Guilt squeezed inside him like a nasty fist. He knew Michael had the right of it, that Jeannette was bound to be angry when she found out he’d been less than candid with her. But wouldn’t she also feel relieved, even grateful to discover she wouldn’t to have to spend the rest of her life living in a humble cottage, cooking meals and sewing her own clothes? Would she not be delighted to discover she was actually a countess, their home a grand castle with plenty of servants, and he possessed of enough wealth to keep her in luxury for the rest of her days?
She’d fly off into a temper at first for sure. But afterward she’d see reason, understand he’d done what he had for them, for their marriage and future happiness.
At least he hoped she would.
“I’ll tell her when I’m ready,” Darragh declared, letting obduracy brush aside any lingering doubts. “Until then you aren’t to say a word to her on the subject.” Michael opened his mouth, but he cut him off. “Not a word.”
Michael raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Have it your way, boy-o. I haven’t been to a good wake in a while, and your demise should prove fine entertainment indeed. And if by some miracle your wife doesn’t flay all the skin off your bones, you’ve got three sisters who’ll be ready to finish the job. Mary Margaret in particular will be in a huff you didn’t include her in the wedding nor tell her you’ve been married all these past weeks. Siobhan and Moira will be hurt as well, not to have been flower girls.”
“They can enjoy that privilege at your wedding.”
Michael snorted. “They’re in for a long wait, then. I’m contented with my veterinary practice, taking care of horses and dogs and the occasional ailing feline. I’ve no need to be burdened with the care of a wife too.”
“When you love a woman, such care isn’t a burden at all.”
“Tell me that again once herself finds out what it is you’ve done.” Michael brought the flat of one hand down across Darragh’s shoulder. “You’re a brave man, Darragh O’Brien. An idiot, but a brave one all the same.”
A movement at the door caught their attention, as Jeannette appeared in the doorway, tea tray in hand.
“Let me help you with that, dearest,” Darragh said, reverting to English.
With a grateful smile, she let him assist her, then sat to pour tea and pass plates of biscuits. “Now then, tell me everything I’ve missed.”
Chapter Twenty
Darragh’s brother stayed the night then went on his way the following morning. Michael said he had a man to visit about a horse, a mare that would make a fine addition to his bloodstock.
Once Jeannette had recovered from the unorthodox manner of his greeting, she’d found Michael O’Brien to be a pleasant, interesting man with the same wicked sense of humor running through his veins as his older brother. He’d had them all laughing over tales of his and Darragh’s childhoods, coaxing her to share a few wild stories of her own.
After he’d gone she realized how starved she’d been for company, yet how oddly contented she was in her solitude with no one but Darragh to fill her days. Lately, she puzzled even herself, not understanding the change.
That night Darragh took her breath away, loving her with an intensity that made her pulses throb like hearts in her wrists, her body ache with a need she knew no other man could satisfy. Or would ever satisfy.
Without him, she thought, she would be lost.
And that’s when she knew. She loved him.
How had it happened? she wondered. And when? The emotion had come upon her so gradually she’d barely been aware, inching in like a slow addiction that, now established, would be nigh impossible to break.
She nearly told Darragh, the words hovering on her lips. She wanted to tell him, but the last time she’d told a man she loved him he’d crushed her heart. As warm and attentive as Darragh was, he never spoke to her of such tender emotions as love. What if she told him how she felt and watched amusement rise in his eyes? Or worse, pity?
They’d married out of necessity, in scandal and haste, a poor beginning for any marriage. Yet in spite of their less than enviable living arrangements, they had formed a bond. Perhaps love was the next step. Perhaps love would be the one thing that would make all the hardships worthwhile and keep them together.
She mulled over her new emotions all the next week.
Now, as she straightened the sheets, wool blanket and quilt on their bed, then gathered up one of her nightgowns and a pair of his shirts for the laundry pile, she wondered again whether or not to tell him about her newfound feelings.
After kissing her good-bye this morning, he’d ridden away on the long journey to Ennis to purchase some drafting and other hard-to-obtain supplies. He’d promised to post several letters she’d penned and check to see if any had been received. So far she’d gotten only a single missive from Violet, who wrote to say she and Adrian, Kit and Eliza had made it home safely and that she would write again soon. From Mama and Papa she had heard nothing, no doubt shamed by her notable fall from grace. But she was married now, and they would simply have to accept that fact, and learn to accept her husband as well.
So far Darragh had proven frustratingly reluctant to discuss their future plans in any detail—odd, that—but she knew he was bound to receive another architectural commission soon, here or on the Continent. Maybe even in England.
With her family connections, who knew what manner of work he might obtain. If Darragh earned enough they could leave this tiny cottage behind and build a proper home in England. Once there she would be able to work to reestablish a social presence—oh, not of the highest orders, to be sure, but satisfactory enough. And she would be there to assist Darragh in furthering himself and his ambitions.
But to begin, she would need to stop cowering behind her doubts and silence. Tonight, she decided, she would tell him. When he returned, she would open up her heart and let him know how much she loved him. If all went as she hoped, he would tell her he felt the same.
She vowed not to let herself dwell on any other alternative.
As a treat, she would make a special meal, turn the evening into a kind of celebration. Once the food was cooking, she would lay out the lace tablecloth she’d found stored in the dining room cabinet and set the better china with its pretty floral pattern.
Next, she would ask Aine to help her don one of her fashionable gowns and arrange her hair in a glorious upsweep. She would dot lilac water behind her ears and fasten a length of creamy pearls around her throat.
Wouldn’t Darragh be surprised? Wouldn’t he be delighted?
Humming a melody under her breath, she began preparing a meal that would consist of chilled cucumber and mint soup, roast pork with cabbage, buttered carrots, and for dessert, an apple cobbler.
She was up to her wrists in butter and flour when a knock sounded at the door. Wiping her hands on a towel, she walked into the hallway, wondering who could be calling this time. Surely not another of Darragh’s siblings, not so soon.
Preparing herself for whatever she might find, she opened the door, a pleasant smile decorating her lips. Even so, she couldn’t help but stare at the quartet of refined older gentlemen waiting on her stoop. All of them were resplendently dressed in well-tailored breeches and tailcoats, their silk waistcoats intricately embroidered. Behind them in the drive stood a large black traveling barouche with a team of four.
Sporting a head of thinning salt-and-pepper-coloured hair and a Van Dyke–style beard, reminiscent of more than a century before, the oldest of the group stepped forward.
He swept off his hat and made her an elegant bow. “Mi scusi, signora,” he began, “I am Count Arnaldo Fiorello and these are my fellow travelers, Signori Pio, Guglielmo and Ficuccio. We come seeking the Grand Signore. Please to tell him we beg his most honored indulgence and would speak with him, if he agrees.”
Her eyes widened. Clearly these gentlemen had lost their way and arrived at the wrong house. “I am sorry, but you are mistaken. Whoever it is you seek, he
is not here.”
The older man’s brow beetled. “But that cannot be. We were told to come. That the Signore, Lord Mulholland, he is here.”
This time she frowned. Lord Mulholland? The name tickled forth a memory. Were these men looking for the aristocrat who had loaned his coach to her and Darragh as a wedding present? She never had found out where the man’s estate was located, though she had written him a letter the day after her and Darragh’s arrival at the cottage to thank him for his gift. A letter Darragh had posted on her behalf.
“Signori,” she said, switching to adequate, though far from flawless Italian. “I recognize the name of the man you seek, but I am sorry to say he is not in residence, and I do not know where to find him.”
The men relaxed at her use of their language. “You speak Italian?”
“A little, yes.”
“Then you understand we have come to talk to the great architect, Lord Mulholland. We too are builders, and ardent admirers of his work. The four of us have traveled all the way from Italy to consult his wise opinion. We were told he is living here for a time instead of on his estate.”
She forced down a sigh of frustration. “Forgive me, but whoever told you that is mistaken. This home belongs to my husband, Darragh O’Brien, and myself.”
The gentleman beamed as if the sun had risen more brightly in the sky. “Sì, Lord Mulholland, as I was told.”
Now she was the one who felt confused and a bit stupid. An odd buzz tingled between her ears. “Maybe I didn’t understand you correctly. My husband is Darragh O’Brien, not Lord Mulholland.” She repeated the words again, this time in English.
The man gave her a puzzled look, replied in her language. “Yes. Darragh O’Brien and Lord Mulholland, are they not one and the same man?”
Suddenly, startlingly, the world shifted on its axis beneath her feet, as the truth clicked inside her head like a key opening a lock.
Early fall darkness was casting heavy shadows by the time Darragh arrived home from his journey north. Quickly, he stabled his horse, then rubbed the animal down before giving him water and feed. Gathering the supplies he’d purchased, Darragh hurried toward the cottage.
The delicious aromas of roasting meat, boiling vegetables and sweet pastry greeted him in a warm, fragrant cloud. He inhaled deeply, hunger leaping in his belly, anticipation for the meal to come making his tongue tingle. Letting his nose be his guide, he strolled into the kitchen.
Jeannette glanced up from her place near the stove, a voluminous white apron tied around what looked to be one of her good dresses. Fastened around her neck was a strand of pearls, her beautiful pale hair twisted up into a soft, feminine knot, adorable wisps curling at her temples.
She looked as delectable as her meal smelled. Moving forward, he bent to steal a kiss, but lithe and quick as a nymph, she danced out of reach.
“I was beginning to wonder if you had lost your way,” she commented as she stirred something in one of the pots. “Supper is nearly ready. Go change and we’ll eat.”
He was about to try again for a kiss, when he noticed the dining room table. Obviously she had taken care to set it. The table looked elegant and pretty covered with a lace tablecloth. She’d used the good china and, instead of the usual tallow ones, she’d lighted precious, sweetly scented beeswax candles. “What’s all this, then?”
“Oh, nothing much. I just felt like making the evening a little special.” She gave the long-handled wooden spoon a tap and set it aside. Coming forward, she placed her hands on his shoulders and spun him around, adding a firm little push. “Go on, now. Get out of those clothes so you don’t smell like a horse.”
He ducked his head in apology. “Yes, dear.”
Then before she could elude him, he swooped in for the kiss he’d been wanting, a quick touch of his lips to hers.
She didn’t kiss him back, easing away after a few brief moments.
He paid no attention, deciding he probably did smell like a stable from a long day of travel. In the bedroom, he stripped, then poured chilly water into the basin and washed. Taking a cue from Jeannette’s more formal attire, he dressed in one of his better suits, a dark blue superfine that complemented the vivid hue of his eyes. After brushing his hair, he used tooth powder on his teeth, then returned to the hall to retrieve the present he’d bought for her. A delicate gold locket with a spray of wild roses engraved on the front. For the inside, he planned to have miniatures of them both commissioned at a later date.
Sentimental, he supposed, but then, she made him feel that way.
A small tureen of soup was waiting on the table when he entered the dining room. “Shall I serve?” he asked.
“No,” she said, bustling in from the kitchen. “Just have a seat and I’ll do the rest.”
He took his chair.
She ladled out a bowl, the pale, creamy soup looking delightfully appetizing. Chilled soups were a delicacy, so he knew she must have gone to some trouble, including making a trip to the icehouse so she could retrieve enough chips to cool the soup.
He waited expectantly. Bowl filled, she turned to place it before him. Suddenly, her wrist bobbled and over it went, a great minty river of pureed cucumbers splashing across his chest and down between his legs.
He bit out an oath and instinctively leapt to his feet, his chair hitting the floor with a bang. But the action only made the mess worse, soup seeping through the material of his trousers and shirt, while drops of it rained upon his shoes and the carpeting beneath.
“Oh, mercy,” she cried, “are you all right? Lud, I don’t know what happened. My hand must have slipped.” She cast a chagrined glance his way and clucked her tongue. “You poor dear. I’m so sorry.”
“ ’Twas an accident,” he said, taking up his napkin to dab at the wet stains. But his efforts did little good, the material chilling his skin, and worse, his groin. He plucked at his waistband but found the action did nothing to relieve his discomfort.
“Why don’t you go change out of those ruined things,” she suggested, “while I clean this up and serve the next course.”
“What about the soup?”
“Oh, I only made enough for each of us to have a bowl. You can have mine, if you like.”
“No, no, you enjoy your soup,” he said.
On a rueful sigh, he quashed the disappointment he felt at wearing his cucumber soup instead of getting to eat it as he’d been hoping. Tossing his damp napkin onto the table, he began to turn away. As he did, he caught the faintest hint of what looked like a smile playing at the corners of Jeannette’s mouth. But when he looked closer, the expression was gone.
His imagination, he decided. Walking gingerly, he made his way to the bedroom.
When he returned, everything was clean and tidy again except for a large wet spot that remained on the floor under his chair. Easing into his seat, he watched Jeannette emerge from the kitchen, a platter of sliced, roasted pork, steamed cabbage and carrots in hand.
She set it down, then took up a dinner plate to serve. “Feeling better?”
“Aye. Nothing like a warm, dry set of clothes to put the world right.”
She’d poured glasses of red wine for them both. He reached out, lifted his glass to his lips as she placed his meal before him.
“I worked all day preparing this,” she said. “I hope you like it.”
He smiled. “Your cooking is always delectable these days, and this smells like heaven. ’Tis certain I’m going to love it.” Hungry, he waited politely for her to serve herself before picking up his fork and knife. He sliced a piece of pork, put it inside his mouth.
Heat erupted like an inferno, blazing across his tongue, scorching the tender lining of his mouth. He coughed and blinked, moisture dampening his eyes, his nose stinging and running. An overwhelming urge to spit out the chunk came over him but he resisted, knowing he couldn’t do it, not with her looking on in expectant anticipation. Instead, he swallowed, immediately regretting the action as the sensitive memb
ranes inside his throat burned like tinder set to flint.
What has she put in this? he boggled. Not black pepper. Something else, then, something deadlier. Almost like…cayenne.
His jaw nearly dropped as she took a bite of the pork roast, chewed and swallowed without so much as an extra blink. Was her mouth lined with tin that she didn’t notice the heat?
Deciding he’d better move on to safer territory, he speared a big mouthful of cabbage. But instead of the buttery, melting, caraway-flavored softness he expected, the steamed leaves crunched in a horrific scrape between his teeth. And kept crunching, over and over again as his jaw worked, nauseating grit reverberating in a grating crescendo inside his ears.
He gulped, watching as she ate her food in apparent contentment. Surely she couldn’t be enjoying this? It was the worst meal she’d made since that very first disaster. Over the past few weeks she’d become a fine cook, impressing him with her deft skill and quick ability to learn.
How could she have prepared so many dishes so badly? Unless she’d done it on purpose. He squinted at the carrots, studying them as though they were deadly explosives, ready to detonate. What sinister act, he mused, had she perpetrated upon these small golden disks? And more to the point, why? What had occurred between this morning when he’d left the cottage and his return home tonight?
She met his gaze, outwardly angelic. “How is your meal?”
“It’s…interesting.” He set down his fork. “I’m not as hungry as I imagined, though.”
“Well now, surely you have room for dessert? Apple cobbler, your favorite.”
And what had she done to ruin that? His stomach growled, protesting his hunger and the terrible fare he’d swallowed so far. As tempting as apple cobbler sounded, he decided he ought not risk it. “Uh, thank you, but no.”
“What a shame. Perhaps that’s best, though,” she said in a sweet tone, “since I let Vitruvius try it first.”
“You what?”
The Wife Trap Page 28