Page 33 of Better Off Wed

Why, he wasn’t even sure it deserved the name of plan.

Then he thought of what Thornton had said and threatened to do. Last night, he’d wanted confirmation of Lady Sterling’s accusations, and today’s events had given it to him in spades. He thought too of Miss Godfrey and the nameless others at Thornton’s mercy. His own sacrifices of time and dignity were nothing. He couldn’t, wouldn’t abandon those women to their fates.

But as he strode to the dressing room, past the bed, he was forced to admit that his purpose in staying would not be entirely noble. He could not shake the image, the sensation of Laura’s golden head slumbering against his chest, nor stamp out the selfish, treacherous hope it might rest there again tonight.

He liked some parts of this game of pretend very much.

And what sort of man did that make him?

Chapter 10

For some time after Jeremy closed the door behind him, Laura had held out hope of a visit from Miss Godfrey to dispel the evening’s boredom. Surely, the daughters were of an age to dine with their parents, and if the boy was not, he might be left with a nurse. But the door remained shut as the room’s gloom deepened.

The maid who brought up her tray—neither Dinah nor Dora, to Laura’s grave disappointment—was obliging enough to light two lamps. After eating what she could of an excellent dinner, Laura resigned herself to the abandoned book, an account of someone or other’s travels in Ireland.

Inadequate to the purpose of keeping her thoughts from straying to Jeremy.

He’d left clad in a dark blue coat and charcoal breeches that were not his. Perhaps they belonged to one of Thornton’s elder sons; certainly they had never fit the shorter, stockier earl, though Thornton’s valet had brought them earlier that afternoon.

Even in clothes untailored to his slender figure, Jeremy drew the eye.

Drew her eye, at least.

And that was the problem. Laura, who well knew the value of a distraction, never let herself be distracted while on a case. One as complicated as Thornton’s required extra diligence.

Yet here she was, alone again, and contemplating the ways in which the blue of the coat had complemented Jeremy’s extraordinary eyes.

Eyes. Yes, and ears. Legs too. Until she was back on her feet—er, foot—she had no choice but to rely on him to see and hear what she could not. He was a device. A means to an end.

For the half dozenth time at least, she dragged her attention back to the question of what Thornton might be trying to hide behind a façade of lurid paintings and bawdy sculptures, and whether the threat of its disclosure would be enough to put a stop to his abuse.

But to answer that question, she needed more information, information she would not have until Jeremy returned from dinner. Which meant she had no choice but to wait. Wait and watch the door.

It was not as if she were waiting for him, she reminded herself as she stared at that unmoving panel. She was not merely wanting him to return and bear her company. Certainly she was not anticipating the hour in which he would lift her in his surprisingly capable arms and bear her to…

She glanced toward the bed. Perhaps it had been unwise for her to insist on carrying their newlywed performance quite so far. Although really, what had they done but lie side by side in a space big enough for half a dozen to sleep comfortably?

It was not as if they’d sunk into the plush feather bed, tangled in a passionate embrace, and—

She snapped her eyes shut, dismissing a mental picture that she feared might put the artwork in Thornton’s study to shame. But before her lids closed, her restless gaze snagged the reticule lying on the bedside table. Penhurst’s watch. She might at least discover the hour and how much longer she had to wait.

Gripping the arm of the sofa to steady herself, her fingers digging into the plush upholstery in anticipation of pain, she lifted her injured ankle from the pillowed footstool and rested her toes on the floor. It still hurt, but she needn’t put any weight on it. Not much, really. With a crutch or a cane, she thought she could have managed quite admirably.

But absent either implement, she was forced to hop along on one foot, steadying herself by the back of the sofa, the edge of the table, the chair. The chasm between the sitting area and the end of the bed, devoid of furnishings on which to lean, gave her pause. Last night, it had seemed but a few steps.

After sucking in a determined breath, she hopped across the carpet, fearful that if she stopped for long, she would lose her balance and topple over. At last, she could lay a hand on the bed’s carved post, then grip the blue counterpane. Finally, a few hops more, and she was at the bedside table. Leaning against the bed, out of sorts from the effort such a little journey had required, she jerked the watch from her reticule.

Miss Godfrey’s letter slipped free with it and fluttered to the floor beneath the bed.

Time was, such an annoyance might have brought an unladylike epithet to her lips. But now, to her utter humiliation, tears sprang to her eyes.

Oh, she hated, hated, hated helplessness. It was more than just a loss of control over her life—which would, in all conscience, have been bad enough. Certainly, she had had plans go awry before, and events had not always unfolded as she had hoped.

Lately, almost always related to her dealings with Lord Thornton.

That realization made her grit her teeth, more determined than ever to see him not just hindered in his ability to do harm, but genuinely made to face justice.

She sank down, dragging the coverlet half off the bed in the process, the slippery silk offering little to counterbalance the graceless slide of her body. But at last she was kneeling on the floor, then lying on her belly, half-hidden beneath the bed, muttering under her breath, and straining first with one arm and then the other to reach the letter that taunted her from just beyond her fingertips.