Page 49 of Better Off Wed

Perhaps he’d been wrong to offer her honesty, when it was impossible to know what he would receive it in return.

The fight against Thornton had forged a connection between them; Jeremy had been ready to help punish the despicable man even before Laura had revealed his connection to the cookbook. It was tempting to tell himself that their shared mission was reason enough to trust her with information he would never have revealed under ordinary circumstances.

But he knew that wasn’t the sole explanation. Despite his best intentions, last night’s kiss had changed everything between them. Despite what he had told her, he wanted more. He was beginning to enjoy thinking of her as Lady Sterling.

And that was nearly as dangerous as talk of codes, spies, and treason.

In the next room, voices had risen above a murmur. Lady Thornton was making noises of concern, and Mr. Phelps, sounds of protest. A sudden rush of nerves assailed Jeremy, as if he really were an actor waiting in the wings for his cue. He’d felt much the same on that day in General Scott’s home, realizing how ill-prepared he was for the part his commanding officer expected him to play.

Whether his performance earned rave reviews or rotten fruit depended a great deal on what happened next.

He slipped on his coat, tugged the sleeves into place, and stepped into the bedchamber. “Is there some problem, ma’am?”

Though he’d intended to address those words to his supposed wife, Lady Thornton was the first to turn and look. Laura stared resolutely ahead, a mulish expression on her face.

Mr. Phelps, who had been crouched beside the sofa where Laura sat, rose and shook his head. “Perhaps you will have better luck, my lord.”

“Luck with what?” Jeremy asked, stepping closer to the trio.

Laura twisted her head and fixed him with a glare. “With me,” she snapped.

“Her ladyship refuses an examination, my lord,” Phelps explained, rather hesitantly. “She says that—”

“I see no need for him to poke and prod,” said Laura. “Whether the ankle is healed or not, you will refuse to take me home.”

While shaving, he had given some thought to what Laura’s plan might be. Her aunt and Julia shared similar tastes for farce and comedy, so he thought he could guess what sort of school Repent at Leisure represented, though the particular play was unfamiliar.

He had not considered that he was to be the villain of the piece.

“My husband,” Lady Thornton explained to the physician, “expects a number of gentlemen to arrive shortly for cards and shooting—”

“And other sport, I’m sure,” Laura interjected, sending another gray-eyed glare in his direction, before turning back to Phelps. “He has invited Lord Sterling to be one of the party. Meanwhile, I am to sit here quietly, all alone, and make no complaint, for—my lord and master says—it was my own stupidity that brought us to this pass to begin with and a sore ankle is the least of what I deserve.”

“Now, now, Lady Sterling,” Mr. Phelps murmured in a voice of practiced consolation, “have you any left of that tonic I prescribed?”

“He took it,” she cried and pointed at Jeremy with a shaking finger. It was true, of course; he’d slipped the little vial into his pocket after she’d hit her head. “By coming after me when I ran away, he ensured that everyone would believe him the devoted husband. But the truth is, he wants me to suffer.”

Even knowing she but played a part, he had to stop himself from fumbling to return the bottle to her. She was, as she’d said from the first, the better actor. Still, he must rise to the occasion. If she wanted a villain, she would have one.

Ignoring her pained expression, he stepped closer, stopping a little more than an arm’s length from the back of the sofa and setting his feet apart in a dominant stance. “Would you compete with me over who suffers more in this marriage, ma’am? I assure you, I like my odds.”

Laura covered her mouth with her handkerchief and blinked at him, as if momentarily dumbfounded by his reply, and he feared he had drastically mistaken the role he was to play. Then he realized that while she was indeed surprised by the energy with which he had taken up the part, mostly she was trying to hide a smile.

Lady Thornton twisted her fingers before her in a show of worry, and again he had the sense the countess was in her element, relishing the drama while pretending to care. “Oh, dear. Of course, my husband did tell me there was some…misunderstanding between you and Lady Sterling earlier, but I thought, after yesterday, all that was past. That story about your marvelous proposal—”

“All a ruse, ma’am,” Laura said, her voice and her eyes cool as she gave him a last dismissive glance before turning toward Lady Thornton. “He acted the lover, but it was my dowry he desired, and he followed me into Kent to ensure our marriage was consummated so that nothing could come between him and my money.”

Even the physician looked shocked by her bold words, and Lady Thornton developed a sudden fascination with the pattern of the hearthrug. “Oh, my,” she breathed and fanned herself with a handkerchief. Jeremy wondered whether she might not go so far as to pretend to faint. Was there anyone in Thornton Hall not playing a part?

He lifted his chin and looked straight at Laura, trying not to let himself imagine how close he’d come last night to doing with her what the others now believed him to have done. How close he’d come to making her his. “I think you mean my money, dearest wife.”

Laura made a noise in her throat reminiscent of an angry cat, which he answered with a world-weary laugh. Then her lip trembled, most convincingly. “I want to go home.”

Unwittingly, he took a half step closer to her, some words of reassurance ready on his tongue. Phelps, who seemed to regard the movement more in the nature of a threat to his patient, came around the corner of the sofa to stand between them, one hand raised.

Jeremy mustered another laugh. “Very well, my dear. We will leave the moment Thornton’s carriage can be made ready to take us. I’ll go down and explain the situation to him myself,” he said, moving toward the door. “You’d best let the good doctor have a look at that ankle, though, for I won’t hear one complaint about it on our journey. And,” he added, opening the door, “once you are installed at Everham, my lady, do not expect ever to leave. No, not so much as a visit to the milliner. I know your tricks now. You will not get away from me so easily again.”

Once in the corridor, with the door closed behind him, he paused to collect himself. Had he said the right things? Done the right things? Then he reminded himself of the urgency of his mission. He had to get back to London as quickly as possible, no matter what.