Sarah Wetherall sat opposite him, arms crossed and glaring.
Focusing on the paperwork before him, Arthur scratched out an instruction to Miss Parkes regarding the letter she was to scribe—or, at least, he attempted to. The imprecise print torn from his pen was such that even an experienced copyist and scrivener such as Miss Parkes would have trouble deciphering it.
He stared down at the scribble. Damn Sarah Wetherall, and damn her for distracting him from his work. She had come a full half hour before she was scheduled and, rather than wait outside his chambers as most any normal human would do, she had forced her way past Dunn and positioned herself as she currently was, in the seat before his desk with a terrific scowl darkening her features. He was beginning to believe it her only expression. For seventeen minutes she’d remained thus, despite being informed he was in the midst of important work and could not pause simply because she’d arrived before she should.
Scratching another instruction, he was disgusted to see it as imprecise as the first. Double damn her to Hades and back.
After her visit to his lodgings three days past, he’d resolved to put this appointment from his mind. He’d unpacked, washed, changed his clothing into something more comfortable…and then spent the rest of the night cursing her and her contrariness. For the past three days, he’d found himself thinking upon her, when he’d resolved not to. He’d done as she asked, drafted a letter, formulated a stratagem, but that should not have consumed his attention. She should not have consumed his attention.
He’d also thought too much on the shape of her mouth.
The pen pressed too hard into the paper, leaving a blotch of ink. Damnation, he’d not ruined a piece of paper since he’d first learned to write. This was intolerable. She was intolerable. He had to gain control of his emotions, and quick. He refused to allow chaos in his life. Better to get this over with and done, so he could at lease delude himself into believing he would complete some work.
Placing his pen in its well, he sprinkled sand on the letter and set it aside. Taking a barely perceptible breath, he raised his gaze to hers. “Mrs. Wetherall, I believe you would like an update.”
She smiled prettily enough, but he could see the anger beneath. “If you would be so kind, sir. It is, after all, why I am here.”
“Quite.” Lacing his fingers, he resisted the urge to undertake some juvenile action, such as pull her hair or poke out his tongue or something else he had never done when he was young enough not to know any better. “We have prepared a letter to be sent to the Wetherall solicitor, outlining reasons to cease and desist. We have also stressed there is no legal basis for any of their claims and an attempt to pursue such in court would ultimately result in the claim’s dismissal. We will await their response before formulating a concrete plan, but my belief is they will ignore this letter and attempt intimidation. Is that your belief?”
She hesitated. “It is,” she finally said.
He nodded. “If that is the case, we will prepare a suit against the Wetheralls, citing unlawful claim. They can tie this up in court for the next twenty years if they want, but we will find a way to dissuade them.”
“Oh. Yes. That would be preferable.”
Of course it would. “So, we will proceed as instructed.” He stood.
Disbelief writ her features as she looked up at him. “That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“How can that be all? Sit down, Mr. Davenport. There must be more.”
Forcing calm, he didn’t let his expression waver, kept his demeanor composed. “This is how the legal profession works. You ask our opinion. We give it. You give us instructions. We undertake them. That is all.”
For the longest moment, she studied him and then shook her head. “No. This cannot be all.”
She drove him insane with her insistence that she knew everything about everything, and heaven forbid if someone should suggest different. “Damn it, woman, I know what I’m about!”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you just call me woman?”
Gritting his teeth did nothing to rid him of his ire. “This is what I do, every day. You cannot claim you know better than I in this.”
She shoved to her feet. “I? Are you seriously claiming I do that?”
He had no idea of what she spoke and he didn’t care. He didn’t have care of much at this present moment.
Moving around his desk, he used his greater height to loom over her. “You come to me out of the blue, drop your problem in my lap, and then discount my deductions and my advice. You insist you know better than I in matters of the law and force me to work a pointless case. This is clear-cut. They are in the wrong. That is all.”
Setting her jaw, she shook her head. “You don’t understand! Robert’s family has been plaguing me for months. Months! And yet you insist you can disentangle them from my life in ten minutes. How is that possible? How?”
Something niggled at him, something that whispered she might be right, but his anger wouldn’t allow him to pause. “It is possible because it is the law. Your money is safe from them.”
“It’s not about the money.”
He raised a brow. “No?”
She scowled. “Money is necessary. It allows me to eat and keep a roof over my head, but the Wetheralls are attempting to nullify everything Robert and I meant to each other. They are claiming my marriage invalid, as if it never happened. But it did, and no matter what they do or what they say, they cannot change that.”
“So your concern is solely with the memories you possess? And I suppose you married him for this great love you felt, but what is it they say? It’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one?”
Such fury entered her expression that if he were not so caught up in his own anger, he would have desisted. “That isn’t why I married him.”
“Then why did you marry him?”
“So I wouldn’t have to marry you!”
He—she—what?
Impotent, she stood before him and then she just…slumped. Utter dejection seemed to overtake her as she sank into the chair.
For the longest time, she simply sat, shoulders slumped and expression still. He wanted her to rally, to become the Sarah Stanhope he’d known all his life, the annoying, too-loud girl convinced of her being right in every situation. She couldn’t be…defeated.
He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. Bloody hell, he’d done that. What he’d said…. Damnation, he didn’t even believe what he’d said. He had grown up with her. He knew her character. For whatever else her faults, she’d never been mercenary. She probably had held true affection for her husband, and he had no basis to question it.
For the first time in a very long time, he had no idea what to say, and she did nothing, said nothing, merely sat there and stared at her meshed hands.
“You wouldn’t have had to have married me,” he finally said.
Her gaze whipped to his.
Clearing his throat, he steepled his fingers. “I will rephrase—why do you think you would have had to marry me?”
Incredulity painted her expression. “Our mothers had decided.”
What did that have to do with anything? “So?”
“So? What do you mean ‘so’? They always get what they want.”
Crossing his arms, he leaned against the edge of his desk. “My mother knows it won’t work. She knows she can’t manipulate me.”
“Oh, and why is this? What makes you so very different from everyone in the entire world ever?”
He shrugged.
“Seriously? That is your answer? When have you ever thwarted her?”
“She didn’t want me to become a solicitor.”
Opening her mouth as if to speak, she stopped and then closed her mouth with an audible snap.
The silence went on, so much he felt uncomfortable. “Every Christmas and Easter, she still tries to turn me to my father’s footsteps.”
Her brows shot up. “You? A vicar?”
He shrugged again. “It is as I said. She tries.”
For a long moment, she contemplated him. Then her gaze turned speculative. “Can you teach me how?”
His own brows drew together. “There is no how.”
“There must be. You are a solicitor, so clearly your way works.”
“So did yours.”
She regarded him quizzically.
“We are not married.”
“Oh.” A flush spread across her cheeks. “Yes. Quite.”
Uncomfortable again, he looked from her. The words were simple and ultimately without meaning, and yet when he’d said them, the order seemed wrong.
Exhaling, he braced his hands on the desk. It was unfair how he treated her, tarring her with a brush old enough to have grown ill from disuse. They were both fully grown, and wiser in the ways of the world.
Clearing his throat, he met her gaze. “Mrs. Wetherall, I wish to extend my apologies. I have treated you unfairly. I have allowed the past to color my judgment, and that is unforgivable. Please, may we start again?”
Arms crossed, she considered him.
Annoyance welled in him, but he forced it down. “This isn’t a trick.”
She cocked her head. “No. You are not capable of them, are you?”
She could believe that if she wished. He refused to allow emotion to color his judgment. Well, to color his judgment anymore.
Finally, she uncrossed her arms and stood. “All right.” Offering her hand, she said, “Bygones?”
He took her hand. “Bygones.”
In his, her fingers were small and warm. She had removed her glove at some stage and he…. Well, what was the point of wearing them in his own chambers? So now he found himself cradling her skin against his. Her bare skin.
Dropping her hand, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.
She, too, seemed disturbed but seemed just as determined to ignore whatever that was. “That isn’t the only reason I married Robert. I liked him. Greatly. I thought we would deal well together. I didn’t…. I wasn’t…. I didn’t use him.” Her words had the sound of a litany, one she’d repeated a dozen times or more. One she clearly expected to be refuted.
For a long moment, he studied her. “Why are the Wetheralls attempting this?” he finally asked.
Her gaze flew to his before skittering away. “It is as I said. They didn’t want me to marry Robert.”
In that simple sentence, he heard a whole story. One where her husband’s family never let her forget she was not their choice for her son. “I will help you. And I will end this.”
She didn’t appear convinced.
“Mrs. Wetherall.” He waited. Finally, blue eyes met his. “I will do this. When I am finished, you won’t have to worry about them again.”
For the longest time, she searched him. He remained resolute. Then, sharply, she nodded.
A smile twitched his lips, but he didn’t allow the expression. Instead, he moved around his desk and seated himself. “Now.” He joined his hands before him. “I believe you wish to know how I handle my mother?”
Lowering herself to her chair, she exhaled. He ignored how shaky it seemed. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Excellent. The first thing we must establish is that it doesn’t matter if the other person believes they are right. All that matters is the result.”
Some small spark of contrariness lit her expression. “Of course it matters if they believe themselves right when they’re clearly wrong.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “I see this will take some time.”
She lifted her chin. “No, it won’t.”
He smiled. No. Perhaps it wouldn’t.