TheWifeTrap (20 page)

Instead she clung, continued to kiss him as if he were a delicious
feast and she was starving after months without food.

He’d better put an end to this, he thought, barely coherent. Set
her safely away from him before things got completely, disastrously out of
hand. But Blessed Mary, how he wanted her. Wanted to throw up her skirts and
feel her firm legs lock around his waist. Wanted to tear open his breeches so
he could drive into her over and over and over again until the bliss shook them
both.

He waited, the sensible part of him praying she would put an end
to the insanity and make him release her. The wicked part urged him on, coaxed
him to cup one of her sweet pliant breasts in his hand, to tease the nipple
until it peaked against his palm.

Shaking, he fought his inner demons and prepared to let her go.
Then she moaned, a sound that shot straight to his loins, making him throb and
ache. Her arms looped around his neck and she clung, biting at his mouth,
sucking at his tongue in a way that made his head spin, that scorched every
last rational thought from his mind like fire set loose in a patch of dry
forest.

Driven by instinct, he carried her across to a nearby wooden
potting table, knocking over a pair of empty clay containers that rolled toward
the edge. The sound of their shattering onto the slate floor scarcely
registered as he set her down, pushed up her skirts so he could spread her legs
and settle himself in between. Reaching out, he loosened her bodice, nearly
ripping the delicate material in his haste to expose her breasts to his touch.

She murmured, stiffening slightly as if in confusion. He kissed
her again, a wet, openmouthed mating that literally stole his breath. And
obviously hers, since whatever inhibitions might have remained seemed to die a
quick, febrile death. He gave one last tug to her bodice, releasing her
glorious rounded breasts into his waiting hands. He stroked her for a long
intense minute, then replaced his hands with his mouth.

Her nipple was tight, puckering into a bead beneath his greedy,
wandering tongue. He toyed with her flesh, making her shift in seemingly
restless, unsatisfied want while he suckled deeply upon her. She lifted one
hand, massaged his scalp, sifting her fingers through his hair, soughing with
unmistakable pleasure as he moved to lavish attention upon her other breast.

Jeannette stroked his cheek, utterly abandoned as he drew upon
her, his jaw working beneath her encouraging hand. His mouth was pure magic
against her flesh. Her head buzzed, lost in a fervid haze she didn’t fully
comprehend or have the will to question.

She wasn’t an innocent, she had been touched before. But never
like this, never in a way that made her blood rush quick and burning through
her veins, that sent her heart caroming so hard and fast she feared it might
beat from her chest.

She trembled, surrendering herself to his every caress, each faint
wish and whim that somehow became her own only moments after he suggested it
with a fresh, inventive touch. Her eyes closed, head lolling back, her neck
weak as a wilted flower stem.

Still feeding upon her breast, one sturdy arm at her back to
support her, his free hand skimmed over her calf and knee before slipping
upward beneath her rumpled gown. He continued onward, sliding his palm in a
long, smooth stroke over one bare thigh. Her muscles quivered, completely at
his mercy as his fingers traveled higher.

Her head came up and her eyes flew open as he parted her most
vulnerable flesh and slid a finger inside where her body wept with desire. She
gasped as he stroked within her, as he added another finger to stretch her
wide.

And the world narrowed down to his hand, to his mouth, to his
least touch and command. He moved his thumb and brushed her in the most
sensitive of spots, then gently bit her nipple.

She cried out, shuddered violently. Pleasure, more amazing than
anything she’d ever experienced, flooded inside her. She felt herself dampen
his hand, slightly embarrassed when he withdrew his fingers moments later.

But she needn’t have worried that she was in any danger of being
abandoned. Pulling her closer to the edge of the table on which she sat, he
straightened and reached toward his breeches’ buttons. He opened one, nearly
fumbling it in his haste. He was opening the second when a voice spoke, the
sound of footfalls echoing against the conservatory pavers.

“Let me assure you, gentlemen, the scent of the
Epidendrum nocturnum
is well worth the trouble of viewing it so late in the eventide.”

Dimly in some remote recess of her brain, Jeannette heard the
words, recognized her cousin’s voice.

Darragh must have heard it too, since he froze suddenly against
her. But even as their dazed, horrified gazes collided, she knew it was already
far, far too late.

“Right this way. I think you’ll find this most intrig—Dear saints
in heaven, preserve us!” Bertie’s exclamation reverberated like the crack of a
pistol shot through the conservatory, he and the group of gentlemen behind him
coming to a sudden halt.

Over Darragh’s shoulder Jeannette encountered the stare of a dozen
pairs of eyes. Even in the low light she could read a range of expressions,
from shock and disapproval to amusement and even lust.

Among them were three far too familiar faces. Cousin Cuthbert, his
mouth working like an out-of-water trout, cheeks stained red as currants. Kit
Winter, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and amazement. And Adrian, tall
and forbidding, his features stiff with a condemning displeasure that would
have set a hardened battlefield veteran atremble.

She tried to move, wishing desperately she had the power to simply
vanish. But her body refused to obey, as though her limbs had hardened to
stone. On a whimper, she buried her face against Darragh’s shoulder.

In response, he sprang into action and lifted her from the table.
Deft and efficient, he tugged her skirts downward to discreetly cover her legs,
then angled his body to shield her from view. In a final protective gesture, he
opened his evening coat and tugged her close, providing her an opportunity to
adjust her bodice into its proper place.

A pronounced silence settled over the room.

“Well, Merriweather, you promised us a superlative display and I
must say you did not disappoint,” one of the gentlemen quipped. “Though I fear
your orchids may pale in comparison.”

Several of the men chuckled, while others coughed behind their
gloved hands to cover their embarrassment.

“Speaking of orchids, cousin,” Adrian interceded in a soft but
implacable tone, “why don’t you proceed on with the tour. There is nothing
further to see here.”

Cuthbert cleared his throat and shuffled his feet as if awakening
from a fugue state. “Yes, yes, quite right, quite right. Um, straight ahead,
gentlemen. The…the orchids are just through here.”

Cuthbert motioned his fellow members of the Royal Horticultural
Society forward, spreading his arms wide to herd forward a couple stragglers
who would obviously have preferred to linger. The sound of their footsteps
echoed against the stone flooring, along with their murmuring whispers, before
both gradually receded.

Only when they’d gone did Adrian turn.

Jeannette stole a peek and swallowed hard at the expression on her
brother-in-law’s face. Gathering the shreds of her courage, she tried to step
out of Darragh’s sheltering embrace. But he wouldn’t let her, at least not
entirely, keeping his hand linked with hers as he turned to face forward beside
her.

“And here you were worried about me courting scandal with too much
indiscriminate flirting,” Kit remarked to Adrian. “Guess I’m looking pretty
wholesome now, hmm?”

Adrian turned his head to glare at his younger brother. “What are
you still doing here? Why didn’t you go with the others?”

Kit shot him a beleaguered look. “To view a bunch of flowers I
didn’t want to see in the first place? Thank you, but no thank you. If you’ll
recall, you’re the one who near twisted my arm off to get me out here.”

“A lamentable necessity considering the fact that you were on the
verge of being hunted down by an irate father.”

Kit shrugged, his expression one of utter innocence. “Lydia’s
father was overreacting. I only took her outside for a bit of fresh air, since
she said she was warm.”

“So warm it took her a half an hour to cool off?”

“Some women have hot-blooded constitutions.”

Adrian closed his eyes as though pained. “Enough. Now go.”

“All right, but you’re a fair way to becoming a curmudgeon, do you
know? Must remember to have a talk about it with Vi, when she’s a little less
in the family way.”

“Leave Violet alone and go to bed.”

“Like I said. Curmudgeon.” Tossing a last sympathetic glance
toward Jeannette and Darragh, Kit turned and walked away.

Jeannette swallowed, her throat tight as though she were about to
face the Spanish Inquisition. Instead she had to face Adrian, mortifying under
any circumstances. Doubly so considering their history with each other.

He waited, arms crossed reproachfully over his chest. “So, have you
nothing to say? You haven’t even made it back to England and already you’ve
landed in the scandal broth again.”

She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. What could she say?
There were no explanations to justify being caught in an act she could barely
justify to herself. She’d lost her head utterly and completely in a way she
never imagined she could, so given to passion she’d forgotten any sense of
place or propriety. Worse, she’d been discovered in the most humiliating
manner, leaving her without any hope of redemption. She didn’t even want to
contemplate what this would mean to her reputation or her future. The
possibilities made her shiver.

When she said nothing, Adrian pinned Darragh with a grim look.
“And what of you, sir? Do you have a voice or are you conveniently mute as
well?”

“Aye, I’ve a voice, and a name as well. Darragh O’Brien.” He
thrust out a hand. “And you are?”

Adrian made no effort to accept Darragh’s proffered hand.
“Raeburn. The Duke of Raeburn. The lady’s brother.”

“Brother-in-law,” she corrected, breaking her silence.

Adrian inclined his head. “Quite right, brother-in-law. And as
your brother-in-law and the most immediate male member of your family present,
I believe it is my duty to oversee this matter.”

Jeannette scuttled her brow. “What do you mean, oversee?”

“You’ve been compromised, Jeannette. Thoroughly and very publicly
compromised. Steps must be taken without delay to set this situation aright. Or
as right as it may reasonably be put under the circumstances.”

Jeannette watched Adrian glower at Darragh, the two men’s eyes
virtually on the same level. Tall and sturdy, they were nearly a match for each
other in terms of height and power. Darragh’s build was leaner and looser, more
acrobatic. Adrian’s shoulders wider, his chest heavier. But in a fight, she
suspected they’d both give as good as they got. The winner would be anyone’s
guess.

However, Adrian was far too civilized to engage in a brawl. At
least she assumed he was, aware that he regularly sparred and won at Gentleman
Jackson’s Boxing Salon when in London. She knew instinctively that Darragh
wouldn’t be nearly so refined. Over the years he’d probably fought in the
streets, relying upon bare knuckles and sheer Irish stamina. She tightened her
hand in his as if to restrain him. But she needn’t have worried, both men
seemingly satisfied at the moment to duel merely with their eyes.

Adrian thrust out his chin. “I shall expect you tomorrow. Promptly
at nine, shall we say?”

Darragh nodded. “Nine it is.”

“Nine? What happens at nine?” she asked. “I won’t have the two of
you fighting.”

Adrian met her gaze. “Don’t worry. There will be no fighting. At
least not so long as he agrees to the terms.”

A sense of impending doom settled like a lead sinker in her chest.
“What terms?”

“Of your marriage settlement, of course.”

“M-marriage!” she exclaimed. “You mean to O’Brien? But I cannot
marry him.”

Becoming violently aware of her palm nestled inside Darragh’s
clasp, she dropped his hand as if it had turned red hot. Then for good measure,
she put several more inches between them by taking a single, dramatic step
sideways.

Darragh quirked a rueful eyebrow but made no comment.

“I am afraid, Jeannette,” Adrian said, “that you have little
choice in the matter. Your fate, as it were, was sealed the moment you chose to
go beyond the bounds of propriety and do what you did with this man.”

“From the sound of it, Lord Christopher went beyond the bounds of
propriety tonight too.”

“Perhaps. But the difference is, he didn’t get caught.”

She gulped, a sick wash sliding through her middle. “But I can’t
marry O’Brien. He isn’t even a gentleman. He’s an
architect.
”

Darragh drew a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “As
fact would actually have it, I’m also an ea—”

“If I marry him, it will ruin everything,” she wailed, drowning
out the end of Darragh’s statement. “I am supposed to return to London. I am
supposed to regain my place in Society. I am supposed to marry a duke.”

Adrian shook his head, plainly incredulous. “Well, it would appear
you have once more put paid to your chance of that event ever happening. No
man, duke or otherwise, will have you now. Mr. O’Brien is your only hope.” He
sighed, his tone softening slightly. “Heavens, Jeannette, surely even you must
recognize that fact.”

“But—”

“There are no buts.” Adrian gave her a firm stare, then turned to
O’Brien. “Now, sir, you were saying?”

Darragh crossed his arms, his lean-hipped stance set at an almost
pugnacious angle. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I believe everything that has need
of saying has already been said.”