He informed her his own quarters lay one story below, connected to her own through a small spiral staircase that wound up and down inside one corner of the room. He offered to lead her below to give her a tour.
“Thank you, no,” she replied in a quiet voice, quickly pocketing the key she discovered in the stairway door, before he had a chance to do the same.
He merely smiled and shook his head. “A little key won’t keep me out, lass, if I’m of a mind to get in.”
“Then you’d best not be of that mind, because you are not welcome in my rooms. Go visit your siblings, one of them may be pleased at your company.”
“Jeannette, let me—”
“Send Betsy to attend me, please. Unless you have decided to dismiss her again for lack of funds.” Turning her back, she strolled toward one of the windows and gazed out. But she saw nothing of the landscape beyond, her heart clenched tight.
He sighed. “We need to discuss this, whether now or later. But, for present, I’ll wait.”
She remained silent, refusing to turn until she finally heard him leave. Head lowered, she wiped a single tear from her cheek.
Darragh gave her a week. Enough time, he hoped, for her anger to cool, her hurt to ease sufficiently for her to agree to sit still long enough to hear him out.
Mercy, but she could freeze a man out better than a raw north wind, leaving him stunned and shivering, wondering if he’d ever be invited into the warmth again.
To everyone else in the house, Jeannette was smiling and pleasant. Even Mary Margaret, who came for a visit with every intention of disliking her brother’s English wife, soon warmed to Jeannette’s graceful charm and inviting manner. And artistic Hoyt, who lived for his stories and his poetry, hadn’t stood a chance, instantly mesmerized by her beauty, despite his obvious and enduring love for his own dear wife.
Given the parameters of their past association, Darragh’d never really seen Jeannette work a drawing room before. But after less than an hour he understood why she had been crowned the belle of London Society for two years in a row.
She poured tea, handed out sandwiches, conversed and entertained, making each person in the room feel as though they were her especial friend. A radiant sun bestowing brilliant light upon all within her orbit.
All, that is, but him. Him she ignored the way she would a pox-ridden beggar, though he had to give her points for concealing her displeasure with him when they were together with his family.
Still, some of the strain must have shown. Especially to Michael, who cast him periodic sympathetic glances interlaced with I-told-you-so shakes of his head. Darragh ground his teeth and did his best to be patient and give Jeannette time. Time to settle into her new home, time and enough distance to realize that perhaps what he’d done back at the cottage hadn’t been so very bad, after all.
It wasn’t as if he’d intended to keep her in ignorance forever, which he would already have explained if only she would unbend enough to listen. But as he had come to learn, when Jeannette felt wronged, she was about as unbending as a length of hard-forged steel.
Which left him at a crossroads. Either he could allow the rift between them to stand and possibly grow wider, or take decisive action to end it. So tonight, whether Jeannette liked it or not, they were going to have it out. And afterward, she was going to let him into her bed again.
After weeks of steady, satisfying, fabulous sex, doing without was proving a torture. A torture frequent cold baths weren’t doing much to relieve.
Darragh held his council through supper, gritting his teeth as Jeannette chatted gamely with his family—everyone, that is, but him. Michael remained the longest at table, finishing his conversation with Jeannette while he nursed a glass of port.
After a time, he caught Darragh’s stare and took the hint.
“Ah, well,” Michael said, “if you’ll forgive me, I think I’ll follow the others and turn in for the evening. I’ve a…new…um…veterinary journal to review.”
“Oh.” Jeannette set down her teacup. “Well, in that case, I suppose I shall do the same. Pray enjoy your reading, and sleep soundly.”
Michael stood, bowed. “And you as well. Good night, Jeannette. Darragh.”
Darragh came around to help her with her chair. She stiffened and climbed to her feet. Behind her, Darragh nodded to Michael, who mouthed the words good luck before Darragh followed his wife from the room.
He trailed after her, as she went up the stairs, following close on her heels so she wouldn’t have an opportunity to get too far ahead. She did a fine job ignoring him until she reached the landing that would take her up to her suite of rooms.
When he made to follow, she turned. “Pardon me, but where do you think you are going?”
“Upstairs with you.”
She shook her head. “Your rooms are just down the corridor, my lord. I suggest you find them.”
Her formality irked him, exactly as it had every day since they had arrived at Caisleán Muir. Her new penchant for calling him “my lord” ’twas another thing he planned to put an end to tonight. By tomorrow morning, Darragh would be soughing from her lips once more, assuming all went as planned.
“This trouble between us has continued long enough,” he said. “We need to talk, and this time you’re going to listen. I thought you’d be more comfortable doing so in your quarters, where we won’t run the risk of an audience.”
“We will talk later. I am tired and wish to retire.”
Knowing what she really meant was “I don’t wish to talk to you tonight or ever,” Darragh reached out and caught her arm before she could turn away. “We’ll talk now.”
Defiantly, Jeannette met his gaze. The force of his resolve rolled over her along with the strong, sensual magnetism of his appeal. She could smell the heat of him, the raw impatience that simmered just beneath his skin. Despite their rift, she knew all it would take was a single intimate touch for both of them to go up in flames. But she had done without him and the pleasure she knew his touch could bring all these many days, and she could do without him for that many more.
She held her ground. “Let me go, my Lord Mulholland.”
His jaw tightened together with his grip. “You can’t freeze me out forever, Jeannette.”
“Maybe not, but I can certainly try.” She yanked her arm from his grasp. “Good night, my lord.”
“You can tell me that again after we’ve talked. Please,” he invited, motioning toward the staircase, “ladies first.”
Irritation sparked inside her. “You are not coming with me.”
“I am your husband and this is my house. I’ll go anywhere I please.”
Standing toe to toe with him, she became aware of her chest rising and falling fast beneath her bodice, the tops of her breasts quivering with fury and a passion she cursed herself for feeling. His eyes lowered, gaze lingering on her trembling flesh. Inside that gaze, she recognized a ravenous hunger, a blue flame that burned both hot and wild.
Knowing she dare not tempt fate an instant longer, unless she cared to be ravished right there on the stairs, she gathered up her skirts and ran.
Darragh paused for an instant like a predator scenting game, enjoying the sight of her pretty ankles flashing as she raced up the stairs.
Letting loose an impassioned growl, he gave chase.
He caught up to her on the top floor, capturing her elbow to bring her to a halt. Whirling, she struggled against him and raised a hand to strike. But he captured her wrist in his fingers before she could make contact.
“Now, now, haven’t I already told you there’ll be none of that,” he scolded. “Seems you haven’t yet learned your lesson.”
“Bastard.” She twisted, trying to wrench herself free.
He secured an arm around her waist to keep her from doing him any harm. “If I set you loose, will you come along nicely to your room?”
In answer, she kicked his shin.
He sucked in a painful breath. “As you like, d
arling. We’ll do it your way.” Bending at the knees, he hoisted her up and over his shoulder.
She screamed, beating a fist against his back as she dangled head-first toward the floor. When she hit him near a kidney, he smacked her bottom through the padding of her petticoats and skirt.
Her lady’s maid was waiting wide-eyed and speechless as he sauntered through the door, her mistress draped like a hunting prize over his shoulder. “Good evening to you, Betsy,” he greeted.
“G-good evening, my lord. M-my lady.”
“Her ladyship won’t be needing you tonight. I’ll see to her needs myself.”
“He’ll do no such thing. Send for one of the footmen,” Jeannette ordered, her voice half muffled against his shirt. “Send for Michael or Finn, anyone you can think of strong enough to make this barbarian unhand me.”
“We’re just having a bit of a spat, Betsy, nothing serious, mind you. She’s as safe as a babe in my arms. Go on with you now.”
The maid hesitated in a long moment of obvious indecision, then bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried from the room.
As soon as the door closed, Jeannette gave him a fresh punch, which drove an extra breath from his lungs.
“How dare you intimidate my maid,” she said. “Now let me down.”
“I guess I’d better or else I’ll end up maimed,” he said, his back smarting from where she’d planted her last blow.
Crossing to the bed, he flopped her onto the mattress, where she bounced twice. He stepped quickly out of reach as she righted herself, coming up furious as a wet cat.
“Get out!” she spat.
“Not after I only just got in. Besides, we haven’t had our talk.”
Eyes ablaze, she scooted off the bed and strode past him. Reaching her dressing table, she dropped down onto the padded seat. “You want to talk? Then, fine, talk. But make it quick, because I want to go to bed.”
The corners of his lips curved up. “You can go to bed anytime you like, lass. I’ll even help you disrobe.”
“Keep your hands to your yourself, jackanapes.”
“That’s a fine one. Don’t think you’ve called me that before.”
“I’ll call you that and far worse if you do not leave. Get out, O’Brien.”
His eyebrows arched. “Back to O’Brien, are we? Seeing how you’re such a stickler for social niceties, Mulholland would be more accurate.”
She shot him a killing look. “Do not remind me, my lord.”
In quick, short tugs, she began yanking the pins from her hair, flinging them down, where they made tiny pinging noises on the polished, inlayed surface of her dressing table. Coiffure loosened, her hair swam in a golden cloud around her shoulders and down her back.
One glance and desire settled low and heavy in his loins. Her scent, lilac and apple blossoms, now clung to his shoulder where he’d carried her, all but driving him mad.
She reached for her brush.
On silent feet, he crossed to her. Without thinking, he bent, pressed his lips to a spot on her neck where he knew she loved to be touched. She whapped him with the brush.
He drew back. “Ow!” His eyes met hers in the dressing table mirror.
“I thought you wanted to talk,” she said.
“Aye, I do,” he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. “But I’d like to do the other as well.”
“You can forget about the other, not after what you’ve done.”
“And what is it I’ve done that’s so very terrible, lass, except bruise your pride a bit?”
“Is that what you think? That I’m upset because my pride is wounded?”
“Aren’t you? You said yourself you felt humiliated having to do the cooking and a bit of light housekeeping. But you didn’t feel that way while you were doing it, did you?”
“I would have, had I known how I was being used.”
“You weren’t being used. You were just being my wife.”
“Your wife is a countess, not a maid. You lied to me, Darragh. You tricked me in the worst possible manner.”
“And you’ve never tricked anyone?”
A flush spread over her skin, his accusation hitting its mark. She turned again toward the mirror.
He continued. “I know I deceived you about who I am, and about the cottage as well. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I thought we needed time together, time alone without all the trappings that come with being the Earl and Countess of Mulholland, including my family and this castle and an army of servants watching us around every corner.”
“So why didn’t you just tell me that? Why set up some elaborate charade and dupe me into believing you are someone you aren’t.”
“I’ve never lied to you about who I am. The title perhaps; the man, never. In all the ways that matter, I have always been honest about who I am.”
“And so have I. I am a lady. A woman who has been raised with certain expectations about how her life should be lived. A life that, for right or wrong, does not include performing menial labor. You’re right, you did wound my pride. In fact, you stripped it from me, deliberately debased me. Why is what I still fail to understand.”
“I didn’t debase you. I taught you a lesson and a well-needed one at that.”
Her mouth dropped open, anger returning. “You are a bastard.”
“And you’re spoiled and self-indulgent. At least you used to be. Before our time together in the cottage, I doubt you ever stopped to think about anyone but yourself, except upon occasion your friends and your family, but even then only when it suited your own needs.”
She jumped up from her dressing table and pointed toward the door. “I have heard enough. Leave now.”
He crossed his arms. “I’ll leave when I’m ready. From the very first, you made it plain I wasn’t good enough for you. You, the refined English beauty. Me, the lowly Irish architect, who might be all right for a stolen kiss or two, but who would never be worthy of your genuine respect and regard.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it? Didn’t you, just hours before you nearly gave yourself to me at the ball, tell me I ought to leave because I wouldn’t ‘fit in’? That those people were not part of ‘my crowd’?”
“That isn’t fair. How was I to know you were a gentleman?” she defended.
“Why should you have to know? We’d met. We’d conversed. We’d argued. I once even slept next to you on a lawn blanket, as I recall. Over many weeks, you’d had plenty of opportunity to take stock of the sort of man I am. Why should everything about me change simply because I possess, or do not possess, a title?”
Her brow furrowed, glancing downward as she hugged her arms around herself.
“You want to know why I decided to take you to that cottage,” he stated. “I did it not to debase or demoralize you, but to give us time to be a simple married couple without all sorts of conditions, be they based on the status of commoner or peer. And there is one more reason,” he said, his voice deepening. “Perhaps the most important reason of all.”
“And what is that?”
“Love.”
Her eyes, beautiful as a Grecian sea, glanced upward to meet his own.
“I wanted to know that you could love me. Not my title or my lands or my money, but me, the man you wed.”
For a moment, she looked startled, thoughtful. Then something in her expression hardened again. “And you thought stranding me in some secluded wilderness, making me cook and clean and take care of your needs like some happy little farmer’s wife, would make me love you?”
“It did, didn’t it? Admit it, lass. You love me. I know you do.”
She laughed, but it was a sound without mirth, one that sent a chill of doubt racing through his heart. He ignored it and reached out to wrap her inside his arms. “Go on. Tell me you love me.”
She wiggled her arms up between them and flattened her palms against his chest to push him away. “But I don’t. Let me go.”
“Now you’re the one who’s lyi
ng,” he said, refusing to release her. “Since the first day we met, there’s been an electricity between us, a connection neither of us can seem to sever.”
“It’s called desire. I believe we discussed this topic once before.”
“Aye, it is desire, but it’s something more besides.”
She lowered her gaze, pale lashes fanning evasively against her cheeks. “It’s nothing more.”
“Then what were all those little games we waged at your cousins’ house, if not a courtship ritual, unorthodox as it may have been? And why did you let me kiss you that time in the Merriweathers’ garden and again that day beside the pond?”
She shook her head, made a muffled noise beneath her breath. “I told you. Desire.”
“And why on the evening of the ball, when you knew you would be free of me in only a handful of hours, did you let me do all those delicious, wicked, passionate things out there in the dark in that conservatory?”
“I didn’t let you.”
“Did you not? A Society belle, who knew how to conduct far more than an innocent flirtation, allowing herself to get caught with the likes of me. From what I can see, you wanted to get caught.”
Her eyes flashed. “Preposterous. Your entire theory is nothing but stuff and nonsense.”
“Is it now? Then why are your nipples puckered tight as a pretty pair of beads?” He reached between them, flicked a thumb over her bodice and the taut flesh beneath.
She sucked in a breath and tried to yank herself out of his grasp.
He held tight, ducking his head to take her lips in a kiss both bold and persuasive. For an instant she yielded, meeting his demand. Then as though she remembered herself, and what she was doing, she turned the kiss around and bit his lip. Hard.
He drew back, tasting blood. His eyes narrowed for an instant, need making his head buzz. He swooped in and bit her back, nipping her lower lip just hard enough to sting but cause no lasting harm.
She jerked her head away, breath labored and heaving in her lungs. She stared, her gaze locked with his in a passionate war of wills and needs that radiated off her like sweat. Then just when he feared she might refuse him and herself, she gave an odd, strangled whimper and captured his head between her hands.
The Wife Trap Page 30