TheWifeTrap (19 page)

The next dance was the supper dance. Which meant she would not
only have to take to the floor with him but would have to remain in his company
during the midnight buffet set up in the adjoining dining room.

Manners dictated she accept. Personal inclination urged her to
refuse. But she had no convenient excuse to offer, even her hostessing duties
were merely a formality at this point. Looking into Neil Kirby’s earnest brown
eyes and boyishly appealing face, she decided to take pity. He appeared a
pleasant enough young man, easily managed and effortlessly entertained, a new
supplicant literally begging to worship at her feet. Just the sort of balm she
needed to soothe her ragged emotions.

Let O’Brien ignore her. She had no need of his attentions.

Turning her most dazzling smile on the hapless youth before her,
she watched him stare as though momentarily stunned by an intense flash of
light.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, “I should be delighted.”

He ought not to have come to the ball, Darragh berated himself,
knowing he was the world’s grandest fool.

He nearly hadn’t attended, changing his mind at least a dozen
times after going downstairs to Lawrence’s study earlier this evening. Over a
draft of Irish whiskey whose bite had been sharp enough to scald the first
layer of skin from his throat, he’d worried and debated, all but pacing a hole
in his friend’s fine Persian carpet while he dithered over the matter.

Last week, when Merriweather had issued the invitation, a refusal
had come readily to Darragh’s lips. Not out of pique but from pride. The
invitations might say Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather on them, but the party was
her
doing. Formal written invitations, not a one of which had been addressed to
him. An oversight, Merriweather had said, flustered when he’d realized
Darragh’s name had been omitted from the guest list.

Everyone who was anyone for fifty miles around had been invited.
Even Lawrence had received one of her cards, his friend’s name scripted out in
her delicate, flowing hand. But Lawrence was away in Dublin on business these
three weeks past. He didn’t know a thing about the ball. If Lawrence had known,
his friend would surely have warned him off, congratulating Darragh for
resisting the charms of Lady Jeannette these many weeks.

“Why tempt fate, lad?” Lawrence would have said, when Darragh was
all but free.

Yes, why tempt fate?

He’d been prepared to be on the road by now, traveling home to his
siblings in the west country. In the midst of packing his bags, he’d gone
downstairs to purloin a piece of notepaper and seen the invitation lying on
Lawrence’s desk. That’s when he’d reconsidered Merriweather’s offer.

But now that he was here, he knew he should have stayed away. Just
seeing her again brought back all the old urges, Jeannette Rose Brantford
drawing him in a way no other woman ever had. He didn’t even have to glance in
her direction for her beauty to beckon him, mad and alluring as a siren’s song.

Pure Irish pride was the only thing that had kept him on the dance
floor, kept him dancing with other women when there was only one he really
wanted in his arms.

Afterward, he’d watched her promenade into the dining room on the
arm of some sophomoric youth, the lad clearly besotted and utterly out of his
league. Since then Darragh’d done his best to focus his attention on the young
lady he’d taken in to supper, as well as the other trio of couples at their
table. In between bites of succulent roast beef and buttery lobster,
conversation buzzing at a leisurely pace in his ears, his gaze drifted far too
frequently across the room to her.

Jeannette.

Her name whispered like an illicit murmur through his mind, its
rhythm sending his blood pumping harder and hotter through his veins. The sight
of her enough to make him ache in places best not acknowledged in mixed
company. He was glad he hadn’t worn the skintight breeches some gentlemen
favored, else he would have found himself hastening to hide the evidence of his
semi-aroused state. He shifted in his chair and warred against the baser side
of his longings.

She’d galled him tonight with her arrogant talk and her
narrow-minded assumptions. If only she knew the truth about his real
circumstances, and especially his title, only imagine what she would say and
do?

But for all the irritation she sometimes caused him, she entranced
him even more. He missed their verbal jousts and gentle sparing. He missed
their flirtatious banter. Most especially, he missed their kisses—those
dangerous, delicious, forbidden kisses that were worth every second of risk.

He shook his head against such thoughts. A glutton for punishment,
that’s what he was. Yet hard as he’d tried to erase her from his mind over the
past two months, he’d failed miserably.

’Twas true he had forced himself to stay away from her, but in his
head he’d been with her every day. Watching while he worked, a part of him
always alert and hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she went about her day.
Listening for the unexpected murmur of her velvet-soft voice. Closing his eyes
if he happened to catch the sound of her words drifting through an open window
or along a corridor. Savoring the sensation with the care of a man holding a
rare, precious butterfly in his palm.

When he’d left Lawrence’s house tonight he’d told himself he was
going to the party to prove he could walk away from her and never look back in
regret. That he’d built up the memory of her in his mind and when he saw her
again the spark would be well and truly extinguished.

Well, all he’d proven was what a colossal idiot he was—the flame a
long way from extinguished, on both sides. Aye, she might profess to care
nothing for him, but it was clear she felt more than she let on, else his
withdrawal from her life would not have bruised her feelings. And the spark between
them leapt like electricity arcing through the air ahead of a fierce storm. He
could feel the power of it even now, as if there were some invisible tether
stretched between them, tugging them toward temptation.

What did she think she was doing with that boy sharing her table?
Surely she couldn’t be interested in the stripling?

He watched Jeannette nod and smile at something the youth said
moments before she raised her glass to drink a sip of champagne. Darragh nearly
groaned aloud at the sight of her lips, left moist and glistening from the
taste of cool wine.

She was glorious, regal. Glowing moonbeam pretty in her white
finery, her pale golden hair caught in a delicate upsweep that curled
becomingly around her ears. He’d like to see that hair down. See it loose and
brushed, flowing like spun silk around her bare shoulders.

His fist tightened where it rested on his thigh. Likely he wasn’t
the only male feeling her effect, that poor stupid boy obviously bespelled and
having no notion of the pain she’d leave in his heart when she cast him aside.

Darragh’s own heart gave a painful, mocking squeeze, warning him
afresh of the hazard.

If he had any sense, he’d stand up this instant, make some feeble
excuse to the others and walk out. Sever the connection. End this senseless,
hopeless attraction once and for all. Then in the morning he’d be off as
planned, riding hard and fast to put nearly the whole of Ireland between them.

Instead he sat. He ate. He talked, doing his best not to glance in
her direction, at least not more than once or twice a minute.

At length, supper finally came to an end. Everyone returned to the
ballroom. Once there, Darragh bowed and thanked the young lady with whom he’d
shared the meal, ashamed he couldn’t so much as recall her name.

Duty done, he scanned the room for Jeannette, but she wasn’t
there. And neither, as he made a further visual survey, was the stripling lad.

Chapter Twelve

Young Mr. Kirby was foxed.

Jeannette had known he was foxed—how could he be otherwise after
imbibing five glasses of champagne at supper! But despite the drink, he seemed
harmless enough. So harmless, she had thought nothing of accompanying him on a
tour of the new wing when he’d suggested the expedition, thinking the exercise
might help him walk off the worst of his drunk.

Her family had all but deserted the festivities. Supper done,
Violet had quietly murmured into Jeannette’s ear her intention to retire
upstairs to bed for the night. Eliza decided to go up as well, eager to escape
what had clearly been another disappointing evening for her. As for the
gentlemen, Adrian said he planned to see his wife safely tucked into bed then
return downstairs to hear one last lecture on horticulture. While Kit made
merry on the dance floor with yet another winsome brunette.

Jeannette would be there now as well, dancing her feet numb, had
it not been for the continued presence of Darragh O’Brien. Contrary to her
fears, the other guests seemed to find him scintillating, particularly the
female guests. After hours watching him flirt and flatter his way around the
room, she’d had enough and needed to get away.

The man was an unrepentant wolf and shameless about it to boot.
He’d certainly smiled often enough at whatever that willowy redhead he’d
escorted into dinner had been saying. In between listening with half an ear to
Kirby’s ever more rambling diatribes about horse racing and golf—as though she
could possibly care a whit about either topic—she had kept a surreptitious eye
on O’Brien during the intolerably long meal.

How dare O’Brien come here tonight and disrupt her entertainment.
How dare he sit barely four yards away and act as if she didn’t even exist!

Well, in a couple more hours he would be gone. Gone for good, and
she, for one, would be glad.

Wouldn’t she?

Suppressing a desolate sigh, she gazed around the dimly lighted
conservatory. The space was warm and humid, the cool night air outside pressing
against the glass-paned room like the hug of an insistent lover. Vegetation
thrived thick and green within, spilling up and out and over from every
possible direction.

She turned to Kirby to ask him to escort her back to the ballroom.
But before she could even form the words, he yanked her hard against him and
fastened his mouth to hers.

On a yelp, she shoved against him, twisting her head to avoid the
sloppy, drunken kisses he was intent upon taking. His breath wafted over her
face like a stiff, wine-scented breeze. Wrinkling her nose, she redoubled her
efforts to push him away.

“Mr. Kirby, stop that this instant,” she admonished.

He ignored her, enthusiastic hands roaming to places he had no
right to touch.
Good gracious,
she thought as she squirmed to get
away. She’d heard about octopi and their eight long tentacles, but she’d never
before found herself in the clutches of such a creature. Apparently alcohol had
helped Kirby grow far too many arms along with a sudden burst of daring.

“Mr. Kirby, did you hear me? I said
let me go
!”

She shuddered as his moist lips grazed her cheek, then thrust her
arms between them and gave a mighty shove. When the move once more failed to
set her free, she lifted her foot and stomped down hard, grinding her heel into
his instep with as much force as she could muster.

This time he was the one to yelp, sounding like a hurt puppy. As
quickly as he’d grabbed her, he set her free, stumbling backward in a trio of
unsteady steps. Fighting for balance, he reached out and grabbed on to a nearby
bush, tearing off a large handful of leaves.

Swaying, but on his feet, he shot her a wounded look. “What’d you
do that for?”

“To get you off me, you idiot.” Disgusted, she wiped a hand over
her damp cheek. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He blinked, confusion clear on his face. “But you wanted me to
kiss you.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“Yes you did. Why else did you come here with me?”

“To take a stroll, not so you could grope me like some slippery
ten-armed eel. You, Mr. Kirby, are obnoxiously drunk and not in your right
senses. Since you are, I will excuse your ungentlemanly behavior. Now, go back
to the party.”

He thrust out his lower lip. “But I don’t want to go back to the
party.” He paused, gave her a leering grin. “Not without you.”

“Go, sir. This instant.” She pointed an imperious finger toward
the doorway.

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before
swinging around like a petulant child to do as he’d been told. He took two
steps then stopped and clutched his stomach. “Don’t feel well.”

“I am scarcely surprised,” she scolded. “It’s what comes from
overindulging.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “I mean I really don’t feel well. I
think I may be sick.”

She took a closer look at him, noting his sudden pallor and the
perspiration beading on his forehead. She’d seen her brother, Darrin, look just
like that the last time he’d been too deep in his cups. The results had not
been pretty.

“Good heavens, don’t you dare cast up your accounts in here.”

Losing no time, she grabbed him by the elbow and hurried him
toward a small glass side door. Twisting the handle, she flung it open and
ruthlessly shoved Kirby outside. He stumbled a few steps then caught himself.
Seconds later, he broke into an indelicate run toward a hedge of low bushes
that grew a few yards distant.

Grimacing in disgust, she closed the door behind her, turning the
lock with a decisive
click. Nodcock,
she thought, catching sight of
him bent double, heaving violently before she could manage to look away. She
swung around, relieved to note that the thick glass around her muffled the
worst sounds of his distress.

Not long afterward, she saw him slink away, hopefully in search of
his coach and the long ride home.

Grass-green fool,
she thought, relieved to be rid of him.

But to be fair, he wasn’t the only fool tonight. She’d been stupid
to come here with Kirby in the first place, especially since she’d thought him
far too young and no more than passably interesting even at the start.
Obviously all this rural air was muddling her judgment.

Releasing an audible sigh, she decided she ought to return to the
ballroom. It would not do to be missed. Glancing down, she checked her dress to
make sure nothing was askew after Kirby’s crass, drunken attempt to kiss her.
Noticing a ruffled bit of lace, she brushed her fingers over the material to
smooth it back into place.

“Concealing the evidence, are you now?” a deep male voice
challenged from the shadows, the tone one of velvet over steel despite its
outwardly musical lilt.

Even if there had been no accent, she would have recognized the
speaker anywhere. Her head snapped up, gaze colliding with Darragh O’Brien’s as
he stepped forward out of the muted darkness.

She straightened, her heart skipping a single hard beat beneath
her breast. “What are you doing here? And how long have you been standing over
there, lurking in the vegetation?”

His lips quirked into a humorless half smile. “Not long. Actually,
I only just arrived. But you haven’t yet answered my question.”

“Was that a question? It sounded more like an accusation to me.”

He turned his head, scanned the area with an inquiring gaze.
“Question or accusation makes little difference. Where is he, then?”

Whether from temper or conceit, she decided to play dumb. “He
who?”

“You know who. That pale-haired stripling whose arm you were
hanging on when you came in here to tryst. Lost his nerve, did he, and ran
away? Or was it a case of his kisses being so dreadful you had to throw him out
entirely?”

Jeannette bristled, annoyed that O’Brien’s suspicions were so
close to the mark. “I did not come here to tryst. But even if I had, it is no
concern of yours.”

He set his palms on his narrow hips. “Ah, so his kisses were that
bad, then. Still, considering he’s no more than a wet-behind-the-ears lad,
you’ve little right to be surprised or disappointed. If you had a craving to
indulge in such forbidden temptations, you oughtn’t to have settled for a boy.
You should have come to a man.”

She barked out a laugh. “A man like you, I suppose.”

He stepped closer, looming over her, dark and magnetic and
powerfully appealing. “I haven’t caught sight of any other man worthy of you
inside that ballroom tonight.”

The bottoms of her feet tingled inside her slippers, nerve endings
humming as if electrified. For the first time in months, since the last time
she’d stood with him toe to toe in confrontation, she felt vibrantly, intensely
alive.

She held her ground, outwardly calm despite the frenzied pounding
of her heart. “Lowering as it may be to hear, you aren’t that man either. Until
you arrived tonight, I’d quite forgotten you existed.”

His eyes snapped hot. “Did you now, lass?”

He took a menacing step forward, measuring as he held her captive
within his gaze. “Or are you lying? Lying to hide the fact that you haven’t
been able to forget me no matter how hard you’ve tried. Lying when the truth is
you’ve thought of me and dreamed of me and missed me so, it shames you to admit
it even to yourself.”

The air rushed from her lungs, her knees growing dangerously weak.
“Don’t be absurd. You’ve never been anything but a thorn in my side. A very
large, very aggravating, thoroughly annoying thorn of which I cannot wait to be
rid.”

He moved until a bare inch remained between them, so close his
clean male scent filled her nostrils, heat and strength rippling off him like
the force of an indomitable tide.

“A thorn, am I?” he said. “Well, to my knowledge thorns are known
to sting and prick and be devilish difficult to remove. I’m a man given to
taking on the occasional bet and I’d wager I’m one thorn you’ve yet to work
free.”

His voice lowered to a whisper, husky and seductive. His gaze
roved over her face, skimmed and lingered upon her lips. “Am I, Lady Jeannette?
Am I out from under your skin? Or am I burrowed in there even now, making you
ache in places no proper lady should confess to feeling?”

She gasped, nearly choking on the warm humid air that made it all
but impossible to draw a satisfactory breath. Air that left her dizzy and
half-suffocated. But for what? Him or her next breath? And why did both
suddenly seem vital to her continued existence?

“Why are you here?” she murmured. “Why did you seek me out when
it’s been ages since we last met. Mayhap you are the one who hasn’t been able
to forget. Who has found it impossible to get me out from under your skin. Is
that the real truth? That you’re besotted and can’t get me out of your mind?”

His jaw tightened, their eyes locking, neither of them able to
look away.

Her lips parted.

His eyelids drooped.

And then without any conscious awareness they came together. She
whimpered as he took her mouth with savage purpose, his arms crushing her,
cradling her as passion exploded between them like a smoldering conflagration.

Desire tore through her, rocket hot, every thought and caution
melting beneath the need to touch him, taste him and have him do the same to
her. She raised her arms, slid her questing fingers into the thick wavy silk of
his hair. He groaned as she tugged his head closer and opened her mouth to
invite his tongue inside.

He played upon her, waging a passionate battle of tempt and
delight. Then he let her do the same to him. Let her trace the shape of his
teeth. Glide the tip of her tongue over the ultrasmooth skin of his inner
cheeks. Lose herself in the perilous thrill of exploring every dark, wet,
delicious taste and texture, each wonderful sensation that rippled like a
wicked breeze over her entire body.

If she’d thought her memory of his kisses had been exaggerated and
overblown, she quickly discovered her error, dazed and dazzled by his
undeniable skill in matters of the flesh.

But all too soon kisses weren’t enough for either one of them,
merely a prelude to a far grander symphony of carnal gratification that could
yet be had. Unlike with Kirby, whose touch she’d found distasteful, she
welcomed each stroke and caress of Darragh’s broad, capable hands roving over
her body. They glided, those hands, along her neck, down her back, across her
hips. Over the delicate base of her spine, lingering with a gentle kneading
motion that left her half-mad and thoroughly tormented.

She arched and purred low in her throat, striving to get closer.
He bent to assist, planting his palms over her buttocks to raise her upward,
settling her pelvis against the arousal that strained iron hard beneath his
breeches.

Darragh groaned and shuddered with need, knowing he’d made a
monumental mistake. He drew a ragged breath, unable to keep himself from
pressing her tighter. He rocked ever so slightly, letting her feel his
erection, his ravenous, poorly leashed hunger, wondering if such a blatantly sexual
move would shock her, repel her.