TheWifeTrap (35 page)

She considered arguing, but saw the chill that glinted like an icy
winter lake in his eyes. She’d never seen Darragh lose his temper before, not
like this, and decided she didn’t care to test him further.

He yanked his shirt over his head, grabbed up his shoes and coat.
“I had hoped matters between us would be resolved this morning, but I can see they
are not. So I shall bid you a good day, Lady Mulholland, and see you again when
I am less likely to do you a harm.” Striding to the connecting door, he
stopped, dug into his coat pocket and came up with a key.

She felt her eyes widen at the revelation, took note of the
answering scorn in his gaze.

“Aye, that’s right,” he said. “I’ve a spare key that I could have
used any night I wished. And should I wish to use it in the future, don’t
bother trying to keep me out. I proved to you last night just how useless such
measures are. ’Twill not be hard to prove it again.”

Flipping open the lock, he disappeared into the darkened stairwell
that lay on the other side, shutting the door hard enough to rattle it in its
frame.

Trembling, she slumped down onto the bed and began to cry.

Darragh stormed down the stairs to his bedchamber.

So she wanted to go home, did she?

Apparently last night had meant nothing. The words of love he’d
coaxed from her merely cries of passion, after all. She’d as much as said she
wanted to leave him. His gut clenched at the idea as he stalked into his
bedroom and slammed the door.

Perhaps he should let her go, if that’s what she wanted. Let her
journey to England to be with her sister for the birth of Violet’s twins. But
what if Jeannette decided, once there, that she wanted to stay indefinitely?
What if her old life appealed to her so much she refused to ever return?

And that, he knew, was the real reason for his blunt refusal. The
soul-deep fear that if she left now, she would be leaving him for good.

He could always go with her, he supposed. A move to England would
no doubt make her beam with delight. But he didn’t want to live in England, not
permanently. Sighing, he tossed a fresh pair of peat bricks onto the fire, then
sank down into a nearby armchair.

Over the years, he had enjoyed traveling the world, had thrilled
to see new places, and meet new and intriguing people. But always he had known
he would be returning to Ireland. Here to the land of his birth, where the
cool, soothing green and ancient quiet replenished his soul as nothing else
could. To do without…well, he couldn’t do without, not indefinitely, and he had
a frightening premonition that was exactly what Jeannette might have in mind.

Even if her plans were only for a temporary sojourn, he couldn’t
afford to accompany her. Not right now. He’d already been away from Caisleán
Muir far too long. A mountain of estate concerns with which he needed to deal
had piled up, and then there were his young sisters to consider. Moira and
Siobhan would be devastated if he left again so soon. Guilt rode him, as it
was, for being away all these months past. Especially since he knew both girls
still sorely felt the loss of their parents, Ma in particular, and needed his
guidance and support.

Which meant that Jeannette would just have to acclimate to life
here at the castle. Maybe if she gave her new situation a little time she would
grow to love the place. Maybe if she gave their marriage a chance, she would
put aside her wounded feelings and actually come to mean the words of love he’d
compelled her to say last night.

His lips tightened. He was hurt that she obviously had refused to
forgive him for the cottage. Couldn’t she understand that he’d done it for
them? That they
had
grown closer because of those quiet, secluded
weeks together? He knew lying to her had been wrong, but he couldn’t regret
what he’d done. Just as he didn’t regret his decision to keep her here with him
now.

She was his wife. This was her home, the place she belonged.
Perhaps in the spring he might reconsider, surprise her with a trip across the
sea to visit her family. Until then, she would simply have to adjust.

Over the next weeks, Jeannette discovered she wasn’t the only one
capable of dishing out large helpings of silence. Darragh, she found, was every
inch as talented at the trick as she.

Around his family he treated her with genial care and
solicitousness, acting for all the world as if he doted upon her every word.
But in private, he was often distant, behaving as though she was the one who
had hurt him, instead of the other way around.

Of course, it didn’t stop him from coming to her bed in the dark
of night. Once there he seemed to delight in taking her at a slow, gradual
pace, whipping up her passion to a knife edge then tormenting her until she
writhed and begged him to give her release. And when he finally did, he
punished her further by making sure she wailed out her completion at such a
mortifying volume that she worried the whole castle could hear.

Without ever voicing the thought, he made it clear the situation
between them was hers alone to rectify. All it would take would be for her to
say she no longer wished to go to England, and all would be forgiven.

But she couldn’t say that, not without lying, and that she would
not do. She might have her shortcomings, but in this instance, she had done
nothing wrong. Darragh was the one at fault, only he refused to admit it. And
so she endured his coldness by day, then burned inside the heat of his
irresistible carnal torment by night.

Otherwise, life took on a pleasantly full routine, daily growing
more familiar with her new role as Darragh’s wife. As countess, she assumed
responsibility for managing the household and the servants.

“About time the master took a bride,” the housekeeper, Mrs.
Coghlan, declared during their first consultation. “About time he quit roaming
and started raising a brood of young ones. You’ll be wanting a large family,
I’m supposing?”

To that Jeannette decided it wisest not to reply. Children? Yes,
she thought, she wanted children. A brood? Well, raising her own cricket team
was most decidedly not in her plans.

When she wasn’t occupied with household affairs, she passed the
time embroidering, painting, writing letters and playing piano in the music
room. When it wasn’t raining, she enjoyed taking afternoon walks with Darragh’s
sisters, who despite their youth proved lively, interesting companions. In the
evenings, Finn or Michael would often suggest a game of whist or hearts. She
quickly discovered all of the O’Brien men had a clever knack for cards.
Especially Finn, who contrary to his large, innocent appearance kept count of
the deck like a seasoned sharp.

Despite her worries that she was living in a complete social
vacuum, a few visitors did come to call. The local vicar, Reverend Whitsund,
and his wife arrived first, spending nearly the entirety of their visit
reminiscing about their old life in England, while prodding her for information
about “home.” Although glad for the company, she found so much talk of England
a painful reminder of her present difficulties with Darragh, her mood sadly
blue-deviled by the time they departed.

Then there were the MacGintys, a bluff, horse-mad couple with
eight children and a prosperous stud farm that she learned kept Michael
gainfully employed. As a wedding present, they brought her an all-black kitten
with huge amber eyes, an adorable creature that snuggled instantly into her lap
and began to purr. While gazing down upon the small cat, hearing his tiny,
adorable mew, something warm and maternal stirred in the vicinity of her heart,
and to her surprise, she found herself accepting the gift with a glad smile.

She named the kitten Smoke, and welcomed him into the house. At
first, she worried about introducing the little cat to Vitruvius—the wolfhound
large enough to bat Smoke around like a ball. But the tiny kitten and the huge
hound took one long look at each other and became instant best friends.

Now, nearly two months later, she gently untangled a skein of
thread from Smoke’s playful paws before placing the length safely inside her
sewing basket, where the kitten could not find it. She didn’t want the little
cat accidentally swallowing the thread. She’d just tossed a small, velvet-covered
ball made especially for the cat, when a knock sounded on the family drawing
room door.

“Come,” she called, smiling as she watched Smoke give chase.

A footman entered bearing a letter. After thanking the young man,
she turned over the heavy cream vellum, discovering the red wax seal of the
Duke of Raeburn. Slitting open the missive, she quickly read the splendid news
that Violet’s babies had been born.

Twin boys, Adrian wrote, delivered after a merciless fifteen-hour
labor that he had feared, for a time, Violet would not survive. But his darling
wife had pulled through magnificently, as had the babies, who had their
mother’s smile. They had decided to name them Sebastian and Noah. Being the
eldest by seven and a half minutes, Sebastian was now the new Marquis of
Ashton.

With Violet still recuperating, Adrian hadn’t waited for her to
write, but had done so himself, wanting to get word to Jeannette as soon as
possible. He invited her and Darragh to visit anytime they liked, and sent
Violet’s love and his regards.

Jeannette set the letter down in her lap, her mind full as she
gazed in absent distraction across the room, with its airy decor and cheery
lemon yellow walls. If only she felt as cheery as the room. If only the joyous
news didn’t leave her the tiniest bit melancholy.

She had so wanted to be there for the birth. Had wanted to share
the happy event in person instead of through a letter. Despite knowing it a
fruitless endeavor, she’d tried again, four weeks ago, to broach the topic of
traveling to England. But as soon as she began speaking, Darragh had turned
frosty and ended the discussion. Now, because of his intransigence, she had
missed the birth entirely.

And his moody, dictatorial behavior of late wasn’t helping her
resolve her true feelings, the two of them living in an odd limbo of sorts. How
long, she wondered, could they go on as they were?

No nearer an answer than ever, she reread Raeburn’s letter, then
folded it and tucked it into her sewing basket for safekeeping. She would write
to Violet directly to wish her happiness and congratulations. Of her own
difficulties, she would continue to say nothing. Now was not the time to
concern her sister with anything but the babies. Doing so in person might have
served, depending upon Violet’s health, but letters would only frustrate the
matter and leave her twin to worry. So, Jeannette decided, saying nothing would
be best.

A gift would need to be sent, she mused. But what? And where to
purchase something suitable? It wasn’t as if she could buy from the shops in
London—well, not with ease anyway. Perhaps she would consult with Mrs. Coghlan
to see if she had any ideas. Mayhap there were some native products, a
beautifully woven set of blankets or lace-trimmed christening gowns whose
handicraft Violet would admire.

Jeannette sighed. She’d just risen to go pen her reply to Violet,
Smoke having vanished off into another part of the house, when a footman tapped
again on the door. “My lady, a visitor has arrived asking to speak with you.”

“Did this visitor give a name?”

The footman opened his mouth to reply when a disturbingly familiar
voice, one she had never thought to hear again, did the honors for him. “He did
provide a name,” the voice declared, “though as I told this boy, there is no
need for introductions, since you and I are old and dear friends. Is that not
right,
cara mia
?”

Jeannette’s lips parted on a surprised O, as Toddy Markham, the
man who had once stolen her heart along with her virtue, strode into the room.

Lean and dangerous as ever, Toddy stopped before her and executed
a bow stylish enough to impress the Queen. Catching up her hands in his, he
dropped a pair of warm kisses onto her knuckles. Overly warm, overly intimate
kisses that made her pull her hands aside, aware of the young footman looking
on with overt interest.

“You may go, Steven,” she informed the boy, waiting until the
servant withdrew before turning her attention to her former beau. To look at
him, one would never guess he was often one sovereign short of insolvency, his
attire impeccable, immaculate, the height of fashionable good taste.

Today he wore precisely creased buff pantaloons, white shirt and
starched cravat, buff waistcoat and a bottle green coat she was sure had been
cut by no less estimable a personage than the great Weston himself. His
Hessians were polished to a high gloss he’d once boasted of achieving by using
a mixture of boot blacking and twenty-year-old French champagne. A sapphire
signet ring she knew he’d won in a long-ago card game winked on his right hand.

His hair was brown, well cut and well styled, his pleasant,
patrician features not what one would ever describe as handsome. Yet he
possessed a magnetism, an aura that drew people in, men and women alike. Once
he had been able to draw her in using those penetrating amber eyes. But never
again.

“What are
you
doing here?” she asked.

He had the effrontery to look amazed. “Well now, that’s a fine
greeting, isn’t it? And after I traveled all this way to see you. Jeannette, my
love, this backwater is obviously having a deleterious effect upon your
spirit.”

“My spirit is fine, and I am not your love. I’ll thank you to
remember that, Mr. Markham.”

“So formal. You were warmer the last time we met.”

“We were in Italy. Of course I was warmer.”

His lips quirked. “You know what I mean. Now, now, I know you’re
vexed with me and justifiably so, but I’ve come to make amends.”