Page 36 of Better Off Wed

Determined to get the better of her foolishness and steer what remained of the evening onto safer ground, she called after him. “What else was discussed over dinner?”

“Nothing of consequence.” Through the doorway, she could hear the rustling of clothes being removed and the splashing of water in the washbasin. “Even after the ladies withdrew, Thornton was remarkably subdued. Seemed to have something on his mind. While he nursed a glass of port, I made mention of the expected guests. He was quick to extend another invitation to join them, so I took it. The others will begin to arrive on Friday.”

The days—and nights—between now and Friday stretched before her, much like the expanse of the bed on which she lay. “I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to—”

“How’s that?”

He appeared in the dressing room doorway, scrubbing a towel over his jaw. He’d shed coat and waistcoat and unwound his cravat, and the sight of dark hair on his chest, revealed by the open neck of his shirt, somehow had the power to ratchet her pulse even higher. All she could manage was a mute shake of her head.

Last night, shock must have prevented her from understanding just how foolish it would be to behave as if they were really married. But tonight, what excuse did she have for being willing to court this danger?

She could not bring herself to blame two drops of laudanum in a swallow of water.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather I slept in the dressing room?” he asked, approaching the bed, seeming to sense her sudden rash of nerves. “Or by the hearth? The sofa isn’t long, but I think I could manage on the—”

“No.” Her voice was strangely husky. “What silliness that would be,” she insisted, after clearing her throat. “Why should you be uncomfortable? Surely two people—”

“Who don’t even like each other,” he interjected with a wry smile, echoing her words of the previous night.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t even know you.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up a little higher. “Almost like a real society marriage, then.”

She wanted to laugh with him, but a question rose to her lips instead. “Was someone in the corridor when you came into the room tonight?”

Confusion flickered into his eyes at the non sequitur, and he paused to think back. “No. Why?”

Because you called me darling when no one was around to overhear.

“Why are you helping me?” she demanded, ignoring his question even as she chided herself: He’s merely doing what you asked him to do. “You—you clearly had your own reasons for following me into Kent, and you must have other demands on your time, but now you’re…we’re…”

He smiled outright. “Do you doubt that I was eager to lay aside my usual, boring work in favor of a breakneck ride through the country after a pickpocket?”

With the nail of her first finger, she drew an aimless shape on the counterpane. “Not when I’d so thoughtlessly stolen something from you already.”

“The title, you mean?” One shoulder lifted in a show of indifference. “Much like Penhurst’s watch, it hardly qualifies as theft to take something from a man he ought never to have possessed.”

She puzzled over his meaning—could regret over his father’s death have left such a long shadow on his inheritance?—but said nothing more as he set about dousing the lamps.

In the velvety-soft darkness, she felt the bed dip as he climbed onto it, heard the rustle of sheets as he settled himself beside her, felt the warmth of his body, though they did not touch.

“What I’ve seen and heard in the last day has made me realize the importance, the necessity of Lady Sterling.” His voice was little more than a whisper now, and the intimacy of it made her shiver with delight. “I do not want Miss Godfrey and Dora and the rest to end up like Lady Thornton’s maid. By the bye,” he added as he turned away from her, evidently preparing for sleep, “what did you take from Thornton that brought in fifty pounds for the cook? Knowing might help me figure out where to direct my attention.”

“A—a book.” His focus on business was admirable, sensible. How silly of her to imagine there might be anything else between them. “A French cookbook. Mrs. Croft told me she had once seen him perusing it. When she asked if he wished for her to prepare something from it, he acted rather strangely and hid it away instead. His behavior ignited my suspicions, so I disguised myself as a parlor maid, intending to find out his secret. Unfortunately, the book turned out to be nothing more than it purported to be on the cover and therefore, nothing I could truly use. I took it anyway, hoping it might have some value, but I did not leave Lady Sterling’s calling card in its place, as I knew my work was not done. Later, my brother happened upon the cookbook at my Aunt Mildred’s, and when I told him it had been a donation to one of her charities, he offered to take it ’round to the shops on my behalf, to see what could be got for it. A few days after that, he brought me the money, which I passed along to Mrs. Croft. More than a year’s wages meant a great deal, of course, but I had hoped for something more…” She paused in the telling to find that his breathing had grown shallow and even, and he made no other sound. “Jeremy?” Still nothing.

He’d endured a long day of Lord Thornton’s company on very little rest. Of course he must be exhausted. And she ought to be grateful he would offer no further temptation to do something other than sleep tonight.

With a huff that came alarmingly close to the sound of disappointment, she rolled onto her side, facing away from him, and closed her eyes. Despite the laudanum and her best intentions, however, she could not shake her awareness of the man beside her, and sleep refused to come.

Chapter 11

Finding himself torn between conflicting desires, Jeremy steadied his breathing and pretended to sleep, though his mind raced.

The first of those desires—to roll toward Laura and gather her in his arms—was so far beyond the pale he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge it.

But there was no denying it, either.

Christ above, what had possessed him to agree to any part of this scheme? Not the false marriage, nor the flowery proposal. Not undressing her, inch by exquisite inch. And definitely not sharing her bed.