TheWifeTrap (23 page)

Jeannette met her twin’s gaze with an identical one of her own,
deeply touched. Giving in to impulse, she hugged Violet to her and dusted a
quick kiss over her twin’s cheek, something she hadn’t done since they were
children.

In obvious surprise, Violet hesitated for a scant second before
returning her embrace, rounded belly and all.

The moment soon over, they parted.

Violet smoothed a hand over her full green skirt. “Shall I go out
and let everyone know you are ready? Five minutes, shall we say?”

A new lump of nerves formed in Jeannette’s chest. Doing her best
to breathe past it, she gave a nod.

Violet nodded back, then quietly crossed to let herself out the
door.

Standing motionless, Jeannette became aware of her pulse
thundering unsteadily as her panic spiked higher. Five minutes and the ceremony
would begin. Fifteen minutes and she would be Mrs. Darragh O’Brien. To have and
to hold, to love, honor, cherish and obey until death do them part.

She pressed a palm flat against her chest and tried to calm her
raging nerves. Marriage to O’Brien wouldn’t be so bad. At least he was handsome
and would presumably bring her pleasure in bed.

What did it matter if he came from a different world, a separate
social sphere than her own? Why worry that he would be carrying her off into
the wilds of Ireland, away from everyone and everything she’d ever known? Or be
upset that she might never see London again, and that if she did, her friends
might shun her for no longer rightfully belonging inside their circle?

She’d planned to marry a rich, titled man. Had been willing to
forgo love in exchange for security and the other pleasures great wealth would
afford her. But Darragh could offer her none of those things.

What if he couldn’t even offer her love?

A chill swept through her.

What if, heaven forbid, she fell in love with him and in the end
wound up with nothing, not even his affection? She’d been betrayed by one man.
What was to say she might not be betrayed by another? By Darragh?

Her breath shallow in her lungs, she hurried into action. Crossing
the room, she closed and locked the door, knowing there wasn’t an instant to
lose.

Rigged out for the occasion of his marriage in a formal dark blue
tailcoat and pale gray breeches that buttoned with noticeable snugness just
below his knees, Darragh stood at the altar and waited for his bride.

His friend Lawrence McGarrett was at his side. Just returned from
Dublin, Lawrence had agreed to act as best man—after he’d recovered from his
shock at the unexpected news.

“Better hope she’s not like one of those insects that chews off
the head of her mate during intercourse,” Lawrence had outrageously advised.
“Or you’ll soon be losing yours, and to an English assassin at that.”

Darragh had laughed, clapped his friend on the back and told him
not to worry. Still, as he stood here now, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of
nervous trepidation. Not at the thought of marrying Jeannette, but in wondering
if she would have a last-minute change of heart.

A movement in the vestibule drew his eye. He watched as
Jeannette’s twin sister made her way at a measured waddle up the aisle, the
picture of Mother Earth in her vivid green maternity dress. The duchess paused
long enough to relay word that Jeannette would be ready to proceed any minute.
Announcement made, she allowed her husband to help her take a seat on the
wooden front pew—her brother-in-law Lord Christopher and her friend Eliza
Hammond on either side.

As matron of honor, Violet would be required to rise to her feet
again once the bride appeared, ready to act as Jeannette’s attendant. Raeburn,
on the other hand, had agreed to serve as father of the bride in the absence of
Jeannette’s real father. Darragh understood the duke had been reluctant at
first to perform the duty, some mention as to how it might seem awkward after
his and Jeannette’s previous association.

Darragh had been stunned, then annoyed, then accepting, when he’d
finally learned the details of the scandal that had sent Jeannette here to
Ireland. The story had come pouring out of Kit Winter last night over a late
glass of fine Irish whiskey.

A nasty twinge of jealousy had risen within Darragh and burned
there for a solid five minutes before he’d had the sense to realize what a fool
he was acting. ’Twas plain Raeburn doted on his wife, his eyes for her and her
alone. Plain as well that Jeannette felt no romantic love for the duke.
Particularly considering she’d jilted him at the altar, deceiving everyone by
convincing her twin to act as Raeburn’s substitute wife.

Question was, what was Jeannette thinking today?

He wished his family were here to share the day, his three
brothers and three sisters. Mary Margaret, two years his junior at six and
twenty and the eldest of his sisters, was herself wed and the mother of four.
She, above them all, would be particularly hurt to have not been included in
the ceremony, since she put great stock in the trappings of ritual and
tradition. Well, ’twould give her added reason to throw a ceili once she got
over her bruised feelings, a big, noisy Irish party just the thing to set
matters right.

Yet even had he been able to get word to them in time, he couldn’t
have afforded the risk of having them here. Bad enough depending upon the duke
not to reveal his identity without having to worry over one of his six siblings
spilling the beans out of the bag—assuming they would have agreed to keep their
lips sealed from the first.

He glanced at the Merriweathers, seated straight-backed and
slightly disapproving in the pew behind their relations. They were the only
others who concerned him, but he didn’t think they realized he had a title, or
else Jeannette would likely have known too. When he’d hired on, neither
Cuthbert nor his wife had asked about such matters. And since his being an earl
had naught to do with his work, the thought had never come to his mind to
mention his lineage. To his knowledge, the only thing the Merriweathers knew
was that he came from a good family in the West, but not much else. He was glad
now that he’d never taken the time to fill in all the details.

He would be teaching his new bride a lesson or two. Lessons she
wouldn’t learn living life as the pampered bride of a wealthy earl—at least not
immediately.

That would come later.

He tugged at his waistcoat to keep it neat and watched Raeburn
disappear into the vestibule to retrieve his sister-in-law and escort her
forward. Only a minute or two now and he and Jeannette would begin to speak
their vows before the Anglican minister hired to perform the ceremony.

A warm prickle tingled suddenly against the back of Darragh’s neck
beneath his cravat, spreading over his skin like some peculiar rash. It was a
vaguely familiar feeling, one he got every now and again when something
untoward was about to occur.

The first time he experienced the sensation had been as a boy just
before his younger brother Michael had fallen out a yew tree and broken his
left arm in two places. Then another time years later while walking a lonely
night street in Dublin. As he’d rounded a corner, he’d found himself set upon
by thieves, the prickle issuing a warning only seconds before the attack. An
alert that in hindsight had saved him from taking the sharp end of a shiv
between his ribs.

So why get the itch now? he wondered. Clearly no one in the church
was about to set upon him nor was anyone in danger of falling out of a tree.

He gazed down the aisle toward the wide wooden entrance doors and
the stone vestibule beyond. He thought of the antechamber where Jeannette was
readying herself, his neck tingling like mad.

A second later Raeburn reappeared at the far end of the aisle, a
scowl on his dark patrician brow, Jeannette quite noticeably
not
on
his arm. Moving on instinct, Darragh strode forward, long legs rapidly covering
the distance between him and the duke.

All eyes trailed after him.

“What is it?” he demanded the instant he reached Raeburn.

“She’s locked the door and will not come out. I tried to talk to
her.”

“And?”

“And she told me to go away. Says she’ll come out when she is
ready and not a moment before.”

“Perhaps I ought to have a word with her.”

“It might be better to summon my wife again. Goes against my grain
to let those two put their heads together in such a situation, but what harm
can come of it? Even if I didn’t have Violet’s promise, it isn’t as if they’re
going to concoct any more insane schemes. Violet may be able to make her see
reason. Besides, Jeannette will have to emerge from the room eventually. There
is only one way out.”

Or was there? Darragh wondered.

The prickle on his neck intensified.

His feet moved before he was aware he was walking, Raeburn left to
stare openmouthed in his wake. But rather than heading toward the antechamber
where Jeannette had locked herself, he hurried outside. Taking the stone church
steps at a quick clip, he stalked out across the grounds. Moist green spears of
grass flattened beneath his dress pumps as he let instinct dictate his
direction.

Jeannette hung by her waist over the windowsill, slippered feet
dangling well above the ground. When she’d climbed out here it had seemed like
such a good idea—only a short hop to freedom.

But on closer inspection, the “short” hop had proven to be a lot
farther away than she’d originally imagined, looming like a great terrifying
chasm, which should she choose to jump would undoubtedly end in a wrenched
ankle or worse.

She cringed at the idea. She hated pain and avoided it at all
costs. Even something as minor as a paper cut could make her miserable for
days.

But she couldn’t afford to remain here indefinitely, not with
Adrian on the other side of the antechamber door demanding she let him inside.
Either she needed to take her chances and leap to the ground despite the
possibility of broken bones, or else hoist herself back inside the room, dust
off her skirts and unlock the door to accept her fate.

Assuming she even had the strength to lever herself back inside.
Her arm muscles were trembling, aching from the strain of holding herself in
place. While her heart beat bird-fast in her chest, the hard-edged stone sill
cut uncomfortably into her stomach.

Oh, what to do?
she agonized.
Meet the terror facing
me below? Or meet the one awaiting me inside the church?

She was still debating the conundrum when a large, clearly male
hand wrapped around her ankle. Squealing in surprise, she kicked her feet.

The grip tightened.

She squealed again, male hands reaching higher, then settling
firmly around her thighs just below her hips.

“Come on, lass. Push off. I’ll catch you.”

She twisted her head sideways and tried to glance down. “O’Brien?”

“None other. Whom else did you imagine would be laying his hands
upon you in so familiar a manner?”

“If I had known for certain, I would not have asked.”

“Well, now that we’ve resolved the mystery of my identity, you’d
best come down from there. Looks a mite uncomfortable, if you ask me.”

Blast the man,
she cursed silently. He’d not only
discovered her before she could make good her escape, but had caught her smack
dab in the middle of the process. She could only imagine the picture she must
present, dangling with her backside prominently exposed out a church window!

Much as she wished she could hoist herself back up and into the
antechamber, she hadn’t the ability, leaving her no choice but to let him help
her to the ground.

“You are sure you won’t drop me?” she questioned, nerves making
her voice pitch high.

“Sure as I can be under the circumstance.”

“That hardly sounds reassuring.”

“Trust me, lass. I’ve got you firmly in hand.”

Yes, she mused—all too aware of the sensation of his big, powerful
hands upon her body—she believed he did. Easing herself a tentative inch off
the sill, she squeezed her eyes tight and let go. Her stomach did a sickening
flip as she plummeted straight down. Then he had her, arms locked with tensile
strength around her hips and waist, her back pressed to his chest. A single
broad palm ran up and over her frame, pausing momentarily to cup one of her
breasts before setting her onto her feet.

Her body tingled, nipples puckering beneath the cloth of her
bodice in a way she hoped he didn’t notice.

“You may release me now, sir,” she said when he failed to loosen
his hold.

“Aye, but should I?” he murmured into her ear. “Where was it you
were off to,
a ghrá
?”

Spoken in his deep, lyrical voice, the foreign words sounded
almost like an endearment. She considered the phrase anew, decided it was more
likely a curse. Though he didn’t sound angry. He sounded almost tender, even
understanding.

But surely he must be cross. How could he be otherwise, having
caught her trying to run off, attempting to jilt him at the altar? She wanted
to turn, wishing she could see his eyes to judge his mood, but he held her
steady, her back still pressed against his front.

“I…I don’t know,” she confessed with unexpected candor.

“Do you not? Just away, was it, then?”

“Yes, away.”

Gracious, he was right. She’d had no plan, acting solely on
instinct, exclusively on fear. If she had been successful in her escape and had
managed to flee, where would she have gone? Certainly she could not have
returned to her cousins’ house nor to her parents, not if what Violet said was
true. Her great-aunt Agatha would no longer take her in either, and as for
Violet and Adrian…well, they had made her options quite clear.

When she considered the matter, she had no one. No one but Darragh
O’Brien. Her shoulders sagged.