She’d cried for an entire afternoon and evening after his letter arrived, twisting around and around and around the gold band he’d placed on her finger on their wedding day. The next day she’d dried her eyes and determined to put him from her mind, and her heart.
She should be ecstatic. She had everything she wanted. Her own townhouse in London, a generous stipend and the freedom to move about in Society as she willed, now that she was a married woman. It was the life of which she’d always dreamed, and she didn’t even have to put up with a husband to have it. He would live in Ireland, and she would live here. What could be better? And should he decide sometime in the future that he wanted an heir, she would do her duty and find it within herself to provide him with one.
But she wouldn’t dwell on that now. Now was the time to make merry. And she would, especially once the Season began. Entertaining as Christabel’s house party might be, it was still a country affair. She needed the city again, Jeannette told herself. London, where there was never a lack of thrilling things to do and see.
Once Christabel’s party ended, Jeannette had another house party to attend, and one after that. By then spring would be in the air, and with it Society’s return to Town. That’s when her new life would truly begin. The moment when she would be happy once more. At least, that’s what she hoped.
“Your move.”
“Hmm?” Darragh murmured.
Michael shifted in his chair. “I said it’s your move, lad, and if you don’t start minding the game, I’ll be capturing that rook of yours in another pair of turns.”
“What?” Darragh roused himself from his mental wanderings, stared hard at the chessboard.
Blister it, he thought, I have no idea what move to make. He couldn’t seem to keep his head in the game. Couldn’t seem to stay focused on much of anything these days. Knowing his brother was waiting, he forced a decision and slid a black marble knight forward to capture one of Michael’s white pawns.
His brother clucked his tongue, making a quick move of his own that let him sweep two black pawns off the board and left his queen in a position to take Darragh’s rook, as promised, on the next play. “Why do you not admit you’re miserable and go after her?”
Darragh shot him a scowl. “And why don’t you mind your own bloody business and keep your nose out of mine?”
Michael raised his whiskey glass to his lips, took a swallow. “I would if you weren’t driving us all mad with these blue-devils of yours. Your temper’s so short these days I could use it to light my cheroots.” He lifted the cigar in question and drew on it, releasing a long, slow puff of smoke into the air. “Yesterday you made Moira cry.”
“I apologized to her for snapping. She understood.”
“Aye. We all of us understand. You need your wife back. So quit stewing in your own sour juices and go get her.”
If only it were that easy, Darragh thought. Since Jeannette had gone away, he had been wretched. At first he’d held on to the fragile hope that she might change her mind, make that scoundrel Markham turn the coach around and return. But she hadn’t. One day melted into two. Five into a week. Three weeks into a month, then more, as winter cast its chill over the earth before relinquishing its grip to the inexorable greening warmth of spring.
In all that time, he’d had only a pair of letters from her, each of them brief. The first informed him that she had arrived safely in England and would be residing for a time with her sister and brother-in-law at their Derbyshire estate. The second letter arrived weeks later, thanking him for the generous allowance he’d provided and for the London townhouse, which she described as “attractive and comfortable.”
She made no mention of her feelings toward him. Said nothing about whether or not she was still seeing Toddy Markham. And gave no indication she had any intention of ever returning to Ireland.
Of course, he’d said virtually nothing in reply to her either, too angry at first, then too desolate to make the effort.
He tossed back the last of his whiskey, taking grim satisfaction in the discomfort that burned along his throat. “ ’Tis plain she doesn’t want to come back. She made her wishes clear enough the day she left.”
“Then you’re a fool to have let her go.”
“And what would you have had me do to stop her? Chain her in the old dungeon? Lock her in the round tower? She wanted to leave. What choice had I but to set her free?”
“Did you think to tell her you love her?”
“She knows my feelings.”
But did she? Had he ever once actually said the words I love you? He had thought them dozens of times, he knew. He had expressed them in countless ways, especially when they made love. But perhaps because of their troubles since arriving at Caisleán Muir, that particular sentiment had gotten lost. Maybe if he had told her straight out how much he cared, she might have stayed.
Still, after all they’d been through, could she really believe he did not love her? With the depth of passion that raged between them, it seemed impossible.
“What does it matter?” Darragh demanded, thumping his glass against the table hard enough to make the chess pieces shift on the board. “She says this isn’t her home, that she wants to live in England. Well, I want to live here. Where is there any room in that for compromise?”
“There’s always room for compromise, if you want a thing badly enough. The question is, how much is she worth to you? Do you love her enough to set aside your worries and your stubborn Irish pride? Or will you give her up and let her go for good? The choice is yours.”
Jeannette whirled in the arms of a handsome lord, surrounded by the light of a hundred burning candles and the warm press of the three dozen other couples squeezed onto the dance floor. Clove-scented honey water and an attar of roses competed with the effervescence of champagne, hair pomade and human perspiration, to make for a rather intense mix.
The soiree was what one might term “a sad crush,” guests packed in the way sheep were herded into a market pen. Precisely as the hostess desired, since her entertainment would now be deemed a complete success. Who had attended, what they had worn and ate, who danced with whom and how many times would all be written up in tomorrow’s Society column, fodder for the Ton and the masses alike.
It was the kind of party Jeannette had always adored, but tonight she admitted that, once again, she was not enjoying herself as she ought. Seven weeks into the Season and the myriad fêtes, soirees, musicales, card parties, breakfast parties, suppers and routs were all beginning to run together into an indistinguishable blur. She’d had an entirely new wardrobe made, but the novelty had waned already. And the pleasure of calling upon her friends to take afternoon tea and gossip about the latest happenings and scandals had grown into a wearisome chore. She didn’t even enjoy the eager attentions of the dozen attractive men all vying to become her cisisbeo. She had no interest in taking any of them as a lover, and after a while even the most elegant of the pack were turning into bores.
She’d been so sure London would cure her ennui, lift her flagging spirits. And initially it had, as she reveled in the fast pace and hubbub of city life, thrilling to the sights and scents and sounds. But far too soon she had begun to grow tired of it. Seeing the same faces, playing the same games, doing the same sorts of activities day in, day out. The parties were of the highest caliber, and yet they were sadly tedious. Many of the people vapid and shallow in a way she had never really noticed before.
Is this to be my life, then? she wondered. An endless merry-go-round of parties and social calls? Is there to be nothing else?
But what else did she want? Wasn’t this exactly the kind of life she would once have given her soul to have? So what had changed?
Darragh, she thought, his name whispering in her head. Darragh and Ireland are what had changed. And because of him, because of the place, she was no longer the person she had been even a year ago. It was as though a curtain had been yanked aside, showing her life from a completely different pe
rspective. Unquestionably, she still loved parties and people, but without Darragh by her side, everything somehow seemed washed in gray.
The music came to an end, the dance done. She thanked her partner after allowing him to escort her from the dance floor. Nearly one o’clock, she saw by the tall casement clock standing along a nearby wall. Not late by this crowd’s estimate, but late enough tonight for her. With a dispirited sigh, she went in search of her mother, who had shared a carriage with her to tonight’s party.
“Mama, I am going home.”
Her mother raked concerned eyes over her. “But why? Are you unwell, dear? Have you come down with the headache? The air is very close in here tonight, what with so many guests. Sheila really ought to open a few windows, but you know how she is about drafts.”
Their hostess, Lady Farnham, had a notorious fear of colds and disease. Consequently, she kept her windows sealed and her rooms far too warm.
Jeannette shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I am simply a tad fatigued. If you would like to stay, I can have the carriage sent back for you.”
“No, no, let me say my good nights to a few people, then we’ll be on our way.”
Mama’s good nights took nearly an hour, leaving Jeannette more than a little vexed by the time she and her mother climbed inside the carriage for the journey across town.
Jeannette leaned back against the satin squabs, stared out the darkened window, the quiescent clip-clop of the horses’ hooves resounding against the street pavers in a soothing cadence.
“Well, that was a most satisfying evening,” her mother declared, tucking her fan inside her reticule. “And despite the crush, one can never fault Sheila Watt for her hospitality. Her food is quite the best I’ve ever had. Stole the Oxneys’ chef out from under their noses, don’t you know. An Austrian fellow, so I understand. I hope you tried the medallions of beef, and the brandied squabs. Your father would have enjoyed himself at table tonight, you know how he loves fine cuisine. But he would insist on going to his club.” She gave a derisive sniff. “Men. One can do nothing with them really. Most unaccommodating creatures.”
Jeannette remained silent, well used to her mother’s opinion on the subject.
“And speaking of unaccommodating males, you really must write that husband of yours. Imagine leaving you without an escort during the Season, and in your very first year of marriage. There’s been talk, you know. And were it not for your established popularity among the Ton, I fear some might have turned their backs on you.”
Jeannette turned her head. “I beg your pardon, Mama?”
“Well, I don’t mean to upset you, love, but truly, what can you expect? That man you married is Irish, after all.”
Jeannette felt her lips tighten. “There is nothing wrong with being Irish.”
“So you say, but if he were English, he would have the manners to present himself to his in-laws and to Society at large. Why is he hiding himself away? There are many whispering, wanting to know.”
Jeannette’s fingers curled in her lap. “He isn’t hiding. I’ve explained before, Mama, he is a very busy man. He…he simply could not come at this time.”
“Yes, his architectural pursuits, was it not?”
“And his estate business.”
“Estate business can be handled by a bailiff, for the length of the Season anyway. As for this other business, this architecture of his, it really will not do, Jeannette. It’s rumored he has received payment for his services,” she finished in a scandalized tone.
Jeannette’s chin came up. “Yes, he has. To aid his family.”
Her mother let out a soft gasp. “Well, he must give it up immediately. Dabbling in architecture as a pastime is quite one thing, but to be earning money from it…well, no true gentleman earns his living.”
Temper simmered through her. “Darragh does. And I see no shame in it at all.”
“Jeannette—”
“What he does is honorable and useful and, yes, even beautiful. The new wing he built for our cousins is magnificent. I have never seen work any better. And what he has done to improve his own property, his castle that once lay nearly stripped to its bones, is nothing short of breathtaking. He trained and studied and sacrificed in order to restore his family’s wealth, his family’s name. And if he accepts payment for his efforts, I see nothing shameful in that despite his being born a gentleman.”
“No English gentleman would accept money in trade.”
“No, he would marry for it instead. A far less honorable way of replenishing the family coffers, if you ask me.”
Her mother set a hand to her bosom. “What in heaven’s name has gotten into you? Truth be told, I haven’t wanted to mention it, but you have not been entirely yourself since you returned from that savage place. Nor since you wed that obviously uncivilized man.”
“Darragh is very civilized.” And suddenly she realized the truth of those words. Darragh, in his own unique way, was very civilized. Perhaps the most civilized man she knew. A man of conviction and resolve, who did things not because of what he’d been told to do, but because of what he believed he should do.
“If these are the kinds of notions he’s been planting in your head,” her mother continued, “then I am sincerely glad you have returned. He is not a proper influence on you. Best perhaps if he does not come to London, after all. He would only drag you down.”
“He would do nothing of the kind. He is the Earl of Mulholland and my husband, and I would be proud to stand at his side, anywhere, anytime.”
“Even if he becomes the ruin of you? Think, my dear, you have always longed to be a leader of Society. Should certain details about him be revealed, that dream will slip out of your reach. You will never be the woman your grandmother was.”
Jeannette waited for the pang, the old sense of inadequacy to hit her. Instead she felt nothing. No regret. No disappointment. Only a peculiar kind of relief, as if a great burden had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. Her goals, the things she had always assured herself she wanted, no longer seemed so important. And as for Society, well, it could think and do as it liked and so would she.
“I don’t want to be my grandmother. She was beautiful and popular and everything a Society matron should be. But underneath she was brittle, rather cold and unhappy.”
“Jeannette!” her mother scolded. “You should not say such things.”
“Why not? Is it not the truth? Did you never wish, just once, that she would reach out and hug you, tell you you were all right exactly as you are? Did you ever wonder if living up to other people’s rules might be overrated? Violet has. Violet does. Oh, she conforms enough to be accepted, but at her heart she acts as she sees fit, Society be damned. And so does Darragh. I’m only now beginning to understand they’re both of them right.”
“As soon as we reach Wightbridge House, I’m sending for the physician,” her mother wailed.
“I don’t need a physician, Mama. I need my husband back, don’t you see? That’s why I haven’t been happy here. Why none of this satisfies me as I once thought it did. I love him, and I miss him, and I walked out when I should have stayed and worked through our differences, instead of running from them.”
But first, Jeannette supposed, she needed to forgive him for his deceit, for his tricks and lies at the cottage. He’d said he’d set up his hoax for them, and at the time she’d thought his statement utter nonsense, a flimsy excuse made to cover up the insensitivity of his scheme.
Yet maybe he had not meant his deception to be cruel. She could see now that some of his assertions about her had been true. She had been dreadfully spoiled and self-centered. And she had been a snob, more concerned about his outward status than about the man he was inside.
But could she trust him? He had lied to her about his entire identity. Could she put his falsehoods in the past and move forward? Let herself love him with a full and open heart? She might end up hurt. Yet was she not hurting now? Was she not miserable without him? And
if she must be miserable, then why do so alone? Trusting him was a risk, but one she realized she would have to take if she ever hoped to find happiness. And wasn’t love at its very core a risk?
What if he didn’t love her?
Her spirits sank for a moment, then her optimism returned. If he didn’t love her, then she would have to convince him he did. He desired her, she knew that, and once she really turned on her charm, Darragh O’Brien wouldn’t know what had hit him. Before she was through, he would wonder how he’d ever survived without her.
“I will make this succeed,” Jeannette murmured softly.
“What’s that? What are you saying?” her mother asked, her brow wrinkled with alarm.
“I’m saying I’m going back to Ireland. I’m going back to Darragh to save what’s left of my marriage. I love him, and until this moment I hadn’t truly realized why. It’s because he lets me be myself like no one else in the world. With him there is no pretending, no pretense. Just me and him being the people we are. I want that back. I want another chance. And with any luck, he’ll soon discover he does too.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Betsy, did you remember to pack my peach silk gloves in the valise instead of the trunk?”
“Yes, my lady. I laid them alongside your handkerchiefs and hair ribbons.”
“And the gifts we boxed up yesterday? You reminded the footmen those cases contain breakable items? A pair of Meissen dresser sets for the girls, and a Sèvres tea service for Mary Margaret? The men’s gifts I’m not so concerned about, since there is little chance of damage to those. Although the horse sculpture for Michael could suffer dents if not properly handled.”
Her maid wrapped tissue around one of Jeannette’s evening gowns. “I spoke to each of the footmen personally, my lady, and pointed out which boxes require special attention. Thomas, the head footman, assured me every care will be taken for their safe transport.”
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