Doing his best to steady his trembling hands, he lifted her bonnet back into place, retied the drooping bow. His gaze roamed over her, noting the heightened colour in her flushed cheeks, the ruddy, glistening lips, which looked well and thoroughly kissed.
He could never send her inside like that. Everyone who saw her would know.
Drawing a deep breath, he pinned a deliberately arrogant, self-satisfied smile upon his lips. “I must say that was a fine thank-you, Lady Jeannette. Well worth the trouble of getting it.”
The look of dazed passion drained from her eyes, colour sparking higher in her cheeks. Pain glistening in her gaze, she lifted a hand and slapped him. “There,” she said. “Was it still worth the trouble?”
Alarmingly, he realized it was, setting a hand over his stinging cheek and the reddened imprint he assumed she had left behind.
Without waiting for his response, Jeannette gripped the paper-wrapped present he’d given her, whirled and ran.
Visually, he followed her progress as she made her way toward the house. He’d meant to startle her back to her senses, but regretted the necessity as well as the result.
He sighed. ’Twas better she hate him, he supposed. For anything else would surely lead to disappointment and heartache.
Chapter Five
Jeannette raced into the house and up the stairs as if snarling hellhounds nipped at her feet.
When she reached her bedchamber, she slammed the door shut, then wiped a hand across her mouth in an attempt to rid herself of the kisses that tingled even now upon her passion-swollen lips. Her body still throbbed, flushed with a latent desire she could not seem to control.
Ignoring the sensations, she concentrated on her anger, letting her outrage and affront sweep the other feelings away.
How dare he. To think he’d laid his coarse hands upon her. To think he’d had those crude, Irish-accented lips upon her own, taking her mouth as though he had a right, a claim.
But he had no claim. He was a thief, just as she’d thought him from the start.
Of course, there at the last he’d had her participation, her agreement as she’d enthusiastically returned his embrace, matching him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. And in those moments she’d been far from a victim.
Appalled by the knowledge, she sank upon the mattress and covered her heated cheeks with her hands.
Gracious, after today she’d never be able to set foot outside the house again for fear of encountering him. And she couldn’t complain to her cousins or insist he be dismissed. On what grounds? That he’d kissed her and she’d liked it?
And she had liked it, there was no denying the truth.
Did that make her wanton?
Many would say so, considering she’d kissed her fair share of men over the years, starting with a sinfully handsome stable boy when she’d been only sixteen. Yet the dalliance had gone no further than a few innocent pecks, occasional caresses that were more tantalizing than titillating. Until her parents found out and sent the poor boy away. She’d tried to protect him but they would hear none of her words, turning him away without so much as a reference. For long months after, she had felt guilty about it, often wondering what had become of him, and if he had found other acceptable work.
Since then she’d been careful to confine her amorous explorations and curiosity to a select few, who could at least refer to themselves as gentlemen. If one applied oneself, the game of seduction became simple. Stolen moments in the garden. A brief clasp of bare hands behind a conveniently placed pillar or potted palm.
Yet she’d always made sure to keep careful control, making certain nothing went too far. A lady had to protect her virtue and her reputation, after all. Even with Adrian, to whom she’d been engaged, she’d made sure the most they ever shared were a few harmless kisses. Considering he was now her sister’s husband, she was relieved. Such a history between them might have proven rather awkward and embarrassing otherwise.
Then there’d been Toddy. She squeezed her eyes tight at the memory of all he had taken. Her love, her pride and so much more.
But no, she told herself, I will not think of him. Toddy Markham belonged in her past, and there he would firmly remain. Lowering her hands to her lap, she curled her fingers into loose fists.
How could she have let that Irish rogue take such advantage of her? How could she have so completely lost her head? If he hadn’t broken off their embrace when he had, heaven knows what liberties she might have allowed him to take. There outside in the garden where anyone might have come upon them or spied them through a window.
Gadzooks, she hoped no one had seen them. Oh, the shame of it was not to be borne.
A moment later her gaze fell upon the gift O’Brien had given her. When she’d first rushed into the room, she’d tossed it onto the floor. Its utilitarian wrapping appeared quite ordinary lying against the intricate amber and green wool carpeting. Rather out of place inside the delicate, feminine room.
Intrigued despite best efforts not to be, she crossed and bent to pick it up. Setting the package upon the bed, she untied the rough hemp twine, heavy paper crinkling audibly as she pushed it aside.
Delicate, rose-tinted silk leapt out at her, spilling in a luxurious wash across the light yellow counterpane.
It was a dress, and a lovely one at that, even if the style wasn’t quite up to the latest fashion. Unfolding the garment, she held it aloft to inspect it more closely.
With a square, rather low-cut bodice, the dress had short, straight sleeves decorated along the edges by a narrow pink velvet ribbon. But it was the flounce that caught her attention; the lower quarter of the skirt embroidered with a broad band of exquisitely beautiful flowers, white roses and green leaves in full luxuriant bloom. Like a small garden brought to life. She almost expected to find birds or butterflies hidden among the pattern.
She traced a finger over a single petal, the stitchery smooth beneath her skin.
Magnificent.
And outrageously improper, particularly since it was an evening gown and a rather diaphanous one at that. What sort of man gave an unmarried lady a dress? Most especially a dress like this!
Had he bought it? Or did it belong to some woman he knew?
She felt a sharp frown descend over her face at the idea. Is that where he’d come by the dress? Had he procured it from one of his women? His mistress perhaps or some local widow he’d lately taken to bedding? She was sure he wasn’t the type of man to do without female companionship for long, no matter his marital status.
Perhaps she was wealthy, this widow. That would certainly account for the fine quality of the garment. Unless O’Brien made enough as an architect to pay for such a gown. She hadn’t the faintest notion what men in such a profession might earn per annum. And if he did earn a reasonable living by middle-class standards, then perhaps the gown didn’t belong to his mistress but instead to his wife.
Jeannette drew in a sharp breath. Was he married?
She squeezed a handful of the material within her fist, her stomach lurching in a most unpleasant manner. Imagine kissing her half-senseless in the garden, while all the time he had a wife waiting for him at home. For all she knew, he had five children too.
Then again, she didn’t know any such thing. She was allowing her thoughts to run amok, to leap to all sorts of wild possibilities and erroneous conclusions. She might be condemning him out of turn. O’Brien might not be married at all and might have no serious amorous ties whatsoever.
Besides, why did she care if he had some other woman?
Because he’d kissed her, that’s why!
Striving for calm, she pulled in a pair of slow, deep breaths.
Gazing again at the dress, she reached out and ran her fingers over the delicate material, tracing a beautifully wrought petal.
It would have to be returned, of course. Propriety permitted no other choice. A great shame really, since the garment was lovely. She pouted for a brief moment before shaking off the emotion.
Suddenly she paused, struck by an interesting notion. True, she had to give back the dress, but perhaps she could turn the situation to her advantage.
Hmm. She would have to think about the possibilities. Indeed, she would.
Darragh ran a set of fingers through his hair and leaned over to consult his drawings.
The last of the north wall was in place, the masons doing a fine job cutting and placing the stone. His crew knew how to put in a full day’s work, and if they kept to their present schedule they should be able to complete the wing nearly on time.
He’d hired on a number of local lads, fellows brought in mostly to work the heavy tasks. But many of the others had worked with him on other construction sites in other places. Skilled master craftsmen, they were men who came from all parts of Ireland and beyond. His stucco workers were native Italians, genuine stuccatori, who would be traveling all the way from Italy in the next several weeks to finish the intricate interior and exterior plasterwork. And for the cornice work and moldings, he’d commissioned a Prussian woodcrafter whose carvings were nothing short of brilliant. All in all, they were a good lot, his men.
He was too involved in the everyday details, some might say of him, especially for a titled gentleman. As he knew, most architects didn’t believe in getting their hands dirty. Many confined themselves to drawing up the elevations, finishing out the plans and renderings, then letting others take them from idea to fact. The actual physical labor would fall to a foreman and a team of laborers and skilled journeymen. But he preferred a more direct approach. That way if problems should arise, he’d be on-site to catch them, to offer a quick solution instead of slowing the work and wasting his clients’ money in the waiting.
Others might also condemn him for accepting payment for his talents and services. Many transplanted Anglo-Irish aristocrats looked down upon him for dabbling in trade, as they were wont to call it. They would rather lose their estates from lack of funds than take up a profitable profession.
He saw things differently. The act of saving his family through hard work and ingenuity was preferable to living along the fringes of society as a hanger-on, forcing his siblings and himself to marry for the expediency of money. He refused, believing marriage should be for love, and in no manner related to the making of profit.
So after returning from a long period of study on the Continent, mainly in Italy, he’d put his architectural training to good use. Over the past eight years he’d built quite a reputation for himself, one of which he was justifiably proud. No longer was money in short supply. No longer did he spend his days worrying about the security of his family, about preserving the ancient legacy of his name and his estate.
Squinting up at the sun and the full arc of light just beginning to droop in the sky, he noted ’twas time they were quitting for the day. His crew knew as well, so attuned to the elements none needed watches to judge the hour.
The work site fell quiet as labor slowed then ceased, men climbing down from scaffolding, packing away their tools and starting the walk or wagon ride home.
Darragh had just finished discussing a final item with his chief mason, all the other men having gone home, when a flash of blue caught his attention. Turning his head, he watched Lady Jeannette Brantford saunter into view.
What was the Little Rosebush doing here? She never came to the construction site, avoiding it as if he and his men were a colony of lepers. Yet here she was, looking beautiful as a sunrise over blossoming heather, striding toward him with a gait that set her vivid skirts swaying.
“Good afternoon, Lady Jeannette,” he said as she drew to a halt. “What brings you this way?”
“You, Mr. O’Brien, and this.”
That’s when he noticed the package in her hands and its familiar brown wrapping. Was that the present he’d given her?
She cast a sideways glance at his chief mason, who stood watching them with obvious interest. “Although I had hoped we might have a bit of privacy.”
“Oh, aye, of course.” He looked across at the older man. “Seamus, what are you still doing here? Go home before the dinner your good wife is cooking for you goes to ruin.”
A grin split the mason’s face. “Right you are about that. She hates it when I’m late. Good night, then, boss. Miss.” Tipping his cap, the other man crossed to gather a few belongings before making his way from the work site.
As soon as he departed, Darragh turned to her. “Now, lass, what’s on your mind?”
“This.” She thrust the package toward him. “I cannot accept this.”
So she was returning the gift, he thought, asking his next question aloud. “But why? Was the dress not to your liking?”
“Whether or not I like the dress has nothing to do with the matter. I cannot keep such a gift.”
“I thought you’d look a picture in that pink, but if you don’t care for the colour—”
“It isn’t the colour.”
“The stitchery, then. The dressmaker told me it was done special in Dublin for a lady who failed to…well, let’s say she ran into financial difficulties and never claimed the garment.”
“So the dress isn’t your wife’s?”
Wife? “What gave you that notion?”
“A gown like this isn’t something a single man generally owns.”
“I didn’t own it, as I just said.” He folded his arms over his chest and smiled. Was she jealous? He knew he shouldn’t, but he discovered he liked the idea. “Is that why you don’t want it? You’re worried I’m married?”
“Are you?”
He smiled wider, gave a slow shake of his head. “I am not.”
An expression that looked vaguely like relief passed over her face. “What about a mistress? Does the dress belong to her?”
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.
The Wife Trap Page 7
