A Momentary Marriage(109)

chapter 40


James was in a black mood when he arrived in London, and nothing in the days afterward lightened it. It was a new and thoroughly unwelcome state. He had never considered himself a jolly sort, but—aside from the painful weeks of his poisoning—he had spent most of his life feeling comfortable. Content.

He hadn’t awakened in the morning wishing he had not, as he did now. Nor had he required two or three brandies in the evening before he could face his bed. If he had few friends, that was by choice. If he felt the stirrings of desire, he would seek out his mistress. It had been a good life, in its way.

At least he had not been lonely, hadn’t felt as if he were rattling around in this house like a marble in a box. At least he hadn’t had this constant annoying heat, this unsatisfied, indeed unsatisfiable, lust deep inside him. At least he hadn’t spent every day missing something, as if he had left a vital piece of himself somewhere.

He got through the first day in the city well enough, doing the things he’d intended. He located the pans of mercury in the small room where he stored his illuminated manuscripts. It was a perfect spot. He had spent hours in that small space, windowless to protect the fragile documents. He hired a detective to follow Claude whenever he left the house. He visited his shadier business acquaintances, making inquiries about men who could be hired to carry out his threat.

Claude’s dark, resentful presence was unavoidable, of course, but at least he avoided conversation with James. And James gleaned some bit of pleasure in knowing that Claude was as miserable as he himself was.

It took another night in his solitary bed to realize that nothing, not Claude’s anger nor even the knowledge that he had nullified the danger to Laura, lessened James’s own unhappiness. Within another day, he was beginning to suspect that he would never be happy again.

Why had he ever thought he liked sleeping alone? His bed was cold and empty, and for the first time he realized how much waking up beside Laura had set his day on a good course. He missed sitting in the music room in the afternoons as she played the piano. Hearing the sound of her laughter in another room.

He tried to fill his days with activity. He pored over his account books and harassed his business agent until he suspected the man took to ducking out a back door when he saw James coming. He went to his club, where he spent most of the time glowering at anyone who approached him. It would have been kinder to everyone concerned if he had just stayed at home. But it was unbearable to sit there, the house huge and empty as a mausoleum around him, his only company a brother who hated him.

He even called upon the dowager Countess of Montclair, who looked at him as if he were quite mad when he asked her for news from Lydcombe and Grace Hill.

“Weren’t you just there?” Lady Eugenia asked. “Why would I have any word from Grace Hill? Mirabelle’s letters are filled with the most useless and minute of details, but I doubt Tessa ever picks up a pen. If you want to know about home, I’d suggest you ask your wife.”

Of course, that was the one thing James could not do. The silence from Laura was deafening. Much as he might wish that Laura would smooth everything over in her usual way, he knew that wouldn’t happen this time. He had shown her the worst of himself.

Once his fury had died down, he realized with an appalled clarity just how badly he had mucked it all up. Laura had almost been killed. No doubt she had been shaken and scared—God knows, he had been. But instead of comforting her, he had lashed out at her. He had lost all his vaunted control and stormed about like a child in a tantrum. Worse than that, he had coldly, cruelly denied that he loved her.

It was the truth, of course. He didn’t love her. He wasn’t capable of the emotion and never had been. He was the son who held himself stiffly in his mother’s arms, unable to return a hug. The one who stood dry-eyed and hollow at his father’s funeral while all around him cried. The one who knew you didn’t marry some winsome girl if it meant financial ruin.

He admired Laura and enjoyed her company. She was amusing and clever and lovely to look at. He desired her—good God, how he desired her. He wanted to protect her, to cherish her, to fight her battles and right her wrongs. But none of that was love.

Love was weak. Love was messy. Love was irrational. He wasn’t about to fall into that trap. He would not be a man like Sir Laurence, a slave to love, torn by jealousy and vulnerable to every hurt.

No, he did not love Laura. But why had he been such an idiot as to tell her that? Not only that, he had done so publicly. The door had been open and people were bound to have heard them. She must have been humiliated. He thought of the look in her eyes as he turned away, and his insides roiled.