The Wife Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “But we are not young and exciting, are we?”

  Jeannette stared, not knowing how to reply without worsening matters.

  Wilda unbent and patted her hand. “I understand, dear. Don’t trouble yourself over it. Now, please make me known to your friends, if you would.”

  “Of course, and they are not friends, they are family.”

  Relieved to have been so easily forgiven, she led Wilda forward and began the introductions. The others offered a warm round of greetings, quickly setting the older woman at her ease.

  “Pardon me for not being here earlier to welcome you,” Wilda said, fingers plucking at the folds of her skirts. “We weren’t expecting anyone to arrive for a few hours more.”

  “Do not worry yourself, madam,” Adrian said. “The fault is entirely ours for not giving you better notice of our arrival. Come now, as Jeannette said, we are all family. There is no need to stand upon strict formality.”

  Wilda visibly relaxed, a wide smile tilting her lips. “No indeed, your Grace.”

  “Adrian, please. Or Raeburn, if you would prefer.”

  “Thank you, your Gr—I mean Adrian.” She gave an amazingly girlish titter, briefly covering her mouth with a hand. “And you must call me Wilda.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Wilda paused and cast an animated gaze over the group, as if a wonderful thought had just occurred to her. “Do any of you by chance care for whist?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “La, what fun.” Jeannette dropped down into a chair next to her sister and Eliza. “Thank heavens for the interval between sets or I fear my feet might fall off from all the dancing.”

  She opened her fan to cool her warm cheeks. White, the fan had been chosen especially to match her ball gown of equally white watered silk with an overdress of beaded tiffany and blond Bruges lace. White silk slippers, long white gloves and a strand of simple, yet elegant pearls completed her ensemble.

  “The evening is progressing splendidly, do you not agree?” she commented.

  “Very splendidly. You have outdone yourself as usual,” Violet said, raising a glass of punch to her lips.

  Jeannette smiled, gratified by the compliment. She was gratified as well to see her sister dressed in another modish gown tonight, an utterly glorious confection of sapphire-shot silk with lines that complemented Violet’s ripened figure in a very tasteful way.

  Apparently exchanging places with each other for a few months last year had left behind some beneficial results, such as a much improved sense of style on her twin’s part. For years she had harangued Violet to take a more active interest in her wardrobe. The needs of their deception, and a continued desire to be an asset to her husband, must have finally convinced Violet to mend her unfashionable ways.

  Now, if only her sister could work the same miracle upon her friend Eliza. The young woman looked like an utter drab in her gown of filemot-coloured taffeta. And if the shade weren’t gruesome enough, the six-inch flounce around the hem turned the dress into an utter fright. Perhaps Miss Hammond’s mantua-maker was blind, Jeannette mused. What other excuse could there be for such unapologetic ugliness?

  No surprise that the men were staying well away. So far Adrian and Kit were the only gentlemen to take pity upon Eliza, offering a single duty dance each at the beginning of the evening. Their visible attentions had not been enough, however, to persuade the other men to follow suit. Not even the provincials, it seems, would stand up with timid, unfashionable Eliza Hammond.

  At least Miss Hammond had Violet. Society being what it was, most people would have dropped the girl by now, but Violet had never allowed others to dictate her choice of companion. Violet’s decision might not be the wisest one, but Jeannette could not condemn her sister’s loyalty. Violet was a most excellent and steadfast friend—kind-hearted, thoughtful and generous to a fault.

  Jeannette’s gaze lowered to the visible evidence of her twin’s pregnancy. What a fine mother she was going to make, Jeannette thought. Violet’s children, whether they be boys or girls, would be very lucky indeed.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  Violet raised a brow, as if mildly surprised but pleased by the inquiry. Resting a palm over her belly, her lips curved in a placid smile. “Perfectly well, all in all. The babies apparently realize something special is occurring this evening and are on their best behavior—only a single set of kicks thus far. I must confess I am no longer much used to late nights, though. At Winterlea I would be slipping into bed about now. But thankfully the nap I took after our nuncheon has proved very refreshing. So long as I can make it until supper, I should be fine. At midnight, you say?”

  Jeannette nodded. “Among other things, we’re serving lobster patties and prawns.”

  “Oh, I adore prawns,” Eliza murmured from her seat on the opposite side of Violet. As if only then realizing she’d spoken aloud, she cast her eyes toward the floor.

  Jeannette waited a second to make sure Eliza had nothing further to add, then changed the subject. “So, when do we return to London? I suppose tomorrow would be too soon.”

  “Rather,” Violet said in a mildly ironic tone. “We ought to remain a few days at least. And I, for one, would like to become better acquainted with our cousins, dears that they are. I should also like to visit a few of the local sites while I am here. I understand there are some very fine Cistercian ruins at Jerpoint Abbey only a few miles distant. And then there is the Browne’s Hill Dolmen not far in the other direction.” She clasped her hands, warming to her subject. “Though we didn’t have time to dawdle, it was intriguing to land in Waterford, where Strongbow, the first Norman king of Ireland, led his men ashore and conquered the country in 1169.” She tapped a gloved finger against her lower lip. “Or was it 1170?”

  “Seventy, I believe,” Eliza piped up. “I distinctly remember reading about it in the guidebook. Though to be exact, I believe, his men came ashore at Bannow Bay.”

  While Violet and Eliza continued to debate the finer points of Irish history, Jeannette’s thoughts winged unexpectedly to O’Brien. What would he make of it, had he been privy to the discussion? One thing of which she felt certain, he wouldn’t be speaking of the invasion and conquest of Ireland with impartial detachment, regardless of the fact that the events had transpired over six hundred years ago.

  “Wherever or whenever the Normans came ashore,” Jeannette said, “I don’t imagine the native Irish had much liking for it.”

  Violet and Eliza stopping talking, turned their heads to stare.

  Jeannette stared back, nearly as surprised as they by the challenging remark that had slid so glibly off her tongue. Never before in her life had she uttered so patently philosophical a thought—at least not aloud and certainly never in public. Obviously, living in Ireland and associating with Irishmen, such as O’Brien, was having an alarming effect upon her. In London, she would not have bothered to listen to such talk, let alone taken the time or trouble to comment upon it.

  A good thing she would soon be leaving for home.

  A little V formed over the bridge of Violet’s nose as she responded to Jeannette’s remark. “No, I suspect you are entirely correct, particularly given the brutality I understand was used to capture the city and surrounding territories. To solidify his power, Strongbow subsequently married the daughter of one of the old Irish kings. But he remained with her and their offspring in the country afterward, even learning the Gaelic language. So one can’t claim he reviled the natives. Not like later men, such as Oliver Cromwell.”

  Knowing she’d expressed far too much interest already, Jeannette hurried to reestablish her trademark air of disinterest. It wouldn’t do for anyone, not even her sister, to suspect she was turning intellectual. “Enough, I beg you, or my poor brain may suffer a seizure. I suppose you can’t help it, though, used as you are to regaling Raeburn with such talk while you are dragging him around from one moldy old place to another.”

  “Adrian enjoys such conv
ersations and visiting ruins and other historical sites. He’s a man of very diverse interests. In fact, he’s off in Cousin Cuthbert’s study right now, enjoying a lecture on exotic flora given by several members of the Royal Horticultural Society. He has hopes of convincing our cousin to give him a few cuttings to take back for propagation in our conservatory at home.”

  “And why aren’t you in there listening? Such tedium sounds exactly the sort of thing you’d enjoy,” Jeannette teased.

  “I would have joined them, but apparently the lecture is for gentlemen only. I considered protesting, until I discovered they are smoking cigars, and smoke these days quite literally turns my stomach.” Violet rubbed a hand over her rounded middle as if fighting queasiness at the thought. “Adrian is listening for me.”

  “How considerate of him.” How dull, Jeannette thought.

  “Cousin Wilda invited Eliza and me to play cards in her new card room, but I declined, fearing I wouldn’t be able to sit close enough to the table to play.” Violet gave a self-deprecating grin. “Not with this belly of mine. I was trying to convince Eliza to go and join the game only moments before you came off the dance floor.”

  “Oh, but I cannot leave you alone,” Eliza protested. “You cannot dance and it would not be right to desert you.”

  “You wouldn’t be deserting me,” Violet said. “Honestly, I will be fine here in my chair, enjoying the music, watching the dancers.”

  “Raeburn would surely not approve of my abandoning you…”

  Jeannette surveyed the room, listening with half an ear as her sister and Eliza continued to thrash out the issue. Guests congregated in groups of varying size around the attractively appointed room, chatting and gossiping and flirting while they sipped champagne from elegant crystal flutes or punch from delicate china cups. Others strolled at a leisurely pace around the periphery, a few taking advantage of an unlocked door to disappear into the gardens beyond despite the chilly air. If she wasn’t mistaken, she had seen Kit Winter do that very thing not too many minutes past, a lithesome young redhead giggling on his arm.

  A movement near the ballroom’s large double doors caught her attention, her gaze drawn to a new figure standing in the entrance.

  Dark and tall, he surveyed the room with a commanding gaze, his broad shoulders square beneath his exceptionally well-cut coat. He wore breeches of black superfine, a pure white shirt and an equally snowy Marcella waistcoat. His crisp linen cravat, also white, was tied around his neck in a fashionably precise Mathematical that would have satisfied even London Society’s highest sticklers of style. White stockings molded a pair of attractively firm masculine calves, black dress pumps graced his feet.

  Who is this now? she wondered, unable to place such a gentleman on the guest list. Obviously the man was late arriving, since he had not been introduced at the start of the evening as part of the receiving line. Might he be one of her cousin’s colleagues visiting from London? But no, all those gentleman had arrived earlier, and surely no man of science would ever present a figure of such sartorial splendor.

  So who was he?

  Her breath caught in her throat, pulse quickening with interest as he strode into the room. He turned his head and she stopped breathing altogether, noting the unusual, vibrant colour of his eyes.

  Deep gentian blue. A shade she’d encountered only once before. A shade that belonged to one very specific, very Irish man.

  Blood drained from her head then flooded back in a dizzying rush, making her glad for the support of the chair beneath her. Her thoughts scattered like so much dandelion fluff as the full weight of the truth settled upon her.

  No, she denied, that gentleman could not be Darragh O’Brien.

  Yet with every step that led him deeper into the ballroom, she became more certain that it was O’Brien, from the crown of his neatly brushed chestnut hair to the soles of his expensive shoes.

  And where, she wanted to know, had he come by those shoes? Not to mention the clothing? To any casual observer he looked the part of a gentleman. Only, she knew better.

  Her lips tightened. She had not seen him in weeks, had not exchanged so much as a word with the man in longer than that, yet here he stood, barging uninvited into her cousins’ party. Her party, if truth be told; a fact of which he was very likely aware.

  What was he doing here? And why? All her confusion and hurt over the way he had so thoroughly dismissed and ignored her returned with a vengeance.

  “Well, whatever it is he wants, he can just do without,” she muttered.

  “Who can do without?” her twin inquired. “Of whom are you speaking?”

  “What?” Jeannette blinked, found both Violet and Eliza watching her with curious interest. “No one, nothing, I…it is of no import.” She raked her mind for an excuse. “I…um…only just remembered there is a matter I must check on before supper. With the dancing to resume shortly, I’d best not tarry.”

  That said, she leapt to her feet. With Darragh O’Brien firmly in her sights, she plowed forward like a mighty ship through deep seas. Her hope was to reach him before he made contact with any of the other guests. But seconds later she saw her hopes dashed as he engaged a couple in conversation. The Gordons, if she was not mistaken, cousins to Viscount Gordon himself. She increased her speed, determined to separate him from such illustrious personages before he did any irreparable damage.

  Forcing her step to slow as she converged upon them, she barely restrained the unladylike urge to lock a hand around O’Brien’s arm and physically yank him aside. She affixed a pleasant smile to her lips instead and murmured a greeting.

  O’Brien turned, executed a precise bow. He met her gaze, eyes twinkling despite the polite expression on his handsome, clean-shaven face.

  “How are you enjoying the evening thus far?” she asked the Gordons. “I couldn’t help but notice what a striking couple you made earlier out on the dance floor.”

  “Thank you, Lady Jeannette,” Mr. Gordon said. “We are indeed having a most excellent time. Mrs. Gordon and I always enjoy an opportunity to dance and make merry, especially when the musicians are as talented as those playing tonight.”

  Jeannette inclined her head. “They came all the way from Dublin…”

  They spoke of music for a full two minutes before moving on to the weather, which of late had been turning brisk at night. Mrs. Gordon offered a story about one of her sons getting caught out in the rain and catching a terrible head cold, a tale Jeannette soon despaired might never come to an end.

  Over the course of the conversation, O’Brien said little, offering only the occasional comment as he listened with apparent interest.

  Finally, politeness dictated the four of them separate to mingle with others. Jeannette curtseyed then seized the opportunity to maneuver O’Brien aside on the pretext of having him accompany her to the refreshment table for a glass of punch.

  “Mr. O’Brien, whatever brings you here this evening?” she asked the instant they were out of earshot. She steeled herself against the dark, delicious scent of him that lightly teased her senses. Not cologne, she realized, but man.

  All man.

  Aware of her unwanted response, her discontent peaked higher.

  “The festivities, of course.” He nodded toward the ballroom full of guests. “You’ve put together a lively entertainment.”

  “Thank you. Though I must admit to a certain puzzlement at your attendance. Perhaps you are not aware, but this ball is for invited guests only.”

  One corner of his mouth curved upward. “So it is, but who says I wasn’t invited?”

  “I do, since I prepared the guest list myself. I know every name, and yours was not one of them.”

  “Obviously an oversight. Your cousin asked me a few days past. Did Merriweather say nothing of it to you?”

  She frowned and refrained from rolling her eyes. Leave it to Cousin Cuthbert to go around handing out impromptu invitations—and to his architect, no less.

  “Yes, he di
d forget to mention it. And I must say I am surprised to see you here, since it was my understanding you had already departed, what with your work now complete.”

  “I was ready to travel home but changed my mind. After all, how could I leave without saying good-bye to you?”

  His comment struck a nerve. “Quite easily, I should think, since you and I have had nothing to say to each other for months now.”

  There, she thought, that should set him on his ear.

  His eyes gleamed, blue as gemstones. “Missed me, have you?”

  Her heart jolted. “No, not a bit,” she denied hastily. “Why, I have been so busy, I scarcely took notice of your absence.”

  “Ah.” He grinned.

  She didn’t care for his grin, gorgeous as it might be. Nor for his cryptic exhalation.

  “Just so,” she continued. “Preparations for tonight’s ball have kept me occupied from dawn to dusk, so I have scarce had time for aught else, not even my painting.”

  “ ’Tis a shame to hear you’ve been neglecting your artwork.”

  She paused, wondering if he might finally mention her last infamous bit of artwork—her depiction of him as the devil. But other than a twinkle in his beautiful eyes, he said nothing further.

  The devil.

  “Yes, well,” she said, absently watching the line of couples as they danced to the music. “Now that you’ve seen the ball, you’ll probably want to be going.”

  “Going? But I only just arrived.”

  “Exactly. I am sure you’ll be bored in no time at all.”

  “I find that unlikely, not with this crowd.”

  “But that is precisely the reason. Let us be honest, Mr. O’Brien, and admit this isn’t exactly your usual sort of event.”