I’ve also got a big tabby cat and a pond full of frogs.”
After a moment, Lady Catherine nodded. “I suppose you have to go home. Your dog and cat and frogs must be lonely.”
Laura rose. Lord Beaulieu stood watching her, arms crossed over his chest, looking angry and—surely it wasn’t hurt she read on his face. She jerked her glance away and walked toward the door.
“Return to your little household, Mrs. Martin,” the earl said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Your very small household. Given how clever you are with children, ‘tis a great shame your late husband didn’t bless you with any.”
The pain was instantaneous, automatic, and even after more than two years, devastating. Without thinking she whirled to face him. “How true, my lord,” she snapped. “Especially considering that I buried one.” Dipping a curtsey, she fled the room.
Chapter Twelve
The slam of the door echoed in the sudden silence.
After giving him a speculative look, Ellie walked over to her daughter. “Let me ring for Mary, sweeting. She can help you take your kittens out for some air. Beau, if you would please wait, I’d like to speak with you.”
While his sister took her daughter away, Beau tried to master his anger and make sense of his disordered thoughts.
How could Mrs. Martin leave now, when he had so little time left? He understood why the events of last evening might have upset her, but why flee from him, as if he were the perpetrator of that scene? It shocked—and he had to admit, hurt—him that she apparently had so little trust in his honor. When had he ever attempted to push or coerce her into doing something she didn’t desire?
It hurt, too, that she seemed so willing to give up the little bit of time they had left together—time that had become increasingly precious to him.
But if Mrs. Martin wanted to ignore the connection between them and return home, so be it. Given a few moments to accustom himself to this unexpected development, he’d be able to deal with it. ‘Twas only natural, having had his self-esteem unexpectedly bashed, that he’d succumbed to that rare fit of temper.
An uncomfortable tweak of conscience jabbed him. He’d have to pen her an apology after that gibe about her being childless. The idea of reaching out to her, even via the impersonal medium of a letter, suddenly lightened the sense of … dismay he’d experienced when she’d refused to be dissuaded from leaving.
Perhaps he’d call on her and deliver the apology in person. As that thought warmed him even further, the fact finally registered, too glaring and inescapable for him to evade the truth any longer.
He couldn’t lose Laura Martin. The idea of going through a day without experiencing her smile, her wide-eyed sparrow look of inquiry, the jolt of pleasure that excited his nerves just to be near her, was simply unthinkable. Beyond the ever-present physical pull, she had become that rare friend who challenged his opinions and resisted his commands even as her wit invited his laughter and her quick intelligence piqued his mind.
He’d been looking forward with impatient anticipation to becoming more than friends. Exactly what form their long-term relationship should take, he hadn’t yet figured out, but there would be time enough later for them to determine that together. First he had to ascertain what had so upset her, and coax her back.
Beau paced the room, trying to make sense of her behavior. Given the strength of the connection between them, despite her innocence he simply couldn’t believe a mere display of lust would have horrified her into retreat. He’d given her no reason to suddenly fear he’d try to coerce her into similar behavior.
A radical thought popped into mind, a theory that would settle all the jumbled pieces into place so neatly, he halted in midstride.
What if Laura Martin wasn’t what she claimed? What if she was not Lieutenant Martin’s wife—but rather his cast-off mistress? A gently born girl who’d been seduced, disgraced and abandoned to bear alone a bastard child who later died?
Having forfeited through indiscretion the life of comfort and the respect that had been her birthright, estranged from everyone in her family save a kindly aunt, naturally she would wish to live quietly, zealously guarding the tiny niche she’d carved out in this rural society. Betrayed by a man she loved, with neither family nor dowry to protect her, she might well distrust the motives of men, and deliberately seek to discourage their interest.
And certainly she would flee if tempted to commit once again the folly that had led to her ruin. Seeing the writhing couple last night might have shocked her into remembering all she risked by allowing Beau too close.
There’d been too much raw pain in her tone for him to doubt that she’d lost a child. But what of the rest of what she’d revealed about herself in Merriville?
His analytical mind already speeding, Beau determined to send word by return pouch today to have his secretary launch an immediate inquiry into the family background of Lieutenant Winnfield Martin of the Thirty-third Innisford Greys, the man the squire told him had been her late husband.
Whether or not Laura Martin had suffered such a disgrace mattered not a groat to him. The woman who enthralled him had honor, intelligence and character written into her bones. Nothing that had occurred in her past could dissuade him from wanting her by his side.
Whatever the truth of her story—and well-honed instinct told him there was much more than she’d yet revealed—he must somehow persuade her she had nothing to fear and everything to gain by confiding in him, a man who regarded his family and close friends as both gift and sacred trust. He must seize another chance to convince her he would never betray her, that he wished instead to hold, protect and care for her the rest of her days.
He was still trying to decide the best way to approach Mrs. Martin when Ellie reentered the room. With his return to London imminent, he couldn’t afford to wait for answers to an inquiry.
“An illuminating conversation, brother dear,” Ellie said as she walked to his side. “And don’t pretend you don’t understand. You were very severe with Mrs. Martin.”
He gave her a rueful grin. “You are right. I was … surprised. I shall have to apologize.”
“I should think so.” She pointed a reproving finger at him. “You do so hate it when someone within your purview makes a move without your consent.”
“A despot, am I?”
“Absolutely.” She kissed his cheek. “A benign one, but a despot nonetheless. Still, in this instance I think Mrs. Martin is being wise.”
“And why is that?” he demanded, surprised and more than a little affronted.
“I’ve seen the … attraction between you. Not knowing you well, she might be fearful of what you mean to do about it. After all, Laura Martin is a woman living all alone, without family or defenders. Unlike that demirep of a sharp-spoken bitch, Lady Ardith, she’s not the sort to indulge in idle bedsport. If you’ve dalliance in mind, brother dear, I recommend you confine your attentions to that one. She’s eager enough.”
“Such language, sister mine,” Beau replied with a quiver of amusement.
