Laura was truly glad that he had come to love his wife . . . though she was human enough to wish sometimes that his wife were not quite so stunning. She found it was possible to live a happy life without Graeme. For companionship, she had had her father—and indeed, what would the man have done without her there to see his socks were darned, his schedules met, and his meals cooked? As for the rest of the emotions she had felt during those brief months of love with Graeme so long ago: the heat, the yearning, the uprush of joy, well, she had managed without them.
Still, it was something of a shock to see Sir James, a painful relic from her past rising up to disturb her in the here and now. She wondered what disease was eating away at his vitality. However cold, he had been a figure of power, of strength—tall, leanly muscled, implacable. Something like his dog, now that she thought about it. It was strangely disturbing to see him ill. She could not help but remember when she had told him her father was not there and for a brief moment his face had been unguarded—and utterly hopeless.
Laura grimaced and turned away from the window. Why was she standing here thinking about James de Vere? She ought to be worrying about her own situation, which was decidedly bleak. Her father was dead, whatever pittance of income she had now gone. Even if she managed to sell all their possessions, it would not pull her completely out of debt. And the man to whom she owed money was a remorseless pig.
Sir James de Vere didn’t matter. She would never see him again.
chapter 4
James let out a sigh and leaned his head back against the seat. He’d managed to escape Laura’s home without completely humiliating himself. It had been a harsh blow to discover that even the ephemeral hope of Graeme’s medical marvel, Dr. Hinsdale, was gone. For a moment, he’d felt weak, and he had feared he was about to ignominiously crumple to the ground under Miss Hinsdale’s disapproving gaze.
“Do you think the lovely Miss Hinsdale was telling the truth about that oaf?” he asked Dem. The dog cast a glance up at him and went back to his bone. “No, neither do I. He’ll be back to bother her. No doubt her father left her in debt. That’s generally the way with saints.”
He would have to take care of it. Graeme and his mother would want it. Truth was, James himself had disliked the sight of those meaty fingers wrapped around Laura’s arm. He was, after all, a man who appreciated beauty. And however prickly Miss Hinsdale was, there was no denying her loveliness—the porcelain skin, the crown of golden hair, the deep blue eyes. He might be sick, but he wasn’t blind.
The prospect of browbeating the large man cheered James a little. But he could not manage it tonight. His head was throbbing . . . and now that blasted hand was starting to shake. He gazed down in a detached way at his fingers jerking and twitching on the seat beside him, as if operated by some unseen puppeteer.
Muttering a curse, James rapped his gold-knobbed cane against the ceiling, and when the carriage rolled to a halt, he told the coachman, “Turn around. We’ll spend the night here. I saw an inn at the edge of the village.”
It was doubtless shabby and furnished with lumpy mattresses, but it scarcely mattered. He could lie awake staring at the ceiling there as easily as anywhere else. At least he wouldn’t be jouncing about in the coach. Lately his joints had begun to ache like an old man’s.
Bloody hell. He would not dwell on his condition. He turned his thoughts instead to Laura Hinsdale. He wondered why she had never married. It would have been disastrous for Graeme to wed her, of course, but surely there must have been a number of wealthy men who would want her for her face and form even with her lack of fortune.
She probably wouldn’t have landed an earl, but Miss Hinsdale didn’t seem to covet a title. Perhaps she was just too choosy about her offers. Or still in love with his cousin. That idea struck James as absurd, but then, most things about love did. Attraction he could understand; even he had been swept by passion. Fondness. Affection. A preference for a certain person’s company. But he had never really grasped the desire to tie oneself to someone, to give over one’s heart.
His mouth twitched up at one corner. Of course, there were those who said James de Vere did not possess a heart. He would have been inclined to agree if only that organ did not thunder and clench inside his chest as if about to cease altogether.
The innkeeper looked somewhat askance at the enormous dog at James’s side, but graciously admitted him when James offered an extra coin. James climbed the stairs to his room, using his cane for aid rather than fashion since there was no one here to see it.
The room was small, but Demosthenes managed to turn around in it enough times to satisfy himself before he curled up on the floor. To James’s surprise, the place was clean if somewhat shabby, and it had a window. James gazed out at the dusk settling over the town.