Page 82 of A Momentary Marriage

Archie tugged at his lapels and tried to pull his hauteur back into place. “I presume the killer must be Claude, since he’s your heir.” He narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “But you’ve no proof.”

James snapped, “Don’t make something up. And don’t conceal anything, either. If I find out you did either, it’ll go worse for you.”

“I don’t know anything,” Salstone repeated, his voice bitter. “I’m sure there are any number of people besides Claude who would like to see you dead.”

“You are the one I would have put in first place if I thought you had the brains for it.” James turned and walked away.

chapter 33

James passed his study and headed toward the gardens, too restless now to sit. It was absurd to feel jealous. Damn Salstone anyway for putting such thoughts in his head.

There was no reason for it. Even if Laura had once been in love with his cousin—hell, even if she still loved him—she would never dishonor James or herself that way. For that matter, neither would Graeme. No doubt Archie had exaggerated the number of times she went there. And what did it matter anyway? She could have been paying a call on Aunt Mirabelle or Abigail.

Well, perhaps it was unlikely for her to be friends with Graeme’s wife, but Laura had long been a particular favorite of Aunt Mirabelle’s. Even if she saw Graeme, conversed with him, it would lead nowhere. James would regret it if Laura were pining after Graeme, but only because he disliked seeing Laura unhappy.

He was not a possessive sort of man. Never had been. He hadn’t felt as if he owned any woman, any more than he owned his solicitor or his man of business. It was all a matter of agreement and exchange.

Marriage was another form of contract. Both he and Laura knew that, accepted it. As for all that talk of a married couple becoming one, James didn’t believe in such nonsense. After all, he had seen firsthand how very separate a man and wife remained. Laura bore his name; she was entitled to his respect and support, his protection, but James certainly would not presume to say she belonged to him.

The problem, he realized in surprise, was that in some gut-deep, primitive way, he felt Laura was his. She had become his the moment he slid the ring onto her finger. He told himself the feeling was only because by marrying him, Laura had entered that small circle of people under his protection, like his mother and his annoying half siblings.

Except that the way he felt about Laura was in no way like the responsibility he carried for the rest of his family. It went core deep and it was . . . passionate.

Demosthenes whined at his side, and James glanced down, realizing that he had been standing for some minutes on the terrace, staring out blindly. “Sorry, boy.” He reached down and patted the dog’s side. “Be glad you’re a dog.”

James started down the steps, still sunk in thought. Feelings were bothersome things, but at least normally they were in the places they belonged, not spilling over and twisting through everything to complicate his life. But with Laura, it seemed impossible to keep himself in order.

He thought about waking up this morning with Laura in his bed. It was an odd experience for him. He always left a woman long before dawn. But he could hardly have tossed his wife out of his bed last night. After this, he would have to handle it differently; he would go to Laura’s room, where he would be able to leave when he wanted to. Laura’s bedroom was a more enticing place anyway, everything soft and feminine and smelling of her.

For several minutes after he awoke, James had just lain there, studying Laura’s face as she slept, taking in all the details as he would have liked to many times before but could not without embarrassing himself. She was curled up beside him, her hair spreading out over her pillow in a silken jumble. The pale morning light coming through the slit between the drapes cut a swath across her face and turned her hair to spun gold.

He had wanted to trace his finger over her brows or brush back the lock of hair that tumbled over her forehead. But it would have been unkind to awaken her just so he could touch her, and anyway, he would have looked damned silly lying there mooning over her sleeping form.

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.