“Vitruvius, off.”
The creature tensed, having obviously heard the command. But it stayed long enough to get in one more good lick, while all she could do was whimper and roll her head in futile avoidance. Apparently knowing its time was up, the beast sprang away.
“Vitruvius. Bad dog. Very bad dog.”
Dog? More like monster, she grimaced, swiping her hand across her lips in disgust, her face alarmingly sticky with slobber. Ugh.
“He’s an ill-mannered brute. My apologies for his rudeness. Here now, are you all right?”
For a moment the only thing she saw above her was azure sky and lumbering white clouds. Then a face blocked them out as a man bent over her. She stared at his ruggedly appealing features, then lower, taking in his well-tailored though ordinary white cotton shirt, brown linen trousers and waistcoat, a navy blue silk neckerchief tied at his throat. How odd that he resembled that rogue Darragh O’Brien. How was it possible? Did all Irishmen look alike? Then the appalling truth struck her like a plunge into an icy winter lake.
He was Darragh O’Brien.
“You!” she accused.
“Lady Jeannette?” he questioned. “Is it really yourself, lass?”
“Yes, it’s me. And for the last time, don’t call me lass.”
He quirked a smile and reached down a hand. “Here, let me help you up.”
She slapped his hand away. “No, thank you.”
Ignoring him, she rolled to her knees, climbed rather shakily to her feet. She beat at her mangled skirts while his beast animal sat watching, huge tongue lolling sideways out of its toothy mouth.
“That…that creature,” she said, pointing at the dog, “is a menace. It should be kept in a cage.”
“Don’t take on so, lass. Why, he’s naught but a puppy, too full of high spirits and exuberance to expect too much out of him. He didn’t mean you any harm. Did you, boy-o?”
Gazing down at Vitruvius, Darragh gave the animal an affectionate scratch on the top of his head. The dog smiled up at his master and flopped his tail against the gravel path.
“Puppy?” she said. “That beast is not a puppy, more like a bear or a wolf. Why, he could have ripped out my throat.”
O’Brien snorted. “Not that one, no. He may be an Irish wolfhound, but he’s docile to the core, despite the fierce origins of his breed. He’s already done his worst to you, though I’ll be the first to admit that tongue of his makes a fair and formidable weapon.”
“Don’t forget his paws. He pushed me to the ground.”
A look of genuine regret passed over O’Brien’s face. “He did, and for that you’ve my sincere and honest apology. Did he hurt you, lass?”
Lass. There was that word again. Did he not realize how disrespectful he was being? That he had an obligation to address her properly with the deference due her rank? Or was it merely that he did not care? She rather suspected it was the latter, but what recourse did she have when the infuriating man simply refused to obey? He and his unmanageable dog quite obviously had a great deal in common.
As for her well-being, though she yearned to make a fuss and claim serious and lasting injury, she knew she could not justify it. Especially given the way she’d been able to climb almost immediately to her feet. Though she wouldn’t be the least surprised if she awoke on the morrow to find herself literally riddled with a kaleidoscope of bruises.
She pulled out her silk handkerchief, wiped her face and hands before returning it to her pocket. “I’m as well as can be expected under the circumstances but my gown is not. It is ruined. Look at it, covered with paw prints. Great big huge muddy paw prints.” She choked back a wail as the full realization hit her.
Oh, how could it be? Yet another of her favorite gowns destroyed and in the span of only a day’s time. The injustice was not to be countenanced. The blame indisputable, resting squarely at the feet of one man. She didn’t know what she’d done to merit such a series of calamitous misadventures at his hands.
She stared at him, forced to tilt her head back, way back, so she could meet his gaze. Gadzooks, he was tall. Until that moment she hadn’t realized precisely how tall. Nor how lanky, his lean build betraying none of the muscled strength he’d displayed yesterday while carrying her from the coach.
She remembered the sensation of being cradled in his embrace, a disturbing fluttery tingle rippling through her middle. Disturbed by the unwanted reaction, she went on the offensive. “And what exactly are you doing here, Mr. O’Brien—”
“About that,” he interrupted, reaching up to scratch the side of his firm jaw as if he was suddenly a mite uneasy. “You really haven’t the need to call me ‘mister.’ Just plain O’Brien will do, or Darragh, since I’ve never been one for the formalities. Though if you insist, I suppose you can call me by my ti—”
“Mr. O’Brien shall do well enough.” Encouraging intimacy between them, however innocently done, would not be proper. Nor would it be prudent, particularly considering the unwanted effect he had on her pulse. “So, why are you here? Have you business with my cousins? Or are you merely trespassing? You and that untrained hound of yours.”
She cast a look of rebuke at the dog for his shabby manners. Though to be fair, the fault didn’t really lay with the animal, but instead with his master for failing to control him.
For his part, Vitruvius was utterly unrepentant and unconcerned, his chin resting on one great paw, shaggy eyelids closed.
The dazzling blue of O’Brien’s eyes lit up. “Ah, so you’re the visiting relation, are you now?” He folded his arms over his chest. “I confess I’d been expecting an older woman, but I suppose you’ll do.”
The air rushed out of her lungs. “Suppose I’ll do! Why, you really are beyond the pale.”
He grinned. “Well now, as to that, we’re a ways from the Pale.” He jerked a thumb. “It’s back near Dublin, or at least it used to be a hundred years or more ago when you English felt the need for fortressed territory.”
She scowled at him, not liking the fact that she didn’t have the slightest notion to what he was referring. She would make a point to find out later, she decided, a definite point. “So, you still have not said what you and your dog are doing on this property.”
“Oh, that. I’m working for the Merriweathers, reconstructing that burned-down wing of theirs.”
She bit the corner of her lip, struck by an inexplicable sense of disappointment. She had known he was a commoner, but some part of her had been secretly hoping otherwise. With his statement, he had just dashed that hope.
“So, you’re a carpenter or some such,” she remarked.
“No, I’m an architect. The one designing the new renovation and making certain it gets properly built.”
The architect. Him? She hadn’t even known the Irish had trained architects. Well, trained or no, her cousins ought to have sent to England for a proper man. At least such a personage, even if lowborn, would have known how to defer to a lady instead of baiting and badgering her at every possible turn. And sadly, his being an architect didn’t make him a more suitable acquaintance for her.
Moments later, a fresh round of pounding rang out from the far side of the estate. She cringed. Hadn’t they finished yet for the day? Would that infernal racket never end?
Abruptly it dawned on her. O’Brien was the architect, which meant he was in charge of that hammering. It also meant he was equally capable of stopping it.
“Oh, so you are the reason I cannot get a full night’s rest,” she said.
A tiny hint of a grin moved over his lips before he smothered it. “Woke you up, did we? The masons are working stone and they like to start early.”
“They like to start barely after dawn. I am sorry, but it is most distressing and bad for my health. Since you are in charge, you can order them to begin later, starting tomorrow. Ten o’clock, shall we say?”
He looked shocked for a long instant, then tossed back his head and laughed. The sound erupted from his chest in a
deep booming rumble so loud it startled a pair of red squirrels out of a nearby tree. Away they scampered across the grassy green lawn like a pair of bright flashes, while O’Brien remained convulsed with hilarity. The dog, roused by the noise, leapt to his feet and sprinted after the squirrels, barking repeatedly in his excitement.
Jeannette crossed her arms and tapped a toe. “I see nothing humorous in my request.”
Chuckling harder again, O’Brien shook his head in a clear attempt to curtail his outburst, swiped a hand across the corner of one moist eye. “Ah, lass, you’re a grand wit, you are. If you weren’t a woman I’d invite you down to the pub of an evening and let you entertain us all.”
“I was in no way jesting. I need my sleep. Without it, I shall soon look quite haggard.”
“Ah, don’t fret now. Even tired, I’m certain sure you’d look as beautiful as a perfect sunrise.”
For a second, she warmed to his flattery. Then she realized he was trying to lure her away from the subject. Well, she thought, firming her shoulders, she would not be lured.
“Be that as it may,” she stated, “ten of the clock is all the earlier I can afford to disrupt my natural routine. It is a pattern of long duration and cannot easily be altered.”
He shook his head again, this time with a look of amazement. “Then you’ll have a rough time, since a workman’s day is best started early, when the temperature is cool and the sun isn’t out shining full measure to bake him half to death. Besides, I promised Merriweather I’d have his house set right before the first fall leaves are lying on the ground.”
“I’m sure my cousin would be willing to accept a reasonable delay.”
“Reasonable, aye. Extra weeks to let you have your beauty rest, I doubt. Anyway, the work’ll never be done if I give the crew near half the day to slumber away like some idle pasha or spoiled princess. If I did, the snow would be flying and the construction still not done.”
Spoiled princess? Beauty sleep? As an Irish provincial, he obviously had no notion of the needs of a lady. No gentleman would ever be so cruel.
“Added to that,” he continued, “this matter should be decided by your cousins. And excepting the morning just past, they’ve said nothing to me about changing the schedule.”
“My cousin Wilda plans to do so,” she said, stretching what she hoped would soon become the truth. “I’ve already spoken with her on the subject and she agrees.”
“Agreed to ten, did she?” he said, shooting her a patently skeptical look.
Jeannette bristled under his gaze but stood her ground. Her chin came up, her voice steady despite her lie. “That is correct.”
“Then you won’t be minding if I nip into the house just now and have a word with your lady cousin?”
Their gazes locked, his own far too knowing, far too smug. Devil take it, she cursed inwardly. He’d seen through her bluff.
If there was one thing she hated, it was losing.
She held his knowing gaze for another long moment before hissing out a frustrated breath. Brushing past him, she strode toward the house.
She was halfway up the path when she noticed a rush of movement out of the corner of her eye. O’Brien’s dog was racing toward her, its dish-sized paws even muddier than before. Hurrying faster, she prayed she could elude the creature but it caught up, trotting around her in an exuberant circle. Tail wagging, the animal rubbed his enormous body against her skirts, leaving enough hair behind to knit a coat.
Oh, dear Lord, what next!
Suddenly a whistle split the air. The dog froze, then turned.
“Vitruvius, come,” O’Brien commanded in a stern tone.
The animal hesitated, clearly torn between his desire to accost her further and his need to obey. To her relief, the dog loped away.
Without another word, she headed once more for the house.
“ ’Twas a delight meeting you again, Lady Jeannette,” O’Brien called in a carrying voice. “Perhaps I’ll be having the pleasure of it again early one bright and sunny morning.”
And perhaps the sky would turn green and the grass blue, she thought as she hurried into the house.
Darragh grinned, wincing as he listened to the terrace door slam shut at her back.
So the Little Rosebush was the Merriweathers’ cousin come to stay for a while. He’d heard tell of her, together with the rumors. He didn’t know all the particulars, but some whispered she’d been sent abroad after a dreadful scandal. Having met her, he could well believe it. Jeannette Brantford was the kind who likely kicked up trouble just by walking down the street.
Aye, she was a minx. Wild and willful. Whatever man decided to take her on, he’d have a devil of a time taming her. He’d have to be careful not to use too heavy a hand, gentling her to his touch and his will without breaking that proud, beautiful spirit of hers.
But it was safe to say Darragh wouldn’t be that man, especially since he had no interest right now in taking a bride. Still, where would be the harm if he indulged in an occasional bit of teasing and flirting? It was just too much fun to be denied, watching her become more ruffled up than a hen caught out in a rainstorm.
He reached down, caught Vitruvius’s jaw in his hand, angling the dog’s face toward his own. “You’re a naughty one, boy-o, and don’t you forget it. ’Twas dead wrong of you to tumble her into the flower bed, though we’re both guilty of enjoying the result. She’s a pretty pair of ankles, I’ll grant, but you’ll need to mind your manners next time. I suppose I’ll have to make amends as well. Hmm, I’ll need to think on what will serve best.”
He patted his hip, started back toward the work site. “Come on for now, lad. There’s work yet to be finished today.”
Chapter Four
By the end of a fortnight, Jeannette found she’d grown almost used to the incessant racket that echoed through the house from early morning to late afternoon each day.
Only on Sunday did silence whisper in like a refreshing breeze. The Lord’s day one of true, blessed relief.
But almost didn’t mean she liked the disturbance, not one jot. Nor did it mean she’d given up the effort to find a way to make the infernal noise cease. Or at least delay its start until a more civilized hour of the morning. Try as she might, though, she hadn’t been able to come up with a means of achieving her ends.
And heavens above, she had tried.
She’d gone to Wilda first, bringing up the topic of O’Brien and his noisy minions over breakfast the morning following her alarming encounter with him and his rambunctious dog.
She had hoped for a sympathetic ear. After all, Wilda was a lady despite her lamentably dowdy appearance. Surely as a woman she would understand another woman’s need for proper rest. And Jeannette could not get proper rest when she was roused to wakefulness at such a ghastly hour of the day. Only birds and mice and scullery maids bestirred themselves when dawn had barely broken across the horizon. Birds, mice, scullery maids and building crews, she amended.
The foul beasts hadn’t even had the decency to wait until seven-thirty that morning, beginning work a full hour earlier, no doubt at the urging of O’Brien himself.
When she mentioned the problem to Wilda, reminding her cousin of her promise to speak with the architect-in-charge and request he begin work at a reasonable hour, her cousin informed her she had already done so.
“Oh, yes,” Wilda confirmed. “I explained the problem and he was most sympathetic.”
For a brief instant, hope rose inside Jeannette’s breast. Just as quickly, it winked out as she remembered the exact hour at which she had been awakened.
“Was he indeed?” she ventured. “Then why did he and his men commence their labors at six-thirty this morning?”
Wilda gave her a look of helpless dismay. “Well, they must, dear. He explained how essential it is for the men to begin early. How even an hour or two a day will compromise their schedule. I am ever so sorry, but what can be done?” Then, like the helpless coward she so obviously was, Wi
lda tossed up her hands in defeat.
Jeannette next sought out her cousin Cuthbert in his temporary laboratory. As a man, she assumed he would be more easily able to state his demands and see to it O’Brien followed them.
Yet in spite of the plate of delectable breakfast foods she’d brought as a kind of culinary bribe—which he’d gobbled down like a starving orphan—Bertie had remained unmoved by her plight.
“Well now, can’t interfere,” her cousin said. “No, no, frightfully tired of being forced to conduct my experiments inside this storage cupboard. O’Brien’s building me a specially designed laboratory, don’t you know. Detached, with its own lightproof room and vapor chamber. Then there’s to be a new orangerie. Oh, I can already see the Dendrobium aggregatum and the Paphiopedilum faireanum on display. The orchids came to me through an explorer chappie I know, all the way from India. Magnificent specimens, those plants.”
He clapped his hands together. “And the new west wing, splendid, splendid design. O’Brien is brilliant, using quite the most up-to-date, innovative techniques and styles possible. Even Wilda can’t wait for the renovations to be complete, since we’re adding a new card parlor for her. She does love her cards, don’t you know.”
And with that, Jeannette found herself summarily ejected from the dark storage cupboard, where she’d spent ten minutes holding the oddest—and as it turned out, most useless—conversation of her life.
But the lack of success with her cousins in no way dampened Jeannette’s determination. By rights she should resent them for refusing to aid her in her battle. But they were old and plainly incapable of dealing with that overbearing man, that O’Brien who had them under his big, calloused thumb, right where he wanted them to be.
But he didn’t have her.
Somehow she would find a way to curtail his crew’s early-morning noisemaking. She need only wait until inspiration struck and then she would have her solution.
But now, almost two weeks later, a satisfactory resolution had still not presented itself, nor had she found any easy means of relieving the tedious monotony of her days.
The Wife Trap Page 5