Page 8 of A Momentary Marriage

The prospect of browbeating the large man cheered James a little. But he could not manage it tonight. His head was throbbing . . . and now that blasted hand was starting to shake. He gazed down in a detached way at his fingers jerking and twitching on the seat beside him, as if operated by some unseen puppeteer.

Muttering a curse, James rapped his gold-knobbed cane against the ceiling, and when the carriage rolled to a halt, he told the coachman, “Turn around. We’ll spend the night here. I saw an inn at the edge of the village.”

It was doubtless shabby and furnished with lumpy mattresses, but it scarcely mattered. He could lie awake staring at the ceiling there as easily as anywhere else. At least he wouldn’t be jouncing about in the coach. Lately his joints had begun to ache like an old man’s.

Bloody hell. He would not dwell on his condition. He turned his thoughts instead to Laura Hinsdale. He wondered why she had never married. It would have been disastrous for Graeme to wed her, of course, but surely there must have been a number of wealthy men who would want her for her face and form even with her lack of fortune.

She probably wouldn’t have landed an earl, but Miss Hinsdale didn’t seem to covet a title. Perhaps she was just too choosy about her offers. Or still in love with his cousin. That idea struck James as absurd, but then, most things about love did. Attraction he could understand; even he had been swept by passion. Fondness. Affection. A preference for a certain person’s company. But he had never really grasped the desire to tie oneself to someone, to give over one’s heart.

His mouth twitched up at one corner. Of course, there were those who said James de Vere did not possess a heart. He would have been inclined to agree if only that organ did not thunder and clench inside his chest as if about to cease altogether.

The innkeeper looked somewhat askance at the enormous dog at James’s side, but graciously admitted him when James offered an extra coin. James climbed the stairs to his room, using his cane for aid rather than fashion since there was no one here to see it.

The room was small, but Demosthenes managed to turn around in it enough times to satisfy himself before he curled up on the floor. To James’s surprise, the place was clean if somewhat shabby, and it had a window. James gazed out at the dusk settling over the town.

It was well and truly over now. He had to face it. Who would have thought that thirty-four would be the sum of his years?

He had always assumed he had years and years to live out his life, that there would be plenty of time before he had to buckle himself to a wife and produce children. He’d meant to leave Grace Hill to a son. But now it looked as though he’d have to leave it all to his brother Claude.

James turned away and began to undress. He’d never had a valet. It seemed idiotic to pay for the irritation of someone fussing over him. A time would come when he would have to hire one, of course, to do all the things he would no longer be able to. But not yet. He could still avoid that humiliation.

He climbed into bed, knowing he was unlikely to fall asleep, and if he did manage it, he would doubtless awaken after an hour or two. But one clung to the structures of one’s life. As he lay there, drifting in that netherworld between wakefulness and sleep, a new thought came to him. And he smiled into the darkness.

Laura marched into her father’s study the next morning, determined to make up for the pitiful effort she had put into clearing it out yesterday. She worked in her usual organized fashion. Journals went into a trunk—no one would want to purchase those and she couldn’t bear to throw them away. Loose papers she scanned and usually tossed into the ashcan. Only now and then, when she happened across her father’s pipe or found his favorite woolen scarf beneath a pile of books, did tears blind her vision.

She had to keep on. It was the one constructive thing she could do. She would not think about the piano that would have to be sold. She ought to sell her violin, too, but, oh, how could she bear to? It was small, and surely she could keep one thing she loved.

Nor would she dwell on the fact that she would never again have a home of her own. At thirty, she was long past the age of marrying. As a penniless single female, she would be thrown on the mercy of her relatives, part object of pity, part unsalaried employee. Her only other recourse was to become a governess, trying to shove knowledge into the minds of wealthy children, a future that seemed equally unappealing.

There were few other occupations for a woman. She could sell hats in a millinery shop or try to make a living as a seamstress. But her needlework left much to be desired, and one had only to look at her own plain bonnet to realize she had no talent there.

She supposed she could become a nurse; she had helped her father enough, after all. The furor it would cause among her father’s relatives was almost enough to make it appealing. But it would appall and embarrass her aunt, as well, and she wouldn’t do that to her mother’s dear sister. Besides, it hadn’t been dealing with people’s illnesses that she had enjoyed as much as aiding her father’s research—and, admittedly, organizing his life.

Unfortunately, there was no career in managing lives, and her one gift, that of music, was a poor way to earn a living, even for a man. No, she was doomed to spend the rest of her life as a companion or governess.

Laura was startled from her gloomy thoughts by a sharp rapping at the front door. Her heart leapt into her throat. Merton must have come back. She rose to her feet, smoothing down her skirts and giving her nerves a moment to settle before she went to open it.

The knock sounded again, followed this time by an unexpected voice. “Miss Hinsdale? It is I. De Vere.”

“Sir James?” Laura opened the door. It was indeed him, the enormous dog sitting beside him. For a moment all three of them simply stared at each other.

“Miss Hinsdale?” He raised one black eyebrow. “Have I come at an inopportune time?”

“Oh.” She stepped back. “I beg your pardon. I was surprised to see you again. Please, come in.”

Demosthenes slipped past James with surprising agility for an animal so large and headed toward the kitchen. At the door, the dog turned to gaze back at Laura with an expression so humanly expectant that she chuckled.

“I hope you have another soup bone hidden about or Demosthenes will be severely disappointed,” James told her.

“I imagine I can find him something.” She followed Dem into the kitchen and rummaged around, finally coming up with a bone. The mastiff took it neatly from her hand, and flopped down on the stone floor to enjoy his gift. Laura, a smile lingering on her lips, looked back to James. “Did you come just for the bone?”

“No.” A corner of his mouth twitched in what she thought might be amusement. “I have a question to ask of you.”

“Very well.”

He glanced about. “Perhaps we could sit somewhere more, um . . .”

“Formal?”