“Poor darling,” he said, his voice soothing as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her nose. “You should rest.”
“I don’t want to rest,” she muttered, “I want to do something. Oh,” she said, brightening and sitting up straighter. “You could read to me. Please, Jasper, or I think I’ll go mad.”
Jasper knew a moment of sheer panic. He grew hot, then cold, and then a clammy combination of the two settled over his skin.
“I-I….” he stammered, terrified that she’d discover his secret at last. He knew he had to tell her one day, must tell her, but he hadn’t been prepared to do it so soon, not before they were married at least. He wasn’t ready.
His panic was such that it sent any possibility of coming up with a reasonable excuse vanishing in an unlikely puff of smoke, like a bad magician. All at once, he was eight years old with his tutor breathing down his neck and telling him not to be so bloody absurd, telling him he was doing it on purpose when he discovered the notes Jasper had struggled over for hours were a splotched mess, and many of the words or letters were back to front.
The man had been furious with him, thinking he’d been messing about, and Jasper had been so sick with humiliation and frustration that he’d snatched up the ink pot from the stand and hurled it to the ground. There had been something satisfying in the crash it made, and the way the black ink had splattered everything, covering his tutor head to foot in black splotches and speckles.
That had been the beginning of a lifetime of bad behaviour, of shunning his schoolwork and pretending he didn’t care, when he cared more than anyone could imagine.
“I can’t….” he said, pushing to his feet. “I… I must do… something. I forgot, sorry, darling… I’ll come back later….”
Feeling like a cad and an utter fool, Jasper rushed from the room. Once outside he leaned against the wall, his stomach tied in such a knot he thought he might be sick. Oh, God. Oh, God. She would find him out. She would realise he was a bloody half-wit and then she’d refuse to marry him. What if their children inherited his brains instead of hers? What if….
Stop it, he told himself, forcing the panic down again as he’d taught himself to do. He’d get around it. He always got around it. Perhaps he could memorise the first chapter of a book by heart. No, there wasn’t enough time. It would take him ages, and the only way to manage it was by getting someone to read him the piece over and over as he pictured the words in his head until he could recite it back. He’d managed many awkward situations in such a way over the years, but Harriet would be long recovered by the time he could do it with confidence.
He ran down the stairs and headed outside, running to the one place no one ever disturbed him.
It was quite a walk to Jasper’s sanctuary, which lay on the farthest edge of the home farm: a large, well-lit space in one of the many outbuildings required to serve an estate as vast and opulent as Holbrooke House. This place was strictly out of bounds to everyone, and Jasper had never even let a maid in to clean or sweep, preferring to do such tasks himself. The windows were high on the walls, giving plenty of light but allowing no one to look in, or Jasper to look out.
He let out a breath as he closed the door behind him and leaned against it with relief. The sweet scent of sawdust and drying wood filled the air, and eased the panic that was clawing at his chest and making his throat tight. Taking a moment to lock the door, Jasper removed his perfectly tailored coat and reached for a lightweight, loose fitting version that reached to his knees and covered his expensive clothing. His boots would get covered with dust, and poor Merrick would sigh reproachfully, but there was no help for it.
Jasper moved into the workshop, his hands trailing over chisels and tools the like of which the Earl of St Clair ought never to touch. He turned his hands palm up, amused to see the calluses there, like any common workman. This was where he came when he needed to get away, when his frustration with his own inadequacies left him feeling like a failure, and when his longing for Harriet’s approval bit too deeply.
With a sigh, he selected the chisel he needed, and went to work.
***
Harriet regarded the door Jasper had just gone through—practically at a run—and frowned.
Her first reaction had been one of profound hurt and indignation that he couldn’t be bothered to sit and read to her to alleviate her boredom. Yet, he’d sat with her for hours, seemingly perfectly content to keep her company, even when she was sleeping. No, it wasn’t unwillingness to entertain her or stay in her company. So, why had he run as if the room was on fire? She’d seen the panic in his eyes when she’d suggested he read to her; it was the closest thing to terror she’d ever witnessed in her life.
The idea unsettled her. What on earth should make Jasper feel so afraid? Try as she might, she couldn’t understand it. He’d tormented her for years about her cleverness, though she understood now that he’d done it for her attention, idiotic as that seemed to her. Men were odd creatures and no mistake. Yet, he’d said he loved her for her cleverness, loved the strange things she knew. He said he’d spend every penny he had on books for her.
If she hadn’t already been madly in love with him, that single statement would have been enough to have her falling head over ears. In Harriet’s opinion, that was the single most romantic thing that anyone had ever said in the history of the world. Why then, if that was so, would he take to his heels when she suggested he read to her? It didn’t make a lick of sense. No doubt there was some cork-brained male explanation that would make her head hurt, but she couldn’t see it.
Sighing, Harry closed her eyes and wished her brain was functioning at its usual speed. Currently, it felt sluggish and full of cotton wool and unequal to the task, but she would figure it out. She would figure him out, puzzle of a man that he was, eventually.
Chapter 17
Dear Mr de Beauvoir,
Please forgive me for my shocking behaviour when you visited Holbrooke House yesterday. I might say that I don’t know what came over me, but I’m afraid I do.
I regret to inform you I am infatuated.
I promise you that the kiss was not planned—how could it have been? —and that there is no plot to entangle you in my snares. Indeed, I am as perplexed by my reaction to you as you appeared to be revolted by it. I might inform you that my mother expects me to marry a titled and wealthy gentleman and, if she had the slightest inkling of my behaviour, she’d likely lock me up.
As a man of science and reason, please explain to me what I must do. How do I rid myself of this silly longing for someone who clearly holds me in contempt—as I always knew you would?
Please advise me, Mr de Beauvoir, for I fear making a fool of myself if ever we meet again.
Yours in admiration,
Miss Minerva Butler
PS. I am very much enjoying the book, as you predicted.
― Letter from Miss Minerva Butler to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.
8th September 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.
Harriet was more than relieved to have finally made it down the stairs. Tucked up before the library fire, she was trying and failing to read the book she’d brought with her. She’d not seen Jasper again yesterday, or this morning, either, and though she still felt tired and sluggish, her mind was not as foggy as it had been yesterday.
“Do you prefer pink or yellow roses?”
Harriet turned towards the desk, where Lady St Clair was happily ensconced, surrounded by lists and planning her and Jasper’s engagement party with the same determined mien Wellington must have worn before the Battle of Waterloo.
“Pink,” Harriet replied absently. “Where’s Jasper?”
Lady St Clair looked up, frowning. “I have no idea,” she said. “Though I’d take a guess he’s probably in that workshop of his.”
“Workshop?” Harriet echoed. “Jasper… works?”
There was a trill of laughter from the desk. “He’s not the idle fop everyone thinks he is, Harriet, dear. I thought yo
u of all people knew that.”
Harriet blushed, wondering what she knew about Jasper, about the man he was now. She had misjudged him badly these past years. What else had she got wrong? Once upon a time she’d known him as well as she’d known herself, but they’d been children then, and there had been so many years since their estrangement. He’d become a man during those years, a beautiful man, with a reputation for wild living and womanising. Though even she had noticed he’d calmed down a great deal over the past years, his reputation still clung to him. A workshop, though?
“What kind of workshop?”
Lady St Clair shrugged. “I’ve no idea, he won’t let anyone in. Even the servants are banned.” She looked up then and Harriet was struck by the quality of her turquoise gaze, the same unusual colour her son had inherited. “Why don’t you find out?”
Harriet quailed a little at barging into Jasper’s private space. It was obvious he guarded it jealously, if he wouldn’t even let the staff in. Naturally, she was now eaten alive with curiosity.
“The doctor told you a gentle stroll in the fresh air would be good for you, did he not?” Lady St Clair remarked, with a deal too much nonchalance.
“Very well,” Harriet said, putting her book aside.
Ten minutes later and she was following Lady St Clair’s little map past the stately stable buildings and farther along, past the vast kitchen garden that supplied the house with fresh produce, and past the hothouses where exotic fruits and blooms were lavished with tender care. On she went to the home farm, noting as she walked how neat, orderly, and well-kept everything was. Gardeners and farm workers doffed their hats and greeted her with cheerful smiles as she cast her eye over a large and well-run enterprise. There wasn’t a roof in need of repair, or a pane of broken glass to be seen. Every yard and path was well swept. Memories rose in her mind of having played in and around these buildings as children, stealing soft fruit and petting the piglets and generally making a nuisance of themselves. It was such a long time since she’d been to this part of the property, and she smiled as she remembered a hundred adventures and squabbles, and a great deal of laughter. Harriet did not remember the place being in such excellent order back then, though. In fact, it had been a far more ramshackle collection of buildings, many of them in poor repair.
Had Jasper done all this?
Harriet looked at the map once more to get her bearings, concluding that the building she was searching for was on the very outer edge of the farm complex, before it gave way to fields. According to the map there was a cluster of buildings now, and they must all be new as she had no memory of there ever being anything but fields there. She walked on, skipping around puddles and enjoying the fresh air. The sun warmed her back and she breathed in lungfuls of sweet, clean air, grateful to breathe a deal easier than she had a few days ago.
The building, when she finally came upon it, was a solid red brick affair with high windows, far too high to allow Harriet a discreet peek before gathering her courage and knocking.
Well, she’d come this far, and it was only Jasper. Why on earth was she so nervous?
Harriet raised her gloved hand and rapped smartly on the door.
For a long moment there was no answer, and she’d just raised her hand to knock again when the door opened, and Jasper stuck his head out.
“Harriet!” he exclaimed, obviously surprised.
He came outside, closing the door behind him without allowing her the barest glimpse of what he was doing in there.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Looking for you,” she replied, studying his face. “I’ve not seen you since last night, when you left my room like I’d set light to your heels.”
“I didn’t.” He stiffened at once, his expression guarded, and she was aware of tension vibrating through him.
“Yes, you did,” she said, reaching out and taking his arm, which was stiff and unyielding under her hand.
“I had things to attend to. I told you I’d forgotten… something.”
Harriet sighed and looked up at him, wondering why he was insisting on sticking to that hopeless excuse when it was patently untrue.
“Forgot what, Jasper?”
“Never you mind!” His voice was taut with irritation, and something else that she thought sounded remarkably like panic.
She remembered the panic she’d seen in his eyes yesterday, too.
“Everything was fine until I asked you to read to me,” she mused, considering the possibilities until something obvious occurred to her. She sighed and looked up at his handsome face, trying to keep the smile from her lips. “Oh, Jasper, do… do you need glasses? Is that why you made such a fuss?”
She started as he snatched his arm away from hers.
“No, I don’t bloody need glasses,” he said, and Harriet gasped at the anger and hurt in his expression as he turned back to her. “Though I can hardly be surprised you’d think it. You believe me a brainless twit, don’t you? You think I only care about how I look and what to wear. Of course, Jasper’s too bloody vain to wear glasses to read, he’d prefer not to bother rather than ruin his pretty face—that’s it, isn’t it, Harry? Christ, if that was all it took….”
He snapped his mouth shut and turned away from her, his arms folded tightly across his chest. She could feel misery and tension rolling off him in waves and did not know why, or how to help, though she longed to do so.
Harriet approached him cautiously, her heart thudding in her chest. His obvious hurt made her feel horrible, guilt weighing her down. It made her heart hurt to see him in such turmoil. Jasper had always been the one to laugh, the one with the quick smile and something witty to say, the one to cajole her out of the doldrums when her father had treated her like a silly little girl and refused to see she was more than that.
“Jasper,” she said, close enough now to put a hand on his arm. She looked up at him, but he kept his face turned away from her. “Jasper, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She wanted to put her arms about him and hold him tightly, as that was clearly the biggest lie he’d ever spoken. That one word held a world of hurt and defiance, and she knew she must tread carefully. Whatever it was had injured his pride badly. Harriet had grown up among boys and knew what a fragile thing that pride was. A boy would sneer and laugh and say I’m not scared, when he was quaking in his boots, or, that didn’t hurt, when he’d skinned his knees, even though the desire to be hugged and kissed shone in his eyes. She recognised that same fierce pride now, in every line of his body, and in the way he refused to meet her gaze.
“Why do you think I believe you’re stupid, Jasper?” she asked, keeping her voice soft. “I don’t, you know. I never have done.”
He made a sound of disgust that suggested he didn’t believe a word of it.
“I’ve been frustrated by your lack of interest in study, it’s true,” she said, deciding she’d best get him to talk about this, even if she had to make him angry to do it, for surely this was at the bottom of whatever problem he had. Had he been afraid to read to her in case she’d given him some scientific journal he couldn’t follow? Surely not. “When you chose not to go to university I was annoyed and jealous, because I’d have given my right arm for such a chance and you just said no without a moment’s thought. You didn’t even consider it and—”
“Because I’m too bloody stupid to consider it!” he shouted, furious as he stalked away from her.
“No, you’re not!” Harriet shouted in return, outraged that he should think such a thing when it was so clearly untrue. “I know you’re not.”
“You don’t know a bloody thing about it, Harry!” He swung around and the pain in his expression devastated her, the glitter in his eyes making her chest tight. “You don’t know….” he began again, the words raw but his voice cracked, and he turned away from her.
“Jasper!” she cried, running to him, throwing her arms about him. “Oh, my love…. Whatever it is
, tell me, please. I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. Why do you think such a thing? Who on earth has put such a thought in your head?”
“Who?” he said, the word incredulous, spoken with an edge of bitter laughter as he raked a hand through his hair. “Every tutor and school master I ever had, that’s who!”
“But why? Because you skipped lessons and cheeked them?”
“No!” he cried, and it was such an anguished sound she could only hold him tighter.
He was breathing hard now, so obviously distraught that Harriet didn’t know what to do or say, and so she did the only thing she could think of. She held him tightly as she looked up at him.
“I love you, Jasper. Whatever the problem is that won’t change.”
To her dismay, he shook his head and his throat worked.
“You’ll leave me,” he said, the words sounding so broken that she felt her heart shatter with them. “You’ll despise me.”
“I will not!” she exclaimed, wishing she had strength enough to shake him. “Good Lord, Jasper. I’ve been in love with you my whole life. My whole life! Do you think whatever dark secret you think you have can change that? Even when you sneered at me and made fun of me and made me feel like a dull little bookworm, I still loved you. I tried not to, believe me, I did, but I couldn’t stop. I won’t stop, Jasper. Please, my love,” she said. “Won’t you trust me?”
Harriet watched as he covered his face with his hands and she reached up, covering them with her own and drawing them away. She put them to her own face and kissed first one, then the other.
“Tell me,” she urged, feeling her throat close with emotion as a tear slid down his cheek.
He was silent for a long moment and then he drew in a deep breath and she saw him steel himself for her response, her rejection.
“I c-can’t read, Harry,” he said, and it was an effort not to react, not to say don’t be silly, that’s not possible… because how on earth had he managed all this time if that were true?
To Wager with Love (Girls Who Dare Book 5) Page 17