Jeannette gave a satisfied nod. “Thank you, Betsy, efficient as always. I don’t know how I would get on without you.”
Pleasure warmed Betsy’s eyes at the compliment. “I suspect you would do quite well, my lady, but I am glad to know you are pleased with my service.”
“I am, and glad you shall be accompanying me back to Ireland. Well, I shall leave you to the rest of the packing. We depart early tomorrow, as soon as Lord Christopher arrives.”
Kit Winter had surprised her with his offer to escort her as far as the Welsh seaport town of Swansea—at Violet’s urging, no doubt. Still, it was very decent of him to agree. Once in Wales, Jeannette, Betsy, and a trusted manservant would make the long sea journey to Cork, then hire a coach to drive them north to Caisleán Muir.
Over the past few hectic days, she’d penned hasty excuses to friends and family, canceling all her upcoming social engagements, while she and the servants made ready to close up the townhouse. This morning, she had left word with her butler that no further callers were to be received, since she’d been deluged with friends and acquaintances, all eager to know why she had decided to make such a precipitous mid-Season departure. She had no time or interest in indulging their curiosity further.
Betsy laid one of Jeannette’s gowns into an open trunk, then reached into the huge mahogany armoire for another.
Jeannette tapped a finger against her side. “Oh, I just remembered that my sewing basket is in the front drawing room. Best not wait to retrieve it, or else it shall be forgotten in tomorrow’s rush.”
Betsy paused, a pelisse draped over one arm. “Would you like me to go now, my lady, or send one of the housemaids?”
“No, don’t trouble yourself. You and the others have enough to do, and it won’t take above a minute. I’ll go myself.”
On a swish of lilac-hued skirts, she exited her bedroom and made her way through the house to the drawing room. Warm midday sunlight poured in through a set of tall sash windows. A green jasperware Wedgwood vase stood on a side table, filled with a bounty of fresh pink roses to sweeten the air. Next to the sofa, exactly where she’d left it the night before, waited her sewing basket.
Only, the basket now had an addition. Her cat, Smoke, was curled in a perfect circle atop her embroidery, black fur gleaming like midnight as he slept.
She bent close. “Naughty puss. You’re getting fur all over my cross-stitch fire screen.” Instead of shooing him out, she reached down and stroked a hand over his velvety fur. He opened a single golden eye and began to purr.
A knock sounded at the door. “My lady, pardon the intrusion,” her butler said as she straightened, “I know you are not receiving callers, but there is a gentleman who insists upon seeing you. He says he is your—”
“Husband,” declared a deep, musical voice from behind the servant.
Her heart leapt in her breast. “Darragh!”
At first glance, he appeared thinner, taller, and broader of shoulder than she recalled. Handsome and powerful, he commanded the room from the instant he stepped over the threshold. She drew a breath, finding herself suddenly short of air. Nerves beset her, heart beating at the speed of hummingbird wings beneath her breastbone.
What was he doing here? Why had he come?
She was barely aware of the butler as he bowed and withdrew from the room, her eyes riveted upon Darragh. She wanted to rush into his arms and smother his face with kisses. Instead she tucked her hands at her sides, her mind crowded with all the things she longed to say, yet somehow couldn’t seem to express now that he stood only inches away.
“Good day to you, Jeannette. You look well. That colour suits you.”
She plucked at her skirt. “Oh, this? It’s new, I…thank you. You look well yourself.” He looked tired, somber, yet oh so dear. “Why have you come?”
“I needed to see you. I…” He broke off, glancing down to his feet, where Smoke was rubbing his furry body against his trouser leg, purring and butting his head. The cat let out a plaintive meow and gave a little hop. “Is this Smoke? My how he’s grown.”
“He has. He’s no longer such a kitten. Smoke, come away now,” she coaxed, patting her thigh.
“He’s fine.” Darragh bent and lifted the cat into his arms, stroking a broad hand over the animal’s sleek frame. She wished he might do such a thing to her.
After a long moment, he set the cat onto the sofa and turned back. “My apologizes for coming without so much as a word of notice, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure what kind of reception I’d receive. I’ve taken rooms at a hotel, so you don’t have to worry I’ll impose myself upon you here.”
She bit her lip. Was the situation so grim between them he couldn’t even bear to stay in the same house? But if that was the case, why come all this way? Unless he’d come because he had to present himself in person. Because he’d decided he wanted to end their marriage, after all, and needed to petition the courts here in London. Her stomach pitched like a rolling sea, panic slicing at her throat.
“Darragh, please, I—”
“No, don’t,” he implored, raising a hand. “Let me speak first. I’ve been thinking about this, about what I’d say to you, these many weeks past. But now that I’m here, well, it’s all flying straight out of my mind.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it disheveled. Looking up, his gaze locked on hers. “I’ve been a fool, lass. An arrogant, stupid, opinionated fool. Even if I thought my intentions sound, ’twas wrong to lie to you, to trick you about the cottage, and about myself as well. I worried you’d see nothing but the trappings if I was honest, but mayhap I underestimated you, lass. You have my sincerest apology, late now though it might be.”
Her lips parted on an astonished breath.
He took a step forward and grasped her hands, dropping down onto one knee. “My only excuse is that you stir something fierce inside me, something that makes me act half crazy whenever you’re near. I should have told you as soon as I knew, but then you really would have thought me mad.”
“Told me what?” she murmured, gazing into his brilliant blue eyes.
“That I love you. That I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you, watching you swat that cursed fly while you sat in your coach, wheels stuck fast in the mud. You were the proudest, most beautiful, most magnificent creature I’d ever met. You fair took my breath away.”
“Darragh—”
“But I knew you didn’t want me, not to start. And later I feared you still wouldn’t, even if you knew the truth, so I kept it from you to prove something foolish to myself. But it’s all gone wrong. I’ve mucked it up, driven you away, when I should have held on, should have told you exactly how much you mean to me. I’ve been miserable, driving everyone to despair with my melancholy and my temper since you left. Which is why I’ve come, to win you back. Will you give me a chance?”
He swallowed, agony in his gaze. “Unless it’s too late. Please tell me it’s not. Or do you love that bast—that Markham fellow?”
“No,” she hastened to reassure him. “There’s nothing between him and me. There hasn’t been, not since we parted ways last year in Italy. He’s the one who came to Ireland to find me. I didn’t ask him, I swear. I didn’t want him. Don’t want him. I sent him away the instant we reached London and haven’t seen him since.”
Relief washed over his face, and at her urging he climbed to his feet and drew her into his arms. “Perhaps we can start anew, then. Perhaps you’ll let me court you again, properly this time. I’ll send you huge bunches of posies, take you for carriage rides in the park, escort you to all the parties you like. There’s a few weeks left in this London Season of yours, time for us to learn to know each other all over again.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he hushed her again, laying his fingers over her lips for a brief moment. “I know this is where you want to be, and so that’s where we’ll stay. Here in England, near your friends and your family. I’ll have to go back to Ireland on o
ccasion, but we can make our home here most of the year, if that’s what you wish. I’ll bring Siobhan and Moira over to live with us, since I can’t leave them to grow up in the castle alone. Finn and Michael, well, they can do on their own.”
“You mean you’d move here to London, to England, for me?”
His face sobered. “Aye, if that’s what it takes to have you. I thought perhaps I could manage without you, lass, but it just won’t do.”
She flung her arms around his neck, love welling inside her, so intense she felt as if she might burst from the pressure and the delight. “Oh, Darragh, I love you so much! I’ve been miserable without you too. And I was wrong, so wrong. You were right all along to say I was too proud, too haughty and selfish and, yes, spoiled. I should never have left, not without telling you how I felt, not without telling you again how much I adore you. I’ll admit I struggled against it. I didn’t want to love you, but I just couldn’t seem to resist. You’re everything I thought I didn’t want, and everything, I now know, that I love and need.”
He cupped her cheeks. “Shh.”
“I’ve been desolate since we’ve been apart. Let’s never be apart again.”
At her declaration, he crushed her tight in his arms, kissing her with a savage, unbridled hunger that left her gasping, her heart thundering at a dizzying pace.
“Have you a bedroom anywhere in this house?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Yes, but I fear we’d shock Betsy if we used mine, since she’s in there packing.”
His brows drew together. “To go where?”
“To Ireland. I was coming back to you, sweetheart. If you’d arrived tomorrow, you’d have found me gone, traveling back to where I belong. Didn’t you see the boxes in the hall?”
“Aye, but I didn’t imagine…I don’t understand—”
“I thought London was what I wanted, but it’s not. I don’t belong here, not anymore, not without you.”
“But you can have me, and this place. I want you happy.”
She smiled. “And I will be. At home with you in Ireland.”
His eyes widened in surprise and awe.
“I want to be your wife, Darragh. In all ways your wife, forever and always. Please say you’ll have me.”
“Of course I’ll have you. But you needn’t sacrifice so much. I came here prepared to compromise, so what do you say we meet in the middle?”
“What do you mean?”
“Part of the year here, part of the year in Ireland, or anywhere else in the world we’ve a fancy to visit.”
A slow, beautiful smile curved her lips. “Are you sure?”
“So long as you’re with me, I’ll have everything I could ever need.”
“Oh, Darragh, I love you so. Kiss me again, please, before I faint from want.”
And he did, holding her safe in the circle of his arms, the two of them in the one place they would always most long to be.
* * *
Read on for a sneak peek at
The final tantalizing book in the Trap trilogy!
The Wedding Trap
London, February 1820
This business of acquiring a husband is going to be far from pleasant, Eliza Hammond decided from her place on the saffron-and-white-striped sofa in the upstairs family drawing room of Raeburn House.
Considering this would be her fifth Season—a lowering realization indeed—she knew she would need all the assistance she could get, despite the immense fortune her late aunt had quite unexpectedly left to her only six weeks ago. At least she knew she would be able to count on the steadfast support of her dear friend, Violet Brantford Winter, Duchess of Raeburn. Perhaps with Violet’s assistance, the process would not be as dreadful as she feared. Then again, thinking of the assorted ne’er-do-wells and fortune hunters already vying for her hand, perhaps it would.
“There is Mr. Newcomb,” Violet stated as she reviewed the current selection of Eliza’s prospective suitors. “He seems a very pleasant sort of gentleman with a genuine interest in the arts.”
“Yes, he was most attentive when we happened upon each other at the gallery the other day,” Eliza agreed, recalling the man’s even features and straight auburn hair, a shade that had put her in mind of a glossy-coated Irish setter. “He demonstrated a definite command of the great masters. Perhaps he has an interest in historical subjects as well.”
“What he has is an interest in card playing, followed a close second by a love of the dice,” interrupted a deep, smooth male voice that never failed to send a pleasurable tingle down Eliza’s spine no matter how firmly she tried to suppress it.
She shifted her gaze toward Lord Christopher Winter, better known to his family and friends as Kit. Tall, broad-shouldered and ruggedly lean, he sat relaxed in a leisurely all-male sprawl upon a nearby chair. Having spent the past twenty minutes eating his way through a stack of small watercress, cucumber and chicken sandwiches, he leaned forward now to conduct a perusal of the dessert tray.
A lock of his dark wavy brown hair fell across his handsome forehead as he selected a pair of lime tarts and a thin slice of rum cake. As he transferred the sweets to his plate, he got a smudge of whipped cream on one of his knuckles. Eliza’s stomach tightened as she watched him lick it away.
She forced her gaze down to her shoes. Kit was Violet’s brother-in-law and nothing more, she reminded herself. Certainly he was nothing more to her. True, she had once nursed a secret infatuation for him, but such silliness was long since over and done. During the nearly year and a half he had been away traveling on the Continent, she had ruthlessly purged him from her heart. And by the time he returned to England this Christmas past, she had long since grown used to giving him scarcely a thought.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire him for the gorgeous male specimen he was. And Kit Winter, with his beautiful, lazy-lidded green and gold eyes, sensuous lips and infectiously charming smile, was a gorgeous man indeed. One with an infamously prodigious appetite that seemed to make no impact at all upon his trim, well-muscled physique.
He bit into one of the tarts from his plate, a tiny smile of gustatory delight on his lips as he settled back into his chair. Engrossed in the confection, he seemed utterly oblivious to the volley of disappointment he had just lobbed into the room.
Violet shot him a mighty frown. “What do you mean by that remark, Kit?”
He swallowed, glanced upward. “Hmm?” He took a drink of tea, then politely patted his mouth with his napkin. “Oh, about Newcomb, do you mean?”
“Yes, of course about Newcomb. Of whom else have Eliza and I been conversing?”
“Well, there’s no need to come up cross, Vi. Just thought I ought to give you fair warning the chap is close to being dipped. Last I heard, he lost twenty thousand quid to Plimpton playing high-stakes whist, and his luck hasn’t turned for the good since.”
Violet and Eliza released a pair of mutual sighs.
“If that is the case, then he is out,” Violet declared, turning her bespectacled blue-green gaze upon Eliza. “You certainly don’t want to take an inveterate gambler to husband.”
Eliza silently agreed, contented herself by sipping her tea.
“There is Sir Silas Jones,” Violet continued. “He sent you that sweet nosegay of hothouse roses last week. I hear he comes from a lovely part of Kent. Owns an estate that produces a most bountiful harvest of cherries and apples each year. Has quite the way with plants, I am given to understand.”
“That’s not all he’s good at planting,” murmured Kit as he polished off the last of the sweets on his plate and leaned forward for more.
Violet angled her attractively coiffured blond head. “I suppose by that you mean there is something wrong with him as well?”
“Depends upon your point of view. Some might say there’s nothing wrong with him at all.” He ate a guinea-sized crumpet topped with a generous spoonful of gooseberry jam, then silently held out his empty Meissen cup for more tea.
With
out pause, Violet lifted the heavy silver teapot from a matching silver tray and poured. A delicate tendril of steam spiraled off the surface of the beverage for a moment before Kit brought the cup to his lips.
“So?” Violet encouraged when he failed to say more.
Kit set his teacup onto its saucer with a faint clink. “Man’s a womanizer. Has six by-blows by four different women and those are only the ones he acknowledges. One might say Jones is a man who likes to plow a field.”
Eliza felt her cheeks pinken. A small guffaw escaped the duchess before Violet recovered herself.
“Kit,” Violet said in reproof. “Might I remind you there are ladies present, myself included. That is no kind of talk for the drawing room.”
He forced an irreverent grin from his lips. “Sorry. You are right, of course. My apologies, ladies.”
“Nevertheless, I am glad to learn that Sir Silas is not a man to whom my dear friend should direct her time or attentions.” Violet tapped a thoughtful nail against the scrolled sofa arm. “Of the other gentlemen who have recently extended their regards to Eliza, we know Viscount Coyle and Mr. Washburn are not to be received, the both of them known fortune hunters forever on the lookout for a likely heiress to replenish their pocketbooks.”
“What of Lord Luffensby?” Eliza said. “He sent me that very pleasant book of sonnets.” Wordsworth, she recalled with pleasure, the poet one of her favorites.
“Of course. I only met him once and very briefly, but he struck me as a most amiable man. Very considerate and gently spoken.”
A soft but unmistakable snort erupted from Kit.
Violet shot him another look, one of exasperation this time. “Pray do not tell me there is something amiss with Lord Luffensby too? Surely not. I know his cousin, and she gave me to understand that he has a most comfortable income and no predilections for the usual vices.”
“No, not the usual ones, that’s for certain.”
Violet waited for a long moment. “Oh, do go on before Eliza and I both expire of curiosity.”
The Wife Trap Page 36