TheWifeTrap (17 page)

Wilda visibly relaxed, a wide smile tilting her lips. “No indeed,
your Grace.”

“Adrian, please. Or Raeburn, if you would prefer.”

“Thank you, your Gr—I mean Adrian.” She gave an amazingly girlish
titter, briefly covering her mouth with a hand. “And you must call me Wilda.”

“With pleasure.”

Wilda paused and cast an animated gaze over the group, as if a
wonderful thought had just occurred to her. “Do any of you by chance care for
whist?”

Chapter Eleven

“La, what fun.” Jeannette dropped down into a chair next to her
sister and Eliza. “Thank heavens for the interval between sets or I fear my feet
might fall off from all the dancing.”

She opened her fan to cool her warm cheeks. White, the fan had
been chosen especially to match her ball gown of equally white watered silk
with an overdress of beaded tiffany and blond Bruges lace. White silk slippers,
long white gloves and a strand of simple, yet elegant pearls completed her
ensemble.

“The evening is progressing splendidly, do you not agree?” she
commented.

“Very splendidly. You have outdone yourself as usual,” Violet
said, raising a glass of punch to her lips.

Jeannette smiled, gratified by the compliment. She was gratified
as well to see her sister dressed in another modish gown tonight, an utterly
glorious confection of sapphire-shot silk with lines that complemented Violet’s
ripened figure in a very tasteful way.

Apparently exchanging places with each other for a few months last
year had left behind some beneficial results, such as a much improved sense of
style on her twin’s part. For years she had harangued Violet to take a more
active interest in her wardrobe. The needs of their deception, and a continued
desire to be an asset to her husband, must have finally convinced Violet to
mend her unfashionable ways.

Now, if only her sister could work the same miracle upon her
friend Eliza. The young woman looked like an utter drab in her gown of
filemot-colored taffeta. And if the shade weren’t gruesome enough, the six-inch
flounce around the hem turned the dress into an utter fright. Perhaps Miss
Hammond’s mantua-maker was blind, Jeannette mused. What other excuse could
there be for such unapologetic ugliness?

No surprise that the men were staying well away. So far Adrian and
Kit were the only gentlemen to take pity upon Eliza, offering a single duty
dance each at the beginning of the evening. Their visible attentions had not
been enough, however, to persuade the other men to follow suit. Not even the
provincials, it seems, would stand up with timid, unfashionable Eliza Hammond.

At least Miss Hammond had Violet. Society being what it was, most
people would have dropped the girl by now, but Violet had never allowed others
to dictate her choice of companion. Violet’s decision might not be the wisest
one, but Jeannette could not condemn her sister’s loyalty. Violet was a most
excellent and steadfast friend—kind-hearted, thoughtful and generous to a
fault.

Jeannette’s gaze lowered to the visible evidence of her twin’s
pregnancy. What a fine mother she was going to make, Jeannette thought.
Violet’s children, whether they be boys or girls, would be very lucky indeed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Violet raised a brow, as if mildly surprised but pleased by the
inquiry. Resting a palm over her belly, her lips curved in a placid smile.
“Perfectly well, all in all. The babies apparently realize something special is
occurring this evening and are on their best behavior—only a single set of
kicks thus far. I must confess I am no longer much used to late nights, though.
At Winterlea I would be slipping into bed about now. But thankfully the nap I
took after our nuncheon has proved very refreshing. So long as I can make it
until supper, I should be fine. At midnight, you say?”

Jeannette nodded. “Among other things, we’re serving lobster
patties and prawns.”

“Oh, I adore prawns,” Eliza murmured from her seat on the opposite
side of Violet. As if only then realizing she’d spoken aloud, she cast her eyes
toward the floor.

Jeannette waited a second to make sure Eliza had nothing further
to add, then changed the subject. “So, when do we return to London? I suppose
tomorrow would be too soon.”

“Rather,” Violet said in a mildly ironic tone. “We ought to remain
a few days at least. And I, for one, would like to become better acquainted
with our cousins, dears that they are. I should also like to visit a few of the
local sites while I am here. I understand there are some very fine Cistercian
ruins at Jerpoint Abbey only a few miles distant. And then there is the
Browne’s Hill Dolmen not far in the other direction.” She clasped her hands,
warming to her subject. “Though we didn’t have time to dawdle, it was
intriguing to land in Waterford, where Strongbow, the first Norman king of
Ireland, led his men ashore and conquered the country in 1169.” She tapped a
gloved finger against her lower lip. “Or was it 1170?”

“Seventy, I believe,” Eliza piped up. “I distinctly remember
reading about it in the guidebook. Though to be exact, I believe, his men came
ashore at Bannow Bay.”

While Violet and Eliza continued to debate the finer points of
Irish history, Jeannette’s thoughts winged unexpectedly to O’Brien. What would
he make of it, had he been privy to the discussion? One thing of which she felt
certain, he wouldn’t be speaking of the invasion and conquest of Ireland with
impartial detachment, regardless of the fact that the events had transpired
over six hundred years ago.

“Wherever or whenever the Normans came ashore,” Jeannette said, “I
don’t imagine the native Irish had much liking for it.”

Violet and Eliza stopping talking, turned their heads to stare.

Jeannette stared back, nearly as surprised as they by the
challenging remark that had slid so glibly off her tongue. Never before in her
life had she uttered so patently philosophical a thought—at least not aloud and
certainly never in public. Obviously, living in Ireland and associating with
Irishmen, such as O’Brien, was having an alarming effect upon her. In London,
she would not have bothered to listen to such talk, let alone taken the time or
trouble to comment upon it.

A good thing she would soon be leaving for home.

A little V formed over the bridge of Violet’s nose as she
responded to Jeannette’s remark. “No, I suspect you are entirely correct,
particularly given the brutality I understand was used to capture the city and
surrounding territories. To solidify his power, Strongbow subsequently married
the daughter of one of the old Irish kings. But he remained with her and their
offspring in the country afterward, even learning the Gaelic language. So one
can’t claim he reviled the natives. Not like later men, such as Oliver
Cromwell.”

Knowing she’d expressed far too much interest already, Jeannette
hurried to reestablish her trademark air of disinterest. It wouldn’t do for
anyone, not even her sister, to suspect she was turning intellectual. “Enough,
I beg you, or my poor brain may suffer a seizure. I suppose you can’t help it,
though, used as you are to regaling Raeburn with such talk while you are
dragging him around from one moldy old place to another.”

“Adrian enjoys such conversations and visiting ruins and other
historical sites. He’s a man of very diverse interests. In fact, he’s off in
Cousin Cuthbert’s study right now, enjoying a lecture on exotic flora given by
several members of the Royal Horticultural Society. He has hopes of convincing
our cousin to give him a few cuttings to take back for propagation in our
conservatory at home.”

“And why aren’t you in there listening? Such tedium sounds exactly
the sort of thing you’d enjoy,” Jeannette teased.

“I would have joined them, but apparently the lecture is for
gentlemen only. I considered protesting, until I discovered they are smoking
cigars, and smoke these days quite literally turns my stomach.” Violet rubbed a
hand over her rounded middle as if fighting queasiness at the thought. “Adrian
is listening for me.”

“How considerate of him.”
How dull,
Jeannette thought.

“Cousin Wilda invited Eliza and me to play cards in her new card
room, but I declined, fearing I wouldn’t be able to sit close enough to the
table to play.” Violet gave a self-deprecating grin. “Not with this belly of
mine. I was trying to convince Eliza to go and join the game only moments
before you came off the dance floor.”

“Oh, but I cannot leave you alone,” Eliza protested. “You cannot
dance and it would not be right to desert you.”

“You wouldn’t be deserting me,” Violet said. “Honestly, I will be
fine here in my chair, enjoying the music, watching the dancers.”

“Raeburn would surely not approve of my abandoning you…”

Jeannette surveyed the room, listening with half an ear as her
sister and Eliza continued to thrash out the issue. Guests congregated in
groups of varying size around the attractively appointed room, chatting and
gossiping and flirting while they sipped champagne from elegant crystal flutes
or punch from delicate china cups. Others strolled at a leisurely pace around
the periphery, a few taking advantage of an unlocked door to disappear into the
gardens beyond despite the chilly air. If she wasn’t mistaken, she had seen Kit
Winter do that very thing not too many minutes past, a lithesome young redhead
giggling on his arm.

A movement near the ballroom’s large double doors caught her
attention, her gaze drawn to a new figure standing in the entrance.

Dark and tall, he surveyed the room with a commanding gaze, his
broad shoulders square beneath his exceptionally well-cut coat. He wore
breeches of black superfine, a pure white shirt and an equally snowy Marcella
waistcoat. His crisp linen cravat, also white, was tied around his neck in a
fashionably precise Mathematical that would have satisfied even London
Society’s highest sticklers of style. White stockings molded a pair of
attractively firm masculine calves, black dress pumps graced his feet.

Who is this now?
she wondered, unable to place such a gentleman
on the guest list. Obviously the man was late arriving, since he had not been
introduced at the start of the evening as part of the receiving line. Might he
be one of her cousin’s colleagues visiting from London? But no, all those
gentleman had arrived earlier, and surely no man of science would ever present
a figure of such sartorial splendor.

So who was he?

Her breath caught in her throat, pulse quickening with interest as
he strode into the room. He turned his head and she stopped breathing altogether,
noting the unusual, vibrant color of his eyes.

Deep gentian blue. A shade she’d encountered only once before. A
shade that belonged to one very specific, very Irish man.

Blood drained from her head then flooded back in a dizzying rush,
making her glad for the support of the chair beneath her. Her thoughts
scattered like so much dandelion fluff as the full weight of the truth settled
upon her.

No, she denied, that gentleman could not be Darragh O’Brien.

Yet with every step that led him deeper into the ballroom, she
became more certain that it was O’Brien, from the crown of his neatly brushed
chestnut hair to the soles of his expensive shoes.

And where, she wanted to know, had he come by those shoes? Not to
mention the clothing? To any casual observer he looked the part of a gentleman.
Only, she knew better.

Her lips tightened. She had not seen him in weeks, had not
exchanged so much as a word with the man in longer than that, yet here he
stood, barging uninvited into her cousins’ party.
Her
party, if truth
be told; a fact of which he was very likely aware.

What was he doing here? And why? All her confusion and hurt over
the way he had so thoroughly dismissed and ignored her returned with a
vengeance.

“Well, whatever it is he wants, he can just do without,” she
muttered.

“Who can do without?” her twin inquired. “Of whom are you
speaking?”

“What?” Jeannette blinked, found both Violet and Eliza watching
her with curious interest. “No one, nothing, I…it is of no import.” She raked
her mind for an excuse. “I…um…only just remembered there is a matter I must
check on before supper. With the dancing to resume shortly, I’d best not
tarry.”

That said, she leapt to her feet. With Darragh O’Brien firmly in
her sights, she plowed forward like a mighty ship through deep seas. Her hope
was to reach him before he made contact with any of the other guests. But
seconds later she saw her hopes dashed as he engaged a couple in conversation.
The Gordons, if she was not mistaken, cousins to Viscount Gordon himself. She
increased her speed, determined to separate him from such illustrious
personages before he did any irreparable damage.

Forcing her step to slow as she converged upon them, she barely
restrained the unladylike urge to lock a hand around O’Brien’s arm and
physically yank him aside. She affixed a pleasant smile to her lips instead and
murmured a greeting.

O’Brien turned, executed a precise bow. He met her gaze, eyes
twinkling despite the polite expression on his handsome, clean-shaven face.

“How are you enjoying the evening thus far?” she asked the
Gordons. “I couldn’t help but notice what a striking couple you made earlier
out on the dance floor.”