TheWifeTrap (15 page)

Then there was the elaborate glass-walled conservatory that each
day rose steadily toward the sky like a glittering cathedral. And Bertie’s
laboratory, a small square stone house placed well away from the main residence
in case of future calamity.

Once completed, the renovation would be stunning, and worthy of
genuine praise.

All that aside, her days had grown dull as proverbial dishwater.
Sweet and well meaning as they might be, her cousins had proven themselves to
be two of the most thoroughly eccentric, reclusive people she’d ever met.
Except for church on Sundays and Wilda’s small card parties, Wilda and Bertie
never did anything even remotely social.

Bertie occupied himself with his books and plants and experiments.
Wilda with her sewing, reading and gardening. To her horror, Jeannette had
discovered that Wilda did most of the work in the garden herself. Her cousin
had even suggested last week that Jeannette join her in trimming back the
rosebushes and preparing some of the flower beds for fall. Worst of all, she’d
been so bored she’d actually agreed!

Jeannette shuddered anew at the memory, then pushed it aside.

She sighed, her shoulders falling into a mournful slump. Chilly
raindrops continued to patter on the windowpanes while she slouched in her
chair.

A gentle knock sounded at the door.

“Come,” she said, sitting up straight.

One of the housemaids entered, bearing a letter on a silver
salver. The girl curtseyed. “ ’Tis just now arrived for you, me lady. The
housekeeper asked me to carry it up to you.”

Jeannette smiled and waved her over. “How delightful.” She picked
up the letter, but made no effort to open it, not in front of the servant.

The girl hovered, obviously unsure of herself.

Jeannette nodded. “Thank you. You may go now.”

The maid bobbed another curtsey and retreated from the room,
closing the door behind her.

Jeannette glanced at the envelope, recognizing Raeburn’s frank wax
seal. The missive must be from Violet, since nothing short of a gun to his head
would prompt Adrian to write to her these days. She smiled, her mood elevating
a bit. Settling back into her seat, she used a silver opener to reveal Violet’s
words.

Dear sister,

I hope this missive finds you well, or as well as can be
expected considering your current privation. As promised, I will try to speak
to Mama again on your behalf when she and I next meet. However, I do not hold
out a great deal of hope that she will be amenable to listening. Not long ago,
she attended Lady Symmerson’s annual country musicale and she says she could
barely force herself to remain for all the whispering about her and the scandal
we caused. Afterward, she suffered another one of her nervous attacks and
remained abed for a week entire. She corresponds with me quite regularly,
though I confess to still feeling the sharp side of her tongue even in her
letters. If not for my being with child, I fear she would cease to speak to me
at all.

Jeannette snorted, knowing how that felt. Until the scandal, Mama
had never been cross with her, not even when she’d deserved it. Since her
exile, her mother had written only twice. Once to confirm she’d arrived. The
second time to lecture her for her misdeeds and to castigate her for all the
shame she’d brought into her parents’ lives.

Jeannette read on.

Speaking of such matters, I have the most astonishing news. As
I told you before, I was convinced the baby must be an elephant, I am so
horribly large. Dear Adrian called Doctor Montgomery to examine me. He listened
to my belly with a very odd little device and said he heard two distinct
heartbeats. He believes I am carrying twins! Adrian turned quite ashen with
worry for my health but he has since recovered, being assured by the doctor
that my delivery should pose no undue difficulties. Imagine, Jeannette, twins.
Do you think they shall be identical like us?

Jeannette lowered the letter to her lap, abruptly homesick.
Despite their past difficulties, she wished she could be there to help her
sister through this trying but exciting time. Brave as her words might be,
Violet had to be nervous, especially knowing she carried two babies instead of
one. Jeannette hoped she didn’t someday suffer the same fate as her sister. One
child at a time would be more than sufficient for her.

Besides, she pouted, she was missing all the fun. If her parents
didn’t relent soon and tell her she could come home, she wouldn’t have a chance
to see Violet waddle around. Nor would she be there for the birth and
christening this winter.

She considered penning a reply to her twin, but a glance at the
clock showed her it was past time she dressed for supper. Folding up the letter,
she rang for Betsy.

“…he says that in spite of the earlier unfortunate delays, the work
is now moving along splendidly,” Bertie announced in between bites of poached
salmon in caper sauce and buttered roast potatoes. “Our new wing should be
finished in no more than another month complete.” He and Wilda shared pleased
smiles while Jeannette looked on.

She swallowed against an odd constriction in her throat and
reached for her glass of wine. Another month and all the workmen would be gone,
Mr. O’Brien with them. Well,
huzzah,
since that would turn the
mornings deliciously quiet and leave her free to sleep as late as she wished.

She should be ecstatic over the news.

She was ecstatic. Of course she was.

Frowning, she picked at her fish with her fork, an odd melancholy
rolling through her. She just needed a bit of cheering up, that was all. Relief
from the endless daily monotony of her current existence. If she were at home,
her answer would be to throw a party.

She paused and drank another sip of wine.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Setting her fork aside, she patted her lips dry with her napkin.
“I have the most wonderful idea. We must host a ball.”

Wilda’s eyebrows bobbed upward like a pair of corks, while Cousin
Cuthbert’s forehead scrunched into a mass of wrinkled lines.

“Oh, dear, I don’t believe we have ever had a ball,” Wilda said in
a faint voice. “No, no, nothing larger than a holiday luncheon for some
visiting friends and relations several years ago.”

Only pure willpower kept Jeannette from rolling her eyes. “Then it
is well past time you entertained. And what better reason than the completion
of your new renovation? Clearly a time for celebration.”

Bertie grunted. “Being able to use the new wing and my laboratory
shall be celebration enough. No need to invite a bunch of people over to crowd
up the house.”

“But what about the conservatory?” Jeannette persisted. “Surely
you would like to show off your amazing display of plants. You must have
colleagues who would be delighted by a firsthand view.”

Bertie paused, clearly caught up by the idea. “Well, there are my
fellows in the Royal Horticultural Society. Many of them would have to travel
from Dublin and beyond, but I daresay they’d be agreeable, considering the
requests I’ve received to view my
Epidendrum nocturnum.
I suppose it
might be an excellent occasion, as you say, to display my collection.”

“Just so,” she agreed with extravagant enthusiasm. “And Cousin
Wilda, surely you would love to set up several tables of cards in your new card
room. Just think of the exciting games you could initiate.”

A soft smile curved over the older woman’s lips. “Oh, I had not
considered that. We could have cards, could we not?”

“Why, of course. It wouldn’t be a successful ball without offering
cards for those who do not care for dancing. In addition to the ladies with
whom you regularly play whist, there must be others of good breeding in the
area who would be eager to accept such an invitation.”

“Yes, there are a few families who might be willing to come.”
Wilda raised an anxious hand to her chest. “But dear me, I’m not sure I would
feel comfortable organizing such a large undertaking.”

Jeannette waved a hand. “Leave all the details to me. I thrive on
arranging parties and gatherings. There’s only a month to prepare but I am
certain we can put together a spectacular event in that amount of time. I
assure you, once I’m done no one will talk of anything else for months to come.
Perhaps years. Why, even your colleagues from Dublin will have nothing but
compliments, flattered to have received an invitation to such an illustrious
function. Envious they did not host it themselves.”

Jeannette clapped her hands in excitement. “So, is it settled?
Shall we have a ball?”

Bertie and Wilda exchanged bemused glances, then nodded their
heads in unison.

“Yes, dear, let us proceed,” Wilda declared.

Chapter Ten

The next month passed more rapidly than the two that had come
before, as Jeannette oversaw the plans for the Merriweathers’ ball.

On the morning of the event, she stood, gesturing around the
ballroom with a hand, the space overlain by the clean scents of polish wax and
fresh flowers. “No, no, the pink and white hollyhocks in the epergne are to go
on the sideboard over there. While the chrysanthemums and accompanying greenery
should be placed in the large pedestal vases near the musicians’ stand.”

Mrs. Ivory, the housekeeper, nodded and instructed the pair of
footmen hovering nearby to begin making the necessary changes.

“What about the lobster patties, my lady? The fishmonger arrived
at half-six this morning and the order was short of lobsters by nearly a full
crate.” The woman clucked in obvious disapproval. “Cook gave him a fine
scolding, she did, but what’s to do about it now?”

Jeannette tapped a considering finger against her hip. “There are
plenty of prawns, are there not?”

“Yes, my lady. More than sufficient.”

“Then instruct Cook to create a new dish using prawns, and perhaps
serve more oysters as well, to make up for the deficiency of lobster. That
should resolve the problem while still leaving a proper selection of seafood
for the buffet.”

“Very good, my lady.”

“Anything further?”

“No, my lady, not at present. The silver and crystal are being
cleaned and polished. The chandeliers have been dusted and fresh candles set
in. And the last of the rooms are being readied for the guests expected to stay
overnight, arrangements made among staff to accommodate the visiting servants
as well.”

“Excellent. It sounds as though plans are proceeding apace.”

Mrs. Ivory nodded, then curtseyed as she prepared to withdraw.

“Before you go,” Jeannette said, stopping the older woman, “I
would like to tell you on behalf of my cousins and myself what a fine job you
and the staff are doing, and have done over the past few weeks. Even my
parents’ staff in Surrey would not have done a better job.” Jeannette folded
her arms at her waist. “Assuming nothing essential goes awry, tonight’s
festivities are sure to be a splendid success. Please thank everyone on my
behalf.”

Pleasure moved over the housekeeper’s plump features, a wide, toothy
smile spreading across her lips. “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady. It’s that
much harder we’ll work tonight to make certain nothing goes amiss. If you’ll
excuse me now, Lady Jeannette, I’ll be off to have a talk with Cook about those
shrimps.” Murmuring more words of gratitude, the servant curtseyed again and
hurried away.

With satisfaction, Jeannette watched the woman depart.

During the past four weeks, she had truly been in her element. She
loved many things, but nothing compared to the thrill of a party, whether
planning one or simply being in attendance.

At first, poor sweet Cousin Wilda had done her best to help, but
unaccustomed to lavish gatherings, she had soon found herself overwhelmed by
the preparations. Jeannette gladly stepped into the lead, taking command like a
seasoned general assuming control on the eve of a great battle. Rallying her
troops in a way that would have made Wellington proud, she had orchestrated the
entire affair, from penning invitations in an elegant hand to deciding upon the
food and wine that would be served.

The one area she had left entirely up to Wilda was the flowers, a
responsibility her cousin had been delighted to accept. As for Cousin Cuthbert,
once he’d presented his list of friends and colleagues to invite, he’d hidden
himself away in his makeshift laboratory and hadn’t been seen since—except, of
course, for meals.

A pair of footmen stepped out of the room, leaving Jeannette
momentarily alone. She turned a slow circle, admiring the decor. The
floor-length maroon velvet curtains, the flocked Chinese print wallpaper
painted in shades of red and gold, the gleaming wooden floors and double-hung
sash windows that opened to let in the light and air. She drew in a breath,
enjoying the hint of fall-blooming jasmine that teased her nostrils.

For once the house was silent. Free at last of the constant racket
made by O’Brien’s crew of pesky carpenters and craftsmen. Finishing the
renovation had been a close thing, work on the new addition concluding only
three days prior. She had experienced a few moments of panic when the week
began and O’Brien and his men were still setting the last touches into place.
But they had since finished their work as promised, packed up their tools and
supplies and then been on their way. Leaving just enough time for the servants
to give the new rooms a thorough cleaning then carry in and arrange the
permanent furnishings. They had also labored under Cuthbert’s terse, worried
directions to transfer his extensive collection of exotic plants to the
conservatory.

O’Brien had not stopped to say good-bye.

More wounded than she’d wanted to admit, Jeannette refused to give
in to the desire to seek him out one final time. If he did not wish to see her,
then she certainly had no interest in seeing him. Anyway, what would they say
to each other? Likely they might exchange a few words of meaningless small
talk, mentioning nothing of their sparing and wrangling. Their teasing and
flirtation. Their kisses.

Her eyes slid shut as memories assailed her. Memories of the way
his lips had felt pressed to hers, intense and passionate and impossible to
resist. The heady male scent of him heating her blood, swimming inside her
brain. His tantalizing flavor lingering wicked as sin on her tongue. And his
body, his tall, sinewy, powerful body holding her to him as if he never again
wanted to let her go.

Shivering, she curled a fist against her chest where her heart
raced, unnerved by the fierceness of her reaction, and disturbed by the
dejection that swept over her like an icy wind. Why should she care if she
never saw him again? What did Darragh O’Brien matter to her?

Nothing, she assured herself. Nothing whatsoever.

Opening her eyes, she gazed around the room, forcibly reminding
herself of the exciting evening ahead. She had much to celebrate, after all.
Tonight was the night of her ball, the first she would enjoy in many long
months. Perhaps Inistioge wasn’t London. Perhaps many of the Merriweathers’
friends and neighbors were a group of provincials. But tonight she had every
intention of enjoying herself. She’d done her best to imbue the festivities
with equal measures of elegance and animation. Every single person attending
tonight would have fun, or she would want to know the reason why.

And that went double for her.

Yet not all the company were locals. Included on the guest list
were several Englishmen, a couple of them titled gentlemen who had decided to
travel all the way from London to see Cousin Cuthbert’s latest botanical
acquisitions. Who knows, mayhap she’d meet someone new. Someone special.
Someone simply dripping with titled good looks and money who would erase
Darragh O’Brien from her mind, as though he’d never existed at all.

Footsteps rang in soft percussion against the wooden floor as one
of the footmen crossed to her. “Excuse me, my lady, visitors have arrived.”

“Already? The first guests aren’t expected until later this
afternoon. Well, there’s nothing for it. Please inform Mrs. Merriweather we
have company.”

“Certainly, my lady. But the guests asked specifically for you. I
took the liberty of putting them in the yellow drawing room.”

Guests asking for her? How curious. She couldn’t imagine who it
might be since she was not personally acquainted with any of the people
arriving for tonight’s ball. True, she had organized the guest list and written
out the invitations herself, but surely they would have asked for Wilda and not
her.

Obviously the footman must be in error.

Well, it would be impolite to leave guests waiting on their own.
She would see to their comfort and amusement until her cousin arrived.

Nodding her thanks to the footman, who stepped aside after a bow,
she exited the ballroom. When she reached the closed drawing room doors, she
paused and checked to make certain her gown of spotted peach muslin appeared
exactly as it ought. Shoulders straight, she entered the room and felt her eyes
turn round and wide. She hung in the doorway, brass knob gripped in her hand as
four familiar faces turned her way.

“Violet!”
she exclaimed, her voice pitching high in happy
astonishment. A giddy laugh escaped her as she hurried forward into the room.
“Dear heavens, is it really you? All of you. Here!”

From her spot on the cream damask sofa, her twin met her look with
a blue-green gaze, identical to her own except for the fact that Violet’s eyes
were half hidden behind a pair of gold, wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Yes, it’s true. We are all of us really here.” Violet grinned
widely and laid a pair of hands over her pregnant stomach. “Including these
two, who had absolutely no say in the matter.”

Shifting forward, Violet started to rise. She made it a bare few
inches upward before she lost her balance and plopped ignominiously back down
onto the sofa cushions. Momentarily floundering, Adrian rushed forward to
steady his wife and help her to her feet.

Jeannette looked shocked. Violet had warned her she was large with
child, but Jeannette hadn’t realized exactly how large. Violet’s belly
protruded, round and ripe as a prized melon ready for exhibit at a country
fair. To the casual observer, her twin looked on the verge of giving birth, but
Jeannette knew she had another three months to go.

At least carrying twins hadn’t caused Violet to retreat into her
old unfashionable habits, Jeannette noticed. Violet’s carmine traveling dress
very becoming, making her plump cheeks glow with radiance and beauty. On second
thought, perhaps pregnancy was responsible. And a happy marriage, Jeannette
concluded, watching Violet trade a warm look of intimacy with Adrian as he
fussed over her.

“Whatever are you doing here?” Jeannette chirped. “I had no idea
you were coming.”

“Did you not receive my letter? Well, clearly you did not or you
would not be so surprised.”

“I am surprised, delightfully so. Here, let me give you a hug.”
Jeannette wrapped her arms around her twin, the both of them laughing when her
embrace barely fit around Violet’s immense girth.

“Don’t worry,” Violet said as they pulled apart. “Even Adrian
can’t quite get his arms around me these days.”

Jeannette’s smile sobered slightly as she turned to her
brother-in-law.

Tall, raven-haired and undeniably handsome, Adrian Winter, Sixth
Duke of Raeburn, bore upon his broad shoulders with instinctive ease the
responsibility of his position as one of the richest, most powerful men in
England. A forceful presence, Adrian commanded any room he entered. Yet his
true nature was one of quiet intelligence and shrewd regard, and many of his
interests were far too cerebral for a young lady of Jeannette’s tastes. Amazing
to consider then, Jeannette mused, that she had once been his fiancée. And were
it not for her decision to back out of the marriage at the last possible
second, she would still now be his wife.

She breathed in, relieved that she was not his bride, despite her
ridiculous attempt last spring to get him back. She cringed inwardly to think
of her behavior then, excusable only in light of her despondency over being
jilted by that scoundrel Toddy.

But wisely, Violet had fought her for Adrian and won, correct when
she’d pointed out that Jeannette had wanted him only for what he possessed, not
for the man he was.

And as irony and fate would have it, Adrian and her quiet,
scholarly sister had truly fallen in love, suiting each other to perfection.
How lovely to see them so vastly contented, so thoroughly enriched by their
union. After all, Jeannette realized now, Violet was deserving of all the
happiness she could possibly hold.

“Raeburn.” Jeannette extended her hand, knowing better than to
attempt a hug, with which neither one of them would have been comfortable.

He made an elegant bow over her hand. As he straightened, he made
a point of meeting her gaze. Lingering long enough to let her see the glint in
his brown eyes, along with the silent warning that there were to be no tricks.

She pulled her palm from his, shoulder muscles tight. What tricks
could there be? Jeannette wondered, with her sister so hugely pregnant. Even if
she still harbored an interest in exchanging places with her twin—which she no
longer did, having learned her lesson quite thoroughly last spring—the
deception would never have worked.

If—and it was a great if—she somehow managed to tuck a large
feather pillow under her dress, she still wouldn’t be able to add the two or
three stone of weight her sister had clearly gained. It showed in Violet’s face
and, most particularly, in her breasts, already swollen to an impressive size
to accommodate the babies’ arrival.