TheWifeTrap (33 page)

He sighed. “We need to discuss this, whether now or later. But,
for present, I’ll wait.”

She remained silent, refusing to turn until she finally heard him
leave. Head lowered, she wiped a single tear from her cheek.

Darragh gave her a week. Enough time, he hoped, for her anger to
cool, her hurt to ease sufficiently for her to agree to sit still long enough
to hear him out.

Mercy, but she could freeze a man out better than a raw north
wind, leaving him stunned and shivering, wondering if he’d ever be invited into
the warmth again.

To everyone else in the house, Jeannette was smiling and pleasant.
Even Mary Margaret, who came for a visit with every intention of disliking her
brother’s English wife, soon warmed to Jeannette’s graceful charm and inviting
manner. And artistic Hoyt, who lived for his stories and his poetry, hadn’t
stood a chance, instantly mesmerized by her beauty, despite his obvious and
enduring love for his own dear wife.

Given the parameters of their past association, Darragh’d never
really seen Jeannette work a drawing room before. But after less than an hour
he understood why she had been crowned the belle of London Society for two
years in a row.

She poured tea, handed out sandwiches, conversed and entertained,
making each person in the room feel as though they were her especial friend. A
radiant sun bestowing brilliant light upon all within her orbit.

All, that is, but him. Him she ignored the way she would a
pox-ridden beggar, though he had to give her points for concealing her
displeasure with him when they were together with his family.

Still, some of the strain must have shown. Especially to Michael,
who cast him periodic sympathetic glances interlaced with I-told-you-so shakes
of his head. Darragh ground his teeth and did his best to be patient and give
Jeannette time. Time to settle into her new home, time and enough distance to
realize that perhaps what he’d done back at the cottage hadn’t been so very
bad, after all.

It wasn’t as if he’d intended to keep her in ignorance forever,
which he would already have explained if only she would unbend enough to
listen. But as he had come to learn, when Jeannette felt wronged, she was about
as unbending as a length of hard-forged steel.

Which left him at a crossroads. Either he could allow the rift
between them to stand and possibly grow wider, or take decisive action to end
it. So tonight, whether Jeannette liked it or not, they were going to have it
out. And afterward, she was going to let him into her bed again.

After weeks of steady, satisfying, fabulous sex, doing without was
proving a torture. A torture frequent cold baths weren’t doing much to relieve.

Darragh held his council through supper, gritting his teeth as
Jeannette chatted gamely with his family—everyone, that is, but him. Michael
remained the longest at table, finishing his conversation with Jeannette while
he nursed a glass of port.

After a time, he caught Darragh’s stare and took the hint.

“Ah, well,” Michael said, “if you’ll forgive me, I think I’ll
follow the others and turn in for the evening. I’ve a…new…um…veterinary journal
to review.”

“Oh.” Jeannette set down her teacup. “Well, in that case, I
suppose I shall do the same. Pray enjoy your reading, and sleep soundly.”

Michael stood, bowed. “And you as well. Good night, Jeannette.
Darragh.”

Darragh came around to help her with her chair. She stiffened and
climbed to her feet. Behind her, Darragh nodded to Michael, who mouthed the
words
good luck
before Darragh followed his wife from the room.

He trailed after her, as she went up the stairs, following close
on her heels so she wouldn’t have an opportunity to get too far ahead. She did
a fine job ignoring him until she reached the landing that would take her up to
her suite of rooms.

When he made to follow, she turned. “Pardon me, but where do you
think you are going?”

“Upstairs with you.”

She shook her head. “Your rooms are just down the corridor, my
lord. I suggest you find them.”

Her formality irked him, exactly as it had every day since they
had arrived at Caisleán Muir. Her new penchant for calling him “my lord” ’twas
another thing he planned to put an end to tonight. By tomorrow morning,
Darragh
would be soughing from her lips once more, assuming all went as planned.

“This trouble between us has continued long enough,” he said. “We
need to talk, and this time you’re going to listen. I thought you’d be more
comfortable doing so in your quarters, where we won’t run the risk of an
audience.”

“We will talk later. I am tired and wish to retire.”

Knowing what she really meant was “I don’t wish to talk to you
tonight or ever,” Darragh reached out and caught her arm before she could turn
away. “We’ll talk now.”

Defiantly, Jeannette met his gaze. The force of his resolve rolled
over her along with the strong, sensual magnetism of his appeal. She could
smell the heat of him, the raw impatience that simmered just beneath his skin.
Despite their rift, she knew all it would take was a single intimate touch for
both of them to go up in flames. But she had done without him and the pleasure
she knew his touch could bring all these many days, and she could do without
him for that many more.

She held her ground. “Let me go, my Lord Mulholland.”

His jaw tightened together with his grip. “You can’t freeze me out
forever, Jeannette.”

“Maybe not, but I can certainly try.” She yanked her arm from his
grasp. “Good night, my lord.”

“You can tell me that again
after
we’ve talked. Please,”
he invited, motioning toward the staircase, “ladies first.”

Irritation sparked inside her. “You are
not
coming with
me.”

“I am your husband and this is my house. I’ll go anywhere I
please.”

Standing toe to toe with him, she became aware of her chest rising
and falling fast beneath her bodice, the tops of her breasts quivering with
fury and a passion she cursed herself for feeling. His eyes lowered, gaze
lingering on her trembling flesh. Inside that gaze, she recognized a ravenous
hunger, a blue flame that burned both hot and wild.

Knowing she dare not tempt fate an instant longer, unless she
cared to be ravished right there on the stairs, she gathered up her skirts and
ran.

Darragh paused for an instant like a predator scenting game,
enjoying the sight of her pretty ankles flashing as she raced up the stairs.

Letting loose an impassioned growl, he gave chase.

He caught up to her on the top floor, capturing her elbow to bring
her to a halt. Whirling, she struggled against him and raised a hand to strike.
But he captured her wrist in his fingers before she could make contact.

“Now, now, haven’t I already told you there’ll be none of that,”
he scolded. “Seems you haven’t yet learned your lesson.”

“Bastard.” She twisted, trying to wrench herself free.

He secured an arm around her waist to keep her from doing him any
harm. “If I set you loose, will you come along nicely to your room?”

In answer, she kicked his shin.

He sucked in a painful breath. “As you like, darling. We’ll do it
your way.” Bending at the knees, he hoisted her up and over his shoulder.

She screamed, beating a fist against his back as she dangled
head-first toward the floor. When she hit him near a kidney, he smacked her
bottom through the padding of her petticoats and skirt.

Her lady’s maid was waiting wide-eyed and speechless as he
sauntered through the door, her mistress draped like a hunting prize over his
shoulder. “Good evening to you, Betsy,” he greeted.

“G-good evening, my lord. M-my lady.”

“Her ladyship won’t be needing you tonight. I’ll see to her needs
myself.”

“He’ll do no such thing. Send for one of the footmen,” Jeannette
ordered, her voice half muffled against his shirt. “Send for Michael or Finn,
anyone you can think of strong enough to make this barbarian unhand me.”

“We’re just having a bit of a spat, Betsy, nothing serious, mind
you. She’s as safe as a babe in my arms. Go on with you now.”

The maid hesitated in a long moment of obvious indecision, then
bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried from the room.

As soon as the door closed, Jeannette gave him a fresh punch,
which drove an extra breath from his lungs.

“How dare you intimidate my maid,” she said. “Now let me down.”

“I guess I’d better or else I’ll end up maimed,” he said, his back
smarting from where she’d planted her last blow.

Crossing to the bed, he flopped her onto the mattress, where she
bounced twice. He stepped quickly out of reach as she righted herself, coming
up furious as a wet cat.

“Get out!”
she spat.

“Not after I only just got in. Besides, we haven’t had our talk.”

Eyes ablaze, she scooted off the bed and strode past him. Reaching
her dressing table, she dropped down onto the padded seat. “You want to talk?
Then, fine, talk. But make it quick, because I want to go to bed.”

The corners of his lips curved up. “You can go to bed anytime you
like, lass. I’ll even help you disrobe.”

“Keep your hands to your yourself, jackanapes.”

“That’s a fine one. Don’t think you’ve called me that before.”

“I’ll call you that and far worse if you do not leave. Get out,
O’Brien.”

His eyebrows arched. “Back to
O’Brien,
are we? Seeing how
you’re such a stickler for social niceties,
Mulholland
would be more
accurate.”

She shot him a killing look. “Do not remind me,
my lord.
”

In quick, short tugs, she began yanking the pins from her hair,
flinging them down, where they made tiny pinging noises on the polished,
inlayed surface of her dressing table. Coiffure loosened, her hair swam in a
golden cloud around her shoulders and down her back.

One glance and desire settled low and heavy in his loins. Her
scent, lilac and apple blossoms, now clung to his shoulder where he’d carried
her, all but driving him mad.

She reached for her brush.

On silent feet, he crossed to her. Without thinking, he bent,
pressed his lips to a spot on her neck where he knew she loved to be touched.
She whapped him with the brush.

He drew back.
“Ow!”
His eyes met hers in the dressing
table mirror.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” she said.

“Aye, I do,” he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. “But I’d like to
do the other as well.”

“You can forget about
the other,
not after what you’ve
done.”

“And what is it I’ve done that’s so very terrible, lass, except
bruise your pride a bit?”

“Is that what you think? That I’m upset because my pride is
wounded?”

“Aren’t you? You said yourself you felt humiliated having to do
the cooking and a bit of light housekeeping. But you didn’t feel that way while
you were doing it, did you?”

“I would have, had I known how I was being used.”

“You weren’t being used. You were just being my wife.”

“Your wife is a countess, not a maid. You lied to me, Darragh. You
tricked me in the worst possible manner.”

“And you’ve never tricked anyone?”

A flush spread over her skin, his accusation hitting its mark. She
turned again toward the mirror.

He continued. “I know I deceived you about who I am, and about the
cottage as well. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I thought we needed
time together, time alone without all the trappings that come with being the
Earl and Countess of Mulholland, including my family and this castle and an
army of servants watching us around every corner.”

“So why didn’t you just tell me that? Why set up some elaborate
charade and dupe me into believing you are someone you aren’t.”

“I’ve never lied to you about who I am. The title perhaps; the man,
never. In all the ways that matter, I have always been honest about who I am.”

“And so have I. I am a lady. A woman who has been raised with
certain expectations about how her life should be lived. A life that, for right
or wrong, does not include performing menial labor. You’re right, you did wound
my pride. In fact, you stripped it from me, deliberately debased me. Why is
what I still fail to understand.”

“I didn’t debase you. I taught you a lesson and a well-needed one
at that.”

Her mouth dropped open, anger returning. “You are a bastard.”

“And you’re spoiled and self-indulgent. At least you used to be.
Before our time together in the cottage, I doubt you ever stopped to think
about anyone but yourself, except upon occasion your friends and your family,
but even then only when it suited your own needs.”

She jumped up from her dressing table and pointed toward the door.
“I have heard enough. Leave now.”

He crossed his arms. “I’ll leave when I’m ready. From the very
first, you made it plain I wasn’t good enough for you. You, the refined English
beauty. Me, the lowly Irish architect, who might be all right for a stolen kiss
or two, but who would never be worthy of your genuine respect and regard.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it? Didn’t you, just hours before you nearly gave yourself
to me at the ball, tell me I ought to leave because I wouldn’t ‘fit in’? That
those people were not part of ‘my crowd’?”

“That isn’t fair. How was I to know you were a gentleman?” she
defended.

“Why should you have to know? We’d met. We’d conversed. We’d
argued. I once even slept next to you on a lawn blanket, as I recall. Over many
weeks, you’d had plenty of opportunity to take stock of the sort of man I am.
Why should everything about me change simply because I possess, or do not
possess, a title?”

Her brow furrowed, glancing downward as she hugged her arms around
herself.