Darragh looked uncomfortable for a long moment. “Pay him no mind. The fellow’s tongue knots up sometimes around the lasses, especially a lass as beautiful as yourself.”
He crossed, leaned down to take her hand and press a kiss upon its top. The worst of her lingering pique over the matter melted beneath his touch.
“His tongue seemed fine to me,” she remarked before deciding to accept Darragh’s explanation on its face. If Lawrence McGarrett didn’t like her because she was English and had wed his friend, then that was his problem and no one else’s. She would dwell upon it no longer.
“At least his house is comfortable, if rather on the small side.” Her father owned a hunting box that was larger, but she supposed she could be only so choosy about her accommodations now that she and O’Brien were wed.
Spinning the wide gold band encircling the third finger of her left hand, she wondered what his home—their home—would be like.
“What would you care to do?” he asked.
Her head jerked up at the interruption. “Do?”
She tossed a quick glance at the mantel clock, saw the hands at half-past three. Gracious, she and Darragh should have remained at the reception longer, but as bride and groom it would have looked odd for them to linger too long.
She’d already said her farewells to her family, knowing she was to leave in the morning and not likely to see them again for some time to come. Amid tears and hugs, she’d given Violet a letter for their parents in which she’d begged their forgiveness and asked for their blessing of her hasty marriage. She’d also made a point of seeking out Wilda and Cuthbert to thank them for their hospitality.
“You have been the best part of my time here in Ireland,” she told them before startling Wilda by flinging her arms around her in an unexpected embrace. After a long moment, the older woman returned Jeannette’s hug with genuine affection. Just before they separated, Wilda gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.
“Just be happy, dear,” her cousin advised, patting her hand. “Write and let me know how you go on.”
Jeannette had nodded, swallowing against the knot in her throat. “Yes, I will.”
She only hoped she would be happy, cast adrift as she now was, with Darragh her only anchor. Her arrival in Ireland all those weeks ago had been daunting and scary. This time it would be worse, since there would be no reprieve waiting to send her home.
She shivered, grateful she would at least have Betsy and her familiar, reassuring routine to make the transition less frightening.
“Are you hungry?” Darragh asked. “Could you do with a cup of tea?”
She laid a hand across her stomach. “Oh, no, I couldn’t eat another bite.” If she did, she thought, she might become ill. “After the breakfast we had, and the cake afterward, I am more than well satisfied.” She paused. “But if you would care for tea, I can ring, of course.”
“No, no,” he said, preventing her from rising to her feet. “I am fine. You’re right, too much cake.” He rocked slightly on his heels and stared down at the brown and blue rug on the floor. When he looked up again, he caught and held her gaze. “Shall I show you to the bedroom, then?”
Her lips fell open, her heart kicking into a fast, unsteady gait. “But it’s scarcely mid-afternoon.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak and breathy.
For an instant, he appeared surprised. Then a smile moved over his mouth, humor warming his sky-coloured eyes. “I meant so you could change and bathe, but we can get on with the other if you’d prefer. I like making love in the daylight.”
She sprang off the couch. “Tonight in the dark will be soon enough. But I do believe I will retire to my bedchamber to bathe and change and take a brief rest, as you suggest.”
Grinning, he stalked forward and snagged one of her hands in his. Exercising gentle pressure, he curved her arm behind her back, moved in so their bodies touched. “I’m disappointed now. Are you sure I can’t talk you into letting me have my way with you, after all?”
She swallowed and trembled, imagining the two of them lying naked on a bed with nothing but a spill of sunlight to cover their entwined bodies. She throbbed, aware of his long, powerful frame pressed against her.
“Q-quite sure,” she lied.
“Ah, you’re a cruel one, lass, to torment a man so, and your new husband at that. I see I shall have to content myself with dreams of this evening. But I agree, you’d best have that nap you mentioned.”
“Should I?”
“Indeed, for it’s a promise I’ll be keeping you awake nearly the whole of the night.”
While she was still gasping at his prurient pledge, he swooped down and claimed her lips in a swift, sweet kiss that turned her knees to jelly, her toes to toast.
She swayed when he set her free.
“Shall I escort you to your room, or would you rather find it on your own? It’s just past the landing, third door on the right.”
“Under the circumstances, I had better find it on my own.”
“Supper’s at six and don’t be late. And Jeannette?”
“Yes?”
“Wear your hair down. I’ve a fancy to see it around your shoulders.”
“You said you had been to Italy, but I didn’t realize you had visited Florence and the Uffizi Gallery,” Jeannette remarked, pausing to quaff a delicate mouthful of red wine. “Such an impressive collection of works—paintings, sculpture and the wonderful architecture itself. Seeing it was one of the highlights of my sojourn to the region. That and all the shopping and parties, of course.”
“Oh, of course. And you’ve the right of it. The gallery is a fine sight, well worth the trip and the trouble.” Darragh flipped his silver dessert spoon over and back, then over and back again against his discarded linen napkin in an absent, yet methodical rhythm.
“Great-aunt Agatha and I were supposed to visit the Pitti Palace too, but the Grand Duke fell ill unexpectedly and our evening’s entertainment had to be canceled. Alas, we had to journey on two days later and there was not the time to reschedule.” She released a tiny sigh. “More’s the pity, since I had so been hoping to see the Pitti.” She paused then giggled. “Oh, listen to me, I believe I just made a pun. A pity about the Pitti. Get it?”
Darragh smiled across the dining room table at her. “Aye, lass. Very amusing.”
“So I suppose both of us were forced to make do with outside views of the palace and gardens, instead of having the pleasure of seeing it from within.”
Actually, Darragh mused, he had enjoyed a private tour, viewing the palace from every imaginable direction, as a friend and honored guest of Grand Duke Ferdinand III of Lorraine. But, Darragh decided, he would have to save that tidbit of information for a later conversation. A much later conversation.
Sprawled casually in his chair, he watched his new wife spear a minuscule bite of apple tartlet with her fork. The silver tines slipped in and out from between her rosy lips with unconscious yet suggestive provocation.
His loins tightened, fresh blood flowing to parts of his body that had nothing to do with digestion. Ordinarily he would have been interested in pursuing their conversation about art and architecture and travel, but not tonight—their wedding night.
He bit back a sigh and wondered if supper would ever end.
For the past hour and a half she’d driven him half mad with desire and frustration, toying and prodding and picking at each dish set before her. All the while, she’d chattered, talking as she lingered over one interminable course after another.
At first he’d tried to keep up, participating in the conversation with any number of observations of his own. Eventually, he’d fallen all but silent and let her rattle away. He knew she liked to talk—and she surely could argue with the best of them—but he’d never heard her prattle on as she was doing tonight.
Was she anxious? Slowing the meal in an attempt to delay the trip upstairs? But why? He knew she had a liking for his kisses. Sweet Mary, isn’t that what had lande
d them in the marriage thicket in the first place, their inability to keep their hands off each other? So, it couldn’t be a maidenly fear of intimacy that had her spooked.
If not, then what?
Bridal nerves, most like. A fear of the new and the unknown. Perhaps ’twas cruel of him, his plan for their immediate future. Perhaps it was wrong not to admit the full truth to her and put the worst of her worries at ease.
But an instinct that ran bone deep told him to keep his secrets and his silence. Told him he had but this one chance to curb her spoiled, flighty ways and teach her there was more to life than prestige and possessions. That simple things like happiness and love could be had, and once found were worth fighting for, as he was fighting for them now.
He stopped twirling his spoon, laid it aside.
Enough of delays. He wanted her. Now. And if she wouldn’t come eagerly to his bed herself, then he’d lead her there and make her glad he’d coaxed her to agree.
Shoving his chair back, he stood.
She glanced upward, fork poised halfway between her lips and her plate. She followed his movements with a questioning gaze as he ambled toward her.
Circling around behind her chair, he stopped, running his gaze over her hair. He’d asked her to leave it loose, but she’d only partially complied. Her long, golden tresses were neatly brushed and tied with a length of pink silk ribbon that was looped in a bow against her nape.
He tugged it loose, that bow, slipping the knot free. With a gentle tug the ribbon came away in his hand. He tossed it already forgotten onto the linen-draped table, then slid his fingers up and into her soft, shiny hair.
Her fork clattered against her plate. “W-what are you doing?”
“What I’ve been wanting to do since nearly the first moment I saw you. You’ve lovely hair, did you know? Thick and silky, the kind that tempts a man to bury his face and breathe deep.”
He did just that, leaning down to catch the healthy scent of her locks, clean and smelling faintly of apple blossoms. Gathering her hair together again, he twined it around one wrist to expose the curve of her neck, elegant, pale white and surprisingly vulnerable.
He skimmed the tip of one finger along its length and felt her answering tremble. Then he kissed her, caressing the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.
Jeannette bit the edge of her lip and forced herself not to jump beneath his touch. She’d been anxious all evening, simmering with worry and nerves since earlier when she’d been dressing for dinner and Betsy had quite casually remarked about needing to set out a white night rail for Jeannette’s bridal bed.
A white gown to signify the innocence of the bride.
Only the bride wasn’t innocent, Jeannette thought with a mental wince. Though she wasn’t what anyone would call experienced either. But the number of times she’d made love—once to be exact—was immaterial, since there would be no virgin’s blood spilled this night.
That’s when her belly had clenched and she’d begun to panic.
Why, she bemoaned, had she ever let that bounder Toddy touch her? She’d known it was wrong at the time, but he’d been so persuasive, making her promises of love and devotion and, one day, marriage.
Only, marriage to him had never come, and her innocence had been lost.
She knew it was unfair to Darragh, knew too that she ought to find some way to tell him. But how did a bride tell her new husband that it wasn’t her first time? She wished she could turn back the clock and be the virgin he expected. The best she could offer him now was faithfulness.
Of course, it would all be so much easier if he didn’t know she was not innocent. Did men automatically recognize such things or might he somehow be left in sweet, blessed ignorance?
Should she tell him? Should she stay silent?
The weight of her uncertainty had plagued her through the evening. Buzzing with anxiety, she had endeavored to stall their eventual ascent upstairs, all the while chattering like a magpie. Nervousness always made her talkative. Eating slowly, she had drawn out each dinner course, encouraging Darragh to drink rather more wine than he ought in the hopes he might become drowsy and fall asleep.
But she could see now that her plan had failed. Darragh was wide-awake and keenly alert, his Irish head obviously so hard he had remained sober as a tea-drinking granny despite all the alcohol he had imbibed.
And with his mouth making delicious forays across her neck, she knew he could not be put off much longer. The moment of truth was nigh and there was little she could do to prevent it. Still, a girl could try.
“Darragh, don’t,” she protested, her words high and breathless, as she wrinkled her shoulder to dislodge his eager lips.
“Why not?” he soughed against her skin, not the least bit discouraged. He caught her earlobe between his teeth, gave the curve of flesh a tiny nip. “Do you not like it?”
“I…I…” Oh, Lord, how could she lie, when everything he did felt so divine? “Yes, I like it but…”
“But what? Why should I stop?”
“Because this is…this is…the dining room.”
“Aye, and so it is.”
Darragh felt the rising heat in her, as he curved an arm across her chest, smiling as he filled his hand with one of her lovely, pliant breasts. Her nipple puckered through the cloth of her bodice. Teasing her flesh with his thumb, he relished the sensation as it beaded even more. “What better way to finish a meal than for a man to make love to his wife?”
“But the servants,” she protested halfheartedly. “One of the footmen might return any moment to clear. What would they think?”
“That we’re a pair of newlyweds who can’t wait long enough to find the bedroom.” He paused, pressed his mouth to her cheek, her chin, then let her go. “But perhaps you’re right and we’d best continue this upstairs.”
Pulling out her chair, he stepped to her side to assist her to her feet.
She swallowed, her nervousness apparent on her face. “But I haven’t completed my meal.”
He eyed the barely eaten tartlet on her dessert plate. “Have you not? At the rate you were going, I estimate it would take you past midnight to be done. If you’re so fond of that pastry, perhaps we should carry it upstairs. You can nibble on it later to regain your strength. After I’ve had my chance to nibble on you, that is.”
“Mr. O’Brien, you are outrageous.”
“I am that, Mrs. O’Brien,” he said with a wink. “And so are you. ’Tis the reason we do such a fine job sparking off each other. Now, come to bed.” He took her hand, dropped a kiss onto her palm. “Come to my bed.”
Her pupils dilated, encircled by brilliant sea-coloured rings, her lips parting as if she was thinking to delay yet again. Then she closed her mouth and let him help her to her feet.
With her small hand tucked comfortably inside his large one, he led her from the dining room and up the stairs.
Jeannette’s lady’s maid was waiting when they entered, the bedroom cozily warm from the lively blaze burning in the fireplace. A half-dozen candles stood on the mantel and end tables, lighted to push the deepest of the night shadows away from the honey-coloured walls and polished pine furnishings. A four-poster bed dressed in forest green bed curtains sat positioned in the center of the far wall. A thin lawn nightgown and robe lay in a frothy wash of white across its matching counterpane. Sweet beeswax and the womanly fragrance of dried lavender perfumed the air, a bridal bower waiting for its bride.
Betsy jumped to her feet and bobbed a curtsey, glancing inquiringly between him and Jeannette.
Jeannette moved to free her hand, but he held on.
“Go on to your own bed,” he told the maid. “I’ll see to your lady tonight myself.”
Betsy stared at him for a long, surprised moment, then at Jeannette. She dipped her knees seconds after. “Very good, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, my lady.”
His bride faced him the instant the door closed at her maid’s back. “You should have let her stay to
assist me.”
“Why? Do you not think I know how to unfasten a woman’s dress?”
“I am sure you do, but…”
“But what?”
She looked about to raise another protest, then abruptly dropped her shoulders in surrender. “But nothing.”
Lifting her hair out of the way, she turned and presented her back to him.
As promised, he nimbly worked open the run of tiny buttons on her gown, saying not a word as he lifted the garment off over her head. After draping her dress across the padded arm of a striped settee, he returned to unlace her stays and loosen the tapes and ties of her chemise.
Stripped down to only one thin petticoat, she folded her arms over her breasts. Clearly, she thought to hide herself. Instead, her action only increased her cleavage, making her breasts appear fuller and more enticing, as viewed from his height and perspective. She shivered, goose bumps rising on her delicate skin.
He stroked his hands over her shoulders and arms, then slowly turned her, tucked her against him. “Why the nerves, lass? We’re not in the dining room any longer, no one about to disturb us. Surely you know you’ve nothing to fear from me.”
She raised her eyes to his. “I know, but it’s our first time.”
He cupped her cheek, pressed his lips tenderly to her mouth. “Aye, and your first time as well.”
Her lashes fluttered for a moment before she lowered her gaze.
“We’ll go slowly,” he promised. “I’ll make sure it’s everything you could wish.”
Darragh kissed her again, gentle and undemanding, expecting nothing greater than she could give, nothing more than she wanted to give.
She stood in his arms, her posture rigid. In a random pattern of leisurely, unhurried touches, he dusted his lips over her face. From forehead to cheeks he roamed, over closed eyelids that fluttered like fairy wings against his mouth, onward across her nose, down to her chin, across to her ears and along the divine curve of her neck.
The Wife Trap Page 21