TheWifeTrap (9 page)

His arms dropped to his sides, his lips parting for a long moment
before he recovered himself. “And what would a lady like yourself know of such
females?”

“Enough to know men keep them. Do you?”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to decide how he should answer, or if
he should answer at all. “Not at present, though ’tisn’t a proper subject for
us to be discussing.”

“Which is precisely the problem with this dress. It is not
proper.” She extended the package again for him to take.

“Why not? ’Tis a beautiful gown.”

“Evening gown. And not the kind of gift a man gives a woman,
certainly not an unmarried lady.”

He felt a frown descend upon his forehead. “I don’t see why that
matters. Your frocks took harm, so I thought it only logical to find you a new
one as a replacement.”

“Logical or not, I fear that I cannot accept. Only a loose woman
or a wife could do so, however beautiful the dress might be.”

Until now, he hadn’t considered the issue from her perspective,
he’d thought only to buy her something nice. Perhaps she was right, though, and
the dress had been ill-considered, no matter how good his intentions.

At least she thought the gown was beautiful.

This time when she pushed the bundle toward him, he accepted. “My
apologies, lass. I meant no offense.”

She gave a conciliatory nod. “None taken.”

Pausing, she gazed over the building site, taking in the stone and
wood and metal that would soon be transformed into the new west wing.

“Although,” she said, “if you still wish to make amends, there is
something I would like.”

“And what is that, lass? It would be my pleasure to grant you
anything you’d please.”

She fixed him with an eager smile before very pointedly gazing
again over the building materials. “I believe you know already what it is I
would like.”

Long seconds passed before he divined her meaning. The frown
settled again on his forehead. “Oh, no, lass, I’ll not be giving you that.”

“Why not? You said you would be pleased to grant me anything I
would like. Well, I would like your men to begin work later in the morning.
Nine-thirty, shall we say? It’s earlier than I truly prefer, but I don’t wish
to be unreasonable.” She gave him a dazzling, almost coquettish smile.

Oh, she was a crafty one, she was. And if he weren’t the one on
the other end of her tricks, he’d have admired her skills at maneuvering.

Instead he crossed his arms again and scowled. “Ah, now, lass, you
know I can’t do that. We’ve had this conversation before, and of all the things
you ask, that’s the one I cannot grant. What about a nice bit of jewelry?”

Blue sparks flashed in her eyes. “I don’t want jewelry—which, for
your information, is every bit as improper as the dress! You know what I want,
Mr. O’Brien, now give it to me.”

He waited, half expecting her to stomp her feet for good measure.
She held steady, her gaze unwavering.

He did the same.

A long minute ticked past, the force of their impasse almost
palpable on the air.

He supposed they could begin a little later, especially since the
days would soon begin to shorten, dawn breaking slightly later each morning,
creeping upward.

“Seven o’clock,” he said.

“Nine.”

He shook his head. “Nine is out of the question. Seven. It’s the
best I can do.”

“Seven is barely later at all.”

“It’s better than you have now. Shall it be seven, then?”

He knew he had her, and she knew he had her too. Her gaze snapped
like a lightning storm before she gave a reluctant nod.

“Then we’ve an agreement. Is there anything else you’re after
wanting, lass?”

“Yes. Stop calling me lass!” Spinning on her heel, she strode
away.

He chuckled and set his hands at his waist, enjoying the way her
rounded hips shifted beneath her skirts. “You forgot to say thank you again,”
he called after her.

Her spine stiffened, her step slowing for just a second before she
strode onward. He watched until she disappeared from view. Giving another soft
chuckle, he moved to gather his things.

Seven o’clock!

The best he could do was seven o’clock.

Hands curled at her sides, Jeannette strode past a footman as she
entered the house. Ignoring the curious look he gave her, she hurried up the
stairs to her bedroom.

Well, O’Brien might think she had agreed to his terms, but she
hadn’t. Not that she’d been foolish enough to pass up the extra half hour’s
sleep he’d offered. But a mere half hour simply would not do. No, it would not
do at all.

She had tried to be reasonable, tried to be amenable to
compromise, and look where it had gotten her. Why, he’d barely even budged.

She dropped down into a jade green armchair and gazed unseeing out
of the window. She couldn’t blithely admit defeat and accept this continued
injustice, seemingly grateful for any crumbs he chose to cast her way.

Think,
she commanded herself.
Think!

Knuckles propped beneath her chin, she set herself to the task.
Long minutes later, a smile spread like a budding rose across her lips.

Why, yes,
she mused,
that just might do. That just
might do perfectly.

Chapter Six

“Rory, did you borrow my plans?”

The head foreman glanced up from his mug of morning tea, then
briskly shook his ruddy head. “No, boss. You know I’d never take your drawings,
not without telling you first.”

Darragh raked frustrated fingers through his hair. “That’s what I
thought but…I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find them.”

“Well now, that doesn’t make a bit of sense, does it? Did you put
them away as you always do?”

“Aye, rolled them up last night and set them the same place as
usual. As you say, it makes no sense. Mayhap one of the carpenters decided to
study them first thing and forgot to say.”

“Nay, I’ve seen all the carpenters this morning and not a one of
’em has your plans.” Rory took another drink of tea, then set his mug on top of
a nearby stack of timber. “Let me ask the lads if they’ve seen the drawings.
I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

But a full half an hour later, the plans had not been located. Now
high and golden overhead, the sun spoke of the maturing hour, negating the
necessity of consulting a timepiece. Even so, Darragh snapped open the silver
face of his pocket watch, then scowled at the hands.

Blast.
Where could they be? Architectural renderings
didn’t just stand up on their ends, grow feet and walk off.

If the men didn’t begin their labor soon, the entire morning would
be wasted. Unfortunately most of the men needed his direction in order to
progress with their work, and he couldn’t give it to them without the bloody
plans. Besides, they’d started late to begin with, due to honoring his
agreement with Lady Jeannette.

He paused, thinking of her slumbering somewhere inside the house.
She wouldn’t have taken his drawings, would she? No, ’twas a daft notion, he
told himself, brushing the idea aside.

At ten minutes ’til nine, he no longer thought any explanation
daft, since the plans were nowhere to be found.

With his usually even temper frayed, he watched in interest as a
young maidservant appeared. Crossing the construction site, she paused to speak
with one of his men, both of them turning to gaze across at him. Then she began
to approach, a small piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand.

Nerves shone in her brown eyes when she drew to a halt before him.
“Your pardon, sir. Are you Mr. O’Brien?”

“Aye, I’m O’Brien.”

“My lady asked that I give this to you.”

He stared down at the note for a long moment before taking the
missive from her hand. Opening the page, he began to read.

Dear Mr. O’Brien,

If you are reading this, it must be nearly nine o’clock. I
assume by now that you must have noticed that certain papers are missing from
your possession. You have only to agree to have your workers commence their day
at this same time every morning beginning tomorrow, and I shall immediately
return your papers to you.

Yours,

Lady Jeannette Brantford

For a second, Darragh stood utterly mute. A vein throbbed in his
forehead, his hand clenching to crumple the note hard inside his fist. He
enjoyed the sound as the paper gave a satisfying crackle. Staring at the
vellum, he squeezed harder and wadded the note into a snug little ball.

The maid’s eyes widened, yet somehow she found the courage to
speak. “My lady said I am to…to wait for your reply.”

He shifted his gaze to her. “Wants a reply, does she? Aye, I’ll
give her a reply.”

What he’d like to do was give her a reply in person. Storm into
the house and up to Lady Jeannette’s bedroom wherever it might be. Once there,
he’d shake her out of her sleep, and after bellowing at her for a minute or
two, would soon enough have the stolen plans back in his possession. But he
supposed the Merriweathers might not be too keen on the notion of his bursting
into their young cousin’s bedroom, so a note, he supposed, would have to
suffice.

Her crumpled letter lying warm inside his hand, he strode across
the yard to his worktable. The worktable where his architectural plans would
now be spread out
if he had them
! Jaw tight, he sought out a quill,
paper and ink. He settled his knuckles onto one hip and contemplated his
response. Moments later, he was scratching out a message.

After sanding the ink dry, he folded the paper and crossed back to
the little, gentle-eyed maid.

He held out the note. “For the lady.”

She gave him a faint smile, bobbed a curtsey, then spun to trace
her path back around the house.

“What was all that about?” his foreman asked, strolling forward to
stop at Darragh’s side.

“Nothing but a small delay,” Darragh said. “I’ll be taking one of
the horses and riding home. I’ve a spare set of plans there, not as complete as
the others, but they’ll do. In the meanwhile, tell the men to take their dinner
break early and be ready to work when I return.”

“Aye, boss.”

Jeannette stretched against the sheets, slowly opening her eyes as
Betsy drew back the bedroom curtains to let in the morning sunshine.

“Hmm,” she murmured on a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Ten after nine, my lady.”

“Really?” She came fully awake and sat up with a slight bounce.
“Did you give my missive to him?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And? Did he give a response?”

Betsy nodded her head and picked up a folded sheet of paper from
the vanity top. “Wrote it out while I waited. Here it is, my lady.”

Jeannette reached out and accepted the note. “Thank you, Betsy.”

“You’re welcome. He’s a handsome one, if I might be bold enough to
say.”

“Hmm, if you like that type. I really hadn’t noticed,” Jeannette lied.
Fiddling with the note, she rubbed her thumb across the surface but made no
effort to open it. “Betsy, I believe I’ll take tea and toast here in my room.”

“Oh, of course, my lady. I’ll return in a thrice.”

Jeannette waited until the maid closed the door behind her before
she opened O’Brien’s reply.

Bold and rich as the lyrical timber of his voice, his words flowed
across the page…

Lady Jeannette,

I hope you enjoyed your extra rest this morning. Now that
you’ve had it, return what belongs to me. If you do so immediately, we’ll say
no more on the matter. If the plans are not in my possession by the end of the
day, I promise your days will henceforth begin very early indeed.

Your Servant,

O’Brien

Beast,
she thought, crushing the vellum in her hand.
Trying to bully her, was he? Well, it wasn’t going to work.

Or was it?

She chewed the corner of her lip and thought of the long, thick
roll of architectural drawings hidden beneath the armoire. Should she give them
back?

Closing her eyes, she listened to the lovely silence outside. How
could she give that up? Although when she considered it, she supposed her
solution was only a temporary one at best.

Obviously he was quite angry.

But without the plans, what could he do? Besides, his workers must
be enjoying the day off. Who was she to deny them their pleasure?

Buoyed by the idea, she smiled. Let them have today and one more
morning besides. Tomorrow—after nine—she would have Betsy return the plans.

Until then, she was going to savor the quiet.

Despite her resolve, she decided it might be wisest to avoid
contact with Mr. O’Brien for the next day or so. A journey away from the house,
she mused, would be just the thing. Not only would it put her out of trouble’s
potential path but it would help alleviate the constant boredom from which she
suffered here in the Irish wilderness.

With a little coaxing and several encouraging smiles, she jollied
Wilda into ordering the carriage so the two of them could drive into Inistioge.
Excited just to be out of the house, she entered the village in an optimistic
mood. Quaint and charmingly pretty, the little town was settled around a
square, many of the buildings quite old, their origin dating all the way back
to Norman times, or so Wilda informed her. A shame Violet couldn’t see the
place; her history-loving twin would have been in raptures.

Yet attractive as the village might be, it was still only a
village. Having grown used to the immense array of goods available in London,
she found the shops sadly devoid of stock, not even up to the standard of the
English villages near Papa’s estate in Surrey.

The local millinery sported a miserable selection of ribbons and
one of the ugliest groupings of bonnets she had ever seen. She had no better
luck at the village dressmakers, where the fashion book the proprietress
shuffled out contained patterns nearly two years out of date!

Still, in the end she managed to come away with some beautiful
Irish lace, hand-crocheted by the nuns from a nearby convent. She purchased
several lengths that she planned to give as little gifts to her sister and
several female friends.

Just about the time they were ready to leave for home, Wilda
spotted a pair of acquaintances, and Jeannette soon found herself invited to
share tea and a strong-tasting local confection, known as porter cake, in the
company of her cousin’s chatty friends.

Evening was settling over the horizon when the carriage pulled
into the main drive at Brambleberry Hall. Due to the advanced hour, dinner
needed to be delayed, Wilda sending word to the kitchen about the last-minute
change. Cuthbert, as usual, was buried somewhere among his plants and research
and would barely notice the change, Wilda assured her with an affectionate
sigh. Wilda would send one of the footmen to collect dear Bertie at the
appropriate moment.

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Jeannette drew off her bonnet and
gloves, then moved to show Betsy her purchases. Her mood indulgent, she decided
to give her maid a yard of the lace. “You can use it to trim a new hat or maybe
one of your best dresses.”

“Oh, thank you ever so much, my lady,” Betsy declared, smiling as
she admired the delicate workmanship of the lace.

“You are most welcome. Now, if you would please, help me change
out of this gown so I am not late for dinner.”

“Right away, my lady.”

The remainder of the evening passed quietly, Cousin Cuthbert
providing a touch of amusement, encouraged to share a few stories about his
childhood in England and reminiscences of Jeannette’s mother as a girl.

Later that evening, she went to bed content in the knowledge that
she would enjoy a second sound night’s rest. Though, come morning, she knew,
she would have to concede defeat and return Mr. O’Brien’s architectural
renderings to him, so work on the new wing could continue apace.

As she was settling down to sleep, she wondered where O’Brien was
tonight, and what he was doing. Probably sitting in front of a rustic
fireplace, stewing over her continued defiance. Well, tomorrow she would give
him a delightful surprise. Mayhap she would even deliver the plans to him
herself just to witness his expression. This time he’d be the one needing to
thank her.

Smiling at the thought, she fell asleep and dreamed of Darragh
O’Brien’s kisses.

Darragh sipped a small whiskey from a heavy, cut-crystal Waterford
tumbler and relaxed into a wide, leather armchair in Lawrence McGarrett’s
comfortable study. A friend since their days at Trinity College, Lawrence had
invited Darragh to stay at his country estate while Darragh “played with his
building blocks,” as Lawrence liked to call Darragh’s architectural pursuits.
Presently, Lawrence was away at his townhouse in Dublin, leaving Darragh alone,
save for the servants.

Drinking another fiery swallow, he thought about his day, and the
fact that sundown had come and gone, and Lady Jeannette hadn’t returned the
plans.