A Momentary Marriage Page 7

  “I’m surprised you don’t also know that I won’t allow you to squander the trust’s money on some ridiculous scheme.”

  “It’s not ridiculous, I tell you. I’ve looked at it and—”

  “I’m not giving you the money.”

  “It’s not as if it’s your money!” Salstone’s face darkened with anger. “It belongs to me.”

  “It’s for Patricia, not you.”

  “Her money is mine.”

  “That is precisely the reason Sir Laurence left it in a trust,” James shot back.

  “It’s not fair!” The other man jumped to his feet. “Why the hell do you get to control all the money? You aren’t even—” He stopped abruptly.

  James raised his brows, saying in a silky tone, “I’m not even what?” His brother-in-law simply glared at him, not answering. “I’ll tell you what I am, Archie. I am the man who controls the trust Sir Laurence left for his wife and children. And I won’t permit you or anyone else to squander it.”

  “It’s not fair,” Salstone repeated, turning toward Claude. “You know it’s not. Why should we have to go begging to him for money that should be ours?”

  “Fair doesn’t matter. Haven’t you learned that yet?” Claude shook his head in disgust. “Really, Archie, have you no sense? You insult the man’s wife at dinner, then ask him for money?”

  “Don’t act as if you weren’t all thinking the same thing! She’s a nobody. I don’t care if he wants to pick up Montclair’s leavings, but to—”

  James burst up from his chair, grabbing a handful of Archie’s ascot and shirt, and shoved him back onto the dining table. Salstone landed with a thud, knocking over the decanter and sending port streaming across the damask. James leaned on the other man, holding him to the table with one hand, his entire weight behind it, and with the other hand twisting the material in a choking grip.

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare even say her name.” He rapped Archie’s head against the table for good measure.

  “James!” Walter grabbed one arm and Claude the other, pulling him back. “Stop. Let go. You’ll kill him.”

  “That’s what I’d like to do.” James released Salstone.

  Salstone, coughing, stood up. “You’re a bloody lunatic.”

  “And you’re a bloody fool, Archie,” Claude said dispassionately.

  James ignored their exchange. “Get out.”

  “What?” Salstone stared.

  “You heard me.” James bit off the words. “I want you out of this house.”

  “You can’t toss me out. This is Patricia’s home.”

  “Patricia may stay. You are leaving.”

  “James, wait . . . think . . . the scandal,” Walter began.

  “I don’t care about the bloody scandal!” James turned and strode away.

  Behind him he heard Salstone begin to bluster and Claude’s scornful reply, “What the hell did you expect, Archie? He told you.”

  Then he was out the door, leaving them behind. Demosthenes, waiting patiently in the hall, followed him. James took the back door onto the terrace, going across it to the steps into the garden. He sat down on the top step, gazing into the darkness. Customarily, he would make a round of the garden with his dog last thing before retiring, but tonight the spurt of rage had drained him, leaving him shaken and dizzy.

  This disease was making him a stranger to himself.

  Archie Salstone could drive a saint to murder, and there was no way James could have let the insult to Laura stand. But it wasn’t like him to be violent. He had always been able to take care of any enemy with a few acidic words. These days, however, anger bubbled in him, seeking release.

  Demosthenes, after a single puzzled glance at his master, sat down beside James and stared into the garden with him. James looped his arm around the dog. “Ah, Dem, have I done Laura a grave disfavor?”

  He was not an impulsive man normally, yet with Laura, he had jumped in without thinking. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it; it wasn’t his inclination to examine his inner motives or deep desires. If he wanted something of beauty, he acquired it. If he sought pleasure, he bought it. If something needed to be done, he made sure it was.

  It hadn’t occurred to him until tonight that he had put Laura in an uncomfortable situation. He had known Claude was bound to resent her, but then his sister and her husband had tried their knives on her at supper. James was accustomed to his family’s sniping and usually got in as many shots as he received—well, in truth, probably more. But when they’d started on Laura . . . Anger boiled up inside him again.

  Perhaps he should send Laura to his London house, where she would be away from the bitter tongues of his relations. But the idea left him feeling empty. Irritating as Laura’s poking and prying was, he perversely enjoyed it, too. And though he would have denied it, he had meant it, at least a little, when he said he didn’t want to die alone.

  It was peculiar that a virtual stranger could quell the icy fear seeking to take root in his chest. But somehow he felt more at ease when he looked into Laura’s calm face, her steady blue gaze. He didn’t want to send her away.

  Laura had shown tonight that she could handle his relatives’ barbs. She had the advantage on them in intelligence. And in chucking out Salstone just now, he’d gotten rid of the worst one. She would have to deal with them after he died anyway. Might as well figure out how to do so while he was still here to step in.

  God knows how long he would have the strength to do so. The confrontation with Salstone, coming on the heels of the journey, had left him exhausted. Two months ago, he would have scarcely noticed it. Now he could not summon the energy to even walk the garden with Dem. Indeed, climbing the stairs to bed seemed an enormous effort at the moment.

  But, of course, he had to. He must use the steam treatment for his cough tonight. He’d already gone two nights without it while he was at the inn. He hadn’t noticed that the treatment had eased his cough, and more than once, he’d thought of simply giving up the tiresome practice. But of course he hadn’t. He could not have given up the struggle any more than he could have changed the color of his eyes. He would keep on until the bitter end. It was what one did.

  James stood up and started into the house.

  chapter 9

  Laura awoke in much better spirits. However overwhelming this room was, the massive bed was comfortable, and she had slept the night through. Getting out of bed, she opened the drapes. Her window faced the gardens below, a massive spread of spring flowers, trees, and shrubbery. The house, on the crest of a hill, commanded a view of the countryside. Rolling hills stretched off in the distance, and closer at hand, at the bottom of the hill, she could see the ruins of a stone castle nestled beside a pond.

  She dressed quickly, eager to explore the gardens. As she left the room, she heard a door slam down the hall and turned to see Patricia, sobbing hysterically as her mother tried to calm her. Laura hesitated, uncertain whether to go back inside her room, sneak away, or try to help.

  Patricia looked up and saw her, and her face twisted. “You!” She flung out an accusing hand at Laura. “It’s all your fault!”

  “Hush, now, darling,” Tessa said in a harried way, patting her daughter’s back and looking at Laura apologetically. “Don’t fret. I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “It won’t. It won’t. I hate him!” Patricia cried as she let her mother sweep her into the room behind her.

  Laura stood for a moment, gazing after them. Well . . . life in the de Vere household was certainly not dull.

  As she stood there, a small face edged around a corner. When Laura made no move, the boy stepped into the hall, lifting his hand to wave to her. She presumed that he must be Claude’s son whom James had mentioned the day before. He looked around six years old, with a mop of blond curls and an angelic face that reinforced the idea that he was Adelaide’s child.

  Laura went down the hall to him. “I’m—well, I guess I’m now your aunt. Laura is my name.”

&nb
sp; “Hullo.” He looked up at her with great interest and no appearance of shyness. “I’m Robbie. Robert Edward Danforth de Vere.”

  “My, that’s certainly a mouthful. May I simply call you Robbie?”

  “Course.” He continued to regard her. “You’re Uncle James’s wife. I heard Mum talking about you.”

  “Did you?” However sweetly she had spoken to Laura last night, Laura suspected that in private Adelaide’s words had been more acidic.

  He nodded. “You are pretty, though.”

  Laura wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

  Robbie seemed to require none, for he went on, “I like you. You’re nicer than Aunt Patricia.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I like you better than Uncle James, too. He never talks to me.”

  “I suspect your Uncle James isn’t sure what to say to young boys.”

  “Why not? He was a boy, wasn’t he? Papa always says, ‘James is just like when we were boys.’ ” He dropped his voice on the last sentence in imitation of his father.

  Laura smiled. “I’m not sure your Uncle James was exactly like other boys.”

  “Robbie?” a piercing voice called. “Robbie, where are you?” A moment later, a stick-thin woman came into view. “There you are! Come here. I told you not to leave the nursery.”

  “That’s Miss Barstow,” Robbie explained to Laura. “She gets upset. I have to go.”

  He took off down the hall to meet the woman, presumably his governess. She took him by the arm and hustled him back the way she had come, grumbling, “Why do you always run away?”

  Laura turned, smiling a little. It seemed Robert Edward Danforth de Vere was a bit of a handful. She hurried back down the hallway to the front stairs, hoping that Patricia wouldn’t pop out to hurl more accusations at her. Downstairs, she found that the dining room held only Claude and Cousin Maurice.

  Claude glanced up and rose politely, followed by the other man. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” She nodded at them. “I thought James might be here.”

  “Here and gone. You know James.”

  No, she really didn’t. But she could scarcely say that.

  “I hope you slept well,” Cousin Maurice offered.

  “Yes, I did, thank you.”

  “I only wish I could.” Maurice sighed mournfully. “I rarely get a full night’s rest. It’s my back, you see.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Just be grateful you’re young. The cold and damp are terribly hard on one as one grows older.”

  “I’m sure they are.” He didn’t look to be older than his forties. And it was neither raining nor cold.

  “I thought it was your stomach kept you awake,” Claude put in, his sardonic tone similar to his brother’s.

  “Oh, it does. My back, as well.” Cousin Maurice sighed lugubriously and launched into a description of his ailments that was mercifully cut short by Adelaide entering the dining room.

  “Lady de Vere.” Adelaide beamed. “I hoped you would be here. Usually I am the only woman at breakfast. Conversation is so dull.” She giggled and made a little moue toward her husband. “Sorry, darling.”

  Claude didn’t seem to mind. He stood up, offering the first real smile Laura had seen on the man’s face. Taking Adelaide’s hand and raising it to his lips, he seated her with the care one would show an invalid. However coolly he presented himself to others, it was clear that with Adelaide he was all warmth. It made Laura more inclined to like him.

  “Good morning,” Laura answered Adelaide. “And, please, call me Laura.”

  “Lovely! After all, we are sisters now, are we not? I haven’t had the chance to welcome you to the family. I vow I had begun to think Sir James would never marry.”

  There was a flat note to her last words that made Laura glance at her sharply. Despite Adelaide’s overt cheeriness, Laura suspected the woman had in fact been disappointed James had not remained a bachelor. But at least she was attempting to be nice, which was more than could be said for much of James’s family.

  “It’s wonderful that Sir James found someone.” Adelaide recovered her pleasant tone as she turned toward her husband. “Isn’t it, dear?”

  “Wonderful,” Claude repeated sourly.

  Adelaide leaned forward, laying her hand upon her chest and tittering in a self-deprecating manner. “Though I must admit, I would never have had the nerve myself to marry Sir James. Such a formidable man!” She gave an expressive little shiver. “You must be terribly courageous.”

  “Um . . .” How was she to respond to that?

  Laura was saved from replying by Claude, who drawled, “Oh, I doubt it required courage, my dear, merely clear thinking. After all, James is a far better choice financially than Laura’s first fiancé.” He turned to Laura, his expression cool and disdainful.

  “Claude!” Adelaide gasped.

  Laura met the man’s gaze levelly, letting a heavy silence build, then said, “I thought that James had gravely underestimated his brother’s character, but I can see now that he spoke nothing but the truth.”

  Claude smirked. “I don’t know what he promised you in return for marrying him, but if James thinks to supplant me with an heir, he’s left it a little late.”

  Laura clenched her hands in her lap, aware of a strong desire to drive her fist into Claude’s smug face. Controlling herself with an effort, she rose and turned toward the others at the table, ignoring Claude. “Pray excuse me, Adelaide. Cousin Maurice. I find I have lost my appetite.”

  Laura escaped to the gardens, thankful that she ran into no one on her way. She was too furious to be polite. The gall of that man! The utter, heartless lack of compassion for his dying brother! It was little wonder that James didn’t want to leave his dog or anything else to Claude. She hurried down the steps leading from the terrace to a formal garden, too angry at first to even notice the flowers and plants around her. But as she walked, the beauty of the garden began to soothe her. Orderly beds of early spring flowers were arranged around the central fountain, their geometric shapes sharply delineated by low green hedges. In contrast, the lower gardens beyond it were a lush riot of flowers and shrubs. Bright spikes of foxglove were banked by hydrangeas, and spiky purple balls of allium topped tall green stalks like lollipops.

  Paths wound through the gardens, tree-shaded benches scattered along the way. At the other end of the colorfully jumbled garden, an arbor covered in lavender wisteria led to yet more steps and a trail shaded by trees. The ground sloped down slightly, and Laura followed its twisting way.

  Small paths branched off in different directions, but Laura stayed on the more-trodden walkway, emerging finally into a small green clearing. Here the land fell sharply away. On the far side of the clearing stood a large fountain, and beside it was a stone bench, facing outward to enjoy the vista. The man who sat there turned at the sound of her approach.

  “Sir James!” Laura stopped in surprise, then started forward.

  He stood up, his smile teasing. “Sir James? Don’t you think we should drop the formality?” He leaned in as she stopped beside him. “Considering that we are presumed to ‘know the secrets of the boudoir.’ ”

  She quirked a brow at him. “You’re merry this morning.”

  “The gardens affect me that way. Come, look.” He took her hand and led her to the fountain.

  Below the fountain, wide, shallow steps of white stone marched down the hillside, grouped in tiers. The stairway was bordered on both sides by narrow streams of water that flowed from the fountain. The water tumbled down over black stone steps, creating a series of small waterfalls. The effect was enchanting, filling the air with the soft burbling of a brook and creating a stunning landscape.

  At the bottom of the hill lay the stone ruins Laura had glimpsed from her window this morning. She could see now that the pond beside the old castle was actually a wide, irregular moat. The ruins lay on an island in the middle of the water so that one had to cross a small b
ridge to reach them. They were more extensive than she had realized, consisting of two buildings, partially caved in, and a squat round tower.

  Laura drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, James! It’s perfect.” She turned to him, her face glowing.

  He smiled. “I thought you would like it.” His eyes moved over her face, and something in the set of his mouth, the look of his eyes, changed subtly. He still held her hand, and now his fingers slipped between hers, their palms pressed together. “Laura . . .”

  She was very aware of the pulse hammering in her throat, the rise and fall of the breath in her chest, the touch of his skin against hers.

  Suddenly there was a loud thrashing in the brush on the other side of the fountain. They swung around, startled, as Demosthenes burst into view. He loped up to Laura, ears flopping and tongue lolling from one side of his mouth, looking so comical that Laura laughed. She feared for a moment that he was about to throw himself against her in greeting, but James raised a hand, saying sharply, “Down,” and Dem stopped short and leaned his head against her.

  “I can see you’ve added another de Vere to your collection,” James said lightly. “First me, then Walter, now Dem . . .”

  “Dem would be glad to see anyone if they’d fed him soup bones.”

  “That might be true,” James said. “Would you care to sit? Or would you rather I show you the ruins?”

  “I think I’d prefer to just admire the view from here today.” Laura would have liked to see the fallen castle; she had intended to walk down to it. But she had learned enough of James to know that he would accompany her even if the climb was too taxing.

  “What is that place? The de Vere ancestral home?”

  “Not ours. It was the original owners’ castle. It was tumbled down long before the estate came into de Vere hands. The fact that they built their stronghold at the base instead of using the natural defense of the hilltop will give you some idea why they lost the property.”

  Laura laughed. “Something a de Vere would never do.”

  “I wouldn’t, at least.”