“She’s a woman, James. I’m sure she will forgive you if you were a little . . . overeager, shall we say?”
“You know I’m no good at apologies.” James grimaced. He ached for Laura’s forgiveness, but the thought of asking her for it filled him with dread. It always seemed as if the guiltier he felt, the harder it was to force the words out, and he invariably sounded stiff and insincere. And with Laura—well, with Laura it mattered. What if she looked at him coldly and turned away? “Besides, what can I say to her? I already broke my promise, then swore not to do so again—and I still couldn’t hold to it. She’ll never believe me.”
“Then you’ll just have to prove it to her. Honestly, James, if anyone can control himself, it is you.”
“I would have thought so. But I can’t think straight anymore. Blast it, I’m terrible at all this. I don’t have the first idea what to do.”
“Of course you don’t. This isn’t a matter you think through. Let me tell you something: I loved Laurence; I truly did. But he tried so desperately to make me into who he wanted me to be that he drove me away. I felt driven to show him that he could not own me.”
“I don’t want to own Laura. And I will not run roughshod over her as Father did to you.”
“I know, dear. That is what I am saying. I think perhaps Laurence tried so hard to rule me because he knew he couldn’t control himself. You must prove to Laura that you are in command of yourself. That you will not push her where she doesn’t want to go. Laura has been sheltered; girls always are. Perhaps she still harbors feelings for Graeme—though how she could spend eleven years pining for a man, I cannot imagine. You must step back. Give her time and room to breathe.”
“What if I’m not able?”
“You are able. Believe me. I’ve seen you be patient as a cat outside a mouse hole to get something you want. Accept these ‘boundaries’ of hers for the moment. Let her see that you are not Laurence. I can assure you that Laura is not me. She’ll come around.”
“Will she?”
“Trust me. I am an expert on women in love.”
“I’m not after love.”
“I know what you’re after, dear.” Tessa grinned, an impish twinkle in her eyes. “But with Laura, I think you won’t get one without the other.” She patted his arm and started toward the door, tossing back over her shoulder, “Apologize, James. Then suffer in silence for a bit. And flowers are never amiss.”
Flowers.
In the city, it would have been easy—just buy them and have them sent to Laura’s door. But what was he supposed to do here—pluck them out of his garden and take them to her door, clutching them in his fist like a grubby schoolboy? In the end, James resolved his dilemma by telling Simpson to make up a vase of flowers and take them to Laura’s room.
Then he went upstairs to clean up and dress for dinner—and think of an apology. He could scarcely believe he was about to follow his mother’s advice. Was she wiser than he thought or he more foolish?
As his mother had predicted, Laura returned home, arriving before supper. It settled James’s nerves a degree to hear her footsteps in the hallway. Demosthenes, of course, went bounding over to greet her. James wished he could do the same, but of course he could not apologize in the middle of the hallway. And besides, he didn’t have the words down quite right yet.
When it was almost time to go down for the evening meal, he went next door to her chamber. The door stood open, and he paused in the doorway. Laura stood at her vanity, dabbing on perfume, and though he could not smell it from here, he knew the scent and the thought of it made his abdomen tighten.
Laura turned. “James.” Her voice was pleasant, but not exuberant; she offered no smile. Obviously she didn’t intend to give him any help with this. She glanced at the dresser, where a bountiful display of flowers sat in a large vase. “Simpson brought in a lovely bouquet.”
What was he supposed to say to that? It was my idea? Do they make you willing to forgive me? Somewhat lamely, he settled on, “I hope you like them.”
“I do.” As she strolled toward him, James realized that Laura looked . . . different. Her hair wasn’t braided and coiled around her head in a neat knot, but swept up in a full, soft style that seemed too heavy for her slender neck. A few stray wisps had slipped out and clung to her skin in a way that made his fingers itch to touch them.
And where had she gotten that dress? He was certain he’d never seen it before. It was her usual mourning black, but the material was luxurious satin that would be, he knew, slick to the touch. Black lace edged the heart-shaped neckline—which, by the way, exposed a good deal more of her breasts than Laura usually showed. It was no more revealing than the dinner gowns Patricia or Tessa or Adelaide wore. But this was Laura, and the sight of her turned his brain to mush.