A Momentary Marriage(90)

The sheet had slipped down, exposing one shoulder and skimming low over her breasts. That, too, was tempting. But he’d made himself leave the bed, moving quietly so as not to wake her.

Her dressing gown and nightshift were on the floor where they had been dropped last night; the sight of them sent an erotic twist through his abdomen—as did everything these days, it seemed. James picked them up and folded them, resisting the urge to fondle the soft cloth, and set them on the chair.

He considered ringing for a tray of breakfast. That was impractical and unnecessary, and anyway, he’d decided not to awaken her. He went downstairs to eat. Afterward, he thought about filling a tray and taking it up to her. It was very strange, this urge to bring her food.

Perhaps she would rather have the time alone. A lady might very well be embarrassed this morning after the intimacy last night. Besides, he knew where seeing her would lead, and that was something else a new bride might not want so soon.

In the end, he wound up sending one of the maids with a tray for Laura. It wasn’t until he saw the amusement in the servant’s eyes that he realized he was going on at too great a length about not awakening Laura and suggesting this or that food.

He was aware he was being altogether foolish. But still, he had kept the door of his study open, as he usually did not, and his attention had been more on footsteps in the hall than the correspondence in front of him. He realized it was also peculiar that he had recognized her footsteps. He couldn’t have said if it was his mother or sister or Adelaide walking along the corridor, but Laura’s steps brought his head up, much as they had Demosthenes’.

He smiled, remembering her walking toward him. Just seeing her made his heart begin to race. Her manner had been light and provocative, guaranteed to arouse him. The thought that she had wanted to do so, that she had deliberately cast out lures, had been as seductive as anything she said.

Just thinking about their lovemaking this morning was enough to make him ache. And really, who gave a damn if she went to talk to Graeme? James was the one who would be in her bed tonight.



Laura found it difficult to keep her mind on her task. She kept drifting off to thoughts of James and this morning in his study, only to come to her senses and realize she’d dripped a great blob of ink onto the pristine white notepaper. Fortunately, the number of invitations was perforce small since their rural location greatly limited the guest list.

It was boring work, but Laura preferred it to sitting with Adelaide and Tessa, making plans for the party. She could not help but hear all the details, from refreshments to decorations to a deep discussion of what clothes and jewelry they would wear. It seemed that they were determined to have a “theme” for the ball; both agreed that it was too bad midsummer’s night eve had already passed, yet it was too soon for a harvest ball.

When Adelaide, in a burst of inspiration, suggested a masquerade ball, Laura had to cough to cover her laughter. She could well imagine James’s reaction to the idea that he wear a costume. Idly she pondered what would best suit him. A Roman soldier might be good—James did have very nice long legs.

Laura jumped, startled, when Walter said her name. Blushing, she looked over at him. “Good afternoon. Pray have a seat and keep me company.” She motioned toward a chair sitting near the small secretary where Laura was working.

“Gladly.” He sat down, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I was afraid I might get pulled into arrangements for the party. Either that or have to sit with that Netherly chap.” He glanced toward the dark-haired man who sat by the window, staring across the room at Tessa and Adelaide.

“Hmm. Scylla or Charybdis,” Laura agreed, matching his tone.

“Who? Oh, yes, those Greek folks. Never cared much for ancient gods and all that. Everyone always died. What good is that?”

“You’re absolutely right.” Laura chuckled. “What do you suppose Netherly is doing—admiring your mother or concocting poetry?”

“I’d wager he’d say both. He’s fond of calling her his muse.” He frowned. “Never understood poetry, really. All that rhyming seems unnecessary.”

“I thought Tessa said you were poetical.”

He goggled. “Me?”

“She mentioned once that you were frequently in your room writing.”

“Oh. That.” Walter reddened. “That’s just . . . well, not poetry. It’s, um, some stories.”

“Really?” Laura asked, intrigued. “What sort of stories?”

“Oh, well, nothing important, really. Um, just tales of adventure. That kind of thing. James would say it’s foolish.”