TheWifeTrap (24 page)

As if sensing her defeat, he turned her gently in his arms. He
traced the side of a finger over the curve of her cheek. “Does it pain you so,
then, the prospect of being my wife?”

She swallowed, nerves taut inside her throat. “No, but in so many
ways you and I are still strangers. What do we really know of each other?”

A forbearing smile lifted his lips. “More than you might suspect,
I imagine. Once we’re wed, we’ll have the pleasure of learning each other’s
ways, an exercise that will only add spice and adventure to the years that lie
ahead.”

“And what if it adds acrimony and regret instead?”

“We’ll have to work hard to make sure it doesn’t.” Stepping back,
he offered his hand. “Lady Jeannette Rose Brantford, I know we didn’t come to
this in the normal fashion of things, but will you step inside this church and
do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

She stared at his hand. Strong, steady, resilient. Able to craft
and create. Able to take on whatever needed to be done no matter how tough or
how hard. A woman could do far worse than to accept the hand of such a man.

She trembled to imagine her future life with him. She trembled to
imagine it now without. Accepting, as she never thought she would do, she laid
her hand in his and said, “Yes.”

Chapter Fifteen

“We’ll pass the night here then be off for home come morning,”
Darragh said, escorting his new bride up the staircase into Lawrence
McGarrett’s drawing room.

Jeannette glanced around at the pleasant decor, an arrangement of
shield-backed walnut Hepplewhite chairs and matching sofa upholstered in
buttery soft tan leather. Flanking the sofa were a pair of inlaid satinwood
Pembroke occasional tables. A tall liquor cabinet stood to one side, opposite
the wide fireplace. Pastoral prints graced walls that were painted a warm,
soothing blue.

She hoped the shade would have a beneficial effect upon her
nerves. Needing the distraction, she busied her hands by drawing off her
gloves. “And where exactly is your home, other than the West?”

“Our home now,” he corrected her with a tender smile. “Near the
banks of the Shannon estuary where the river meets the sea. ’Tis a place of
rugged beauty I expect you’ll like.”

“We shall hope,” she murmured softly. Crossing to the sofa, she
sank down onto the cushions, finding them surprisingly comfortable. She folded
her hands in her lap. “So this is Mr. McGarrett’s house? Your best man, the one
with the red hair?”

“That’s the one. I’ve been lodging here while I finished your
cousins’ renovations. Lawrence offered to clear out for the night so we could
be alone.”

A sensation like the brush of butterfly wings fluttered in her
stomach. “Did he? How very generous.”

“That’s Lawrence. Always willing to be of aid to a friend.”

“He seemed rather severe to me.”

At the wedding breakfast the man had been politely civil, but not
much else, hardly speaking—at least not to her. He’d been loquacious enough
with everyone else, including Kit Winter, whom he’d kept entertained with one
outrageous story after another.

Darragh looked uncomfortable for a long moment. “Pay him no mind.
The fellow’s tongue knots up sometimes around the lasses, especially a lass as
beautiful as yourself.”

He crossed, leaned down to take her hand and press a kiss upon its
top. The worst of her lingering pique over the matter melted beneath his touch.

“His tongue seemed fine to me,” she remarked before deciding to
accept Darragh’s explanation on its face. If Lawrence McGarrett didn’t like her
because she was English and had wed his friend, then that was his problem and
no one else’s. She would dwell upon it no longer.

“At least his house is comfortable, if rather on the small side.”
Her father owned a hunting box that was larger, but she supposed she could be
only so choosy about her accommodations now that she and O’Brien were wed.

Spinning the wide gold band encircling the third finger of her
left hand, she wondered what his home—their home—would be like.

“What would you care to do?” he asked.

Her head jerked up at the interruption. “Do?”

She tossed a quick glance at the mantel clock, saw the hands at
half-past three. Gracious, she and Darragh should have remained at the
reception longer, but as bride and groom it would have looked odd for them to
linger too long.

She’d already said her farewells to her family, knowing she was to
leave in the morning and not likely to see them again for some time to come.
Amid tears and hugs, she’d given Violet a letter for their parents in which
she’d begged their forgiveness and asked for their blessing of her hasty
marriage. She’d also made a point of seeking out Wilda and Cuthbert to thank
them for their hospitality.

“You have been the best part of my time here in Ireland,” she told
them before startling Wilda by flinging her arms around her in an unexpected
embrace. After a long moment, the older woman returned Jeannette’s hug with genuine
affection. Just before they separated, Wilda gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.

“Just be happy, dear,” her cousin advised, patting her hand.
“Write and let me know how you go on.”

Jeannette had nodded, swallowing against the knot in her throat.
“Yes, I will.”

She only hoped she would be happy, cast adrift as she now was,
with Darragh her only anchor. Her arrival in Ireland all those weeks ago had
been daunting and scary. This time it would be worse, since there would be no
reprieve waiting to send her home.

She shivered, grateful she would at least have Betsy and her
familiar, reassuring routine to make the transition less frightening.

“Are you hungry?” Darragh asked. “Could you do with a cup of tea?”

She laid a hand across her stomach. “Oh, no, I couldn’t eat
another bite.” If she did, she thought, she might become ill. “After the
breakfast we had, and the cake afterward, I am more than well satisfied.” She
paused. “But if you would care for tea, I can ring, of course.”

“No, no,” he said, preventing her from rising to her feet. “I am
fine. You’re right, too much cake.” He rocked slightly on his heels and stared
down at the brown and blue rug on the floor. When he looked up again, he caught
and held her gaze. “Shall I show you to the bedroom, then?”

Her lips fell open, her heart kicking into a fast, unsteady gait.
“But it’s scarcely mid-afternoon.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak
and breathy.

For an instant, he appeared surprised. Then a smile moved over his
mouth, humor warming his sky-colored eyes. “I meant so you could change and
bathe, but we can get on with the other if you’d prefer. I like making love in
the daylight.”

She sprang off the couch. “Tonight in the dark will be soon
enough. But I do believe I will retire to my bedchamber to bathe and change and
take a brief rest, as you suggest.”

Grinning, he stalked forward and snagged one of her hands in his.
Exercising gentle pressure, he curved her arm behind her back, moved in so
their bodies touched. “I’m disappointed now. Are you sure I can’t talk you into
letting me have my way with you, after all?”

She swallowed and trembled, imagining the two of them lying naked
on a bed with nothing but a spill of sunlight to cover their entwined bodies.
She throbbed, aware of his long, powerful frame pressed against her.

“Q-quite sure,” she lied.

“Ah, you’re a cruel one, lass, to torment a man so, and your new
husband at that. I see I shall have to content myself with dreams of this
evening. But I agree, you’d best have that nap you mentioned.”

“Should I?”

“Indeed, for it’s a promise I’ll be keeping you awake nearly the
whole of the night.”

While she was still gasping at his prurient pledge, he swooped
down and claimed her lips in a swift, sweet kiss that turned her knees to
jelly, her toes to toast.

She swayed when he set her free.

“Shall I escort you to your room, or would you rather find it on
your own? It’s just past the landing, third door on the right.”

“Under the circumstances, I had better find it on my own.”

“Supper’s at six and don’t be late. And Jeannette?”

“Yes?”

“Wear your hair down. I’ve a fancy to see it around your
shoulders.”

“You said you had been to Italy, but I didn’t realize you had
visited Florence and the Uffizi Gallery,” Jeannette remarked, pausing to quaff
a delicate mouthful of red wine. “Such an impressive collection of
works—paintings, sculpture and the wonderful architecture itself. Seeing it was
one of the highlights of my sojourn to the region. That and all the shopping
and parties, of course.”

“Oh, of course. And you’ve the right of it. The gallery is a fine
sight, well worth the trip and the trouble.” Darragh flipped his silver dessert
spoon over and back, then over and back again against his discarded linen
napkin in an absent, yet methodical rhythm.

“Great-aunt Agatha and I were supposed to visit the Pitti Palace
too, but the Grand Duke fell ill unexpectedly and our evening’s entertainment
had to be canceled. Alas, we had to journey on two days later and there was not
the time to reschedule.” She released a tiny sigh. “More’s the pity, since I
had so been hoping to see the Pitti.” She paused then giggled. “Oh, listen to
me, I believe I just made a pun. A pity about the Pitti. Get it?”

Darragh smiled across the dining room table at her. “Aye, lass.
Very amusing.”

“So I suppose both of us were forced to make do with outside views
of the palace and gardens, instead of having the pleasure of seeing it from
within.”

Actually, Darragh mused, he had enjoyed a private tour, viewing
the palace from every imaginable direction, as a friend and honored guest of
Grand Duke Ferdinand III of Lorraine. But, Darragh decided, he would have to
save that tidbit of information for a later conversation. A much later
conversation.

Sprawled casually in his chair, he watched his new wife spear a
minuscule bite of apple tartlet with her fork. The silver tines slipped in and
out from between her rosy lips with unconscious yet suggestive provocation.

His loins tightened, fresh blood flowing to parts of his body that
had nothing to do with digestion. Ordinarily he would have been interested in
pursuing their conversation about art and architecture and travel, but not
tonight—their wedding night.

He bit back a sigh and wondered if supper would ever end.

For the past hour and a half she’d driven him half mad with desire
and frustration, toying and prodding and picking at each dish set before her. All
the while, she’d chattered, talking as she lingered over one interminable
course after another.

At first he’d tried to keep up, participating in the conversation
with any number of observations of his own. Eventually, he’d fallen all but
silent and let her rattle away. He knew she liked to talk—and she surely could
argue with the best of them—but he’d never heard her prattle on as she was
doing tonight.

Was she anxious? Slowing the meal in an attempt to delay the trip
upstairs? But why? He knew she had a liking for his kisses. Sweet Mary, isn’t
that what had landed them in the marriage thicket in the first place, their
inability to keep their hands off each other? So, it couldn’t be a maidenly
fear of intimacy that had her spooked.

If not, then what?

Bridal nerves, most like. A fear of the new and the unknown.
Perhaps ’twas cruel of him, his plan for their immediate future. Perhaps it was
wrong not to admit the full truth to her and put the worst of her worries at
ease.

But an instinct that ran bone deep told him to keep his secrets
and his silence. Told him he had but this one chance to curb her spoiled,
flighty ways and teach her there was more to life than prestige and
possessions. That simple things like happiness and love could be had, and once
found were worth fighting for, as he was fighting for them now.

He stopped twirling his spoon, laid it aside.

Enough of delays. He wanted her. Now. And if she wouldn’t come
eagerly to his bed herself, then he’d lead her there and make her glad he’d
coaxed her to agree.

Shoving his chair back, he stood.

She glanced upward, fork poised halfway between her lips and her
plate. She followed his movements with a questioning gaze as he ambled toward
her.

Circling around behind her chair, he stopped, running his gaze
over her hair. He’d asked her to leave it loose, but she’d only partially
complied. Her long, golden tresses were neatly brushed and tied with a length
of pink silk ribbon that was looped in a bow against her nape.

He tugged it loose, that bow, slipping the knot free. With a
gentle tug the ribbon came away in his hand. He tossed it already forgotten
onto the linen-draped table, then slid his fingers up and into her soft, shiny
hair.

Her fork clattered against her plate. “W-what are you doing?”

“What I’ve been wanting to do since nearly the first moment I saw
you. You’ve lovely hair, did you know? Thick and silky, the kind that tempts a
man to bury his face and breathe deep.”

He did just that, leaning down to catch the healthy scent of her
locks, clean and smelling faintly of apple blossoms. Gathering her hair
together again, he twined it around one wrist to expose the curve of her neck,
elegant, pale white and surprisingly vulnerable.

He skimmed the tip of one finger along its length and felt her
answering tremble. Then he kissed her, caressing the sensitive spot where her
neck met her shoulder.

Jeannette bit the edge of her lip and forced herself not to jump
beneath his touch. She’d been anxious all evening, simmering with worry and
nerves since earlier when she’d been dressing for dinner and Betsy had quite
casually remarked about needing to set out a white night rail for Jeannette’s
bridal bed.

A white gown to signify the innocence of the bride.

Only the bride wasn’t innocent, Jeannette thought with a mental
wince. Though she wasn’t what anyone would call experienced either. But the
number of times she’d made love—once to be exact—was immaterial, since there
would be no virgin’s blood spilled this night.