Something hard flickered through his gaze. “A fancy ball, are you meaning, lass?” he said, his brogue growing audibly thicker. “Your dance isn’t a ceili, I’m after admitting, but it’ll do for now.”
“What is a ceili?” she said, unable to keep herself from asking.
“A fine Irish shindig with drink and dance and all the trimmings. Like this but more boisterous. That said, you can’t claim I’m not dressed for your fancy doings tonight.”
She swept a glance over his unmistakably elegant attire. “Hmm, where did you happen by those clothes?”
“Got them from a tailor, the last time I was in London.”
“You were in London?”
“Aye. We architects kick the ol’ sod off our feet every now and again. I’ve traveled to many of the best cities in the world.”
“Really? Which ones?” she questioned, her attention caught.
“Paris, for one, not long after Bonaparte took his second beating at Waterloo. Then there was Brussels and Vienna and Geneva, to mention a few more.”
“What of Rome? Have you been to Rome?”
“Aye, I’ve been there a time or two. What of you? Where have you been?”
“Italy. I traveled quite extensively through the country with my great-aunt last year. We took in Rome’s sights before moving on to Venice, Florence and Naples.”
“What about Greece? ’Tis a grand country. You haven’t completely lived, in my opinion, until you’ve seen the Parthenon at sunset. Or stood at the foot of the Acropolis while the afternoon heat ripples around you, the air so hot you can actually see it move. Then there’s the ouzo and the olives. A fine delight, sipping a glass and eating at your leisure while you relax beneath an outcropping of shade.”
For a brief instant, Jeannette’s imagination took flight and she was there, basking in the heat, the briny tang of olives sharp against her tongue. O’Brien was there too, teasing her to indulge in a taste of the clear, potent brew she’d heard tell rushed straight and dizzying to a person’s head.
Her gaze collided with his, a tingle of awareness streaking down her spine as if he had skimmed a finger over her flesh. Suddenly, she stiffened, returning to herself and her surroundings. She would not be drawn in by him, she thought, not again.
“No,” she said, “I have not been to Greece nor the other places you mentioned.”
He smiled teasingly. “Well, I won’t hold it against you, lass. And you needn’t worry I’ll be bored this evening. I have a knack for fitting in wherever I may roam. Fact is…” His words trailed off as he stared across the room. “Did you know there’s a woman across the way who looks precisely like you? Assuming you were to put on a pair of spectacles and find yourself in the family way, that is.”
She flicked a glance across the ballroom to Violet. “Of course. That lady is my twin sister.”
“Your twin? Saints be praised. God truly does work in mysterious ways to make two such magnificent creations as the pair of you.”
He showed his teeth in a heart-stopping smile, the force of his magnetism enveloping her like a warm pair of arms. For a moment, she felt herself respond and lean into the invisible embrace.
Abruptly, she shook herself free. This will not do, she thought. No, this will not do at all. She was supposed to be annoyed with him, not on the verge of melting from a simple turn of phrase and a smile.
There was only one solution.
Darragh O’Brien must leave.
“My sister is a duchess.”
“Is she, now?”
“Which should be explanation enough for why you would be more comfortable in other company. Surely you must see that you and the other guests here tonight move in different circles.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Do they, now?”
She shifted, discomfited by the amused derision that flared in his gaze. Dismissing it, she plunged onward.
“I am only trying to be honest. Cousin Cuthbert means well but he ought not to have invited you tonight. The people here are of good Society, even if most are little more than country Society.”
The light in his eyes froze over, cold as an icy pond. “Don’t forget the Irish in your statement.”
“What?”
“The Irish, as in Irish country Society, or have you forgotten what nation you’re in? I wonder how the rest of your guests would feel if they knew what you really thought of them, being no better than country folk and all.”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have need to, your tone says it all. You may be a lady, Lady Jeannette, but you’re also a blatant snob. Your high manners may serve you well in London, but they won’t serve you here. As unfit as you may think me, I know more about the people here in this room tonight than you. Now, I’m going to ask one of the other young ladies to dance. Hopefully she won’t find it too much of an offense.”
He gave a crisp bow, strode away.
Dear heavens, that had not gone well at all. Not only had she insulted him and made him angry, but he wasn’t leaving. And really, despite the severity of her words, that did not diminish their truth. He was an architect and middle-class—and in her world, middle-class architects did not rub elbows with lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses; not socially, at least.
And she wasn’t a snob, she thought, no more so than any lady of her class. How dare he accuse her of such. Just because she came from noble bloodlines and moved in elite circles did not make her a snob. If she were, she would never have planned tonight’s entertainment at all. By the standards of the Haut Ton, a mere handful of the guests present this evening would be tolerated by her usual group of peers in London. Governed by such strictures, even a dinner party would have been out of the question.
She drew in a shaky lungful of air and forced the tight muscles between her shoulder blades to relax. Opening her fan, she waved it quickly across her flushed face.
The musicians resumed their seats and took up their instruments. Playing a few practice notes, they signaled the guests that a new dance was about to begin. Eagerly, couples started to assemble on the floor.
A sandy-haired man several years her senior, a widower whose name she could not clearly recall, arrived to collect the dance she had promised him earlier in the evening. He bowed and extended an arm. She placed her hand upon his sleeve as manners required, allowing him to lead her onto the floor for the next set.
Two lines of dancers stood at the ready, men on one side, women on the other. A sprightly tune soon filled the room. Knowing the steps by heart, Jeannette found it an easy task to exchange polite, meaningless snippets of small talk with her partner as the movements of the dance brought them together then drew them apart again. Yet even as she danced and conversed, her thoughts were elsewhere, centered upon the tall, strikingly masculine figure of Darragh O’Brien as he moved only a few feet distant.
She did her best to ignore him, but felt her gaze drift toward him time and time again. He danced beautifully, moving with a smooth sophistication and skill that was nothing short of mesmerizing. It wasn’t fair he should dance so well. Why couldn’t he be some oaf, bumbling the complex steps of the country dance and crushing the poor toes of his partner? Instead, the girl was grinning ear to ear in rapt delight.
He ought to look out of place despite his urbane attire, his common manners revealing him for the rube he was. But his manners appeared anything but unrefined now as he moved among the company, looking as if he did indeed belong. Quite without trying he dominated the room, eclipsing every other man in attendance. And then he stood before her, his large hand enveloping her own much smaller one as the movements of the dance brought them together. For a few seconds, time slowed as their gazes collided, the impact sending a lightning bolt of sensation all the way to her toes. Her lips parted on a long breathless inhalation. Then he was gone, torn from her by the requirements of the dance.
Her body throbbed as though he’d done far more than simply touch her gloved hand. She made a misst
ep and nearly disgraced herself but managed somehow to regain her composure.
Only strict training saw her safely through the remainder of the set. Relief swept through her as the music finally fell silent. Her partner escorted her off the dance floor, but rather than go back to Violet and Eliza, she asked him to take her to the refreshment table. After politely ridding herself of the man, she waited, wondering if O’Brien would approach her. Whether he might ask her for the next dance despite their earlier words with each other.
Instead he stayed across the room, talking with the dark-haired chit with whom he’d shared the last dance. He laughed, the sound of his merriment raking over Jeannette’s spine like a sharp set of nails. The girl giggled and nodded her head, stars sparkling in her pert green eyes.
What was so amusing anyway? Jeannette ground her teeth as she watched them. Spinning on her heel, she forced herself to turn her back and remove Darragh O’Brien from her sight.
Why did she care if he danced and flirted with another young lady? Let him cavort with all the girls he wanted, it would not matter to her.
No more ridiculous moping, she rallied. This was her party and she was going to enjoy herself, even if it killed her.
Glancing up, she noticed a young man not much older than she gazing at her from across the room. He smiled at her, and against her better judgment she smiled back.
Encouraged, he gave a tug to his puce waistcoat and black coat sleeves then strode forward like a man prepared for battle. He bowed, a lock of his blond hair drooping over his forehead. “Good evening, Lady Jeannette. Neil Kirby. We met earlier in the receiving line.”
“Of course, Mr. Kirby. A pleasure for the second time this evening,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back, displaying a set of mostly straight teeth. “Ahem, I was wondering if you would do me the honor of standing up with me for the next dance?”
The next dance was the supper dance. Which meant she would not only have to take to the floor with him but would have to remain in his company during the midnight buffet set up in the adjoining dining room.
Manners dictated she accept. Personal inclination urged her to refuse. But she had no convenient excuse to offer, even her hostessing duties were merely a formality at this point. Looking into Neil Kirby’s earnest brown eyes and boyishly appealing face, she decided to take pity. He appeared a pleasant enough young man, easily managed and effortlessly entertained, a new supplicant literally begging to worship at her feet. Just the sort of balm she needed to soothe her ragged emotions.
Let O’Brien ignore her. She had no need of his attentions.
Turning her most dazzling smile on the hapless youth before her, she watched him stare as though momentarily stunned by an intense flash of light.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, “I should be delighted.”
He ought not to have come to the ball, Darragh berated himself, knowing he was the world’s grandest fool.
He nearly hadn’t attended, changing his mind at least a dozen times after going downstairs to Lawrence’s study earlier this evening. Over a draft of Irish whiskey whose bite had been sharp enough to scald the first layer of skin from his throat, he’d worried and debated, all but pacing a hole in his friend’s fine Persian carpet while he dithered over the matter.
Last week, when Merriweather had issued the invitation, a refusal had come readily to Darragh’s lips. Not out of pique but from pride. The invitations might say Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather on them, but the party was her doing. Formal written invitations, not a one of which had been addressed to him. An oversight, Merriweather had said, flustered when he’d realized Darragh’s name had been omitted from the guest list.
Everyone who was anyone for fifty miles around had been invited. Even Lawrence had received one of her cards, his friend’s name scripted out in her delicate, flowing hand. But Lawrence was away in Dublin on business these three weeks past. He didn’t know a thing about the ball. If Lawrence had known, his friend would surely have warned him off, congratulating Darragh for resisting the charms of Lady Jeannette these many weeks.
“Why tempt fate, lad?” Lawrence would have said, when Darragh was all but free.
Yes, why tempt fate?
He’d been prepared to be on the road by now, traveling home to his siblings in the west country. In the midst of packing his bags, he’d gone downstairs to purloin a piece of notepaper and seen the invitation lying on Lawrence’s desk. That’s when he’d reconsidered Merriweather’s offer.
But now that he was here, he knew he should have stayed away. Just seeing her again brought back all the old urges, Jeannette Rose Brantford drawing him in a way no other woman ever had. He didn’t even have to glance in her direction for her beauty to beckon him, mad and alluring as a siren’s song.
Pure Irish pride was the only thing that had kept him on the dance floor, kept him dancing with other women when there was only one he really wanted in his arms.
Afterward, he’d watched her promenade into the dining room on the arm of some sophomoric youth, the lad clearly besotted and utterly out of his league. Since then Darragh’d done his best to focus his attention on the young lady he’d taken in to supper, as well as the other trio of couples at their table. In between bites of succulent roast beef and buttery lobster, conversation buzzing at a leisurely pace in his ears, his gaze drifted far too frequently across the room to her.
Jeannette.
Her name whispered like an illicit murmur through his mind, its rhythm sending his blood pumping harder and hotter through his veins. The sight of her enough to make him ache in places best not acknowledged in mixed company. He was glad he hadn’t worn the skintight breeches some gentlemen favored, else he would have found himself hastening to hide the evidence of his semi-aroused state. He shifted in his chair and warred against the baser side of his longings.
She’d galled him tonight with her arrogant talk and her narrow-minded assumptions. If only she knew the truth about his real circumstances, and especially his title, only imagine what she would say and do?
But for all the irritation she sometimes caused him, she entranced him even more. He missed their verbal jousts and gentle sparing. He missed their flirtatious banter. Most especially, he missed their kisses—those dangerous, delicious, forbidden kisses that were worth every second of risk.
He shook his head against such thoughts. A glutton for punishment, that’s what he was. Yet hard as he’d tried to erase her from his mind over the past two months, he’d failed miserably.
’Twas true he had forced himself to stay away from her, but in his head he’d been with her every day. Watching while he worked, a part of him always alert and hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she went about her day. Listening for the unexpected murmur of her velvet-soft voice. Closing his eyes if he happened to catch the sound of her words drifting through an open window or along a corridor. Savoring the sensation with the care of a man holding a rare, precious butterfly in his palm.
When he’d left Lawrence’s house tonight he’d told himself he was going to the party to prove he could walk away from her and never look back in regret. That he’d built up the memory of her in his mind and when he saw her again the spark would be well and truly extinguished.
Well, all he’d proven was what a colossal idiot he was—the flame a long way from extinguished, on both sides. Aye, she might profess to care nothing for him, but it was clear she felt more than she let on, else his withdrawal from her life would not have bruised her feelings. And the spark between them leapt like electricity arcing through the air ahead of a fierce storm. He could feel the power of it even now, as if there were some invisible tether stretched between them, tugging them toward temptation.
What did she think she was doing with that boy sharing her table? Surely she couldn’t be interested in the stripling?
He watched Jeannette nod and smile at something the youth said moments before she raised her glass to drink a sip of champagne. Darragh nearly groaned aloud at t
he sight of her lips, left moist and glistening from the taste of cool wine.
She was glorious, regal. Glowing moonbeam pretty in her white finery, her pale golden hair caught in a delicate upsweep that curled becomingly around her ears. He’d like to see that hair down. See it loose and brushed, flowing like spun silk around her bare shoulders.
His fist tightened where it rested on his thigh. Likely he wasn’t the only male feeling her effect, that poor stupid boy obviously bespelled and having no notion of the pain she’d leave in his heart when she cast him aside.
Darragh’s own heart gave a painful, mocking squeeze, warning him afresh of the hazard.
If he had any sense, he’d stand up this instant, make some feeble excuse to the others and walk out. Sever the connection. End this senseless, hopeless attraction once and for all. Then in the morning he’d be off as planned, riding hard and fast to put nearly the whole of Ireland between them.
Instead he sat. He ate. He talked, doing his best not to glance in her direction, at least not more than once or twice a minute.
At length, supper finally came to an end. Everyone returned to the ballroom. Once there, Darragh bowed and thanked the young lady with whom he’d shared the meal, ashamed he couldn’t so much as recall her name.
Duty done, he scanned the room for Jeannette, but she wasn’t there. And neither, as he made a further visual survey, was the stripling lad.
Chapter Twelve
Young Mr. Kirby was foxed.
Jeannette had known he was foxed—how could he be otherwise after imbibing five glasses of champagne at supper! But despite the drink, he seemed harmless enough. So harmless, she had thought nothing of accompanying him on a tour of the new wing when he’d suggested the expedition, thinking the exercise might help him walk off the worst of his drunk.
Her family had all but deserted the festivities. Supper done, Violet had quietly murmured into Jeannette’s ear her intention to retire upstairs to bed for the night. Eliza decided to go up as well, eager to escape what had clearly been another disappointing evening for her. As for the gentlemen, Adrian said he planned to see his wife safely tucked into bed then return downstairs to hear one last lecture on horticulture. While Kit made merry on the dance floor with yet another winsome brunette.
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