Page 106 of A Momentary Marriage

“What is it he sent you?”

“A book on Baroque music.” She glanced at Abigail and grinned. “Not the thing to capture most women’s hearts.”

“Or even their attention.”

“But it’s something I would like, and he knew it. This is a thing he spent time and effort to purchase, something he thought about. And it gives me hope.”

“Do you love James?” Abigail asked quietly.

Startled, Laura’s eyes flew to her friend’s. “I—I’m not sure. I thought I would be fine with the sort of marriage I could have with James. I’m practical. Sensible. No longer young and starry-eyed. I wasn’t eager to give my heart to anyone, and James would never ask for it. It seemed a reasonable bargain. I like him; he’s easy to converse with. He has a wicked sense of humor, which I am wicked enough to enjoy. A bit difficult at times, but who is not? And he is, I think, worth the trouble.”

“But?” Abigail prodded.

“I’ve found I want more. I think I have fallen in love with him.” She sighed. “He’s not the only one frightened. I don’t want to be hurt again. I don’t want to love a man who will never love me back. And I’m afraid James never will. He’s wrapped himself so tightly around with protection—hardness, indifference—I don’t know if anything can ever penetrate that.”

Abigail was silent for a moment, then said, “I cannot pretend to know how James feels or what he will do. But I do know hard men. My father was a harsh and callous man, far worse than James ever thought of being. But, despite all that, he was capable of love. He loved me. And from everything I’ve ever heard, he loved my mother.”

“But James doesn’t want to love me. Or anyone. He’s determined not to feel the way his father did, not to act as Sir Laurence did.”

“What a person wants doesn’t matter when it comes to love. Graeme never wanted to love me; sometimes I thought he never would. But . . .” She shrugged. “He couldn’t help himself, any more than I could. Love just reaches out and grabs you.”

Laura smiled faintly. “Unfortunately, James is slippery as an eel.”

The day crept on, just as it had every day since James left. Little appealed to Laura, but one must get through it. Abigail and Mirabelle had enlivened this afternoon with their call, but after they left, things settled into their usual quiet.

Laura and Walter had made little progress in their investigation. Walter had spoken with Robbie again, but his studiedly offhand questions about the boy’s slingshot had yielded little information other than that his father had taken it away from him and put it on a high shelf for a week after Patsy complained.

Her music was some release, but this afternoon Mr. Netherly decided to drop in and listen, as he had on another day or two, so she cut the period short. She would have gone for a walk, but Netherly announced his intention of seeking inspiration in the gardens and suggested she join him, an invitation Laura quickly declined. She felt low enough without having to listen to Netherly prattle.

Dinner was deadly dull, as was the evening spent with the family in the drawing room afterward. Laura couldn’t keep her mind on the conversation. She kept thinking about Abigail’s words this afternoon and wondering if her friend was right. Did James love her and was simply unable to express it, as she had been so sure of the night of the dance? Was he even capable of love?

He was clearly determined to keep a barrier between Laura and himself. His lack of communication the past ten days had been further proof of that. Yes, he had sent her lovely gifts, and the arrival of the books today had shown a personal touch, but still, those were easy enough. What he had not done was write to her—not even a note to reassure her he had reached London safely, much less a letter of apology or explanation. How could she believe he loved her if he would not even pick up a pen to write her?

It was a relief when it grew late enough that she could retire to her room. Owen had taken Demosthenes for his nightly run, so Laura started up the stairs by herself. She had grown so accustomed to the dog’s presence that it felt strange not to have him at her side.

Behind her, she heard the sound of footsteps, and Mr. Netherly said, “Lady de Vere.”

Suppressing an inward groan, Laura turned toward him with a forced smile. “Mr. Netherly?”

“Allow me to escort you upstairs.”

As if she could not find her way on her own—or perhaps he had appointed himself her protector, as Walter had. “No, please, I wouldn’t want to take you away from the others.”

He let out an indulgent little chuckle as he offered her his arm. “You must allow me to play the gentleman.”

She could do nothing but take his arm. “I am sure Lady de Vere will miss your presence.”

“Her ladyship knows my heart is firmly in her hands. She is my muse. My inspiration.”

He continued in this vein as they climbed the stairs. They were almost to the top when the front door slammed open. Laura jumped and dropped Netherly’s arm, whipping back around to see who had so rudely entered the house.

“James!”

chapter 42

James’s head snapped up at the sound of her voice. “Laura!” The word was almost a shout. “Come down here.”

“I beg your pardon.” Laura bristled. Gone over a week, having parted on unpleasant terms, and now he offered not even a greeting, just a short, sharp demand, as if she were a dog.