TheWifeTrap (4 page)

Without the
anger, she knew she would have crumpled into a whimpering, blubbering ball.

Ooh,
that man, that Darragh O’Brien. She
wanted to…well, she just wanted to punch him. In her whole life, she had never
been subjected to such disrespectful treatment.

Thought he was
funny, did he? Well, he was the least amusing man she’d ever known.

Her gaze landed
on her skirt and one of the many encrusted patches of mud begriming the
material. She sniffed, a fresh bout of tears threatening. Her beautiful,
beautiful gown destroyed. Doubtless even the most skilled laundress would be
unable to remove all the stains. Betsy wouldn’t want the garment, nor any of
the servants, the dress so far past salvation that even the lowliest maid would
refuse to wear it. She had adored this gown and now it was fit for nothing but
the rag bag.

With the
exception of the day her parents had informed her she was being sent to live in
this hinterland, today was undoubtedly the worst of her life.

Long minutes
later, they finally arrived at their destination. One of the footmen hurried to
assist her from the coach, casting his eyes respectfully downward. And well he
should, she thought, remembering the way he’d laughed along with the rest of
them. Then again, she supposed it would be wrong to put the blame upon him or
any of the others. They’d only reacted to the moment out of normal, human
surprise.

No, there was
only one man responsible and the devil’s name was O’Brien.

The shame of her
humiliation welled afresh, raw and painful as a handful of blazing cinders. The
feeling only increased when a tiny white-haired woman in a rather old-fashioned
mobcap and gown emerged from the house, her placid gray eyes widening to their
utmost proportions as they encountered Jeannette.

The little woman
paused in the driveway, a delicate hand lifting to cover the rounded O of her
mouth. She blinked twice, then seemed to recover herself, rushing forward.

“Cousin
Jeannette, is it you? Oh, my poor child, whatever has befallen you? Bertie and
I were beginning to wonder if you would arrive today as expected since evening
is nearly upon us, but never mind that now. I’m your cousin Wilda. Wilda
Merriweather. Welcome to Brambleberry Hall.”

The woman’s kind
greeting proved Jeannette’s undoing, a tear running over her mud-smudged cheek.

Earlier inside
the carriage, Betsy had done her best to clean her up, but without water the
effort had been hopeless at best. Jeannette’s face felt tight and dry, as if
her skin might crack from its coating of grime. And here she had wanted to make
an elegant first impression, only to arrive looking a complete wreck. Being
red-nosed and puffy-eyed would have been preferable to this. Now she was
red-nosed, puffy-eyed and splattered in mud!

“Was there a
mishap, dear?” Wilda extended a sympathetic hand. “Come and tell me all about
it.”

More tears wet
Jeannette’s cheeks as she went childlike into the older woman’s embrace. “It…it
was terrible,” she wailed as Wilda wrapped a comforting arm around her waist.

“The
coach…stuck…” she said, trying to talk around her tears, “…man came…made me get
out…sun burned…mud, mud, mud everywhere…beast laughed. Oh, my dress…and my
pretty
boots.
” Then, to her complete mortification, she burst into a
fit of messy sobs.

“There, there,
child,” the older woman hushed. “Everything will be set right, you’ll see. Come
inside and we’ll get you straight up to your room for a hot bath and a lie
down. You must be exhausted, simply exhausted after such a long trip. Why, the
occasional journey to Waterford quite wears me through to the bone, right to
the bone, so I can only imagine how fatigued you must be. You cry all you want,
dearie, all you want.”

Jeannette gave in
to her misery, weeping copiously into her handkerchief as she let her cousin
lead her into the house and up the stairs.

She’d barely
gazed around the cheerful, yellow bedchamber that, she supposed, was to be
hers, when Betsy came forward to divest her of her ruined attire. A large tub
was carried into an adjoining dressing room, steaming water poured into the
bath by the bucketful. The room grew quiet as everyone left except her maid.

Sniffing, eyes
swollen and undoubtedly as red-rimmed as she’d feared, Jeannette slid into the
lovely warmth. Betsy soaped and rinsed her long hair, then left her alone to
relax. Five minutes later, her head resting on the copper rim of the tub, she
fell asleep.

Betsy awakened
her with a gentle touch, wrapping her in a large fluffy towel the instant she
climbed dripping from the tub. Sleepy and depressed, Jeannette sat in front of
the fire, bundled into her warmest nightgown and robe. She sipped a comforting
cup of hot tea, nibbled on the delicious buttered biscuits and cold sliced
chicken that had been sent up to her, while her maid combed dry her waist-length
hair.

Then it was to
bed, the sheets crisp and cool and smelling sweetly of starch and lavender. She
buried her face into one plump feather pillow and shed a few more tears.

She missed home.
And England.

She missed her
parents and sister.

She even missed
her brother, Darrin, who seemed to do nothing these days but make a profligate
young fool of himself.

Right now, she
would trade anything to have them all back, to be at home in her own bed with
things as they used to be. But nothing would ever again be the way it used to
be, those days were now long gone.

She couldn’t
fathom why she felt homesick. Silly really, since she’d spent several months
living in Italy with her great-aunt Agatha before her return to England a few
weeks ago. She hadn’t been homesick then. The trip part of the adventurous lark
she’d enjoyed after trading places with her twin, when on the morning of her
own wedding she’d refused to marry the duke to whom she’d been engaged. Violet
had married him instead—pretending to be Jeannette. She supposed the deception
had been very wrong of them both, but as it turned out, all had come right in
the end. At least it had for Violet and Adrian, who were nauseatingly besotted
with each other and expecting their first child later this year.

No, she was the
one who’d suffered. She was the one who’d been sent away in disgrace and
misery, and all for the sake of love.

Ah, Toddy,
she sighed,
why did you have to
play me false?

What a naive dupe
she’d been to let an experienced cad like Theodore Markham toy with her
affections. When she’d tossed Adrian over, she’d done so believing Toddy to be
her one, true love. He’d whispered such pretty words to her, words of undying
adoration and everlasting devotion, and like an idiot she had believed them. He’d
flattered her, telling her how beautiful she was, all the while showering her
with the kind of gallant, dutiful attention she had craved but rarely received
from her own fiancé—Adrian, who was too busy with his duties and his friends
and his own pursuits to see to her needs.

But Toddy had
wanted her. Loved her. Or so she had thought until Italy, where he had learned
there would be no fat dowry if he wed her. After that, he’d cast her aside like
so much rubbish. Off, as she’d soon discovered, to hunt and seduce other,
wealthier feminine prey.

She squeezed her
eyes closed, fought as she had for so many long weeks to banish him from her
mind. She no longer loved him; she was well and truly done with any tender
feelings in that regard. But she had to admit he’d wounded something vital
within her. Love, she now knew, could be unutterably cruel. Better not to love
at all than to suffer such pangs and sorrows. Better to find solace in the
things that counted for something in this world—wealth, position and dignity.

She would marry a
title as she’d planned to do from the first. No charming cads this time to
steer her from her course. Some rich old man perhaps who, if she was lucky,
would die shortly after their nuptials and leave her a wealthy, young widow,
free to live her life any way she chose. And once she returned to civilization
she would set about finding him.

She’d ensnared
one duke, she could surely catch another.

Sighing again,
she snuggled beneath the bedclothes and forced herself to relax, forced herself
at last to sleep. But her slumber was rife with dreams…

She sat alone
in the stationary barouche, the wheels sunk deep into the mud. Without warning
the carriage door was thrust open, a man’s solid form blocking the sunlight
that poured inside on a heated stream. Her breath caught on a sharp gasp as he
took a bold step forward and leapt inside, and another as he slid up next to
her on the seat. He stretched out a long, muscled arm and locked his hand
around the frame of the opposite window. She burrowed backward into the corner
as he crowded her close, blocking any faint chance of escape she might have
had.

Meeting his
intrepid blue eyes, she shivered, her blood humming with a mixture of fear and
excitement, and yes, attraction. “What do you want?” she demanded. “My money?
My jewels?”

She knew how
his voice would sound even before he
spoke, deep and musical, filled with the
wild rhythm of the Irish hills. She waited for it and trembled in anticipation.

“Nay,” he
whispered, the word washing over her like a sleek, silken caress. “I’ve no use
for such paltry trifles when there’s far greater treasures to be had. So, what
will it be, my lady, your virtue or your life?”

Her lips
parted, her breath faint. “What choice do you leave me, sir? Pray do your
worst.”

The next
instant his lips took hers, plundering her mouth with a primitive sweetness
that made her senses swim, her limbs turn hot and malleable as wax. He thrust
his tongue beyond her teeth and let her taste him, let her very pores fill with
the intoxicating scent of his skin and hair until she could no longer
distinguish her flesh from his own.

“Kiss me
back, lass,” he commanded.

And she did,
losing herself in a forbidden desire that she should not want but nonetheless
did. Fingers aching to touch, she threaded them into his thick brown hair and
pulled him closer, urged him on to take greater liberties, this thief of the
heart.

He palmed a
breast, her nipple peaking in immediate response as he stroked her with a
knowing thumb. She sighed and quivered as he dropped a string of kisses along
the column of her neck. Nipping her earlobe, he laved the spot with his tongue.

“Now, do you
know what I want, lass?” he asked, his breath warm and husky in her ear.

She gently
shook her head and waited, legs shifting restlessly against the aching want she
needed him to assuage.

Abruptly, he
set her from him. “You, hauling your fine backside out of this coach. Here, let
me help.”

And before
she could voice a protest, he yanked her up off the seat, and with a push
tumbled her out of the coach into the mud. He laughed at her from where he
stood inside the barouche, beating a hand against the side of the vehicle over
and over and over again.

The sound of his
beating hand changed and grew louder, turning into a monotonous pounding that
drew her up out of the dream.

She groaned and
squinted against the early-morning light, sleepy enough still to feel the wet
mud, as well as the lingering desire, lying slick upon her skin.

She cringed and
wrinkled her face against her pillow in mortification. How could she have had
such an intimate dream, and about Darragh O’Brien of all people! How could she
want such a man? What trick of her mind had led her to fantasize about him when
he was no more than a commoner and well beneath her notice no matter how
ruggedly handsome he might be?

Well, it was only
a dream, she reasoned. Stupid and meaningless and utterly insignificant.

The dreadful
noise continued.

For mercy
sakes, what was that horrible racket?
She leaned up on an elbow and peered across at
the mantel clock above the fireplace.

Seven-thirty, the
hands read.

Barbaric.

Appalling.

She never rose
from her bed until ten, or sometimes even eleven if she’d had a particularly
late evening the night before. Lord knows no sane, civilized human being would
wish to wake any earlier. In her estimation people who purported to like rising
with the sun needed a good physic, perhaps even a hearty bleeding to rid them
of their bad humors and irrational behavior.

Moaning in
exhausted misery, she stuffed a pillow over her head and tried to block out the
cacophonous
thud, thud, thud
that echoed in the air like the drums of
the damned. For a few scant seconds, the noise ceased. Forgetting all about her
ignominious dream, she dozed off with a happy grunt, only to startle awake
again moments later as the vicious pounding commenced once more.

She fought the
battle of waking and sleeping for several more tortuous minutes before jerking
upright on a snarled oath that would have made many a gentleman blush. Flinging
back the covers, she hurried across to the windows.