the pricking of a thousand
needles. Uttering an oath that would have made her brother grin in admiration,
she flung herself out of bed and across to the bellpull.

Tired and out-of-sorts, she rang for Betsy.

A warm bath and breakfast helped a bit—eggs, ham and a large pot
of hot chocolate going a long way toward improving her mood. Afterward, she sat
down at a small, satinwood writing desk to pen a letter to her mother. But even
as she watched the ink dry on the page, she tore it up, realizing how desperate
and lonely she sounded. She would not plead, she vowed. Her parents had
banished her here, and they should be the ones to ask her to come home.

Near noon, the house filled with a different sort of noise as
Wilda’s gray-haired female friends arrived for their bimonthly card party.

“Would you care to join us, dear?” Wilda inquired, raising her
voice to be heard over her friends’ endless chatter.

“No, thank you, cousin. I believe I shall go outside to take some
air.”

“All right, dear. Have a nice time.”

After exchanging a few pleasantries with the ladies, Jeannette
returned upstairs and had Betsy help her change into one of her sturdiest
gowns, made of Devonshire brown checkered gingham. Onto her feet, she slipped
comfortable dark leather half boots, then perched a pretty but practical straw
bonnet on her head.

Deciding she might enjoy more than an ordinary walk, she located
her watercolor paper, paints and paintbrushes, and set out for the low, gently
rolling hills that lay beyond the house. Once she located the perfect spot, she
spread out a lawn blanket, set up her equipment and began to paint.

None of her London friends would have believed their eyes had they
seen her. Nor would they have countenanced the fact that she could enjoy a day
spent alone, painting the rugged Irish landscape. She could scarcely believe it
herself, but by the end of the afternoon she realized she’d passed the first
truly happy hours she’d known since arriving in this wild new land.

And she couldn’t deny that she was pleased with her painting of a
weathered Celtic stone cross standing ancient and lonely in a field. Magenta
and purple heather and golden bog grass grew up in clumps around the old gray
stone, patches of vibrant green scattered as they ranged off into the distance.

So pleased was she, in fact, that she decided to paint the next
afternoon as well, carrying along a light nuncheon she had asked Cook to pack
for her.

She was stippling grass-green paint onto her canvas when a
movement off to one side caught her attention. Her lips thinned as she
recognized the vigorous man striding a few yards distant.

O’Brien.

What was
he
doing here?

True to his word, he’d begun work this morning at precisely seven
o’clock, but the extra few minutes’ sleep had done nothing to mollify her
wounded feelings. On a silent sniff, she pretended not to see him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slow, then pause as if
deciding whether or not he ought to approach her. Mentally, she gave him a push
to send him on his way. But he ignored the invisible suggestion and strolled in
her direction. Studiously, she applied her paintbrush to the watercolor paper.

When he drew to a halt, his tall form loomed over her in a way
that made her breath hitch beneath her breasts despite the respectful distance
he’d left between them.

“A fine good day to you, Lady Jeannette,” he greeted in a deep
cheerful voice, his Irish accent playing a seductive melody.

Determinedly, she continued to paint.

“Don’t mind me. I’ll just stand here all quiet-like and watch you
for a while.”

She swished out her sable brush in a jar of water before twirling
the ends of it across a small block of brown paint on her palette. “You are in
my light.”

He took a pair of large sideways steps that brought him closer.
“Better?”

“No.” Heart beating fast, she steadied her hand, worried she might
bobble the next stroke if she was not careful.

“ ’Tis a fetching scene you’ve chosen,” he remarked, making no
effort to move. “The land hereabouts is enchanting, all fertile and green. Not like
my home county in the West, where things are a bit more wild and rough. You’d
have a fine time painting there, though, with the scent of the Shannon in your
nose and the wind whipping at your skirts.”

The pride in his home rang out, along with a faint hint of longing
for the land he obviously missed. For a second she wondered what it must look
like, his home. But why did she care? she wondered, shaking off her curiosity.
After all, it wasn’t as though she would ever have an opportunity to see the
place.

She shot him a look. “Have you sought me out for a reason, Mr.
O’Brien, or are you merely here to gloat?”

“Now, lass, don’t take on so about yesterday. I’ve forgotten all
about it.”

As well he might, since events had turned so neatly in his favor.

“I was walking,” he continued, “as I sometimes do when I’ve issues
to think through, and there you were. I couldn’t help but stop, not after
seeing you with your bright blue skirts spread all around, your hair shining
golden and pretty as a flower. I’m surprised the bees and butterflies haven’t
been whizzing about, trying to steal a sip of nectar.”

A warm bubble rose in the vicinity of her heart before she could
prevent the reaction, her paintbrush drooping in her hand. She caught herself
quickly and issued a stern internal rebuke.

It wouldn’t do, she warned, to let O’Brien beguile her, not again.
She must be careful to guard against him, against any man who might mesmerize
her with a debonair smile or the music of a well-turned phrase. Toddy had been
such a man, luring her with honeyed words and false promises. Seducing her into
believing in a love whose core had been hollow, whose happiness had been built
from a lie.

Not that O’Brien was actually trying to seduce her. She knew he
was only teasing and playing, like a cat who’d found a lively mouse. Well, she
was done being the mouse. From now on, she planned to be the cat.

Dipping her brush into the water and paint, she touched the
bristles to the paper.

O’Brien made no comment about her lack of a reply, standing for
another long moment before taking a step forward. “I think I’ll have a seat, if
you don’t mind.”

Before she could tell him she did mind, he was sinking down into
the grass at the edge of the tan blanket she had spread beneath her, lowering
his powerful body with a grace uncommon for a man of his height. Relaxing onto
an elbow, he reached out and broke off a long green blade.

Casually, he twirled the sliver of grass between his fingers.
Elegant fingers, she noticed. Elegant hands. Well shaped and patrician despite
the calluses riding their tips.

“You’ve a gifted touch with the paints,” he observed after a time,
gesturing toward her watercolor with the grass blade. “Have you done many
others?”

“Paintings, you mean?”

“Aye.”

“Of course. Painting is a skill all accomplished young ladies must
master.”

“Well, it strikes me you’re better than most. You have a grand
talent, a grand talent indeed.”

A fresh bubble of warmth rose inside her chest. “Do you really
think so?”

“Aye, I most sincerely do.” He smiled then and made her heart
spring like a lemming flinging itself into the sea.

More unsettled than she wished, Jeannette swished her brush clean,
then dabbed at a new color.

While she did, O’Brien stretched out on his back and linked his
hands together behind his head.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

“Relaxing, lass.”

“But surely you cannot mean to remain here…like that?”

“I was, aye. Considering how well we’ve been getting on, I thought
we might attempt a truce. For a few minutes at least.”

“We have no need of a truce, Mr. O’Brien. We are not, after all,
at war.”

“Are we not, lass? I am profoundly glad to hear it. Go on with
your painting, then, while I lie here and rest my eyes.”

Rest his eyes!

Her own eyes narrowed in speculation, watching him to see if he
was watching her. He didn’t seem to be, though, his lids remaining firmly
closed. What was he up to? He must have some sort of devious plot up his
sleeve. Some new scheme he planned to spring.

But as she alternately watched him and tried to paint, the minutes
began to pass. First one, then two, then more, without any discernible movement
from him other than the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. After
five minutes, she began to realize he meant what he said.

Unable to restrain the impulse, she let her gaze roam his length,
saliva pooling in her mouth at the sight.

She swallowed.

He really was the most absurdly handsome man, she thought. Oh, not
in a classical way—he was far too roughly hewn to ever compete with
Adonis
or
David
—but Darragh O’Brien was beautiful all the same. It really was
patently unfair that a commoner should possess such splendid looks. Think how
dashing he would appear dressed in proper gentleman’s attire. She closed her
eyes for a moment to imagine it—cutaway coat, waistcoat and tailored
pantaloons.

He could make any female swoon, and likely had at that.

Dash it all. What was wrong with her? She should be ignoring him,
not ogling him. Neither should her pulse be speeding like a thoroughbred
galloping in the final race at Ascot. She didn’t like it that he could make her
heart do such a thing.

She was the cat, remember?

Some cat, she conceded on a silent exhale.

If he could cause this kind of reaction after so short an
acquaintance, just think of the havoc he might wreak after prolonged exposure.