The Wife Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  But master and dog kept well away.

  She could have sought O’Brien out, but what excuse would she have used? After the afternoon of misery to which he’d subjected her as punishment for hiding his tools, she had decided the prudent choice would be to withdraw from that particular fight. Much as it galled her to have the construction racket begin so early, she realized the impossibility of ever getting her way.

  That alone should have sparked a visit from him, if for no other reason than to gloat. But as the days progressed, one week flowing into two, and two into three, she realized he had lost interest. In their sparing and in her, it would seem.

  Lowering as it was to admit, she ventured on occasion into the far guest room to watch for a glimpse of him. But she never lingered long, telling herself it was only tedium and curiosity that drove her there.

  It wasn’t as though she harbored tender feelings for the man. How could she, considering the two of them came from completely separate worlds? She was an English lady of good breeding and fine family. He was an ordinary, middle-class Irishman with nothing to recommend him, in spite of his obvious skills as an architect.

  Yet none of that really mattered, since she had no interest in encouraging a flirtation. Once she returned to England, she would marry and marry well. So really, O’Brien was doing her a favor removing himself from her sphere.

  He was too busy with his work, likely that was the reason she no longer encountered him, the new edifice demanding a full measure of his time and talent. And he did possess talent. Even she, who had little interest in such matters, could appreciate the beauty of what he was creating, the magnificent wing daily taking shape before her eyes.

  Outwardly designed to remain in harmony with the rest of the structure, the recently finished exterior retained the classical lines of the Palladian style, creating an unbroken transition from old to new. To anyone unaware of the fire, Brambleberry Hall would appear as if it had stood unscathed through all the years of its existence.

  The interior, over which the workmen were now busy laboring, was to employ a more modern design, with an emphasis on functionality and comfort. O’Brien had laid out each new room for a specific use, made to suit the lives of its owners while still maintaining an atmosphere of quiet country elegance.

  Then there was the elaborate glass-walled conservatory that each day rose steadily toward the sky like a glittering cathedral. And Bertie’s laboratory, a small square stone house placed well away from the main residence in case of future calamity.

  Once completed, the renovation would be stunning, and worthy of genuine praise.

  All that aside, her days had grown dull as proverbial dishwater. Sweet and well meaning as they might be, her cousins had proven themselves to be two of the most thoroughly eccentric, reclusive people she’d ever met. Except for church on Sundays and Wilda’s small card parties, Wilda and Bertie never did anything even remotely social.

  Bertie occupied himself with his books and plants and experiments. Wilda with her sewing, reading and gardening. To her horror, Jeannette had discovered that Wilda did most of the work in the garden herself. Her cousin had even suggested last week that Jeannette join her in trimming back the rosebushes and preparing some of the flower beds for fall. Worst of all, she’d been so bored she’d actually agreed!

  Jeannette shuddered anew at the memory, then pushed it aside.

  She sighed, her shoulders falling into a mournful slump. Chilly raindrops continued to patter on the windowpanes while she slouched in her chair.

  A gentle knock sounded at the door.

  “Come,” she said, sitting up straight.

  One of the housemaids entered, bearing a letter on a silver salver. The girl curtseyed. “ ’Tis just now arrived for you, me lady. The housekeeper asked me to carry it up to you.”

  Jeannette smiled and waved her over. “How delightful.” She picked up the letter, but made no effort to open it, not in front of the servant.

  The girl hovered, obviously unsure of herself.

  Jeannette nodded. “Thank you. You may go now.”

  The maid bobbed another curtsey and retreated from the room, closing the door behind her.

  Jeannette glanced at the envelope, recognizing Raeburn’s frank wax seal. The missive must be from Violet, since nothing short of a gun to his head would prompt Adrian to write to her these days. She smiled, her mood elevating a bit. Settling back into her seat, she used a silver opener to reveal Violet’s words.

  Dear sister,

  I hope this missive finds you well, or as well as can be expected considering your current privation. As promised, I will try to speak to Mama again on your behalf when she and I next meet. However, I do not hold out a great deal of hope that she will be amenable to listening. Not long ago, she attended Lady Symmerson’s annual country musicale and she says she could barely force herself to remain for all the whispering about her and the scandal we caused. Afterward, she suffered another one of her nervous attacks and remained abed for a week entire. She corresponds with me quite regularly, though I confess to still feeling the sharp side of her tongue even in her letters. If not for my being with child, I fear she would cease to speak to me at all.

  Jeannette snorted, knowing how that felt. Until the scandal, Mama had never been cross with her, not even when she’d deserved it. Since her exile, her mother had written only twice. Once to confirm she’d arrived. The second time to lecture her for her misdeeds and to castigate her for all the shame she’d brought into her parents’ lives.

  Jeannette read on.

  Speaking of such matters, I have the most astonishing news. As I told you before, I was convinced the baby must be an elephant, I am so horribly large. Dear Adrian called Doctor Montgomery to examine me. He listened to my belly with a very odd little device and said he heard two distinct heartbeats. He believes I am carrying twins! Adrian turned quite ashen with worry for my health but he has since recovered, being assured by the doctor that my delivery should pose no undue difficulties. Imagine, Jeannette, twins. Do you think they shall be identical like us?

  Jeannette lowered the letter to her lap, abruptly homesick. Despite their past difficulties, she wished she could be there to help her sister through this trying but exciting time. Brave as her words might be, Violet had to be nervous, especially knowing she carried two babies instead of one. Jeannette hoped she didn’t someday suffer the same fate as her sister. One child at a time would be more than sufficient for her.

  Besides, she pouted, she was missing all the fun. If her parents didn’t relent soon and tell her she could come home, she wouldn’t have a chance to see Violet waddle around. Nor would she be there for the birth and christening this winter.

  She considered penning a reply to her twin, but a glance at the clock showed her it was past time she dressed for supper. Folding up the letter, she rang for Betsy.

  “…he says that in spite of the earlier unfortunate delays, the work is now moving along splendidly,” Bertie announced in between bites of poached salmon in caper sauce and buttered roast potatoes. “Our new wing should be finished in no more than another month complete.” He and Wilda shared pleased smiles while Jeannette looked on.

  She swallowed against an odd constriction in her throat and reached for her glass of wine. Another month and all the workmen would be gone, Mr. O’Brien with them. Well, huzzah, since that would turn the mornings deliciously quiet and leave her free to sleep as late as she wished.

  She should be ecstatic over the news.

  She was ecstatic. Of course she was.

  Frowning, she picked at her fish with her fork, an odd melancholy rolling through her. She just needed a bit of cheering up, that was all. Relief from the endless daily monotony of her current existence. If she were at home, her answer would be to throw a party.

  She paused and drank another sip of wine.

  Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  Setting her fork aside, she patted her lips dry with her napkin. “I
have the most wonderful idea. We must host a ball.”

  Wilda’s eyebrows bobbed upward like a pair of corks, while Cousin Cuthbert’s forehead scrunched into a mass of wrinkled lines.

  “Oh, dear, I don’t believe we have ever had a ball,” Wilda said in a faint voice. “No, no, nothing larger than a holiday luncheon for some visiting friends and relations several years ago.”

  Only pure willpower kept Jeannette from rolling her eyes. “Then it is well past time you entertained. And what better reason than the completion of your new renovation? Clearly a time for celebration.”

  Bertie grunted. “Being able to use the new wing and my laboratory shall be celebration enough. No need to invite a bunch of people over to crowd up the house.”

  “But what about the conservatory?” Jeannette persisted. “Surely you would like to show off your amazing display of plants. You must have colleagues who would be delighted by a firsthand view.”

  Bertie paused, clearly caught up by the idea. “Well, there are my fellows in the Royal Horticultural Society. Many of them would have to travel from Dublin and beyond, but I daresay they’d be agreeable, considering the requests I’ve received to view my Epidendrum nocturnum. I suppose it might be an excellent occasion, as you say, to display my collection.”

  “Just so,” she agreed with extravagant enthusiasm. “And Cousin Wilda, surely you would love to set up several tables of cards in your new card room. Just think of the exciting games you could initiate.”

  A soft smile curved over the older woman’s lips. “Oh, I had not considered that. We could have cards, could we not?”

  “Why, of course. It wouldn’t be a successful ball without offering cards for those who do not care for dancing. In addition to the ladies with whom you regularly play whist, there must be others of good breeding in the area who would be eager to accept such an invitation.”

  “Yes, there are a few families who might be willing to come.” Wilda raised an anxious hand to her chest. “But dear me, I’m not sure I would feel comfortable organizing such a large undertaking.”

  Jeannette waved a hand. “Leave all the details to me. I thrive on arranging parties and gatherings. There’s only a month to prepare but I am certain we can put together a spectacular event in that amount of time. I assure you, once I’m done no one will talk of anything else for months to come. Perhaps years. Why, even your colleagues from Dublin will have nothing but compliments, flattered to have received an invitation to such an illustrious function. Envious they did not host it themselves.”

  Jeannette clapped her hands in excitement. “So, is it settled? Shall we have a ball?”

  Bertie and Wilda exchanged bemused glances, then nodded their heads in unison.

  “Yes, dear, let us proceed,” Wilda declared.

  Chapter Ten

  The next month passed more rapidly than the two that had come before, as Jeannette oversaw the plans for the Merriweathers’ ball.

  On the morning of the event, she stood, gesturing around the ballroom with a hand, the space overlain by the clean scents of polish wax and fresh flowers. “No, no, the pink and white hollyhocks in the epergne are to go on the sideboard over there. While the chrysanthemums and accompanying greenery should be placed in the large pedestal vases near the musicians’ stand.”

  Mrs. Ivory, the housekeeper, nodded and instructed the pair of footmen hovering nearby to begin making the necessary changes.

  “What about the lobster patties, my lady? The fishmonger arrived at half-six this morning and the order was short of lobsters by nearly a full crate.” The woman clucked in obvious disapproval. “Cook gave him a fine scolding, she did, but what’s to do about it now?”

  Jeannette tapped a considering finger against her hip. “There are plenty of prawns, are there not?”

  “Yes, my lady. More than sufficient.”

  “Then instruct Cook to create a new dish using prawns, and perhaps serve more oysters as well, to make up for the deficiency of lobster. That should resolve the problem while still leaving a proper selection of seafood for the buffet.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  “Anything further?”

  “No, my lady, not at present. The silver and crystal are being cleaned and polished. The chandeliers have been dusted and fresh candles set in. And the last of the rooms are being readied for the guests expected to stay overnight, arrangements made among staff to accommodate the visiting servants as well.”

  “Excellent. It sounds as though plans are proceeding apace.”

  Mrs. Ivory nodded, then curtseyed as she prepared to withdraw.

  “Before you go,” Jeannette said, stopping the older woman, “I would like to tell you on behalf of my cousins and myself what a fine job you and the staff are doing, and have done over the past few weeks. Even my parents’ staff in Surrey would not have done a better job.” Jeannette folded her arms at her waist. “Assuming nothing essential goes awry, tonight’s festivities are sure to be a splendid success. Please thank everyone on my behalf.”

  Pleasure moved over the housekeeper’s plump features, a wide, toothy smile spreading across her lips. “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady. It’s that much harder we’ll work tonight to make certain nothing goes amiss. If you’ll excuse me now, Lady Jeannette, I’ll be off to have a talk with Cook about those shrimps.” Murmuring more words of gratitude, the servant curtseyed again and hurried away.

  With satisfaction, Jeannette watched the woman depart.

  During the past four weeks, she had truly been in her element. She loved many things, but nothing compared to the thrill of a party, whether planning one or simply being in attendance.

  At first, poor sweet Cousin Wilda had done her best to help, but unaccustomed to lavish gatherings, she had soon found herself overwhelmed by the preparations. Jeannette gladly stepped into the lead, taking command like a seasoned general assuming control on the eve of a great battle. Rallying her troops in a way that would have made Wellington proud, she had orchestrated the entire affair, from penning invitations in an elegant hand to deciding upon the food and wine that would be served.

  The one area she had left entirely up to Wilda was the flowers, a responsibility her cousin had been delighted to accept. As for Cousin Cuthbert, once he’d presented his list of friends and colleagues to invite, he’d hidden himself away in his makeshift laboratory and hadn’t been seen since—except, of course, for meals.

  A pair of footmen stepped out of the room, leaving Jeannette momentarily alone. She turned a slow circle, admiring the decor. The floor-length maroon velvet curtains, the flocked Chinese print wallpaper painted in shades of red and gold, the gleaming wooden floors and double-hung sash windows that opened to let in the light and air. She drew in a breath, enjoying the hint of fall-blooming jasmine that teased her nostrils.

  For once the house was silent. Free at last of the constant racket made by O’Brien’s crew of pesky carpenters and craftsmen. Finishing the renovation had been a close thing, work on the new addition concluding only three days prior. She had experienced a few moments of panic when the week began and O’Brien and his men were still setting the last touches into place. But they had since finished their work as promised, packed up their tools and supplies and then been on their way. Leaving just enough time for the servants to give the new rooms a thorough cleaning then carry in and arrange the permanent furnishings. They had also labored under Cuthbert’s terse, worried directions to transfer his extensive collection of exotic plants to the conservatory.

  O’Brien had not stopped to say good-bye.

  More wounded than she’d wanted to admit, Jeannette refused to give in to the desire to seek him out one final time. If he did not wish to see her, then she certainly had no interest in seeing him. Anyway, what would they say to each other? Likely they might exchange a few words of meaningless small talk, mentioning nothing of their sparing and wrangling. Their teasing and flirtation. Their kisses.

  Her eyes slid shut as memories assa
iled her. Memories of the way his lips had felt pressed to hers, intense and passionate and impossible to resist. The heady male scent of him heating her blood, swimming inside her brain. His tantalizing flavor lingering wicked as sin on her tongue. And his body, his tall, sinewy, powerful body holding her to him as if he never again wanted to let her go.

  Shivering, she curled a fist against her chest where her heart raced, unnerved by the fierceness of her reaction, and disturbed by the dejection that swept over her like an icy wind. Why should she care if she never saw him again? What did Darragh O’Brien matter to her?

  Nothing, she assured herself. Nothing whatsoever.

  Opening her eyes, she gazed around the room, forcibly reminding herself of the exciting evening ahead. She had much to celebrate, after all. Tonight was the night of her ball, the first she would enjoy in many long months. Perhaps Inistioge wasn’t London. Perhaps many of the Merriweathers’ friends and neighbors were a group of provincials. But tonight she had every intention of enjoying herself. She’d done her best to imbue the festivities with equal measures of elegance and animation. Every single person attending tonight would have fun, or she would want to know the reason why.

  And that went double for her.

  Yet not all the company were locals. Included on the guest list were several Englishmen, a couple of them titled gentlemen who had decided to travel all the way from London to see Cousin Cuthbert’s latest botanical acquisitions. Who knows, mayhap she’d meet someone new. Someone special. Someone simply dripping with titled good looks and money who would erase Darragh O’Brien from her mind, as though he’d never existed at all.

  Footsteps rang in soft percussion against the wooden floor as one of the footmen crossed to her. “Excuse me, my lady, visitors have arrived.”

  “Already? The first guests aren’t expected until later this afternoon. Well, there’s nothing for it. Please inform Mrs. Merriweather we have company.”