TheWifeTrap (28 page)

He crossed his arms. “I can’t bring her back. She wasn’t dismissed
for poor conduct. There simply isn’t the money to keep a lady’s maid, nor much
need for her services any longer.”

She goggled at him in disbelieving horror. “Of course there is a
need for her services. Who will keep my clothes? Who will tend to my toilette
and arrange my hair? Who will help me dress and disrobe?”

“I can help you with any buttons or laces you can’t reach
yourself, and manage the occasional pin or two, if you’ve trouble doing your
hair. And since it isn’t likely we’ll be holding any fancy parties, you can
wear simple gowns that don’t take so much work nor care.”

Reeling at his blasphemy, she pressed a hand to her chest. “None
of my gowns are simple!”

“Then mayhap you’ll have to stitch a few new ones that aren’t so
troublesome to maintain.”

“Stitch? As in sew? Me?”

“You sew, do you not?”

“I
embroider.
I do not sew clothing.”

“Then it’s past time you learned.” He gestured with a hand. “And
for what it’s worth, I didn’t just abandon your maid. I gave her glowing
references and put coins in her purse to pay for travel expenses to England
plus two months’ wages besides. ’Tisn’t as if I’m a monster, after all.”

At this moment, Jeannette decided, he was far worse than a
monster. Far, far worse. She blinked against the pressure that built up behind
her eyes, that made her nose and eyelids sting.

She would not cry, she willed. She would not let him see her
reduced to a torrent of tears. But that’s exactly what happened seconds later,
a single, harsh sob bursting uncontrollably from her lips. Pressing a fist to
her mouth, she whirled and ran toward the bedroom.

Darragh winced as the door slammed shut behind her, the sound
reverberating with the fury of a thunderbolt through the cottage.

Well, he mused, that had gone about as well as expected, though
he’d hoped she wouldn’t cry. The wrenching misery of her weeping rang out,
tearing at his vitals, twisting knife-deep.

Jesus, he hated it when women cried, their tears more caustic than
a vat of quick lime. But after years living with three younger sisters, he’d
long ago learned that there are all sorts of tears and just as many reasons for
them to be shed. Female tears ran the entire emotional gambit from joy and
relief, to anger and frustration, to sorrow and despair and even to pure,
premeditated manipulation. When used effectively, a good cry could reduce the
most hardened man to a puddle of mush, make him willing to do anything, no
matter how foolish or unreasonable, if only to make the tears cease.

But he refused to be coerced. Not that he believed for an instant
that Jeannette’s current distress wasn’t honestly felt. He’d given her a shock,
several of them, and it was only natural she was in their bedroom crying her
eyes out. But once she stopped, once her anger cooled, her panic eased, then
there would be a chance for her to learn to look beyond her pampered
upbringing, her social prejudices, and see something more. See him for the man
he truly was, and see herself for the woman he knew she could be.

What if it doesn’t work?
a little voice whispered.
What
if she never comes to love you the way you want? The way you need? What if this
game of yours is only a conceit and does nothing but drive a wedge between the
two of you that will never again be healed?

A fresh wail carried down the hallway.

He set his teeth against the sound and the needle-sharp stab of
guilt that followed.

It wasn’t too late. If he wished, he could put an end to his plan
right now. Explain that the cottage actually belonged to a friend and he’d just
been having a bit of fun with her, a harmless little tease. She’d be angry at
first. But then relief would set in, a smile appearing on her lips when she saw
his real home, learned his true identity.

But then he would never know, would he? Forever left to wonder if
she did indeed love him as he hoped, or whether he was just fooling himself,
her love stemming from a pleasure in the material things he could provide.

Even with his wealth and title, if he revealed himself to her now
she would always carry with her a sense of superiority. After all, she was
English, he was not. The English as a group uniformly considered themselves
better than the Irish, regardless of an Irishman’s lineage. This would hold
especially true for the pampered daughter of an English peer, a woman so
beautiful she could have had any man in the realm. Even, it seems, a duke.

He tightened a fist at his side, resolved to continue on with his
scheme.
Let her cry. Let her rage.
Tumbling her off her lofty pedestal
to live like ordinary folk for a while could only do her good. And in a few
weeks, after she’d had a chance to acclimate to her reduced circumstances, he
would see if his plan had been unwise. See if he’d succeeded in finding a way
into her proud heart, as she had already done to his own.

Jeannette placed the tray with its empty dishes that had contained
a meal of beef stew, buttered soda bread, apple cobbler and tea onto the floor
outside the bedroom. Shutting the door, she took angry satisfaction in turning
the lock behind her.

Darragh O’Brien could find himself another bed to sleep in
tonight. And tomorrow night as well, since her present unhappiness wasn’t
likely to have passed by then. If it ever did.

Just thinking about this cottage and his callous treatment of her
made her livid and weepy all over again. She had cried for nearly an hour
straight, leaving her nose stuffed, temples throbbing, eyes heavy and
red-rimmed. If Betsy were here she would have brought a lavender-scented cloth
for her head. But Betsy was gone. Dismissed by that insensitive brute of a man.

Her hands tightened into balls. He’d had no right. No right at all
to release her lady’s maid from service and send her home. She needed Betsy. A
shiver ran through her at the thought of being without the other woman’s
familiar, comforting presence.

She hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye. And Betsy had been
her last, her only remaining link with home and the life she once had led. Now
she was alone. Stranded in this new, unfamiliar place, with only Darragh for
company.

She padded to the bed and sank down onto the mattress in
dejection.

Since delivering his infamous news, Darragh had only come near to
ask if she wished to join him for supper. She’d refused, using silence as a
weapon, waiting until his footsteps finally moved away.

Sprawled across the bed in the dark, she’d fallen asleep until
sometime later, when his knock startled her awake. He announced he was leaving
a tray for her outside her door. She’d wanted to refuse that as well, but
intense hunger had driven her to accept his offering once she was sure he was
gone.

The meal was delicious and left her feeling marginally better. But
now that it was done, she had nothing to do and no reasonable idea of the time,
since there were no clocks in the room.

By the light of the single tallow candle she’d found and lighted,
she gazed around the modestly sized, modestly furnished room. Plain white
walls, simple oak furniture—bed, bureau, wardrobe and cane chair—a large
multihued braided rug spread over the wide-plank pine flooring. Ordinary blue
curtains covered the single window, a yellow and blue quilt spread across the
bed. The only decoration was a wooden cross hung on the wall next to the
bureau, and near the door a small oil painting of an Irish country village.

She supposed she ought to go to bed. And she would, if only she
could figure out a way to unfasten the back of her dress. She’d tried, and all
she’d been able to manage were the top three pearl buttons.

Wounded outrage burned afresh in her blood. She would sleep in
this gown, she vowed, before she asked Darragh for help. She might well end up
rotting in it before she asked. And to think all this had begun when she
announced she wanted a bath.

A tear trailed over her cheek. She couldn’t even tidy her hair,
since her brush was still packed up and she had no idea where to find it. That
had been Betsy’s job, to unpack all her belongings, to see her clothes laid
out, her toiletries arranged and available for her use. Yet another demerit to
add to her husband’s ever-increasing tally.

As if he’d known she was thinking about him, the doorknob turned
and stopped. “Jeannette. Open the door.”

Even though he couldn’t see her, she glared and stuck out her
tongue.

“Enough now, lass. Let me in.”

“Has Betsy returned?”

“No, you know she has not.”

“Then go to the devil,” she shot back.

She expected him to rattle the knob again, issue another set of
demands.

Instead, nothing. Not so much as a muttered curse.

A full minute of silence passed, quiet so palpable she could almost
hear him breathing where he stood on the other side of the door. What was he
doing out there? Why wasn’t he arguing with her, demanding again that she let
him inside?

She waited, tense and ready for his next salvo.

Then she heard him move away, his footfalls fading in a hushed tap
as he trod down the hall.

Well, that had been easy, she thought. Too easy. Then again, maybe
he’d realized she wasn’t going to budge and had chosen to save himself the
trouble of a strained voice and simply admit defeat. Let him sleep in the guest
room—assuming there was a guest room in this pea pod—and in the morning she
would decide whether or not to emerge. Whether or not to speak.

For now she supposed she ought to try to get some sleep. With that
thought foremost, she twisted her arms behind her back for another wrestling
match with the buttons on her dress.

She squirmed and strained, tugging at the material as much as she
dared in an attempt to reach one of the quartet of buttons at the center of her
back. Her arm muscles quivered, fingers straining in an agony of frustration
against her overarched spine.

Contorted like a sideshow act in a circus, she wasn’t fully aware
of the sibilant squeak of the window gliding upward on its runners until it was
too late. Turning her head, she met Darragh’s triumphant gaze as he threw a leg
over the windowsill and ducked his head to climb into the room.

Flabbergasted, her fingers slipped off the button she’d finally
managed to reach.

Straightening to his full height, he planted his hands on his
narrow hips. “Can I offer you some help getting out of that dress, darling?” he
drawled.

She firmed her jaw. “Go away.”

Shrugging, he turned to close and lock the window, arrange the
draperies. “If you change your mind, you’ve only to say the word.”

With her looking on, he raised his long arms above his head, gave
one of those shivering all-male stretches that would have heated the blood of a
nun. Replete with raw, understated strength, Darragh exuded virility the way
other men shed their shirts, unthinkingly and with ease. He fairly reeked of
it, his ordinary, loose-fitting clothes doing nothing to disguise the hard,
agile frame Jeannette knew lay underneath. Supple limbs, wide shoulders, sturdy
chest with its dark covering of hair that seemed custom made to pillow a
woman’s head. And clever, long-fingered hands that could both stimulate and
soothe, depending on the occasion.

Luckily for her she was in the mood for neither, too unhappy to
let his display affect her. At least not much.

“Well,” he said in a mild tone, “bed and sleep sounds good to me.
The day has been a long, hard one, and no doubt of that.” He slipped off his
jacket, then began untying his neckerchief.

“Did you not hear me?” she questioned. “I told you to go.”

He tossed his neck cloth onto a chair, went to work opening his
waistcoat buttons. “So you did, lass. But this is our bedroom and that piece of
furniture you’re sitting on is our bed and I’ve every intention of sharing it
with you. You’re my wife. We’ll sleep together.”

She sprang off the bed, as if the mattress had suddenly caught
fire. “Oh, no, we won’t, not tonight. Just because you pulled your clever
little stunt and crawled through that window doesn’t mean I’ll let you crawl
into bed with me.”

Hurrying to the door, she twisted the key in the lock and wrenched
open the door. “Now, for the third time,
go
!”

He peeled his shirt off over his head, tossed it atop his growing
stack of garments. His intense blue gaze locked upon her own. With slow deliberation,
he lowered his fingers to his trouser fastenings, his message clear.

She felt her whole body quiver as temper flashed hot. “Fine. Then
I’ll
go. There must be somewhere else to sleep in this house.”

She whirled and started through the door.

“There’s no room in the second bedroom to sleep, it’s so full of
your trunks and bandboxes and other assorted paraphernalia,” he called after
her. “ ’Tis doubtful you’ll even reach the bed. As for the sofa in the sitting
room, you’ll have a rough night of it there. Ropes need tightening, I’m
afraid.”

She bristled, but kept walking.

“And I’ll only follow you,” he said, startling her by striding up
close behind. “Where you sleep, I shall sleep too.”

She did her best to ignore him as he trailed after her, hope wilting
as she inspected one room after the other, only to discover he was right. There
was nowhere even remotely comfortable to sleep except their bedroom.

Her journey drew to a halt in the sitting room, where she turned a
baleful eye upon an old, narrow sofa that even Vitruvius didn’t wish to occupy.
Curled on a thick rug near the fire, the dog opened a single eye and thumped
his tail in greeting. Yawning, he closed his eyelids again, went back to his
secret doggy dreams.

Darragh folded his arms across his bare chest. “So, will it be the
pair of us on the sofa, then? Or shall we spread a blanket out over the floor
next to Vitruvius? I suspect we can manage to roll up together snug as fleas.”