disbelief—the special license, the official to do the deed, the rings, even the kiss. He was amazed there was no choir and banks of flowers crowding the chamber.
The old judge shoved two papers across his desk and pointed to a blank spot on the first. Sean watched her write her name on both in bold, flowing script. She did it without a tremble, without a speck of hesitation. Laura Malinda Ames Middlebrook. His own fingers felt numb as he took the pen she offered and scratched his own signature.
“Cavendish?” she asked with a grin. Her shoulders shook with what he supposed to be a quiver of mirth. “How terribly awesome!”
“My mother’s maiden name,” he justified his middle one defensively. He was damned if he would explain the other two, both products of a whore’s whimsy. His glare fastened on her wide gold ring as it disappeared beneath the lavender glove. The band she had slipped on his finger felt abominably tight at the moment.
She pulled a face as he looked up again. The corners of her mouth turned down even as her eyes sparkled with merriment. “I’m only teasing. Cavendish a wonderful name. Sounds as if it needs a Lord in front of it, at the very least.”
He quirked a brow at her impertinence. “Don’t you wish.”
She ought to have looked properly chastened, but Sean heard the barely squelched giggle.
Her persistent good humor made him want to shake her till her teeth clicked. Was she bordering on hysteria? How could she smile? How could she jest?
All the way over to the law courts here in the Strand she had chattered incessantly, interrupting herself to clasp his arm excitedly as they walked. Sean had no idea what she’d talked about. He had been too preoccupied thinking of the horrendous step he was taking. Correction: they were taking. And never, not once during that whole time, had he uttered a single word to halt this travesty. Where the devil was his mind? What had happened to all that control he’d thought he had?
Why hadn’t he sent her and her nonsense packing, he asked himself with a sharp shake of his head. He was afraid he knew. He was terrified that he couldn’t deny this woman anything she asked of him. Because she was going to die, he told himself, forcing the dreaded thought to the forefront of his mind. Compassion was the only reason he had agreed to this. He thought surely he had killed that feeling along with the others, but what else could it be?
He could not bear for her to face what was left of her short life alone. Yes, that must be it. Compassion. Well, surely he could afford to exercise that full measure in this instance. Where was the harm? It was not as though he must devote the rest of his life to it. Only the remainder of hers.
The brother, that young scamp who was about as deep as a dish of tea, would be no consolation whatsoever in her final days. He would likely spend most of them mucking around the damned stables with his bloody stupid horses. Those parents of hers were still racketing around the globe just as they had been doing most of her life, from what he knew of them. Sean hated the thought of Laura left in the care of a hired servant or some such.
“Tell me truly,” she said, as they made their way out of the building and into the approaching twilight, “doesn’t it feel wonderful to be wealthy, Mr. Wilder? Aren’t you glad I had this idea? Think of the freedom this will offer you!”
Freedom? Sean glanced down at her, hoping the horror in his eyes was concealed, for he knew it was there right enough. He had totally forgotten the original transaction, the money. Had not really thought of it once she had told him she would soon die. Bought.
He changed the subject abruptly, unwilling to dwell on that one, lest he resort to cruelty. No point to it now. He might not relish the idea of being purchased again, but Laura certainly had no evil intent. The other had happened so long ago he seldom thought of it anymore. He wouldn’t now.
“Shouldn’t we dispense with formality?” he asked, striving for civility. “Shall I call you Laura?”
She beamed. “Of course you may! And I shall call you Sean. Unless you prefer Cavendish, of course. How should you like that?”
“I should hate that,” he remarked as he turned her in the direction of his rooming house.
“Are you hungry?” He didn’t think he could force down a bite if his life depended on it. His stomach felt like a melt pot full of lead. Perhaps some kind of illness had struck him, as well. Would that explain a total change in character?
She shook her head, setting the jaunty ostrich feather waving. “Not hungry really, but coffee would be nice. Yes, we shall have that and a sweet in lieu of a wedding feast. Perhaps then we should go home.” She clutched his arm with both hands. “You are taking me home with you, aren’t you? We can discuss our trip to Paris. Have you wine? We could buy some champagne along the way if we pass a wineshop. Oh, I do love walking this time of day, don’t you? The sunset would probably be glorious if we could just see past the fog.”
Before he could tell her it wasn’t fog at all, just the usual dirty air of London, she had skipped to the topic of their crossing the channel.
When she pulled him into a tea shop, where she ordered coffee and lemon cakes to celebrate, Sean allowed her to chatter on, changing subjects by the sentence. He supposed that might be how she coped, never dwelling on any one thing long enough to form a profound thought. Thinking, living, only for the instant.
If only he could make her forget completely, make her smiles real and heartfelt. Did he even remember how to do that for a woman? Had he ever done it at all?
Chapter Three
Laura swept into his apartment and did a quick pirouette around his drawing room. She sailed her wide-brimmed hat at the window and began tugging off her gloves. “Oh, Sean, this is wonderful! All browns, greens and brass. So masculine, just perfect for you.
“Oh look!” She scooped up the open sketch pad he had left on the divan. “You draw, too! I love to draw. I knew we had things in common. You’re very good,” she said, examining the picture he had done of an old man who ran a paper stall down the street.
He took the book from her and snapped it shut. “Sometimes I use it for work. Sketches help to locate people on occasion. Things such as that. Just picked it up, no formal training or anything. It’s nothing much.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “False modesty doesn’t become you at all. Tell the truth, you enjoy it. It shows in the work, Sean.”
He nodded and smiled shyly at her praise. “I suppose I do. Do you always say exactly what you feel, Laura?”
She considered that for a moment. “Yes, why shouldn’t I? Honesty’s very important to me.”
“The most important thing,” he agreed. “Though I encouraged those ridiculous rumors about my parentage, doing so was more of a private joke than any deliberate falsehood. Tweaking London’s nose, so to speak.” He framed her face with his hands. “I vow never to lie to you, Laura. About anything. I value truth above everything. It is so very hard to come by.”
His seriousness was not lost on her. “Then you shall always have it from me, Sean. Always.”
He suddenly looked so sad she couldn’t bear it. Laura wondered whose dishonesty had affected him so profoundly. And how quickly could she erase the memory? With one hand, she brushed a windblown lock off his brow and smiled up at him.
“Have you a kitchen? I can cook!”
“No.” He took her by the shoulders and stared deeply into her eyes as though looking for something hidden. “No kitchen.”
Laura sighed, totally entranced by the power of his gaze. “You have eyes like spring leaves, Sean. I do love the spring.”
He laughed softly, his head moving back and forth. “Laura, Laura, I don’t quite know what to make of you.”
“Make me a wife, then. No point in delaying. Show me what to do.”