A Momentary Marriage(24)

It hadn’t occurred to him until tonight that he had put Laura in an uncomfortable situation. He had known Claude was bound to resent her, but then his sister and her husband had tried their knives on her at supper. James was accustomed to his family’s sniping and usually got in as many shots as he received—well, in truth, probably more. But when they’d started on Laura . . . Anger boiled up inside him again.

Perhaps he should send Laura to his London house, where she would be away from the bitter tongues of his relations. But the idea left him feeling empty. Irritating as Laura’s poking and prying was, he perversely enjoyed it, too. And though he would have denied it, he had meant it, at least a little, when he said he didn’t want to die alone.

It was peculiar that a virtual stranger could quell the icy fear seeking to take root in his chest. But somehow he felt more at ease when he looked into Laura’s calm face, her steady blue gaze. He didn’t want to send her away.

Laura had shown tonight that she could handle his relatives’ barbs. She had the advantage on them in intelligence. And in chucking out Salstone just now, he’d gotten rid of the worst one. She would have to deal with them after he died anyway. Might as well figure out how to do so while he was still here to step in.

God knows how long he would have the strength to do so. The confrontation with Salstone, coming on the heels of the journey, had left him exhausted. Two months ago, he would have scarcely noticed it. Now he could not summon the energy to even walk the garden with Dem. Indeed, climbing the stairs to bed seemed an enormous effort at the moment.

But, of course, he had to. He must use the steam treatment for his cough tonight. He’d already gone two nights without it while he was at the inn. He hadn’t noticed that the treatment had eased his cough, and more than once, he’d thought of simply giving up the tiresome practice. But of course he hadn’t. He could not have given up the struggle any more than he could have changed the color of his eyes. He would keep on until the bitter end. It was what one did.

James stood up and started into the house.





chapter 9


Laura awoke in much better spirits. However overwhelming this room was, the massive bed was comfortable, and she had slept the night through. Getting out of bed, she opened the drapes. Her window faced the gardens below, a massive spread of spring flowers, trees, and shrubbery. The house, on the crest of a hill, commanded a view of the countryside. Rolling hills stretched off in the distance, and closer at hand, at the bottom of the hill, she could see the ruins of a stone castle nestled beside a pond.

She dressed quickly, eager to explore the gardens. As she left the room, she heard a door slam down the hall and turned to see Patricia, sobbing hysterically as her mother tried to calm her. Laura hesitated, uncertain whether to go back inside her room, sneak away, or try to help.

Patricia looked up and saw her, and her face twisted. “You!” She flung out an accusing hand at Laura. “It’s all your fault!”

“Hush, now, darling,” Tessa said in a harried way, patting her daughter’s back and looking at Laura apologetically. “Don’t fret. I’m sure it will be fine.”

“It won’t. It won’t. I hate him!” Patricia cried as she let her mother sweep her into the room behind her.

Laura stood for a moment, gazing after them. Well . . . life in the de Vere household was certainly not dull.

As she stood there, a small face edged around a corner. When Laura made no move, the boy stepped into the hall, lifting his hand to wave to her. She presumed that he must be Claude’s son whom James had mentioned the day before. He looked around six years old, with a mop of blond curls and an angelic face that reinforced the idea that he was Adelaide’s child.

Laura went down the hall to him. “I’m—well, I guess I’m now your aunt. Laura is my name.”

“Hullo.” He looked up at her with great interest and no appearance of shyness. “I’m Robbie. Robert Edward Danforth de Vere.”

“My, that’s certainly a mouthful. May I simply call you Robbie?”

“Course.” He continued to regard her. “You’re Uncle James’s wife. I heard Mum talking about you.”

“Did you?” However sweetly she had spoken to Laura last night, Laura suspected that in private Adelaide’s words had been more acidic.

He nodded. “You are pretty, though.”

Laura wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

Robbie seemed to require none, for he went on, “I like you. You’re nicer than Aunt Patricia.”

“Thank you.”

“I like you better than Uncle James, too. He never talks to me.”