TheWifeTrap Read Online Free Page B

from the coachman, the horses strained while Darragh and the other men
pushed for all they were worth. He let out a roar at the intense strain, his
muscles shaking. One more good shove, he thought. Just another inch or two.
    Suddenly the
wheels moved, spinning in a wild circle that geysered mud in a high, arcing
flume. The barouche rolled forward and out of the bog onto the safety of dry
ground.
    Cheers and shouts
erupted. Darragh grinned, joining the men as they slapped one another on the
shoulders in pleased, prideful delight.
    A scream
shattered the scene—high and shrill and female.
    Darragh spun at
the sound and froze at the sight that greeted his eyes.
    Lady Jeannette
stood, body quivering, her tiny hands clenched at her sides, her dress and face
and figure completely splattered in mud.
    For an instant,
Darragh couldn’t draw breath, the sight of her so utterly astonishing. She
vaguely reminded him of a calico cat, her once immaculate orange gown bedecked
with a patchwork of caramel-colored spots. Not even her hat had been spared,
the jaunty white ostrich feathers on top drooping downward like a bunch of
wilted flowers.
    Clinging to the
end of one of those feathers was a clump of mud that dangled precariously
downward. Darragh watched in amazement as the bit of sodden earth suddenly went
plop,
landing right on the end of the nose Jeannette had so recently
complained of sustaining injury. Her aqua eyes flew wide, her horrified
expression nothing short of priceless.
    A bubble of
laughter rose into his throat, burst from his lips. Another followed, until he
was consumed, helpless to restrain his mirth.
    The servants, who
up until this point had remained mute and stunned, suddenly followed suit. One
of the footmen snorted loudly then bent over double with hilarity. In a matter
of seconds they were all convulsed. Even Betsy covered a grin with one hand
before rushing forward to help her lady.
    But plainly
Jeanette was too angry to be helped, her face blistered with fury and
embarrassment. To Darragh’s way of thinking, the Little Rosebush looked as if
she might burst into flames right where she stood.
    He knew it was
wrong of him to tease her when she’d been brought so low, but the imp inside
him couldn’t be contained.
    “My lady,” he
said, “would you like me to carry you to your coach? There must be a spot or
two left on your gown that isn’t covered in mud.”
    If eyes were
knives, the glare she shot him would have sliced him to ribbons. He saw her
working up a retort but then she apparently thought better of the effort. Setting
her chin at a regal tilt, she turned away from him.
    “Load the luggage
immediately,” she ordered the servants. “I wish there to be no further delay.”
    As if she were
taking a stroll in the park, she picked her way through the muck to the coach.
    He followed,
waited until she and her maid had been assisted into the barouche and the
coachman had closed the door.
    Darragh leaned
forward and smiled at her through the window. “ ’Twas a pleasure making your
acquaintance, Lady Jeannette Rose Brantford. Here’s hoping we meet again one of
these days.”
    Her sultry lower
lip quivered. “The next time a blizzard starts in Hades will be soon enough for
me.” With a snap, she lowered the blind in front of his face.
     
    She fought off
tears for the next ten miles, pride the only thing that kept them at bay.
    And anger.
    Without the
anger, she knew she would have crumpled into a whimpering, blubbering ball.
    Ooh,
that man, that Darragh O’Brien. She
wanted to…well, she just wanted to punch him. In her whole life, she had never
been subjected to such disrespectful treatment.
    Thought he was
funny, did he? Well, he was the least amusing man she’d ever known.
    Her gaze landed
on her skirt and one of the many encrusted patches of mud begriming the
material. She sniffed, a fresh bout of tears threatening. Her beautiful,
beautiful gown destroyed. Doubtless even the most skilled