My ankle is sprained, as suspected, but I can report there is no permanent or serious damage. I inform you only to save you the trouble of enquiring, as I have no doubt you were about to do. I should not like you to worry yourself unduly on my behalf.
Happily, Rhaebus was recovered, unharmed.
I predict the next time we cross paths—or swords—will be no less dramatic. In anticipation…
M
―Letter from The Most Honourable, Lucian Barrington, the Marquess of Montagu to Miss Matilda Hunt.
The night of the 31st August 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.
“Argh!” Matilda crumpled the note in her hand and was on the brink of tossing it in the fire but found herself compelled to uncrumple it and read the blasted thing again.
“As I have no doubt you were about to do,” she read bitterly, before adding, “Over my dead body.”
Of all the smug, irritating, self-important….
Grrrrr.
She paced her bedroom, beside herself with frustration. If only she were at home and could pick a suitable missile to hurl across the room and vent her feelings. He knew as well as she did that she hadn’t had the slightest intention of enquiring after his bloody ankle. Whether or not she’d wanted to, it would have been quite inappropriate… especially as no one knew about their meeting. Her friends had clearly gained the notion that something had gone on, though. That was beside the point, however. The very idea that she was fretting herself to death on his behalf was laughable.
Admittedly, she had wondered if he was well, but only so she could enjoy the vague hope he’d broken the blasted bone. Oh, that wasn’t true either, but neither had she been worrying herself unduly.
The note had been slipped under her door and she’d found it after dinner when she’d returned to her room. She had no idea how he’d done it, or rather, had arranged for it to be done. She wasn’t about to contemplate the possibility of Montagu creeping about Holbrooke House to deliver her a note, even if his ankle wasn’t damaged. No doubt he had trusted servants to do such sneaky work for him.
I predict the next time we cross paths—or swords—will be no less dramatic. In anticipation…
What the devil did he mean by that?
Matilda flounced into the chair by the fire, glaring at the note she still clutched. The handwriting was predictably elegant and precise, like the man himself. Even the flourishing M at the end was arrogant. Still seething, Matilda willed herself to consign the aggravating note and any thoughts of the man to the flames. She couldn’t make herself do it, which only incensed her all the more. Instead, she got to her feet, stalked to her bedside table, shoved the note between the pages of the book she was reading and slammed the drawer shut again.
The orchid on her nightstand trembled with the force of the movement, the delicate flowers swaying.
Matilda muttered a curse under her breath and blew out the light.
***
Harriet stared at the rich colours of the canopy over the bed, trying to comprehend the events of the past few hours. Nothing had gone as she had imagined it would.
It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to walk the dark corridors of the vast house to Jasper’s rooms. Of course, she knew where they were, knew this great behemoth of a house every bit as well as the family did, better even.
She’d remembered the story of the ghost and wondered if she’d see it on the way. She never had done before and was rather ambivalent about the idea of seeing it or not. Whilst it would be unpleasant, it would be interesting to have proof of such a phenomenon. At this point, she’d realised she was trying to distract herself from her current purpose, not terribly successfully either. She was all a-quiver, her heart thudding in her chest so furiously she considered it perfectly loud enough to summon the dead.
Then Jasper had been there, waiting, and… the things he’d said, the way he’d touched her… it had made her hope and dream and….
How could she dare to believe it?
She turned on her side, no easy feat as Jasper had slung an arm and a leg over her. He was sleeping now, not exactly snoring, but breathing heavily. Harriet studied him, pleased with the opportunity to do so at close quarters without scrutiny.
His eyelashes were a darker shade of gold to his hair and ridiculously long. Any woman would kill for lashes like those. He looked boyish and untroubled in sleep, the worry lines she’d noticed around his eyes earlier this evening smoothed away. There was also a very faint scattering of freckles across his nose she’d never noticed before, and which she found perfectly charming. His hands were similarly marked where the sun had browned him, and the knowledge made her smile.
He’d said he loved her. It had sounded as if he’d meant it, too. It had sounded that way all those years ago, though, when he’d asked her not to marry anyone else. Well, she hadn’t, not that anyone had asked. Not until Inigo.
What ought she to do? Being with Jasper, having a life with him, was every dream she’d ever had until he’d broken her heart. Could she really risk it again? Would it not be safer to return to Inigo? They had so much more in common, so many shared interests. Except now there was a new problem.
As she knew he was fully aware, Jasper had not withdrawn at the crucial moment. Which meant there was a chance, slight as it was, that she was carrying the future Earl of St Clair. The idea that he would allow her to marry Inigo now….
Not that it was his choice, but….
She sighed. If she hadn’t been trapped before, she certainly was now. The troubling thing was that she rather thought she might be glad. Perhaps she wasn’t brave enough to trust him again, to allow herself to love him as she had done once, but she could simply let it happen. Now the choice had been taken from her.
What to do about Jasper Cadogan.
Good heavens.
How much of her life had been wasted contemplating that very question? Except it didn’t feel like a waste at this moment.
Jasper sighed. His arm, which was a heavy weight across her middle, tightened, drawing her closer, and he made a sound of contentment.
“Are you asleep?”
“Mmmm,” he mumbled.
“I should go.”
His arm tightened further, and a scowl marred his handsome face though his eyes remained closed. Harriet reached out, smoothing the furrows. “I can’t be found in your rooms, and I’m tired. If I fall asleep, I’ll be here until morning.
His eyes flickered open, and she was dazzled all over again by their remarkable colour, that pale blue-green that was not quite either and yet both at once.
“I rather think that horse has bolted,” he said, a wicked grin flickering at his lips.
“That doesn’t mean I want to start another round of gossip. You know how servants talk.”
Jasper shook his head. “Not Merrick. He hates gossip. He’ll take my secrets to the grave.”
“Hmmm,” Harriet said, not liking the sound of that. “Have many dark secrets do you have exactly?”
“Only one worth a damn,” he said, reaching out and tracing the line of her jaw. “And it’s becoming rather less of a secret by the minute.”
She stared at him, torn between hoping he’d say it and hoping he wouldn’t. How much more could her heart withstand before it capitulated entirely and dissolved into a puddle at his feet?
Forestalling the question entirely, she kissed him. He pulled her to him, deepening the kiss, and awakening all sorts of sensations as her body responded at once despite her fatigue.
“Stay,” he said, such pleading in his eyes she couldn’t refuse. Not when she wanted to do as he’d asked, anyway. “Please,” he added. “I want to wake up with you.”
With a sigh, she moved closer and put her head on his chest, closing her eyes as he stroked a lazy hand down her back.
“Very well,” she said, closing her eyes. “I’m too tired to argue.”
“Miracles do happen,” he murmured and, for once, she let him have the last word.
***
The next morning dawned with the fresh vivacity that always followed a summer downpour. The sun-parched earth had soaked up every drop and the grass was brighter, the colours more dramatic, as though Mother Nature was having one last burst of glory before the approaching autumn stole summer’s thunder.
Minerva looked out of her bedroom window with a burst of anticipation. There was a trip planned today, to Tunbridge Wells. Though she’d stopped there with Bonnie and Ruth, they had by no means seen all there was to see, and she was very much looking forward to exploring a bit more. If she was honest, however, her main reason for wanting to return was the very slim chance of bumping into Mr de Beauvoir for a second time.
Why she was so struck with him, after such an inauspicious meeting, she hadn’t the faintest idea. It had occurred to her that perhaps it was some perverse desire to thwart her mother, who had been aggressively in search of a titled husband for her daughter since the moment she’d come out. Minerva had been bullied and forced to this and that social event, told what to do, what to say, how to act, when to smile… until she was dizzy and sickened by the whole affair and had forgotten who she was and what she wanted for herself. With Prue’s help she had changed that, and had promised herself she would make her own decisions from now on. The intriguing Mr de Beauvoir would be everything her mother would abhor. He was not titled or rich, had no charming manner or handsome face to recommend him and, heaven forfend, he was an intellectual.
If her dear mama had the slightest inkling of Minerva’s thoughts, she’d probably suffer a nervous collapse.
Nonetheless….
Minerva still hoped she would see him again. Chewing at her lip, she considered what to wear that would show her in her best light, and then she considered what might actually impress him, as she doubted it would be her dress.
“I wonder if Harriet has any interesting books I could borrow?” she wondered aloud.
If she could show him she was attempting to expand her brain, perhaps that would impress him. Minerva pulled a face and sighed. Only if she could talk about said book with any conviction, which she felt unlikely. Still, it was the only thing she could think of.
***
Jasper blinked, staring at the woman sleeping next to him with the dazed disbelief of a man waking from a dream. For a terrible moment dreams and reality overlapped, and he feared it had been nothing more than his imagination, but then she made a little snorting sound, somewhere between a snore and a huff, and his mouth curved into a grin.
The sound woke her and she blinked in the dim light of his room, eyes widening with shock as she saw him.
“Oh,” she said in surprise, and then let out a breath. “Good morning.”
“Marry me,” Jasper said, unable to keep the words back any longer. “Please, Harry, say you will.”
He watched her brow wrinkle, saw the troubled look enter her eyes.
“I’ll make you happy. I swear it.”
She sighed and turned onto her back. “We can’t spend our lives in bed, Jasper. There’s more to a marriage than that.”
“I know,” he said, reaching out and cupping her face, turning it back to look at him. “But bed is more important than I think you realised. Could you really marry him now? Won’t you be thinking of me whenever he touches you? For it won’t be like it is with us, Harry. I promise you that.”
The words had sounded a little harsher than he’d intended, fuelled by jealousy. He didn’t think his heart would survive if she chose de Beauvoir over him.
She said nothing, just stared up at him, her dark eyes solemn. Panic rose in his chest. Why would she choose him? She thought he was a brainless fop, and he didn’t know how to convince her otherwise, not when he feared it was true. One day soon he’d have to tell her the truth, he owed her that much, but the idea made him feel sick. What if she was appalled by him, embarrassed even, or worse, what if she pitied him? How would he bear it?
“You have to marry me now, anyway,” he said, sounding far harsher than he’d intended, unnerved by her silence, lashing out as he always did when she unsettled him and dented his confidence. “You could be carrying my child.”
“Yes, I realise you made sure that was a possibility,” she said, her voice cool and direct
Jasper flushed, torn between wishing he had done it on purpose and mortification. Good God, why did she always make him feel like such a foolish boy? “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said stiffly. “I… I just didn’t think, couldn’t think. I lost control.”
“I could wait until I’m sure there’s no child,” she said, and though it was gently said the words struck at his heart. “It’s unlikely, you know. Some people try for years before they conceive.”
This was too reasonable and Jasper had gone far beyond reason. He moved on top of her, pushing her legs wide and fitting his body intimately against hers. “Then I’d best give myself a better chance, hadn’t I?” he growled.
Harriet gasped as he slid his arousal between her legs, but she made no complaint, lifting her hips towards his, putting her arms about him.
“Would you really do that to me?” she asked, gazing up at him. “Force a child on me to make me do as you want?”
Jasper closed his eyes and swallowed as shame washed over him. He shook his head. “No,” he admitted, daring to look at her. “Though I fear how far I would go. I can’t lose you, Harry. I love you,” he said, staring down at her. “And I think we could be happy. I know I’d do anything to make you happy.”
There was fear in her eyes, but there was want too, he was certain of it. She wanted to believe him, and that was more than he could have hoped for.
“Harriet.” He breathed her name against her neck as he pushed inside her body, pleasure unfurling through him as she gasped and held him tighter, welcoming him in. “Don’t refuse me, love, please. Say yes.”
“I… I can’t think when… Oh….”
“Harry?”
“I’ll think about it, Jasper, I promise. Just… later…. Give me a little time.”
It wasn’t a no, at least, and that was more than he’d had yesterday. He said nothing more. He could give her time, and during that time he’d make certain she’d never be able to look at another man, not when she wanted him so badly.
Chapter 12
My lord,
I am truly and deeply sorry for your loss and though I doubt you’ll believe me I don’t mean to cause you any further distress. However it makes no difference to me if Gordon Anderson is now your heir. I wouldn’t care if he were the next King of Scotland. I won’t marry him. You’ll not have any problem finding a girl who would leap at the chance to marry him now, so why not find one? Just not me!
― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Bonnie Campbell to The Right Honourable William Douglas, The Earl of Morven.
1st September 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.
Harriet thanked her maid and dismissed her, reaching for her spectacles. She had made it back to her room unseen, thanks to a detailed knowledge of all the hidden passages and hidey holes that ran through the vast building. Merrick had, as Jasper had suggested, not so much as blinked an eye at her being in his master’s chambers, and had treated her with all the respect due the future countess.
She gave a heavy sigh and got to her feet, staring out of the window. How lovely it would be to live in such a splendid place, and with Jasper as her husband. It was the embodiment of her every dream, and yet she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to reach for it. Last night, and this morning—she recalled with something of a blush—it had been so easy to be with him. She’d been so overwhelmed by how he made her feel that it had been on the tip of her tongue to just agree to anything he wanted, yet she feared deciding anything at such a time. Desire was no basis for a marriage, not when she was still so unsure of his motivation.
She could not pretend that she believed his declarations of love to be sincere. Not that she thought he was lying to her; he clearly believed it
himself. Yet, Jasper was so damned stubborn, and she’d been refusing him for so long, that she could not help but suspect it was just a case of wanting what he couldn’t have. Surely, once his satisfaction at having won was over and done, he’d realise he’d married a dull little bluestocking, and not a very pretty one at that. She remembered again the lush beauty of his last mistress, Mrs Tate, and the comparison to Harriet’s own limited charms seemed mean indeed. He’d regret it in time, when he realised his wife would rather sit at home with her nose in a book than go out to whatever party or social event seemed to fill his calendar.
Wouldn’t it be better for her to marry Inigo and have done with it? It would save them both a great deal of heartache when Jasper awoke to the mistake he’d made. Harriet reached up and massaged her temples. Her head was pounding, though she didn’t think it was only her anxiety over the decision she faced. She felt hot and her throat was scratchy. No doubt she’d caught some ghastly cold and would soon have to face Jasper with the added indignity of a red nose and watery eyes. How revolting. She resolved to ask for some willow bark tea when she went down, and to eat a hearty breakfast. Perhaps she’d not succumb to it if she put it from her mind.
Harriet’s thoughts scattered as someone knocked at her bedroom door, and she opened it to find Minerva waiting for her.
“Hello, Harriet,” she said, and for just a moment Harry felt a surge of jealousy.
This was the kind of girl who ought to be the next Countess St Clair. She was lovely, with thick blonde hair and quite startling blue eyes. For a moment, Harriet pictured her with Jasper, and acknowledged what a handsome couple they would make. Jealousy tore through her, almost stealing her breath.
“Minerva,” she said, her tone rather frosty.
The girl hesitated at the unfriendly greeting and Harriet cursed herself for being so stupid and unkind.
“Forgive me,” she said, sighing. “I have a bit of a headache and it’s making me tetchy.”
To Wager with Love (Girls Who Dare Book 5) Page 12