TheWifeTrap (7 page)

For his part, Vitruvius was utterly unrepentant and unconcerned,
his chin resting on one great paw, shaggy eyelids closed.

The dazzling blue of O’Brien’s eyes lit up. “Ah, so you’re the
visiting relation, are you now?” He folded his arms over his chest. “I confess
I’d been expecting an older woman, but I suppose you’ll do.”

The air rushed out of her lungs. “Suppose I’ll do! Why, you really
are beyond the pale.”

He grinned. “Well now, as to that, we’re a ways from the Pale.” He
jerked a thumb. “It’s back near Dublin, or at least it used to be a hundred
years or more ago when you English felt the need for fortressed territory.”

She scowled at him, not liking the fact that she didn’t have the
slightest notion to what he was referring. She would make a point to find out
later, she decided, a definite point. “So, you still have not said what you and
your dog are doing on this property.”

“Oh, that. I’m working for the Merriweathers, reconstructing that
burned-down wing of theirs.”

She bit the corner of her lip, struck by an inexplicable sense of
disappointment. She had known he was a commoner, but some part of her had been
secretly hoping otherwise. With his statement, he had just dashed that hope.

“So, you’re a carpenter or some such,” she remarked.

“No, I’m an architect. The one designing the new renovation and
making certain it gets properly built.”

The architect. Him? She hadn’t even known the Irish had trained
architects. Well, trained or no, her cousins ought to have sent to England for
a proper man. At least such a personage, even if lowborn, would have known how
to defer to a lady instead of baiting and badgering her at every possible turn.
And sadly, his being an architect didn’t make him a more suitable acquaintance
for her.

Moments later, a fresh round of pounding rang out from the far
side of the estate. She cringed. Hadn’t they finished yet for the day? Would
that infernal racket never end?

Abruptly it dawned on her. O’Brien was the architect, which meant
he was in charge of that hammering. It also meant he was equally capable of
stopping it.

“Oh, so
you
are the reason I cannot get a full night’s
rest,” she said.

A tiny hint of a grin moved over his lips before he smothered it.
“Woke you up, did we? The masons are working stone and they like to start
early.”

“They like to start barely after dawn. I am sorry, but it is most
distressing and bad for my health. Since you are in charge, you can order them
to begin later, starting tomorrow. Ten o’clock, shall we say?”

He looked shocked for a long instant, then tossed back his head
and laughed. The sound erupted from his chest in a deep booming rumble so loud
it startled a pair of red squirrels out of a nearby tree. Away they scampered
across the grassy green lawn like a pair of bright flashes, while O’Brien
remained convulsed with hilarity. The dog, roused by the noise, leapt to his
feet and sprinted after the squirrels, barking repeatedly in his excitement.

Jeannette crossed her arms and tapped a toe. “I see nothing
humorous in my request.”

Chuckling harder again, O’Brien shook his head in a clear attempt
to curtail his outburst, swiped a hand across the corner of one moist eye. “Ah,
lass, you’re a grand wit, you are. If you weren’t a woman I’d invite you down
to the pub of an evening and let you entertain us all.”

“I was in no way jesting. I need my sleep. Without it, I shall
soon look quite haggard.”

“Ah, don’t fret now. Even tired, I’m certain sure you’d look as
beautiful as a perfect sunrise.”

For a second, she warmed to his flattery. Then she realized he was
trying to lure her away from the subject. Well, she thought, firming her
shoulders, she would not be lured.

“Be that as it may,” she stated, “ten of the clock is all the
earlier I can afford to disrupt my natural routine. It is a pattern of long
duration and cannot easily be altered.”

He shook his head again, this time with a look of amazement. “Then
you’ll have a rough time, since a workman’s day is best started early, when the
temperature is cool and the sun isn’t out shining full measure to bake him half
to death. Besides, I promised Merriweather I’d have his house set right before
the first fall leaves are lying on the ground.”

“I’m sure my cousin would be willing to accept a reasonable
delay.”

“Reasonable, aye. Extra weeks to let you have your beauty rest, I
doubt. Anyway, the work’ll never be done if I give the crew near half the day
to slumber away like some idle pasha or spoiled princess. If I did, the snow
would be flying and the construction still not done.”

Spoiled princess? Beauty sleep?
As an Irish provincial,
he obviously had no notion of the needs of a lady. No gentleman would ever be
so cruel.

“Added to that,” he continued, “this matter should be decided by
your cousins. And excepting the morning just past, they’ve said nothing to me
about changing the schedule.”

“My cousin Wilda plans to do so,” she said, stretching what she
hoped would soon become the truth. “I’ve already spoken with her on the subject
and she agrees.”

“Agreed to ten, did she?” he said, shooting her a patently
skeptical look.

Jeannette bristled under his gaze but stood her ground. Her chin
came up, her voice steady despite her lie. “That is correct.”

“Then you won’t be minding if I nip into the house just now and
have a word with your lady cousin?”

Their gazes locked, his own far too knowing, far too smug.
Devil
take it,
she cursed inwardly. He’d seen through her bluff.

If there was one thing she hated, it was losing.

She held his knowing gaze for another long moment before hissing
out a frustrated breath. Brushing past him, she strode toward the house.

She was halfway up the path when she noticed a rush of movement
out of the corner of her eye. O’Brien’s dog was racing toward her, its
dish-sized paws even muddier than before. Hurrying faster, she prayed she could
elude the creature but it caught up, trotting around her in an exuberant
circle. Tail wagging, the animal rubbed his enormous body against her skirts,
leaving enough hair behind to knit a coat.

Oh, dear Lord, what next!

Suddenly a whistle split the air. The dog froze, then turned.

“Vitruvius, come,” O’Brien commanded in a stern tone.

The animal hesitated, clearly torn between his desire to accost
her further and his need to obey. To her relief, the dog loped away.

Without another word, she headed once more for the house.

“ ’Twas a delight meeting you again, Lady Jeannette,” O’Brien
called in a carrying voice. “Perhaps I’ll be having the pleasure of it again
early one bright and sunny morning.”

And perhaps the sky would turn green and the grass blue, she
thought as she hurried into the house.

Darragh grinned, wincing as he listened to the terrace door slam
shut at her back.

So the Little Rosebush was the Merriweathers’ cousin come to stay
for a while. He’d heard tell of her, together with the rumors. He didn’t know
all the particulars, but some whispered she’d been sent abroad after a dreadful
scandal. Having met her, he could well believe it. Jeannette Brantford was the
kind who likely kicked up trouble just by walking down the street.

Aye, she was a minx. Wild and willful. Whatever man decided to
take her on, he’d have a devil of a time taming her. He’d have to be careful
not to use too heavy a hand, gentling her to his touch and his will without
breaking that proud, beautiful spirit of hers.

But it was safe to say Darragh wouldn’t be that man, especially
since he had no interest right now in taking a bride. Still, where would be the
harm if he indulged in an occasional bit of teasing and flirting? It was just
too much fun to be denied, watching her become more ruffled up than a hen
caught out in a rainstorm.

He reached down, caught Vitruvius’s jaw in his hand, angling the dog’s
face toward his own. “You’re a naughty one, boy-o, and don’t you forget it.
’Twas dead wrong of you to tumble her into the flower bed, though we’re both
guilty of enjoying the result. She’s a pretty pair of ankles, I’ll grant, but
you’ll need to mind your manners next time. I suppose I’ll have to make amends
as well. Hmm, I’ll need to think on what will serve best.”

He patted his hip, started back toward the work site. “Come on for
now, lad. There’s work yet to be finished today.”

Chapter Four

By the end of a fortnight, Jeannette found she’d grown almost
used to the incessant racket that echoed through the house from early morning
to late afternoon each day.

Only on Sunday did silence whisper in like a refreshing breeze.
The Lord’s day one of true, blessed relief.

But
almost
didn’t mean she liked the disturbance, not one
jot. Nor did it mean she’d given up the effort to find a way to make the
infernal noise cease. Or at least delay its start until a more civilized hour
of the morning. Try as she might, though, she hadn’t been able to come up with
a means of achieving her ends.

And heavens above, she had tried.

She’d gone to Wilda first, bringing up the topic of O’Brien and
his noisy minions over breakfast the morning following her alarming encounter
with him and his rambunctious dog.

She had hoped for a sympathetic ear. After all, Wilda was a lady
despite her lamentably dowdy appearance. Surely as a woman she would understand
another woman’s need for proper rest. And Jeannette could not get proper rest
when she was roused to wakefulness at such a ghastly hour of the day. Only
birds and mice and scullery maids bestirred themselves when dawn had barely
broken across the horizon. Birds, mice, scullery maids and building crews, she
amended.

The foul beasts hadn’t even had the decency to wait until
seven-thirty that morning, beginning work a full hour earlier, no doubt at the
urging of O’Brien himself.

When she mentioned the problem to Wilda, reminding her cousin of
her promise to speak with the architect-in-charge and request he begin work at
a reasonable hour, her cousin informed her she had already done so.

“Oh, yes,” Wilda confirmed. “I explained the problem and he was
most sympathetic.”

For a brief instant, hope rose inside Jeannette’s breast. Just as
quickly, it winked out as she remembered the exact hour at which she had been
awakened.

“Was he indeed?” she ventured. “Then why did he and his men
commence their labors at six-thirty this morning?”

Wilda gave her a look of helpless dismay. “Well, they must, dear.
He explained how essential it is for the men to begin early. How even an hour
or two a day will compromise their schedule. I am ever so sorry, but what can
be done?” Then, like the helpless coward she so obviously was, Wilda tossed up
her hands in defeat.

Jeannette next sought out her cousin Cuthbert in his temporary
laboratory. As a man, she assumed he would be more easily able to state his
demands and see to it O’Brien followed them.

Yet in spite of the plate of delectable breakfast foods she’d brought
as a kind of culinary bribe—which he’d gobbled down like a starving
orphan—Bertie had remained unmoved by her plight.

“Well now, can’t interfere,” her cousin said. “No, no, frightfully
tired of being forced to conduct my experiments inside this storage cupboard.
O’Brien’s building me a specially designed laboratory, don’t you know.
Detached, with its own lightproof room and vapor chamber. Then there’s to be a
new orangerie. Oh, I can already see the
Dendrobium aggregatum
and the
Paphiopedilum faireanum
on display. The orchids came to me through an
explorer chappie I know, all the way from India. Magnificent specimens, those
plants.”

He clapped his hands together. “And the new west wing, splendid,
splendid design. O’Brien is brilliant, using quite the most up-to-date,
innovative techniques and styles possible. Even Wilda can’t wait for the
renovations to be complete, since we’re adding a new card parlor for her. She
does love her cards, don’t you know.”

And with that, Jeannette found herself summarily ejected from the
dark storage cupboard, where she’d spent ten minutes holding the oddest—and as
it turned out, most useless—conversation of her life.

But the lack of success with her cousins in no way dampened
Jeannette’s determination. By rights she should resent them for refusing to aid
her in her battle. But they were old and plainly incapable of dealing with that
overbearing man, that O’Brien who had them under his big, calloused thumb,
right where he wanted them to be.

But he didn’t have her.

Somehow she would find a way to curtail his crew’s early-morning
noisemaking. She need only wait until inspiration struck and then she would
have her solution.

But now, almost two weeks later, a satisfactory resolution had
still not presented itself, nor had she found any easy means of relieving the
tedious monotony of her days.

A bird landed on a tree branch just outside the upstairs drawing
room window. She watched him preen his wings for a long moment before he dashed
off in a streak of white and brown.

Lord,
Jeannette thought,
shoot me now. I am so sick
of the idles.

Wilda sat nearby, a crochet hook and yarn flying through her
nimble fingers. Sighing, Jeannette focused once more on the stitchery in her
own hands.

Not long after, the daily racket outside abruptly ceased,
signaling the end of another workday. Jeannette’s spirits perked up. Once the
men left for the afternoon, it was her habit to go outside for a stroll,
certain she could walk the grounds unmolested by a certain impertinent Irishman
and his discourteous hound.

She forced herself to sew for another twenty minutes, then hastily
thrust her embroidery into a basket and rose to her feet. “I’m going for a walk
before supper, cousin. Would you care to join me?”

Wilda’s fingers paused, gentle eyes glancing upward. “Thank you,
dear, but no. You go ahead and enjoy your exercise.”

Jeannette nodded, walked rapidly from the room.

A few minutes later, she made her way downstairs, an adorable
Oatland Village hat with its double curved brim perched jauntily on her head.
Almond-hued ribbons streamed downward from where they were tied beneath her
chin, the shade a perfect foil for her willow green muslin day dress. On her
feet, she wore calfskin slippers, as supple and green as new spring leaves.

Gravel crunched beneath those shoes as she exited the house and
set out along one of the paths that led deep into the gardens beyond. A delicate
breeze stirred her skirts, the afternoon sun fine and full. Clouds drifted
overhead in striated puffs, their underbellies shadowed by the faintest hint of
gray, signaling the possibility of rain as late afternoon turned to evening.

But she didn’t mind risking a little wet, relieved to be out of
the oppressive confinement of the house. She wasn’t used to such unrelenting
solitude. Hour upon hour with nothing to do but sew and pen letters and share
increasingly tiresome rounds of small talk with Wilda.

Her cousin meant well, but mercy, the woman could rattle on about
nothing for hours at a time. This afternoon the discussion had focused on the
best methods for storing linens, with a thirty-minute oration on the
preparation of Wilda’s favorite decoction for combating moths.

Gads, why couldn’t there be some sort of nearby entertainment?
Even a simple country dance would be a welcome relief.

Her footsteps slowed, stopped altogether before a large massing of
pink foxglove, a few round black and yellow bees lumbering in and out of the
cup-shaped flowers on their quest to collect pollen. Jeannette barely noticed
the insects or the flowers, too preoccupied with her imaginings.

She could see the assembly room now, the space ablaze with
candlelight and frivolity, laughter floating on the air amidst the mingled
fragrance of a dozen different perfumes.

She, of course, looked stunning. Attired in a bravura confection
of shot ivory silk with an overskirt of the palest celestial blue, a smattering
of forget-me-knots threaded into her silky upswept hair. All the other ladies
would watch her, awestruck in their envy, while the men stared, their gazes
full of admiration for her exquisite feminine beauty and grace.

The handsomest young gentleman in the room would approach, bow low
over her gloved hand, then beg for a dance. She would laugh and flirt, tease
him for a breathless moment as if her agreement was uncertain. Then she would,
of course, accept, the two of them taking to the floor with all the elegance of
royalty.

Oh, it would be quite glorious. Almost as lovely as a London
soiree. Her eyelids drifted closed, imagining.

Boot steps crunched on the graveled path behind her.

“You make a picture, lass. What is it that has you dreaming?”

Jeannette startled at the words and the deep, musical voice that
glided over her like the stroke of a broad, soothing hand. The tone was warm
and rich and full of Irish guile. An invisible shiver rippled through her as
though he had actually touched her.

Her eyes popped open. And there he stood, her nemesis, Darragh
O’Brien. Today he was dressed in tan trousers, white shirt and lightweight fawn
jacket, the cut and quality better, more tailored than some of his other
clothing. For him, he looked almost dressed up. A lock of his dark hair curled
across his forehead in a way that made her want to reach up and smooth it back.
An absurd idea.

Confounded man.

Could she never go anywhere without his appearing? Well, just
because he had spoken to her didn’t mean she had to offer more than a
perfunctory greeting, then continue on her way. After her last two encounters
with him, she had no interest in remaining long in his presence, especially if
that dog of his was anywhere nearby.

At the thought, she scanned her surroundings, half expecting the
enormous creature to dash out from behind a bush and pounce.

“He isn’t here,” O’Brien said as if he’d read her mind. “Vitruvius
is back at the house where I’m staying, though neither he nor the housekeeper
were too keen on the idea when I left him there at midday.”

“Are you sure you’ll have a housekeeper when you return? If she
hasn’t quit before, a day alone with that great lummox should do the job.”

He showed her his white teeth. “Not to worry, Mrs. Ryan is wise to
all the lad’s tricks, and if he’s gotten into her bad graces today, I’ll find
him tied up in the rear yard, pouting and sad-eyed for the scolding. He’ll be
wanting an extra half hour’s attention at the very least to settle his mood.”

Spoiled canine, she thought. No wonder the dog needed obedience
training.

“So I haven’t seen you out and about in several days.” O’Brien
tucked his right hand into his trousers’ pocket. “Have you been hiding?”

“Not at all,” she rushed to assure. “I have been getting
acquainted with my cousins and do not generally venture out until late in the
afternoon.”

“Once my crew has gone home, you mean. Or is it only myself you’ve
been trying to avoid?”

She let out a tinkling laugh. “Now, why would I want to do such a
thing? Doing that would require me to think of you, Mr. O’Brien, and I assure
you I have far better ways to occupy my time.”

Despite her statement, a grin appeared on his mouth, letting her
know he knew the truth.

She decided it best to change the subject. “But speaking of your
crew, I had hoped that by now you might see reason.”

He crossed his arms over his solid chest. “Reason about what?”

“Letting a lady get a little rest in the morning. Your workers
begin far too early and make far too much noise.”

He shrugged. “So you’ve already said. The noise can’t be helped,
I’m afraid, since the building of houses isn’t a silent occupation.”

“But you could make adjustments if you wished. Another man would
understand and feel some sympathy. He would not be so heartless.”

Darragh barked out a laugh. “Another man would soon find himself
out of a job if he did as you ask. I’ve plenty of heart, lass, it’s just my
head that isn’t soft.”

“You’re right about that. Your head is as hard as they come.”

He smiled widely, eyes sparkling blue as the azure sky above.

She drew in a quick breath, her pulse doing a jig.
Blast him,
why did he have to be so handsome? A man of his sort shouldn’t have the right.
And what was wrong with her? Responding to him, even though her blood boiled at
their every encounter. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her
feel so out of sorts.

Deciding her best move was simply to move away, she gave him a
clipped nod. “Good day to you, Mr. O’Brien. I have a walk to continue.”

But before she took two steps, he reached out and stopped her with
a brief touch. “Here now, Lady Jeannette, don’t be hurrying off so quickly. I
sought you out for more than conversation. I’ve a gift for you.”

A gift? Curiosity rose inside her like an irresistible fever.
Helpless to resist, she pivoted to face him. “And what could you possibly be
giving me?”

He crossed to a nearby stone bench, picked up the paper-wrapped
bundle that lay upon it, plain brown string crisscrossing the square in neat
quarters. With it in hand, he strode toward her.