Jeannette would be there now as well, dancing her feet numb, had it not been for the continued presence of Darragh O’Brien. Contrary to her fears, the other guests seemed to find him scintillating, particularly the female guests. After hours watching him flirt and flatter his way around the room, she’d had enough and needed to get away.
The man was an unrepentant wolf and shameless about it to boot. He’d certainly smiled often enough at whatever that willowy redhead he’d escorted into dinner had been saying. In between listening with half an ear to Kirby’s ever more rambling diatribes about horse racing and golf—as though she could possibly care a whit about either topic—she had kept a surreptitious eye on O’Brien during the intolerably long meal.
How dare O’Brien come here tonight and disrupt her entertainment. How dare he sit barely four yards away and act as if she didn’t even exist!
Well, in a couple more hours he would be gone. Gone for good, and she, for one, would be glad.
Wouldn’t she?
Suppressing a desolate sigh, she gazed around the dimly lighted conservatory. The space was warm and humid, the cool night air outside pressing against the glass-paned room like the hug of an insistent lover. Vegetation thrived thick and green within, spilling up and out and over from every possible direction.
She turned to Kirby to ask him to escort her back to the ballroom. But before she could even form the words, he yanked her hard against him and fastened his mouth to hers.
On a yelp, she shoved against him, twisting her head to avoid the sloppy, drunken kisses he was intent upon taking. His breath wafted over her face like a stiff, wine-scented breeze. Wrinkling her nose, she redoubled her efforts to push him away.
“Mr. Kirby, stop that this instant,” she admonished.
He ignored her, enthusiastic hands roaming to places he had no right to touch. Good gracious, she thought as she squirmed to get away. She’d heard about octopi and their eight long tentacles, but she’d never before found herself in the clutches of such a creature. Apparently alcohol had helped Kirby grow far too many arms along with a sudden burst of daring.
“Mr. Kirby, did you hear me? I said let me go!”
She shuddered as his moist lips grazed her cheek, then thrust her arms between them and gave a mighty shove. When the move once more failed to set her free, she lifted her foot and stomped down hard, grinding her heel into his instep with as much force as she could muster.
This time he was the one to yelp, sounding like a hurt puppy. As quickly as he’d grabbed her, he set her free, stumbling backward in a trio of unsteady steps. Fighting for balance, he reached out and grabbed on to a nearby bush, tearing off a large handful of leaves.
Swaying, but on his feet, he shot her a wounded look. “What’d you do that for?”
“To get you off me, you idiot.” Disgusted, she wiped a hand over her damp cheek. “Don’t ever do that again.”
He blinked, confusion clear on his face. “But you wanted me to kiss you.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“Yes you did. Why else did you come here with me?”
“To take a stroll, not so you could grope me like some slippery ten-armed eel. You, Mr. Kirby, are obnoxiously drunk and not in your right senses. Since you are, I will excuse your ungentlemanly behavior. Now, go back to the party.”
He thrust out his lower lip. “But I don’t want to go back to the party.” He paused, gave her a leering grin. “Not without you.”
“Go, sir. This instant.” She pointed an imperious finger toward the doorway.
He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before swinging around like a petulant child to do as he’d been told. He took two steps then stopped and clutched his stomach. “Don’t feel well.”
“I am scarcely surprised,” she scolded. “It’s what comes from overindulging.”
He puffed out his cheeks. “I mean I really don’t feel well. I think I may be sick.”
She took a closer look at him, noting his sudden pallor and the perspiration beading on his forehead. She’d seen her brother, Darrin, look just like that the last time he’d been too deep in his cups. The results had not been pretty.
“Good heavens, don’t you dare cast up your accounts in here.”
Losing no time, she grabbed him by the elbow and hurried him toward a small glass side door. Twisting the handle, she flung it open and ruthlessly shoved Kirby outside. He stumbled a few steps then caught himself. Seconds later, he broke into an indelicate run toward a hedge of low bushes that grew a few yards distant.
Grimacing in disgust, she closed the door behind her, turning the lock with a decisive click. Nodcock, she thought, catching sight of him bent double, heaving violently before she could manage to look away. She swung around, relieved to note that the thick glass around her muffled the worst sounds of his distress.
Not long afterward, she saw him slink away, hopefully in search of his coach and the long ride home.
Grass-green fool, she thought, relieved to be rid of him.
But to be fair, he wasn’t the only fool tonight. She’d been stupid to come here with Kirby in the first place, especially since she’d thought him far too young and no more than passably interesting even at the start. Obviously all this rural air was muddling her judgment.
Releasing an audible sigh, she decided she ought to return to the ballroom. It would not do to be missed. Glancing down, she checked her dress to make sure nothing was askew after Kirby’s crass, drunken attempt to kiss her. Noticing a ruffled bit of lace, she brushed her fingers over the material to smooth it back into place.
“Concealing the evidence, are you now?” a deep male voice challenged from the shadows, the tone one of velvet over steel despite its outwardly musical lilt.
Even if there had been no accent, she would have recognized the speaker anywhere. Her head snapped up, gaze colliding with Darragh O’Brien’s as he stepped forward out of the muted darkness.
She straightened, her heart skipping a single hard beat beneath her breast. “What are you doing here? And how long have you been standing over there, lurking in the vegetation?”
His lips quirked into a humorless half smile. “Not long. Actually, I only just arrived. But you haven’t yet answered my question.”
“Was that a question? It sounded more like an accusation to me.”
He turned his head, scanned the area with an inquiring gaze. “Question or accusation makes little difference. Where is he, then?”
Whether from temper or conceit, she decided to play dumb. “He who?”
“You know who. That pale-haired stripling whose arm you were hanging on when you came in here to tryst. Lost his nerve, did he, and ran away? Or was it a case of his kisses being so dreadful you had to throw him out entirely?”
Jeannette bristled, annoyed that O’Brien’s suspicions were so close to the mark. “I did not come here to tryst. But even if I had, it is no concern of yours.”
He set his palms on his narrow hips. “Ah, so his kisses were that bad, then. Still, considering he’s no more than a wet-behind-the-ears lad, you’ve little right to be surprised or disappointed. If you had a craving to indulge in such forbidden temptations, you oughtn’t to have settled for a boy. You should have come to a man.”
She barked out a laugh. “A man like you, I suppose.”
He stepped closer, looming over her, dark and magnetic and powerfully appealing. “I haven’t caught sight of any other man worthy of you inside that ballroom tonight.”
The bottoms of her feet tingled inside her slippers, nerve endings humming as if electrified. For the first time in months, since the last time she’d stood with him toe to toe in confrontation, she felt vibrantly, intensely alive.
She held her ground, outwardly calm despite the frenzied pounding of her heart. “Lowering as it may be to hear, you aren’t that man either. Until you arrived tonight, I’d quite forgotten you existed.”
His eyes snapped hot. “Did you now, lass?”
He took a menacing step forward, measuring as he held her captive within his gaze. “Or are you lying? Lying to hide the fact that you haven’t been able to forget me no matter how hard you’ve tried. Lying when the truth is you’ve thought of me and dreamed of me and missed me so, it shames you to admit it even to yourself.”
The air rushed from her lungs, her knees growing dangerously weak. “Don’t be absurd. You’ve never been anything but a thorn in my side. A very large, very aggravating, thoroughly annoying thorn of which I cannot wait to be rid.”
He moved until a bare inch remained between them, so close his clean male scent filled her nostrils, heat and strength rippling off him like the force of an indomitable tide.
“A thorn, am I?” he said. “Well, to my knowledge thorns are known to sting and prick and be devilish difficult to remove. I’m a man given to taking on the occasional bet and I’d wager I’m one thorn you’ve yet to work free.”
His voice lowered to a whisper, husky and seductive. His gaze roved over her face, skimmed and lingered upon her lips. “Am I, Lady Jeannette? Am I out from under your skin? Or am I burrowed in there even now, making you ache in places no proper lady should confess to feeling?”
She gasped, nearly choking on the warm humid air that made it all but impossible to draw a satisfactory breath. Air that left her dizzy and half-suffocated. But for what? Him or her next breath? And why did both suddenly seem vital to her continued existence?
“Why are you here?” she murmured. “Why did you seek me out when it’s been ages since we last met. Mayhap you are the one who hasn’t been able to forget. Who has found it impossible to get me out from under your skin. Is that the real truth? That you’re besotted and can’t get me out of your mind?”
His jaw tightened, their eyes locking, neither of them able to look away.
Her lips parted.
His eyelids drooped.
And then without any conscious awareness they came together. She whimpered as he took her mouth with savage purpose, his arms crushing her, cradling her as passion exploded between them like a smoldering conflagration.
Desire tore through her, rocket hot, every thought and caution melting beneath the need to touch him, taste him and have him do the same to her. She raised her arms, slid her questing fingers into the thick wavy silk of his hair. He groaned as she tugged his head closer and opened her mouth to invite his tongue inside.
He played upon her, waging a passionate battle of tempt and delight. Then he let her do the same to him. Let her trace the shape of his teeth. Glide the tip of her tongue over the ultrasmooth skin of his inner cheeks. Lose herself in the perilous thrill of exploring every dark, wet, delicious taste and texture, each wonderful sensation that rippled like a wicked breeze over her entire body.
If she’d thought her memory of his kisses had been exaggerated and overblown, she quickly discovered her error, dazed and dazzled by his undeniable skill in matters of the flesh.
But all too soon kisses weren’t enough for either one of them, merely a prelude to a far grander symphony of carnal gratification that could yet be had. Unlike with Kirby, whose touch she’d found distasteful, she welcomed each stroke and caress of Darragh’s broad, capable hands roving over her body. They glided, those hands, along her neck, down her back, across her hips. Over the delicate base of her spine, lingering with a gentle kneading motion that left her half-mad and thoroughly tormented.
She arched and purred low in her throat, striving to get closer. He bent to assist, planting his palms over her buttocks to raise her upward, settling her pelvis against the arousal that strained iron hard beneath his breeches.
Darragh groaned and shuddered with need, knowing he’d made a monumental mistake. He drew a ragged breath, unable to keep himself from pressing her tighter. He rocked ever so slightly, letting her feel his erection, his ravenous, poorly leashed hunger, wondering if such a blatantly sexual move would shock her, repel her.
Instead she clung, continued to kiss him as if he were a delicious feast and she was starving after months without food.
He’d better put an end to this, he thought, barely coherent. Set her safely away from him before things got completely, disastrously out of hand. But Blessed Mary, how he wanted her. Wanted to throw up her skirts and feel her firm legs lock around his waist. Wanted to tear open his breeches so he could drive into her over and over and over again until the bliss shook them both.
He waited, the sensible part of him praying she would put an end to the insanity and make him release her. The wicked part urged him on, coaxed him to cup one of her sweet pliant breasts in his hand, to tease the nipple until it peaked against his palm.
Shaking, he fought his inner demons and prepared to let her go. Then she moaned, a sound that shot straight to his loins, making him throb and ache. Her arms looped around his neck and she clung, biting at his mouth, sucking at his tongue in a way that made his head spin, that scorched every last rational thought from his mind like fire set loose in a patch of dry forest.
Driven by instinct, he carried her across to a nearby wooden potting table, knocking over a pair of empty clay containers that rolled toward the edge. The sound of their shattering onto the slate floor scarcely registered as he set her down, pushed up her skirts so he could spread her legs and settle himself in between. Reaching out, he loosened her bodice, nearly ripping the delicate material in his haste to expose her breasts to his touch.
She murmured, stiffening slightly as if in confusion. He kissed her again, a wet, openmouthed mating that literally stole his breath. And obviously hers, since whatever inhibitions might have remained seemed to die a quick, febrile death. He gave one last tug to her bodice, releasing her glorious rounded breasts into his waiting hands. He stroked her for a long intense minute, then replaced his hands with his mouth.
Her nipple was tight, puckering into a bead beneath his greedy, wandering tongue. He toyed with her flesh, making her shift in seemingly restless, unsatisfied want while he suckled deeply upon her. She lifted one hand, massaged his scalp, sifting her fingers through his hair, soughing with unmistakable pleasure as he moved to lavish attention upon her other breast.
Jeannette stroked his cheek, utterly abandoned as he drew upon her, his jaw working beneath her encouraging hand. His mouth was pure magic against her flesh. Her head buzzed, lost in a fervid haze she didn’t fully comprehend or have the will to question.
She wasn’t an innocent, she had been touched before. But never like this, never in a way that made her blood rush quick and burning through her veins, that sent her heart caroming so hard and fast she feared it might beat from her chest.
She trembled, surrendering herself to his every caress, each faint wish and whim that somehow became her own only moments after he suggested it with a fresh, inventive touch. Her eyes closed, head lolling back, her neck weak as a wilted flower stem.
Still feeding upon her breast, one sturdy arm at her back to support her, his free hand skimmed over her calf and knee before slipping upward beneath her rumpled gown. He continued onward, sliding his palm in a long, smooth stroke over one bare thigh. Her muscles quivered, completely at his mercy as his fingers traveled higher.
Her head came up and her eyes flew open as he parted her most vulnerable flesh and slid a finger inside where her body wept with desire. She gasped as he stroked within her, as he added another finger to stretch her wide.
And the world narrowed down to his hand, to his mouth, to his least touch and command. He moved his thumb and brushed her in the most sensitive of spots, then gently bit her nipple.
She cried out, shuddered violently. Pleasure, more amazing than anything she’d ever experienced, flooded inside her. She felt herself dampen his hand, slightly embarrassed when he withdrew his fingers moments later.
But she needn’t have worried that she was in any danger of being abandoned. Pulling her closer to the edge of the table on which she sat, he straightened and reached toward his breeches’ button
s. He opened one, nearly fumbling it in his haste. He was opening the second when a voice spoke, the sound of footfalls echoing against the conservatory pavers.
“Let me assure you, gentlemen, the scent of the Epidendrum nocturnum is well worth the trouble of viewing it so late in the eventide.”
Dimly in some remote recess of her brain, Jeannette heard the words, recognized her cousin’s voice.
Darragh must have heard it too, since he froze suddenly against her. But even as their dazed, horrified gazes collided, she knew it was already far, far too late.
“Right this way. I think you’ll find this most intrig—Dear saints in heaven, preserve us!” Bertie’s exclamation reverberated like the crack of a pistol shot through the conservatory, he and the group of gentlemen behind him coming to a sudden halt.
Over Darragh’s shoulder Jeannette encountered the stare of a dozen pairs of eyes. Even in the low light she could read a range of expressions, from shock and disapproval to amusement and even lust.
Among them were three far too familiar faces. Cousin Cuthbert, his mouth working like an out-of-water trout, cheeks stained red as currants. Kit Winter, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and amazement. And Adrian, tall and forbidding, his features stiff with a condemning displeasure that would have set a hardened battlefield veteran atremble.
She tried to move, wishing desperately she had the power to simply vanish. But her body refused to obey, as though her limbs had hardened to stone. On a whimper, she buried her face against Darragh’s shoulder.
In response, he sprang into action and lifted her from the table. Deft and efficient, he tugged her skirts downward to discreetly cover her legs, then angled his body to shield her from view. In a final protective gesture, he opened his evening coat and tugged her close, providing her an opportunity to adjust her bodice into its proper place.
The Wife Trap Page 17