TheWifeTrap (18 page)

“Thank you, Lady Jeannette,” Mr. Gordon said. “We are indeed
having a most excellent time. Mrs. Gordon and I always enjoy an opportunity to
dance and make merry, especially when the musicians are as talented as those
playing tonight.”

Jeannette inclined her head. “They came all the way from Dublin…”

They spoke of music for a full two minutes before moving on to the
weather, which of late had been turning brisk at night. Mrs. Gordon offered a
story about one of her sons getting caught out in the rain and catching a terrible
head cold, a tale Jeannette soon despaired might never come to an end.

Over the course of the conversation, O’Brien said little, offering
only the occasional comment as he listened with apparent interest.

Finally, politeness dictated the four of them separate to mingle
with others. Jeannette curtseyed then seized the opportunity to maneuver
O’Brien aside on the pretext of having him accompany her to the refreshment
table for a glass of punch.

“Mr. O’Brien, whatever brings you here this evening?” she asked
the instant they were out of earshot. She steeled herself against the dark,
delicious scent of him that lightly teased her senses. Not cologne, she
realized, but man.

All man.

Aware of her unwanted response, her discontent peaked higher.

“The festivities, of course.” He nodded toward the ballroom full
of guests. “You’ve put together a lively entertainment.”

“Thank you. Though I must admit to a certain puzzlement at your
attendance. Perhaps you are not aware, but this ball is for invited guests
only.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward. “So it is, but who says I
wasn’t invited?”

“I do, since I prepared the guest list myself. I know every name,
and yours was not one of them.”

“Obviously an oversight. Your cousin asked me a few days past. Did
Merriweather say nothing of it to you?”

She frowned and refrained from rolling her eyes. Leave it to
Cousin Cuthbert to go around handing out impromptu invitations—and to his
architect, no less.

“Yes, he did forget to mention it. And I must say I am surprised
to see you here, since it was my understanding you had already departed, what
with your work now complete.”

“I was ready to travel home but changed my mind. After all, how
could I leave without saying good-bye to you?”

His comment struck a nerve. “Quite easily, I should think, since
you and I have had nothing to say to each other for months now.”

There, she thought, that should set him on his ear.

His eyes gleamed, blue as gemstones. “Missed me, have you?”

Her heart jolted. “No, not a bit,” she denied hastily. “Why, I
have been so busy, I scarcely took notice of your absence.”

“Ah.” He grinned.

She didn’t care for his grin, gorgeous as it might be. Nor for his
cryptic exhalation.

“Just so,” she continued. “Preparations for tonight’s ball have
kept me occupied from dawn to dusk, so I have scarce had time for aught else,
not even my painting.”

“ ’Tis a shame to hear you’ve been neglecting your artwork.”

She paused, wondering if he might finally mention her last
infamous bit of artwork—her depiction of him as the devil. But other than a
twinkle in his beautiful eyes, he said nothing further.

The devil.

“Yes, well,” she said, absently watching the line of couples as
they danced to the music. “Now that you’ve seen the ball, you’ll probably want
to be going.”

“Going? But I only just arrived.”

“Exactly. I am sure you’ll be bored in no time at all.”

“I find that unlikely, not with this crowd.”

“But that is precisely the reason. Let us be honest, Mr. O’Brien,
and admit this isn’t exactly your usual sort of event.”

Something hard flickered through his gaze. “A fancy ball, are you
meaning, lass?” he said, his brogue growing audibly thicker. “Your dance isn’t
a ceili, I’m after admitting, but it’ll do for now.”

“What is a ceili?” she said, unable to keep herself from asking.

“A fine Irish shindig with drink and dance and all the trimmings.
Like this but more boisterous. That said, you can’t claim I’m not dressed for
your fancy doings tonight.”

She swept a glance over his unmistakably elegant attire. “Hmm,
where did you happen by those clothes?”

“Got them from a tailor, the last time I was in London.”

“You were in London?”

“Aye. We architects kick the ol’ sod off our feet every now and
again. I’ve traveled to many of the best cities in the world.”

“Really? Which ones?” she questioned, her attention caught.

“Paris, for one, not long after Bonaparte took his second beating
at Waterloo. Then there was Brussels and Vienna and Geneva, to mention a few
more.”

“What of Rome? Have you been to Rome?”

“Aye, I’ve been there a time or two. What of you? Where have you
been?”

“Italy. I traveled quite extensively through the country with my
great-aunt last year. We took in Rome’s sights before moving on to Venice,
Florence and Naples.”

“What about Greece? ’Tis a grand country. You haven’t completely
lived, in my opinion, until you’ve seen the Parthenon at sunset. Or stood at
the foot of the Acropolis while the afternoon heat ripples around you, the air
so hot you can actually see it move. Then there’s the ouzo and the olives. A
fine delight, sipping a glass and eating at your leisure while you relax
beneath an outcropping of shade.”

For a brief instant, Jeannette’s imagination took flight and she
was there, basking in the heat, the briny tang of olives sharp against her
tongue. O’Brien was there too, teasing her to indulge in a taste of the clear,
potent brew she’d heard tell rushed straight and dizzying to a person’s head.

Her gaze collided with his, a tingle of awareness streaking down
her spine as if he had skimmed a finger over her flesh. Suddenly, she
stiffened, returning to herself and her surroundings. She would not be drawn in
by him, she thought, not again.

“No,” she said, “I have not been to Greece nor the other places
you mentioned.”

He smiled teasingly. “Well, I won’t hold it against you, lass. And
you needn’t worry I’ll be bored this evening. I have a knack for fitting in
wherever I may roam. Fact is…” His words trailed off as he stared across the
room. “Did you know there’s a woman across the way who looks precisely like
you? Assuming you were to put on a pair of spectacles and find yourself in the
family way, that is.”

She flicked a glance across the ballroom to Violet. “Of course.
That lady is my twin sister.”

“Your twin? Saints be praised. God truly does work in mysterious
ways to make two such magnificent creations as the pair of you.”

He showed his teeth in a heart-stopping smile, the force of his
magnetism enveloping her like a warm pair of arms. For a moment, she felt
herself respond and lean into the invisible embrace.

Abruptly, she shook herself free.
This will not do,
she
thought.
No, this will not do at all.
She was supposed to be annoyed
with him, not on the verge of melting from a simple turn of phrase and a smile.

There was only one solution.

Darragh O’Brien must leave.

“My sister is a duchess.”

“Is she, now?”

“Which should be explanation enough for why you would be more
comfortable in other company. Surely you must see that you and the other guests
here tonight move in different circles.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Do they, now?”

She shifted, discomfited by the amused derision that flared in his
gaze. Dismissing it, she plunged onward.

“I am only trying to be honest. Cousin Cuthbert means well but he
ought not to have invited you tonight. The people here are of good Society,
even if most are little more than country Society.”

The light in his eyes froze over, cold as an icy pond. “Don’t
forget the Irish in your statement.”

“What?”

“The Irish, as in Irish country Society, or have you forgotten
what nation you’re in? I wonder how the rest of your guests would feel if they
knew what you really thought of them, being no better than country folk and
all.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have need to, your tone says it all. You may be a
lady, Lady Jeannette, but you’re also a blatant snob. Your high manners may
serve you well in London, but they won’t serve you here. As unfit as you may
think me, I know more about the people here in this room tonight than you. Now,
I’m going to ask one of the other young ladies to dance. Hopefully she won’t
find it too much of an offense.”

He gave a crisp bow, strode away.

Dear heavens, that had not gone well at all. Not only had she
insulted him and made him angry, but he wasn’t leaving. And really, despite the
severity of her words, that did not diminish their truth. He was an architect
and middle-class—and in her world, middle-class architects did not rub elbows
with lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses; not socially, at least.

And she wasn’t a snob, she thought, no more so than any lady of
her class. How dare he accuse her of such. Just because she came from noble
bloodlines and moved in elite circles did not make her a snob. If she were, she
would never have planned tonight’s entertainment at all. By the standards of
the Haut Ton, a mere handful of the guests present this evening would be
tolerated by her usual group of peers in London. Governed by such strictures,
even a dinner party would have been out of the question.

She drew in a shaky lungful of air and forced the tight muscles
between her shoulder blades to relax. Opening her fan, she waved it quickly
across her flushed face.

The musicians resumed their seats and took up their instruments.
Playing a few practice notes, they signaled the guests that a new dance was
about to begin. Eagerly, couples started to assemble on the floor.

A sandy-haired man several years her senior, a widower whose name
she could not clearly recall, arrived to collect the dance she had promised him
earlier in the evening. He bowed and extended an arm. She placed her hand upon
his sleeve as manners required, allowing him to lead her onto the floor for the
next set.

Two lines of dancers stood at the ready, men on one side, women on
the other. A sprightly tune soon filled the room. Knowing the steps by heart,
Jeannette found it an easy task to exchange polite, meaningless snippets of
small talk with her partner as the movements of the dance brought them together
then drew them apart again. Yet even as she danced and conversed, her thoughts
were elsewhere, centered upon the tall, strikingly masculine figure of Darragh
O’Brien as he moved only a few feet distant.

She did her best to ignore him, but felt her gaze drift toward him
time and time again. He danced beautifully, moving with a smooth sophistication
and skill that was nothing short of mesmerizing. It wasn’t fair he should dance
so well. Why couldn’t he be some oaf, bumbling the complex steps of the country
dance and crushing the poor toes of his partner? Instead, the girl was grinning
ear to ear in rapt delight.

He ought to look out of place despite his urbane attire, his
common manners revealing him for the rube he was. But his manners appeared
anything but unrefined now as he moved among the company, looking as if he did
indeed belong. Quite without trying he dominated the room, eclipsing every
other man in attendance. And then he stood before her, his large hand
enveloping her own much smaller one as the movements of the dance brought them
together. For a few seconds, time slowed as their gazes collided, the impact
sending a lightning bolt of sensation all the way to her toes. Her lips parted
on a long breathless inhalation. Then he was gone, torn from her by the
requirements of the dance.

Her body throbbed as though he’d done far more than simply touch
her gloved hand. She made a misstep and nearly disgraced herself but managed
somehow to regain her composure.

Only strict training saw her safely through the remainder of the
set. Relief swept through her as the music finally fell silent. Her partner
escorted her off the dance floor, but rather than go back to Violet and Eliza,
she asked him to take her to the refreshment table. After politely ridding
herself of the man, she waited, wondering if O’Brien would approach her.
Whether he might ask her for the next dance despite their earlier words with
each other.

Instead he stayed across the room, talking with the dark-haired
chit with whom he’d shared the last dance. He laughed, the sound of his merriment
raking over Jeannette’s spine like a sharp set of nails. The girl giggled and
nodded her head, stars sparkling in her pert green eyes.

What was so amusing anyway? Jeannette ground her teeth as she
watched them. Spinning on her heel, she forced herself to turn her back and
remove Darragh O’Brien from her sight.

Why did she care if he danced and flirted with another young lady?
Let him cavort with all the girls he wanted, it would not matter to her.

No more ridiculous moping, she rallied. This was her party and she
was going to enjoy herself, even if it killed her.

Glancing up, she noticed a young man not much older than she
gazing at her from across the room. He smiled at her, and against her better
judgment she smiled back.

Encouraged, he gave a tug to his puce waistcoat and black coat
sleeves then strode forward like a man prepared for battle. He bowed, a lock of
his blond hair drooping over his forehead. “Good evening, Lady Jeannette. Neil
Kirby. We met earlier in the receiving line.”

“Of course, Mr. Kirby. A pleasure for the second time this
evening,” she said, smiling.

He smiled back, displaying a set of mostly straight teeth. “Ahem,
I was wondering if you would do me the honor of standing up with me for the
next dance?”