The others would benefit little from Laura’s death—surely not enough that they would resort to murder. Still, it might be best if he made them all believe he was leaving Laura nothing upon his death. He could tell his mother that he had given Laura a sum of money of her own when they married. That much was true enough; the only lie would be saying that he therefore would not be leaving her an inheritance. Tessa could be counted on to gossip with everyone else.
James would keep a more careful eye on Laura. He could set Dem to guarding her whenever James himself was not with her. His chest eased. Laura would be safe. He’d make sure of it. His alarm was unwarranted, nothing more than another example of the bizarre emotional turmoil he’d experienced since his return from the edge of death.
No doubt it was a result of the illness; the poison had, after all, seemed to afflict his nerves and brain most. These ups and downs, these hammering needs and fervid hungers, would disappear, just as the peculiar dreams had. He would return to his usual calm.
And that was a good thing.
However exciting it was, however shatteringly sweet it had been to make love to Laura, it was not the sort of thing that happened more than once. Or twice, actually. Well, it wasn’t something that occurred on a regular basis. No matter how much he might want it to.
It was all . . . unsettling.
James had never felt this way before, as if he were not quite in command of himself—eager and edgy and hungry and yet somehow happy in that feeling. It was absurd. On the other hand, what did it matter if it didn’t last? He had almost lost everything—all joy, all beauty, all sorrow, all lust. He could have died without ever feeling as he did now, without tasting Laura’s kiss. Without knowing what it was like to sink into her softness, her heat, to feel her tight around him, her body soft and yielding beneath his, his own heart hammering till he thought it would burst out of his chest.
Laura turned the corner and was gone from his sight. He lingered in the corridor for a moment, lost in thought. A man’s voice pulled him roughly back to reality. “Beautiful woman, Lady de Vere. Easy to see why you married her.”
“Archie.” James turned to see his sister’s husband lounging against the newel post of the staircase, smirking.
James started back into his study, but Archie continued to talk, strolling down the corridor toward him. “I’m surprised you don’t keep a more careful eye on her.”
James swiveled back around, his jaw clenched and a look in his eyes that would have silenced a more intelligent man than Archie Salstone. James knew he should simply walk away—giving Salstone any sort of attention was always a mistake—but he could not do it, not when it was about Laura.
“Beautiful women like that. Most men would be jealous. Funny thing is, I never took you for a trusting sort of man.”
“Have a care, Archie.” James’s voice was as quiet as his face was stony, but the threat in it was more lethal than if he had shouted. “You might remember that you are here only on Lady de Vere’s sufferance.”
“Oh, indeed. I am most grateful that your wife is such a . . . generous woman. And the extent to which she has softened your nature is a wonder to us all. Though one can scarcely believe that a man such as yourself would turn a blind eye to the way his wife runs over to Lydcombe Hall at every opportunity.”
Something hot and fierce speared up through James’s chest. It was a feeling James was unaccustomed to, but he recognized it. It was jealousy, corrosive as acid, hungry as wildfire. He shoved it down ruthlessly, but what he had felt must have shown on his face, for the other man smiled slyly even as he retreated a step.
“Where my wife goes and what she does is none of your business, Salstone.” James advanced on him. “And if I learn that you have been spreading rumors about her, you’ll find yourself in a far worse state than merely evicted from this house. I can make your life hell in so many ways your limited mind cannot even imagine it.”
Archie’s mouth twisted. “You’re a bloody tyrant. It’s no wonder someone tried to kill you.”
James grabbed the other man’s arm and shoved him back against the wall. “Was it you, Archie?”
“No. But I wouldn’t have shed any tears over it, I’ll tell you that.” He started to leave, but James planted his hand on his chest, holding him there.
“Who was it? How do you know about it if you weren’t involved?”
“I didn’t know. I just guessed. It seemed likely—mysterious deadly disease, a man your age, and then a miraculous recovery. I assume someone poisoned you. But then that damned doctor’s daughter came along,” he finished sulkily.