A pronounced silence settled over the room.
“Well, Merriweather, you promised us a superlative display and I must say you did not disappoint,” one of the gentlemen quipped. “Though I fear your orchids may pale in comparison.”
Several of the men chuckled, while others coughed behind their gloved hands to cover their embarrassment.
“Speaking of orchids, cousin,” Adrian interceded in a soft but implacable tone, “why don’t you proceed on with the tour. There is nothing further to see here.”
Cuthbert cleared his throat and shuffled his feet as if awakening from a fugue state. “Yes, yes, quite right, quite right. Um, straight ahead, gentlemen. The…the orchids are just through here.”
Cuthbert motioned his fellow members of the Royal Horticultural Society forward, spreading his arms wide to herd forward a couple stragglers who would obviously have preferred to linger. The sound of their footsteps echoed against the stone flooring, along with their murmuring whispers, before both gradually receded.
Only when they’d gone did Adrian turn.
Jeannette stole a peek and swallowed hard at the expression on her brother-in-law’s face. Gathering the shreds of her courage, she tried to step out of Darragh’s sheltering embrace. But he wouldn’t let her, at least not entirely, keeping his hand linked with hers as he turned to face forward beside her.
“And here you were worried about me courting scandal with too much indiscriminate flirting,” Kit remarked to Adrian. “Guess I’m looking pretty wholesome now, hmm?”
Adrian turned his head to glare at his younger brother. “What are you still doing here? Why didn’t you go with the others?”
Kit shot him a beleaguered look. “To view a bunch of flowers I didn’t want to see in the first place? Thank you, but no thank you. If you’ll recall, you’re the one who near twisted my arm off to get me out here.”
“A lamentable necessity considering the fact that you were on the verge of being hunted down by an irate father.”
Kit shrugged, his expression one of utter innocence. “Lydia’s father was overreacting. I only took her outside for a bit of fresh air, since she said she was warm.”
“So warm it took her a half an hour to cool off?”
“Some women have hot-blooded constitutions.”
Adrian closed his eyes as though pained. “Enough. Now go.”
“All right, but you’re a fair way to becoming a curmudgeon, do you know? Must remember to have a talk about it with Vi, when she’s a little less in the family way.”
“Leave Violet alone and go to bed.”
“Like I said. Curmudgeon.” Tossing a last sympathetic glance toward Jeannette and Darragh, Kit turned and walked away.
Jeannette swallowed, her throat tight as though she were about to face the Spanish Inquisition. Instead she had to face Adrian, mortifying under any circumstances. Doubly so considering their history with each other.
He waited, arms crossed reproachfully over his chest. “So, have you nothing to say? You haven’t even made it back to England and already you’ve landed in the scandal broth again.”
She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. What could she say? There were no explanations to justify being caught in an act she could barely justify to herself. She’d lost her head utterly and completely in a way she never imagined she could, so given to passion she’d forgotten any sense of place or propriety. Worse, she’d been discovered in the most humiliating manner, leaving her without any hope of redemption. She didn’t even want to contemplate what this would mean to her reputation or her future. The possibilities made her shiver.
When she said nothing, Adrian pinned Darragh with a grim look. “And what of you, sir? Do you have a voice or are you conveniently mute as well?”
“Aye, I’ve a voice, and a name as well. Darragh O’Brien.” He thrust out a hand. “And you are?”
Adrian made no effort to accept Darragh’s proffered hand. “Raeburn. The Duke of Raeburn. The lady’s brother.”
“Brother-in-law,” she corrected, breaking her silence.
Adrian inclined his head. “Quite right, brother-in-law. And as your brother-in-law and the most immediate male member of your family present, I believe it is my duty to oversee this matter.”
Jeannette scuttled her brow. “What do you mean, oversee?”
“You’ve been compromised, Jeannette. Thoroughly and very publicly compromised. Steps must be taken without delay to set this situation aright. Or as right as it may reasonably be put under the circumstances.”
Jeannette watched Adrian glower at Darragh, the two men’s eyes virtually on the same level. Tall and sturdy, they were nearly a match for each other in terms of height and power. Darragh’s build was leaner and looser, more acrobatic. Adrian’s shoulders wider, his chest heavier. But in a fight, she suspected they’d both give as good as they got. The winner would be anyone’s guess.
However, Adrian was far too civilized to engage in a brawl. At least she assumed he was, aware that he regularly sparred and won at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon when in London. She knew instinctively that Darragh wouldn’t be nearly so refined. Over the years he’d probably fought in the streets, relying upon bare knuckles and sheer Irish stamina. She tightened her hand in his as if to restrain him. But she needn’t have worried, both men seemingly satisfied at the moment to duel merely with their eyes.
Adrian thrust out his chin. “I shall expect you tomorrow. Promptly at nine, shall we say?”
Darragh nodded. “Nine it is.”
“Nine? What happens at nine?” she asked. “I won’t have the two of you fighting.”
Adrian met her gaze. “Don’t worry. There will be no fighting. At least not so long as he agrees to the terms.”
A sense of impending doom settled like a lead sinker in her chest. “What terms?”
“Of your marriage settlement, of course.”
“M-marriage!” she exclaimed. “You mean to O’Brien? But I cannot marry him.”
Becoming violently aware of her palm nestled inside Darragh’s clasp, she dropped his hand as if it had turned red hot. Then for good measure, she put several more inches between them by taking a single, dramatic step sideways.
Darragh quirked a rueful eyebrow but made no comment.
“I am afraid, Jeannette,” Adrian said, “that you have little choice in the matter. Your fate, as it were, was sealed the moment you chose to go beyond the bounds of propriety and do what you did with this man.”
“From the sound of it, Lord Christopher went beyond the bounds of propriety tonight too.”
“Perhaps. But the difference is, he didn’t get caught.”
She gulped, a sick wash sliding through her middle. “But I can’t marry O’Brien. He isn’t even a gentleman. He’s an architect.”
Darragh drew a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “As fact would actually have it, I’m also an ea—”
“If I marry him, it will ruin everything,” she wailed, drowning out the end of Darragh’s statement. “I am supposed to return to London. I am supposed to regain my place in Society. I am supposed to marry a duke.”
Adrian shook his head, plainly incredulous. “Well, it would appear you have once more put paid to your chance of that event ever happening. No man, duke or otherwise, will have you now. Mr. O’Brien is your only hope.” He sighed, his tone softening slightly. “Heavens, Jeannette, surely even you must recognize that fact.”
“But—”
“There are no buts.” Adrian gave her a firm stare, then turned to O’Brien. “Now, sir, you were saying?”
Darragh crossed his arms, his lean-hipped stance set at an almost pugnacious angle. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I believe everything that has need of saying has already been said.”
Jeannette tossed him a glance, noticed the inflexible tilt to his jawline. Was he angry because she’d said she didn’t want to marry him? Surely he couldn’t wish to marry her either. Yet it would seem they had few options
, both of them trapped like a pair of cats in a cage.
Unless Darragh reneged.
Perhaps if she could find a moment alone with him she might be able to convince him not to meet with Adrian tomorrow. Perhaps he could leave for his home, as relieved as she by his narrow escape from the parson’s noose. But if she convinced him to flee, where would that leave her?
Ruined, that’s where.
The gentlemen of the Royal Horticultural Society would flap their mouths like mynah birds, repeating every titillating detail of the debacle to anyone who cared to listen. The story would race through the Ton faster than a Derby-winning horse crossing the finish line.
If she accepted her fate and married him, the tale would soon enough die away. But if she did, she would be irrevocably wed to Darragh.
Why had she let him kiss her? Touch her? What insanity had possessed her to do the same back?
Desire.
The word slid over her senses like a caress, reminding her of embers that lay barely tamped even now. Her gaze roved over his face, recalling the faintly rough texture of his cheeks gently abrading her own, the hot, velvety interior of his mouth as he captured kiss after delicious kiss.
Yet there had to be more than physical need to make a marriage last. With another man she would have been prepared to let money and a title compensate for a lack of affection. But with Darragh, neither wealth nor social position would be forthcoming.
So what, then, of affection? What indeed of love?
Could she love him? She greatly feared she could, deeply and enduringly, if she allowed herself to succumb to such feelings.
Did she wish to love him? Most decidedly not.
She had been betrayed once by that tender emotion. She had no intention of being betrayed again. Which left her only one path—finding a way out of this marriage without completely closing herself off to the possibility of someday making another, more advantageous match.
She would take the easiest route to start. She would speak to Darragh and convince him not to agree to a wedding. After all, he wasn’t a gentleman, bound through birth to abide by the rules of duty and honor.
“I don’t believe everything has yet been said,” she began, responding to Darragh’s last remark. “If you don’t mind, Raeburn, I should like a chance to converse with Mr. O’Brien. Alone. He and I have matters to discuss.”
Adrian scowled, glancing back and forth between her and Darragh. “Whatever these so-called matters are, you can discuss them tomorrow, after arrangements have been settled concerning your marriage. Until then, I believe the two of you have spent more than enough time alone without the benefit of chaperone.”
Jeannette bristled. “I haven’t had an actual chaperone since the first year of my come-out.”
“Perhaps that is the problem. Come along, Jeannette. I’ll escort you along the servants’ stairs to your room, since I very much doubt you’ll be desirous of returning to the ball.”
She felt her skin pale, aware of the rumors that must already be spreading among the guests like a plague. Yes, mayhap it would be best to simply sneak upstairs. If she couldn’t speak with Darragh tonight, she could catch him early tomorrow before he met with Adrian.
With a defiant set to her shoulders, she turned to Darragh. Leaning up, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t agree to anything until after we’ve talked.”
Darragh gave her an enigmatic look before some of the harsh lines slowly eased from his face. He reached for her hand, bowed over it before dropping a light kiss on top. “Don’t fret, a stóirín. It’ll all come right in the end.”
She gazed into eyes blue as a summer sky, even in the tenebrous evening light, and prayed with all her soul that he was right.
Chapter Thirteen
Darragh presented himself promptly at nine the following morning.
To his surprise the duke had left instructions with a footman to have him shown immediately to a small study in the rear of the house. The room radiated masculinity, done in warm walnut with pieces of heavy, old-fashioned furniture and prints of birds and game on the walls. The fireplace grate stood unlighted, the odors of cold ashes, leather and ancient pipe smoke lingering in the air.
Of Jeannette he’d seen nothing on his way to the room, despite her whispered admonition that he not talk to her brother-in-law until after she had spoken to him.
But what was there for them to discuss? They’d been caught, discovered in the most compromising situation possible. Mother Mary, he’d been standing between her legs, tugging at his breeches’ buttons when the whole crowd of them had shuffled in. He could only imagine the bawdy sight he and Jeannette must have made, putting on a show fit only for a house of sin.
And whether or not they’d actually completed the act made no matter, especially considering all they’d done beforehand. Jeannette was officially soiled goods and he was the ruin of her. Willing or no, they had to marry to set matters aright. He’d be a black fellow indeed to think of doing otherwise. And truth be told he had no real wish to do aught else.
Last night, after all was done and he’d lain in his bed with her fresh upon his mind, he’d waited for the panic to set in. Waited for the terror to sink deep and turn his bowels soft and liquid at the idea of being shackled to her for life.
But the feeling never came.
Instead he’d felt a kind of odd satisfaction, even anticipation at the knowledge that she would soon be irrevocably his own. His wife, to protect and keep, to delight and bedevil and cherish for all the rest of his days.
And with his ring upon her hand, he would be able to satisfy the lusty cravings that plagued him as if he were a brash lad sowing his first field of wild oats instead of a mature man full grown. He still couldn’t fathom how he’d lost all control last night, so intent upon having her that every last shred of common sense had flown straight out of his head.
Perhaps a part of him hadn’t cared, willing to face the risk, whatever it might be, in order to burn for a time within the fire of her touch.
And burn he had—and did still.
He had plans for a lengthy honeymoon, where they could lie abed and indulge in every explicit sexual act the two of them had a mind to try. Assuming he could coax her to the altar. She might have no choice in the matter, but that didn’t mean she’d give in without a murmur.
But say her vows she would. Later, he would find a way to chase away her reservations and soothe her doubts.
Turning, he began to study the titles of several books lined up on a shelf. Not long after, the door opened.
Raeburn entered, looking every inch the English gentleman in conservatively cut biscuit pantaloons, pristine white linen and a Spanish blue morning coat. The tailoring was exceptional—Weston, if Darragh were of a mind to wager.
He’d taken some pains with his own attire today as well, wearing well-made buff trousers, gold waistcoat, white shirt and a coat of fine brown woolen broadcloth. Unlike the duke, he’d eschewed a cravat, unwilling to endure the restrictive feel of one around his neck two days in a row. He detested the things, and wore them only on the most formal of occasions, such as the evening just past. Instead he’d chosen a white neckerchief for today, tied in a neat square knot at the base of his throat.
Raeburn crossed farther into the room, once again failing to extend his hand. Darragh didn’t make the mistake of offering his own again, leaving his fists loose and free at his sides.
Jeannette’s brother-in-law had a dour cast to his dark, clean-shaven features. Deadly serious and reserved.
“I am relieved to see you decided to keep our interview,” Raeburn began. “Knowing nothing of the sort of man you are, I could not be certain you would put in an appearance this morning.”
Darragh’s shoulders tensed and squared. “I’m a man who understands the meaning of honor. And since I do not yet know what kind of man you are, I’ll make an exception and agree not to take offense. This time at least.”
A subtle gleam of respect crept i
nto Raeburn’s dark eyes. “We’re both aware why you are here, a reiteration of the details are unnecessary and frankly unwanted under the circumstances. Suffice it to say, what I came upon last night leaves an image in my mind I should as soon wipe clean if only that were possible.”
The duke moved toward the large rectangular desk that stood at the north end of the room. Leaning a hip against the edge, he reached out, picked up a clear glass paperweight from the desk’s top. “So, I assume you are willing to do the proper thing and offer for my sister-in-law?”
“Aye, I’m willing.”
With a kind of absent grace, Raeburn played with the paperweight, slowly shifting the globe from palm to palm. “Despite her less than suitable behavior last night, she is a lady of quality.”
Darragh’s lips parted in an ironic grin. “A fact she has pointed out more than once since first we met.”
“How did the two of you meet? I assume it was here at the estate. You are the Merriweathers’ architect, I am given to understand. Just finished building their new wing—with admirable results, I must say.”
Darragh accepted the compliment with a nod. “Aye, the new construction is mine. As for telling you the particulars of my relationship with Lady Jeannette, I can’t oblige you. Those are private matters between the lady and myself and no other, not even you, your Grace.”
The globe stilled in Raeburn’s hand. “They weren’t private last night, the pair of you saw to that quite nicely. Which leaves us all in our current deplorable situation. So how is it exactly that you plan to provide for my sister-in-law?”
Darragh met the duke’s challenging stare with an unflinching one of his own. “She won’t want for the necessities of life, so you can set your mind at ease on that score.”
“It isn’t the necessities per se that concern me. Jeannette is not a female accustomed to doing without. She was born into luxury and privilege as befits her station, and she has rightly known nothing else. That said, the dowry provided by her father will be negligible at best, a disappointment if you were perhaps counting on it being otherwise. Wightbridge is a gentleman through and through, but he enjoys spending his money perhaps a bit too freely, if you take my meaning.”
The Wife Trap Page 18