lace.
“You are most welcome. Now, if you would please, help me change
out of this gown so I am not late for dinner.”
“Right away, my lady.”
The remainder of the evening passed quietly, Cousin Cuthbert
providing a touch of amusement, encouraged to share a few stories about his
childhood in England and reminiscences of Jeannette’s mother as a girl.
Later that evening, she went to bed content in the knowledge that
she would enjoy a second sound night’s rest. Though, come morning, she knew,
she would have to concede defeat and return Mr. O’Brien’s architectural
renderings to him, so work on the new wing could continue apace.
As she was settling down to sleep, she wondered where O’Brien was
tonight, and what he was doing. Probably sitting in front of a rustic
fireplace, stewing over her continued defiance. Well, tomorrow she would give
him a delightful surprise. Mayhap she would even deliver the plans to him
herself just to witness his expression. This time he’d be the one needing to
thank her.
Smiling at the thought, she fell asleep and dreamed of Darragh
O’Brien’s kisses.
Darragh sipped a small whiskey from a heavy, cut-crystal Waterford
tumbler and relaxed into a wide, leather armchair in Lawrence McGarrett’s
comfortable study. A friend since their days at Trinity College, Lawrence had
invited Darragh to stay at his country estate while Darragh “played with his
building blocks,” as Lawrence liked to call Darragh’s architectural pursuits.
Presently, Lawrence was away at his townhouse in Dublin, leaving Darragh alone,
save for the servants.
Drinking another fiery swallow, he thought about his day, and the
fact that sundown had come and gone, and Lady Jeannette hadn’t returned the
plans.
Stubborn minx.
By rights, she deserved a sound smack on that attractive backside
of hers for her childish behavior. Her antics had cost him a half day’s work.
But the loss hadn’t been too damaging. He’d found the spare plans here at the
house, and set the men to work through the long afternoon.
He’d half expected her to fly out of the house in surprise at resumption
of the construction noise, until he’d learned from one of the Merriweathers’
servants that the ladies had taken the carriage and driven into Inistioge. When
they still hadn’t returned by early evening, he decided to let the lads leave a
little beforetimes, an idea percolating in his mind.
Tossing back the last of his whiskey, he grinned and set down his
glass. He’d best get to bed, he told himself, for tomorrow promised to be a
very interesting day.
----
Chapter Seven
Jeannette’s eyes shot open to squint into the first frail rays
of dawn’s light. Groggy and disoriented, she didn’t initially understand what
had disturbed her. A crash reverberated outside, followed by a pair of bangs.
Abruptly, her momentary confusion cleared.
Workers.
Sitting upright in bed, she peered through the gray shadows toward
the mantel clock, barely able to make out the hands. One seemed to be pointed
straight up, the other straight down. She stared harder.
Six o’clock!
On a weary grumble, she flung back the covers and leapt out of
bed, her bare feet moving quickly across the cool, soft wool carpeting. She
stared again at the clock, close enough this time to see there was no mistake.
It
was
six o’clock—or six-o-one, to be precise—and
O’Brien and his crew were out there making enough racket to rouse the dead. But
how could they be, when she hadn’t returned the building plans? Yesterday, the
workers had been unable to proceed without them, so how were they managing
without the plans this morning? Had O’Brien somehow managed to gain access to
her bedchamber and locate his architectural drawings? Surely not. The servants
would have noticed if her cousins’ architect had barged into the house and
conducted a search of her room.
Rushing to the wardrobe just in case the impossible had occurred,
she dropped down
“You are most welcome. Now, if you would please, help me change
out of this gown so I am not late for dinner.”
“Right away, my lady.”
The remainder of the evening passed quietly, Cousin Cuthbert
providing a touch of amusement, encouraged to share a few stories about his
childhood in England and reminiscences of Jeannette’s mother as a girl.
Later that evening, she went to bed content in the knowledge that
she would enjoy a second sound night’s rest. Though, come morning, she knew,
she would have to concede defeat and return Mr. O’Brien’s architectural
renderings to him, so work on the new wing could continue apace.
As she was settling down to sleep, she wondered where O’Brien was
tonight, and what he was doing. Probably sitting in front of a rustic
fireplace, stewing over her continued defiance. Well, tomorrow she would give
him a delightful surprise. Mayhap she would even deliver the plans to him
herself just to witness his expression. This time he’d be the one needing to
thank her.
Smiling at the thought, she fell asleep and dreamed of Darragh
O’Brien’s kisses.
Darragh sipped a small whiskey from a heavy, cut-crystal Waterford
tumbler and relaxed into a wide, leather armchair in Lawrence McGarrett’s
comfortable study. A friend since their days at Trinity College, Lawrence had
invited Darragh to stay at his country estate while Darragh “played with his
building blocks,” as Lawrence liked to call Darragh’s architectural pursuits.
Presently, Lawrence was away at his townhouse in Dublin, leaving Darragh alone,
save for the servants.
Drinking another fiery swallow, he thought about his day, and the
fact that sundown had come and gone, and Lady Jeannette hadn’t returned the
plans.
Stubborn minx.
By rights, she deserved a sound smack on that attractive backside
of hers for her childish behavior. Her antics had cost him a half day’s work.
But the loss hadn’t been too damaging. He’d found the spare plans here at the
house, and set the men to work through the long afternoon.
He’d half expected her to fly out of the house in surprise at resumption
of the construction noise, until he’d learned from one of the Merriweathers’
servants that the ladies had taken the carriage and driven into Inistioge. When
they still hadn’t returned by early evening, he decided to let the lads leave a
little beforetimes, an idea percolating in his mind.
Tossing back the last of his whiskey, he grinned and set down his
glass. He’d best get to bed, he told himself, for tomorrow promised to be a
very interesting day.
----
Chapter Seven
Jeannette’s eyes shot open to squint into the first frail rays
of dawn’s light. Groggy and disoriented, she didn’t initially understand what
had disturbed her. A crash reverberated outside, followed by a pair of bangs.
Abruptly, her momentary confusion cleared.
Workers.
Sitting upright in bed, she peered through the gray shadows toward
the mantel clock, barely able to make out the hands. One seemed to be pointed
straight up, the other straight down. She stared harder.
Six o’clock!
On a weary grumble, she flung back the covers and leapt out of
bed, her bare feet moving quickly across the cool, soft wool carpeting. She
stared again at the clock, close enough this time to see there was no mistake.
It
was
six o’clock—or six-o-one, to be precise—and
O’Brien and his crew were out there making enough racket to rouse the dead. But
how could they be, when she hadn’t returned the building plans? Yesterday, the
workers had been unable to proceed without them, so how were they managing
without the plans this morning? Had O’Brien somehow managed to gain access to
her bedchamber and locate his architectural drawings? Surely not. The servants
would have noticed if her cousins’ architect had barged into the house and
conducted a search of her room.
Rushing to the wardrobe just in case the impossible had occurred,
she dropped down
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