The Wife Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  A bird landed on a tree branch just outside the upstairs drawing room window. She watched him preen his wings for a long moment before he dashed off in a streak of white and brown.

  Lord, Jeannette thought, shoot me now. I am so sick of the idles.

  Wilda sat nearby, a crochet hook and yarn flying through her nimble fingers. Sighing, Jeannette focused once more on the stitchery in her own hands.

  Not long after, the daily racket outside abruptly ceased, signaling the end of another workday. Jeannette’s spirits perked up. Once the men left for the afternoon, it was her habit to go outside for a stroll, certain she could walk the grounds unmolested by a certain impertinent Irishman and his discourteous hound.

  She forced herself to sew for another twenty minutes, then hastily thrust her embroidery into a basket and rose to her feet. “I’m going for a walk before supper, cousin. Would you care to join me?”

  Wilda’s fingers paused, gentle eyes glancing upward. “Thank you, dear, but no. You go ahead and enjoy your exercise.”

  Jeannette nodded, walked rapidly from the room.

  A few minutes later, she made her way downstairs, an adorable Oatland Village hat with its double curved brim perched jauntily on her head. Almond-hued ribbons streamed downward from where they were tied beneath her chin, the shade a perfect foil for her willow green muslin day dress. On her feet, she wore calfskin slippers, as supple and green as new spring leaves.

  Gravel crunched beneath those shoes as she exited the house and set out along one of the paths that led deep into the gardens beyond. A delicate breeze stirred her skirts, the afternoon sun fine and full. Clouds drifted overhead in striated puffs, their underbellies shadowed by the faintest hint of gray, signaling the possibility of rain as late afternoon turned to evening.

  But she didn’t mind risking a little wet, relieved to be out of the oppressive confinement of the house. She wasn’t used to such unrelenting solitude. Hour upon hour with nothing to do but sew and pen letters and share increasingly tiresome rounds of small talk with Wilda.

  Her cousin meant well, but mercy, the woman could rattle on about nothing for hours at a time. This afternoon the discussion had focused on the best methods for storing linens, with a thirty-minute oration on the preparation of Wilda’s favorite decoction for combating moths.

  Gads, why couldn’t there be some sort of nearby entertainment? Even a simple country dance would be a welcome relief.

  Her footsteps slowed, stopped altogether before a large massing of pink foxglove, a few round black and yellow bees lumbering in and out of the cup-shaped flowers on their quest to collect pollen. Jeannette barely noticed the insects or the flowers, too preoccupied with her imaginings.

  She could see the assembly room now, the space ablaze with candlelight and frivolity, laughter floating on the air amidst the mingled fragrance of a dozen different perfumes.

  She, of course, looked stunning. Attired in a bravura confection of shot ivory silk with an overskirt of the palest celestial blue, a smattering of forget-me-knots threaded into her silky upswept hair. All the other ladies would watch her, awestruck in their envy, while the men stared, their gazes full of admiration for her exquisite feminine beauty and grace.

  The handsomest young gentleman in the room would approach, bow low over her gloved hand, then beg for a dance. She would laugh and flirt, tease him for a breathless moment as if her agreement was uncertain. Then she would, of course, accept, the two of them taking to the floor with all the elegance of royalty.

  Oh, it would be quite glorious. Almost as lovely as a London soiree. Her eyelids drifted closed, imagining.

  Boot steps crunched on the graveled path behind her.

  “You make a picture, lass. What is it that has you dreaming?”

  Jeannette startled at the words and the deep, musical voice that glided over her like the stroke of a broad, soothing hand. The tone was warm and rich and full of Irish guile. An invisible shiver rippled through her as though he had actually touched her.

  Her eyes popped open. And there he stood, her nemesis, Darragh O’Brien. Today he was dressed in tan trousers, white shirt and lightweight fawn jacket, the cut and quality better, more tailored than some of his other clothing. For him, he looked almost dressed up. A lock of his dark hair curled across his forehead in a way that made her want to reach up and smooth it back. An absurd idea.

  Confounded man.

  Could she never go anywhere without his appearing? Well, just because he had spoken to her didn’t mean she had to offer more than a perfunctory greeting, then continue on her way. After her last two encounters with him, she had no interest in remaining long in his presence, especially if that dog of his was anywhere nearby.

  At the thought, she scanned her surroundings, half expecting the enormous creature to dash out from behind a bush and pounce.

  “He isn’t here,” O’Brien said as if he’d read her mind. “Vitruvius is back at the house where I’m staying, though neither he nor the housekeeper were too keen on the idea when I left him there at midday.”

  “Are you sure you’ll have a housekeeper when you return? If she hasn’t quit before, a day alone with that great lummox should do the job.”

  He showed her his white teeth. “Not to worry, Mrs. Ryan is wise to all the lad’s tricks, and if he’s gotten into her bad graces today, I’ll find him tied up in the rear yard, pouting and sad-eyed for the scolding. He’ll be wanting an extra half hour’s attention at the very least to settle his mood.”

  Spoiled canine, she thought. No wonder the dog needed obedience training.

  “So I haven’t seen you out and about in several days.” O’Brien tucked his right hand into his trousers’ pocket. “Have you been hiding?”

  “Not at all,” she rushed to assure. “I have been getting acquainted with my cousins and do not generally venture out until late in the afternoon.”

  “Once my crew has gone home, you mean. Or is it only myself you’ve been trying to avoid?”

  She let out a tinkling laugh. “Now, why would I want to do such a thing? Doing that would require me to think of you, Mr. O’Brien, and I assure you I have far better ways to occupy my time.”

  Despite her statement, a grin appeared on his mouth, letting her know he knew the truth.

  She decided it best to change the subject. “But speaking of your crew, I had hoped that by now you might see reason.”

  He crossed his arms over his solid chest. “Reason about what?”

  “Letting a lady get a little rest in the morning. Your workers begin far too early and make far too much noise.”

  He shrugged. “So you’ve already said. The noise can’t be helped, I’m afraid, since the building of houses isn’t a silent occupation.”

  “But you could make adjustments if you wished. Another man would understand and feel some sympathy. He would not be so heartless.”

  Darragh barked out a laugh. “Another man would soon find himself out of a job if he did as you ask. I’ve plenty of heart, lass, it’s just my head that isn’t soft.”

  “You’re right about that. Your head is as hard as they come.”

  He smiled widely, eyes sparkling blue as the azure sky above.

  She drew in a quick breath, her pulse doing a jig. Blast him, why did he have to be so handsome? A man of his sort shouldn’t have the right. And what was wrong with her? Responding to him, even though her blood boiled at their every encounter. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her feel so out of sorts.

  Deciding her best move was simply to move away, she gave him a clipped nod. “Good day to you, Mr. O’Brien. I have a walk to continue.”

  But before she took two steps, he reached out and stopped her with a brief touch. “Here now, Lady Jeannette, don’t be hurrying off so quickly. I sought you out for more than conversation. I’ve a gift for you.”

  A gift? Curiosity rose inside her like an irresistible fever. Helpless to resist, she pivoted to face him. “And what could you p
ossibly be giving me?”

  He crossed to a nearby stone bench, picked up the paper-wrapped bundle that lay upon it, plain brown string crisscrossing the square in neat quarters. With it in hand, he strode toward her.

  He halted, then made a surprisingly elegant bow before extending the parcel to her. “We’ve gotten off to a rough start, you and I, and I haven’t felt right about what happened when last we met. Vitruvius knocking you over and all. He’s a sweet pup, but wayward in his actions. ’Twas a fine frock he ruined. And, of course, there was the other pretty one that day outside the coach. That orangey thing you had on.”

  Orangey? Why, yes, her beautiful Naccarat traveling dress. She wished he hadn’t mentioned it. Since that miserable day, she had done her best to forget the incident. An imperceptible shudder rippled through her, evoked by a fear that she would never completely forget the dreadful sensation of being covered from head to toe in mud.

  “And this gift, I take it”—she nodded toward the parcel—“is your way of making amends?”

  How singular. How unexpected.

  He rubbed a finger along his jaw. “Aye, I am sorry for your trouble. I decided since Vitruvius is my responsibility, some recompense was in order.”

  The starch loosened from her spine, her shoulders relaxing without conscious thought. Her fingers itched to take the present, yet she hesitated.

  A lady was allowed to accept only certain gifts from a gentleman. Flowers, bonbons, a book of sonnets. Or perhaps if he was especially daring, a pair of gloves or a small bottle of perfume. Anything else was considered scandalously improper.

  But then, she reminded herself, Darragh O’Brien was no gentleman and his behavior never in any way proper. So why did the knowledge suddenly make her want his gift even more?

  She forced her hands to remain loose at her sides. “What is it?”

  Amusement danced in his eyes. “Well now, if I were to tell you that, it would ruin the surprise. You’ll have to take it and find out for yourself.” He edged the bundle a half inch closer, urging her to take his present.

  She swallowed, knowing she should reject the offering, push him and his gift away. Instead she hesitated only a moment more before plucking the gift from his hands.

  Light, far lighter than she had expected, the package rested easily in her grasp. Her interest piqued even further, she nearly raised it to her ear to shake, but stopped herself at the last second. Ladies didn’t shake presents—at least not in front of witnesses.

  Tall and long-legged, he rocked back on his heels, then up on his toes, his strong hands settled against his lean hips. “So, are you not going to open it, then?”

  She shook her head. “I shall do so later.”

  In case the gift actually was something improper. That way she wouldn’t have to pretend to be scandalized. Though what sort of scandalous gift he might have given her she couldn’t imagine.

  “Well,” she said, “evening approaches and I haven’t had my walk. If I am to do so in time to change for dinner, then I had better be off. My cousins keep early hours.” Very early, she thought, dining at the gauche hour of six o’clock each day, early even by country standards. With a nod, she turned to go.

  He stopped her with another light touch upon her arm. “Are you not forgetting something?”

  “I cannot think what.”

  “Can you not? Or don’t English ladies thank a man when he gives them a gift?”

  A twinge of shame went through her, abashed that she had forgotten to be polite in her hurry to rush away and open the present.

  She tilted her head at an imperious angle to salvage some measure of her pride. “Well then, thank you.”

  “That didn’t sound terribly sincere.”

  “Nevertheless, you have been thanked.”

  “Have I now?” He stepped closer and wrapped one large hand around her upper arm.

  Her heart beat faster at his touch.

  A spark flashed in his eyes. “I think you can do better. Give it a try.”

  “Release me, sir.”

  Instead he caught hold of her other arm and closed the distance between them. “I shall, once I’ve had my satisfaction. Now, shall you thank me nicely, or would you rather show me your gratitude?”

  Show him?

  Her senses tingled, the scents of plain soap and the clean sweat of an honest day’s work filling her nostrils. She wasn’t used to such elemental scents. Earthy, powerful, rugged scents that made her stomach quiver, her mouth grow dry.

  Her gaze clashed with his. She refused to look away, refused to capitulate by even the smallest measure. His own stubborn determination showed clearly, every inch as resolute as her own.

  Just two tiny heartfelt words and he would set her free, she knew he would. Yet her pride refused to let her back down. Her pride and something more, something dangerous and wicked enough to make her pulse points throb in her wrists, to make the air sough in shallow breaths from between her parted lips.

  When she said nothing, he drew her to him, the package she held by its slender string all but forgotten in her grasp.

  “As you prefer, my lady,” he murmured.

  Suddenly his lips were upon her own, bold and relentless as he held her steady for his kiss. At first she resisted, but he met her resistance with demand, compelling her to surrender.

  She nipped at his lips. He nipped back, snagging her lower lip between his teeth for a quick tug before laving the spot with his tongue in a warm, soothing stroke. She shivered, vulnerable to the blatant masculinity of his touch.

  Without warning, he changed tactics, his mouth gentling against her own, turning sultry and seductive and achingly irresistible. Her thoughts grew muzzy. Her resistance weakening like a flower whose petals had been plucked free and left to scatter in the wind.

  The man was a pure devil, she mused dreamily, and he kissed like one too. Lucifer couldn’t have done better at his most beguiling. Her feet tingled inside her shoes, her body turned lax and liquid.

  She whimpered and pressed her breasts against his chest. Opening her mouth, she slid her tongue between his lips.

  After a long minute, he broke away. “I see you know what you’re about, for all that you’re a maiden. You’ve been well and thoroughly kissed by one man or another.”

  His statement drove the air from her lungs as if he’d struck her. For an instant, she considered denying his charge, but he would know she was lying. Besides, why not tell the truth? What did she care for his opinion, good or ill?

  “You are correct,” she flung back. “I have been kissed, and by far better men than you.”

  His eyes narrowed, their translucent colour deepening, ripening like a sky before a storm.

  “Is that so?” he murmured. “You ought to be careful in your impressions. They might not always be as accurate as you imagine.”

  What in the blazes did he mean by that cryptic comment? she wondered.

  “As to the superior quality of those other men, I cannot comment.” His gaze lowered to her lips. “As for the kisses, I can safely say you’ll never find better than mine.”

  Reaching down with nimble fingers, he loosened the ribbon beneath her chin and tipped her bonnet so it dangled halfway down her back. Cupping her face in one hand, he angled her chin to his liking and settled his mouth upon her own.

  As if bewitched by a spell, she let him take her lips once more. She ought to fight him, she knew. Ought to be struggling against his embrace instead of turning in to it like a tender plant that wanted, even needed, to drink more deeply of the sun.

  Her eyes fell shut, the world sliding away as he again proved the truth of his words, the undeniable mastery of his skills.

  Curving an arm around her waist, Darragh fit her more snuggly against him as he worked to increase her enjoyment. He knew he should stop. Knew this whole game had begun to spiral wildly out of control.

  All he’d intended was a simple kiss. A quick embrace to tease and teach her a lesson for her snobbish way
s. Yet he was the one getting the lesson as she brought him a pleasure so intense his head fairly swam with the delight of it.

  Ah, good Christ, she tasted like the finest golden honey. Sweet and rich and succulent. Well worth the risk of earning a little sting for his trouble. And trouble she was. Wicked bad trouble, the kind for which he had no earthly use.

  How easy it would be to completely lose his head, to lay her down in this fragrant garden and spoil another one of her pretty frocks by staining it green with grass.

  He imagined tumbling her gently downward, lying over her while he plundered her moist pink lips as he was doing now, his fingers easing beneath her bodice to cup a lush, full breast. Ah, her flesh would surely feel like a slice of heaven in his grasp. Her legs would shift, passion sparking hot between them as he slid his lips lower to take her nipple in his mouth, his other hand gliding downward over a rounded satiny hip.

  Need pounded in his blood like a fever, ached like a wound between his thighs. He took a single step forward, on the verge of succumbing to sheer carnal impulse. A bird screeched in a nearby tree, awakening his rational mind enough for him to remember exactly where it was the pair of them stood.

  In plain view of the house.

  In eyeshot of the Merriweathers—who, amiable as they might be, certainly wouldn’t appreciate finding him making love to their young cousin. She’d been sent to Ireland as the result of one scandal. He had no wish to find himself at the center of another.

  A fair temptress she was and there was no denying it.

  Stifling a groan, he forced himself to break off the kiss. If they hadn’t been caught already, there was no point in taking further risk.

  Jeannette swayed on her feet, blinked twice.

  “What is it?” she murmured in a breathy voice that whispered down his spine like a teasing finger.

  “Past time you were going inside, that’s what it is. If you stay out here much longer, it’s for sure you’ll be missed. Unless you still mean to take that walk.”

  “What walk?” she asked.