She had not sent for Toddy, and there was nothing between her and her old lover anymore. She had told Darragh that, but if he chose to believe otherwise, then so be it.
Into the drawing room she went, letting Toddy lounge beside her and talk, his conversation reminding her with each word of her old life and everything she had left behind. The memories he awakened stirred wistful longings inside her, longings for all the parties and entertainments, friends and relations with whom she could even now be mixing and mingling.
She had been rusticating in Ireland far too long, she told herself. Just because her life here at the castle hadn’t been nearly as grim as she would once have imagined, that did not mean she wished to become permanently immured in the countryside.
She had a right to fun and frivolity. A right to participate in the social whirl and rejoin Society should she wish, especially considering she was now a countess. A few of the loftier members of the Haut Ton might sneer down their noses at her Irish title, but they wouldn’t have the gall to cut her outright, as she once had worried they might. With careful planning and positioning, she could still conceivably rise among London’s social hostesses. After all, is that not what she had always wanted? Is that not what she had always planned?
If her relationship with Darragh were better, perhaps those things would not matter so much. Then again, if their marriage were better, she argued to herself, wouldn’t he want those things for her? Wouldn’t he want only to see her happy?
He spoke of love—hers for him. But not the reverse. His seemed a one-sided kind of affection, expecting obedience and devotion from her without any expectation of a similar commitment from him. Was it pride holding him back or did he simply not love her beyond the obvious physical pleasure he derived from her body? And if he did love her, why could he not admit it and apologize, beg her pardon and promise never, ever to lie to her again?
But he had not.
As she and Toddy continued to converse, her brothers-in-law sat over the chessboard, each of them pausing every now and again to shoot her separate, disapproving glances. Finally she decided she had had enough—of them, and of Toddy too—and rose to her feet, excusing herself for the evening.
Toddy followed her into the hallway, reaching out to stop her with a light touch. “Consider my offer, my dear. England is little more than a week away. You have only to say the word and I shall be your grateful escort, the instrument of your triumphant return to Society’s bosom. I can see you are unhappy, and despite your Irish philistine of a husband, I shall not leave until you have bade me do so.” He bowed, kissed her hand. “Think on it, ma petite. You deserve better than to molder away in obscurity, locked inside some forlorn old pile of Celtic rock.”
Frowning, more troubled than she wished to admit, she murmured a brusque good night and continued on to her bedchamber.
Hours later, lying in the murky umbra of full night, she roused from a shallow sleep to find a man standing beside the bed, cloaked in heavy shadows. Her heart skipped before settling into a more natural rhythm when she recognized his size and stance.
Darragh.
She waited, expecting him to come to her bed, unsure how she would respond, given his earlier state of intoxication and temper. Instead, he did nothing, just stood with a single fist wrapped around the bedpost, gazing down upon her. She said nothing, making no movement, as if she slumbered still.
Long minutes passed before he flung himself away, striding out as soundlessly as he had come, his catlike footsteps silent as he disappeared down the steps of the connecting passageway.
Disquieted, she curled on her side, where she lay the remainder of the night, weary but unable to sleep. Thoughts and feelings raced like a turbulent river through her mind, and not long after first light she decided what she must do. What she had to do for the sake of herself and her own dignity.
Once she knew her maid was awake, she rang for Betsy. Unnaturally calm, she ate a simple breakfast of toast with lemon curd and drank a cup of the strong Irish tea she now preferred. Afterward, she bathed and dressed, comfortable in a gown of mulberry velvet, a plum-coloured cashmere shawl draped around her shoulders for added warmth.
Hugging the material to herself, she made her way through the castle in search of Darragh. She found him in his workroom, his face pale and drawn, eyes tired, as if he too had not slept. His overindulgence in wine from last night no doubt playing havoc, she concluded.
He glanced up, pencil caught in absent distraction within his grasp. “Jeannette.”
“I would speak with you, my lord, if you might spare a moment.”
Carefully, he placed the pencil on his drawing board. “Aye, of course. Would you care for a seat?” He hastened toward a chair, reaching to sweep aside the stack of books and scrolls piled on top.
She stopped him with a quick shake of her head. “No, please, I prefer to stand.” Without giving herself time to hesitate, she plunged onward, her hands clasped before her. “I have done a great deal of thinking and I have come to a decision.”
“About what?”
“Going home.”
His brows drew together. “We have discussed—”
“Yes, and you have made your feelings on the subject more than clear. But circumstances have changed.”
“What circumstances?”
“My circumstances. I have options now that I did not have even a day ago, but I thought it only fair to ask you one last time. Darragh, will you take me to England?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Darragh stared at Jeannette out of narrowed eyes, his head throbbing mercilessly from all the wine he’d drunk the evening before. As if that weren’t bad enough, a nagging, almost bone-deep fatigue weighed upon him like a leaden sinker. He had barely slept, despite the drink he’d consumed, the alcohol failing to produce a sedative effect and lull him to sleep. Instead he’d found himself awake and alert throughout the whole long night, nursing a fury quite unnatural to his usual temperament.
Jeannette was the cause, he knew, able to ignite his temper in ways no one else of his acquaintance had ever done before.
She and that bastard Markham, that is.
How dare that popinjay come here to this house. How dare he sit at Darragh’s table, eating his food, drinking his wine, and practically make love to his wife under Darragh’s very nose, with everyone, including his little sisters, looking on.
How dare the man.
And how dare Jeannette for allowing it.
It had been all he could do not the reach out and throttle the life out of Markham, wrap his hands around the other man’s throat and squeeze until the English scoundrel’s face turned ruddy as a boiled beet, then just as lifeless.
Instead he had tossed back glass after glass of wine, letting the liquor attempt to numb his pain. Only it hadn’t. It couldn’t. He’d been teetering on a razor’s edge later, when he’d gone to her room, suspicion whipping his jealousy into a froth. Half convinced when he went inside he’d find Markham in her bed.
But he hadn’t. She’d been asleep, alone, slumbering as peaceful and innocent as a child. Not trusting himself to touch her, he’d forced himself to leave, when what he truly yearned to do was lie beside her, lose himself inside her sweetly scented warmth.
Now here she was, telling him again that she wanted to go home. Could she still not see that’s where she already was?
Massaging the bridge of his nose, he repressed a sigh. “We’ve been through this before. This isn’t the time for travel, not with winter coming on. In the spring perhaps we’ll talk of it again.”
Her lips firmed. “I wish to talk of it now. I haven’t had an opportunity to mention it before, but I had a letter yesterday from Raeburn. My sister delivered her babies, twin boys, both of them healthy and robust. Violet, I understand, is recovering well.”
A genuine smile creased his face. “That’s magnificent news. We’ll not delay in sending them a fine gift.”
“I would rather give them one
in person. If we leave now, we could stay a few weeks at Winterlea before traveling on to London around Easter; that way we would be there in time for the start of the Season.”
Easter? Easter was months away. His headache gave a hard kick against the inside of his skull.
Apparently encouraged by his silence, Jeannette continued. “I was thinking we might take out a lease on a townhouse in Mayfair. I suppose Berkeley or St. James’s Square is a bit out of our reach, but Jermyn Street might do. Mount Street or Upper Brook Street are very elegant addresses as well. Yes, any of them would be more than acceptable. We shall have to find a land agent to make the necessary arrangements. I’ll ask Raeburn who he might suggest.”
Darragh gripped the back of his chair and stared at her. Surely she wasn’t suggesting what he thought she was suggesting? In his present condition, he could think of no way to finesse the issue, so he would just have to say it out plain.
“If by all this talk you’re proposing we move to England for the next half year or more, you’ll have to put that notion straight out of your head. For one, I can’t leave Moira and Siobhan again, not so soon after I’ve been away these many months.”
“Then let us take them with us. Finn too, if he wishes. As a young man, he could do with a layer of Town bronze. Michael shall have to stay behind, I suppose, because of his animals. A shame, since he would enjoy the adventure.”
His pulse increased, an unfamiliar tension rising inside him. Last night at dinner, he’d seen the way her eyes had lighted at memories of her time in London, had seen how quickly she’d been seduced by nothing more than Markham’s words.
All the fears he’d been nursing these last weeks returned. Once in England, back among her old friends and her old haunts, she would likely sink again into the life she had been used to living. Her new home here in Ireland, for which she’d barely had a chance to gain an affection, would fade further and further away in her memory until it barely existed at all.
Then there was Markham himself, who would no doubt come sniffing back around her skirts at the first opportunity. And who knows what other men. Jeannette was an incredibly beautiful woman. Even now his gut churned, wondering if he’d been right that she had indeed invited her old lover here. She’d been outraged at his accusation, but still…
“London is no place for the girls,” he told her abruptly, his tone firm and deliberately dismissive. “As for Finn, he’d likely land himself in a world of trouble in a place so big. No, I’ve work to do here on the estate, and a design to start for a new client who lives little more than an afternoon’s ride from here.”
Posture rigid, she studied him for a long moment. “Your answer, then, I take it, is no.”
He forced his gaze to hers, cringing inwardly at the stricken expression he saw shimmering back. “That’s right. The answer is no.” Discussion over, he turned away and picked up his pencil.
“You offer me no choice, then,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“If you will not take me, then I shall go without you.”
“You’ll not be traveling alone. I won’t permit it.”
“Don’t worry, I will not be alone. Toddy has offered to escort me.”
A muscle jumped near his eye. “Toddy offered, did he? Well, I believe you missed him, since I saw his coach roll down the drive not long after first light.”
“He is waiting just beyond. He said he would not depart until after I gave him my leave.” She raised her chin. “Shall I send him word that you plan to accompany me, or shall I go with him instead?”
The pencil he’d forgotten in his hand snapped in two. He tossed the fragments aside. “Is that what you want? To run off with your lover?”
“He is not my lover, and we are not running off.”
He cast her a vicious look.
“He is simply escorting me home.”
“This is your home.”
She shook her head. “Is it? Some days I can’t help but feel isolated, cut off from everything familiar to me, including my family. At those times, I become very aware that this is an island.”
“England is an island too.”
“But it is my island, just as this one is yours.”
Panic beat a tattoo beneath his ribs. He could not let her go. How could he, when he wanted to sweep her into his arms and beg her not to leave? Tell her how much he adored her and wished their quarrel at an end. But his pride remained strong, urging him to hold firm and not give in to her demands.
She was his wife; her place should be at his side. If she loved him, she wouldn’t be talking about traveling to England without him. If she cared about their marriage, she wouldn’t be indulging her old lover and threatening to run off with the man. Instead she ought to be kicking Markham out and smacking her hands clean of his dust as he went on his way.
The thoughts fired Darragh’s temper, his aching head shortening an already dangerously short fuse. “I forbid you to leave, and that’s the end of it.”
“And how do you propose to stop me? Do you mean to keep me behind lock and key?”
Her words took him aback with sudden stunned dismay. Abruptly, a weariness stole through him, harsh as a January wind.
“Nay,” he said. “If you truly cannot bear to live here, to live with me, then I’ll not see you imprisoned. Go if you want. Go with him, if that’s what you’ve a mind to do.”
Jeannette’s limbs quivered, shock turning her weak as if the earth shook beneath her feet. She had known she was taking a risk, trying to force his hand, and yet she had never honestly expected him to tell her to go. Somehow she had hoped her declaration would push him to act, would make him admit at last that he could not do without her. In her imagination, he reached out to draw her into his arms, murmuring endearments as his lips came down upon her own. Then he would tell her that, of course, they must go to see Violet, then on to London it would be, if that was truly what she wished.
Only, she was the one who had been pushed into a corner, leaving her with a pair of unpalatable choices. Either cede every last scrap of self-determination and admit her threats were empty—that she didn’t want to go anywhere without him—or else carry through with her ultimatum and depart exactly as she had said she would.
A small crack formed in the vicinity of her heart as she made her decision. “Very well. I shall pack and depart today.”
Darragh stared sightlessly down at his drawing table, not wanting her to witness the hell he knew must be visible in his eyes. “As you like, but don’t imagine this sets you free.”
“What?”
“Wherever you may live, you are still my wife. I will never grant you a divorce, no matter how miserable the pair of us may be. You and I are locked together for life. So if you were hoping you could be done with me and marry your lover once you return to England, you can put that notion from your mind.”
Her pretty visage was pinched with sorrow. “I have no such intentions.”
“Go, then, if that’s what you want,” he ordered in a rough voice. Go, he whispered in his head, before I fall on my knees and beg you to stay.
She paused for another long moment, then whirled and fled the room.
Slumping into his chair, he set his head into his shaking hands and wondered if he would ever see her again.
“My lady, I am sorry to wake you, but we have arrived.”
The gentle cadence of Betsy’s voice cut through Jeannette’s somnolent haze. Opening her eyes, she gazed out the coach window to see the immense, elegant stone façade of Winterlea, principal residence to the Winter family for over 250 years. One of the grandest homes in all of England, the stately house stretched outward like a great lion at rest, regal and proud, mighty in its bearing and scope and architectural grandeur.
Darragh would find the structure fascinating. And he could be studying it right this minute, if only he had agreed to accompany her here to Derbyshire.
A bitter lump collected beneath her breastbone. She still could
not believe it had all gone so dreadfully wrong. Yet perhaps it was for the best. She could never have agreed to reside permanently in Ireland. Always she would have longed to return to England, for part of the year at least. And even if Darragh had no interest in joining the social whirl in London, she did. She had never tried to disguise her wishes in that regard. He’d known who she was, the background from which she came, when he married her.
But, ah, she forgot, he had not wished to marry her. Instead he had been trapped, just as she had been. She only wished in the process the price had not been her heart.
Well, it made no matter. She would recover somehow and take solace inside Society’s arms just as she had always planned. In time her present unhappiness would fade and she would feel herself again. Once she had a chance to settle in and let her life resume its full and natural course, she would quit wanting to weep at the least provocation and scarcely give Darragh O’Brien a passing thought.
And who knows, in a few years she might decide to take a lover. But for now she wanted no man, particularly not Toddy Markham.
Four days ago, the pair of them had parted ways at a coaching inn in London, much to his visible displeasure.
“Jeannette, dearest,” Toddy said, folding her hands inside his. “Stay with me. Let me make you happy. I wronged you before, I know, and I am more sorry than I can ever express. Please give me a chance to set things right.” He kissed her knuckles, one hand then the other. “Remember all the fun we used to have? We’ll have that again and more. I’ll lease a house, something close to you. It won’t be so hard to see each other, especially with your husband living an entire country away. Mulholland’s a fool, you know, to have let you leave.”
She tugged her hands from his grasp. “Perhaps so, but he is still my husband and I will not betray him by lying with another man. I do thank you, however, for bringing me home.”
His lips thinned. “And that’s to be it? A simple thank-you-for-escorting-me-home and nothing more?”
The Wife Trap Page 33