by Shana Galen
And then this morning he had not had to imagine at all. She’d flung the door open dressed in little more than white gauze. That was an exaggeration, of course, but not much. The skirt was short enough that he could clearly see her trim little ankles, small feet, and pink toes. And the material was threadbare enough that he had no trouble making out the outline of the quiet flare of hips, a tuck of waist, and small but pert breasts. And all of it was creamy and smooth. He’d extrapolated this from the exposed shoulder he’d caught a glimpse of when her sleeve had fallen down her arm.
Jasper had tried not to look. Really, he had. It had been so long since he’d played the gentleman, but he did the best he could playing the part again. As he recalled, a gentleman generally ignored everything his body wanted and did the exact opposite. So when Jasper’s body told him to move closer to her, he stayed where he was. When he wanted to look at her, to drink her in, he looked away. And when he wanted more time in her presence, he made himself leave.
Now he remembered why he’d stopped being a gentleman and preferred to live his life in the rookeries.
Being a gentleman was too much bloody work.
When he smelled food, he started back toward the cottage. As he neared, he could hear the boy chattering away. His mother was probably only listening with half an ear. Jasper was surprised to realize he liked the boy. The lad was curious and asked a lot of questions. Most of them were unanswerable—how many teeth does a dragon have, how long would it take to walk to China—but Jasper wasn’t one of those men who minded a bit of conversation. When he’d been in the war, he and the other men of Draven’s troop had routinely walked miles every day. Jasper had never minded some good-natured derision of the other men or telling a story or two to make the time go quicker. Anything was better than listening to Rafe prattle on or settling for Ewan’s stoic silence. And though young Richard leaned more toward Rafe’s side of the equation, Jasper had always liked Rafe. It was even easier to like the man now that he was in the Americas.
Jasper tapped on the door and entered. Olivia was placing the food on the table and nodded to him. “How are you feeling?” she asked, as though she hadn’t run from him earlier in her haste to cover herself. “Does your wound pain you?”
He hadn’t even thought of it really. There was still a dull pain, but he’d had far worse wounds that had pained him more. “I’m quite recovered,” he answered, taking a seat at the place he’d come to think of as his. “In fact, I can work in the garden today if you’d like.”
She stopped ladling porridge into the bowls and stared at him. “There’s no need for that, my lord.”
He blew out a breath. “I may have grown up as the son of a marquess, but I haven’t lived that way for some time. I can pull weeds and shore up waterlogged vegetables.”
“Can I help, Mama? Can I?”
She cut her gaze at Richard, and from the look on her face it was clear the boy hadn’t been eager to help her in the garden.
“You might be able to do some chores inside the house if you have a mind to,” Jasper said. He’d known that would be the mortal blow, and he’d been correct. Her gaze lifted from Richard and slid over what Jasper imagined to be all the tasks she felt absolutely needed attention. “And the fresh air is welcome after all the days inside due to the rain.”
She narrowed her eyes at him—a warning. “You have to promise to stay where Lord Jasper can see you,” she told the boy.
“I will!”
Jasper smiled. “It’s settled then.”
After the morning meal, he left for the garden with the boy following closely behind. He’d meant what he said about the fresh air. He could breathe again outside, could breathe now that he was away from her. He wished it were possible to avoid her for the next few days and then leave and not look back. But to do so would leave her and the boy vulnerable. That was something Jasper wouldn’t do even if he hadn’t been attracted to her. And so he’d have to speak to her again tonight, when the boy was sleeping. She wouldn’t be safe here. If Withernsea knew her parents had hired him, then he could track Jasper to Penbury. He could find Olivia and Richard. Perhaps he already had. Jasper wasn’t quite ready to write off the knife attack as random.
He stopped at the garden and handed the boy a spade from the garden implements he’d brought with him. The boy had been speaking continually as they walked to the garden from the house, and Jasper had pretended to be interested as the lad pointed out birds and insects. “Time to get to work,” he said, stripping off the blanket he’d been wearing as a shirt. He knelt to begin weeding and the boy knelt beside him, copying everything he did.
“Is this right, Lord Jasper?” he asked, decapitating a weed.
“Try to get the roots too.” Jasper showed him how to use the shovel to get under the weed and remove the entire plant. The ground was soft from the rain, so the boy wouldn’t have to struggle. “And call me Jasper.”
“But Mama said—”
“I know what she said, but it makes me feel like an idiot. I’m in rags, digging in the dirt, and you two won’t stop milording me. If your mother objects, I’ll take the blame.”
“You’re brave.”
Jasper smiled as he pulled another weed. “Only with your mother. Can I tell you a secret?”
The boy nodded.
“My own mother was even more terrifying than yours. I never dared disobey her. She could have burned me up like one of your dragons with just a look.”
“No, she couldn’t!”
“Just consider it a warning. If you ever meet her, you’d better behave.”
The boy set his spade aside. “Is she still alive?”
Jasper made an affirmative sound.
“What about your father?”
“Both of them.”
“Do they look like you?”
Jasper raised his eyes. He glanced at the boy’s red hair and knew he had to tread carefully here. “There’s a family resemblance. My father and I have the same eyes, but I’m taller than he. As far as our features, I’ve been told I look more like my mother.”
“They wear masks too?”
Jasper almost burst out laughing. He managed to restrain himself just in time. Of course the boy didn’t understand why he wore the mask. And he was young enough to assume it was part of his appearance.
“No, they don’t wear masks. I’m the only one who does, and I didn’t wear one when I was your age.”
“But why do you wear it now?”
Because I don’t want to scare the hell out of you. But Jasper knew that wasn’t the whole truth. He also wore it because he couldn’t stand to be looked at, to have his scars on view. “I was hurt in a fire,” he said simply. There was no point trying to explain war to the child, and his mother wouldn’t appreciate that at any rate. “My face was burned, so I wear the mask to cover the wound.”
“What do you look like under the mask?” the boy asked.
“Like any other man, except I have scars from the fire.”
“Oh.” The lad was silent for a long time, and Jasper began weeding again. Richard didn’t pick up his spade, but Jasper hadn’t really expected him to do much work. He just wanted to give Olivia a little space to complete her tasks in peace. He’d just settled into a routine of dig, push, pull, toss, repeat, when the boy spoke up again. “Do you have a son?”
Jasper shook his head. “I’m not a father.” He doubted he ever would be.
“Do you want to be a father?”
Jasper paused, his spade stuck in the earth. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Richard. The boy was sitting on his knees, his face turned to Jasper, his eyes so hopeful.
“Because you could be my father.”
Jasper felt all the breath whoosh out of him, as though he’d just been punched. He hadn’t seen this coming. He should have. All the questions about whether he looked like his parents, what he looked like under the mask, whether he had children. The boy was looking for a father, and Jasper had fallen into the trap.
Except when he looked at Richard’s hopeful expression he couldn’t see it as a trap. He simply saw a boy who had love to give and wanted love in return.
“When I go to the village I see other boys with fathers, and since I don’t have one, I thought maybe you could be mine.”
Jasper released his painful grip on the spade’s handle and put his hand on the boy’s slight shoulder. “I would be honored to be your father, Richard. Any man would be lucky to have you as a son. But your mother is the one who makes that decision, and”—he closed his hand on the boy’s shoulder before he ran off to ask his mother—“rather than troubling her with this at the moment, why don’t I become something I know your mother would approve of?”
Richard’s face fell. “What’s that?”
“Your friend.”
“I want you to be my father.” His voice was petulant and just a bit whiny.
“Wanting something doesn’t make it so, and friendship is a rare and important thing. The men I hold as my friends would die for me, and I would die for them. We’ve seen each other at our worst, and we try to bring out the others’ best.”
“You would die for them?” Richard asked.
“If you would accept me as your friend, I’d be a loyal friend. You could count on me.”
“You could count on me too.”
“Are we friends then?”
The boy nodded. Jasper stuck out his hand, but Richard just looked at it.
“We’ll shake on it.”
Richard took his hand, shook it, then threw himself into Jasper’s arms. Jasper sat rigidly for a long moment, then closed his arms around the boy. He didn’t want to admit it, but it wasn’t just Olivia Carlisle he was beginning to care for.
Nine
Olivia didn’t move from her spot on the side of the house. She’d stepped out to toss out dirty water and thought she’d peek at the progress the men were making in the garden. She’d heard most of the conversation, her heart breaking into tiny pieces so painful she had to put a fist against her chest. She’d known Richard wanted a father. She’d known he had questions, but she didn’t know the answers to give him. And now he’d asked Lord Jasper to be his father. Lord Jasper had pivoted gracefully without saying anything that might allude to the boy’s real father. She’d approved when he’d offered friendship, smiled when he’d held out a hand, and then couldn’t hold back the tears when Richard hugged Lord Jasper.
And Lord Jasper had hugged him back.
Watching that scene had made it all so painfully clear. She’d given Richard all of her love, but she was deluding herself if she thought that would be enough. Of course, the child needed others in his life. Keeping him here, hiding him away, protected him but also deprived him of grandparents, cousins, friends, teachers. He was almost five years old. She couldn’t stop his questions for much longer. She couldn’t rob him of a normal childhood.
Leaving Lord Jasper and Richard as silently as she’d come upon them, she returned to the cottage. But instead of sweeping or beginning the noon meal, she sat in a chair and stared out the window.
She couldn’t deprive herself either. For over five years she’d been running and hiding. She’d given up everything and everyone she loved. She didn’t regret it because it had kept Richard safe. She’d die before she allowed Withernsea to touch her or her son. But perhaps it was time to stop allowing the duke control of the field. How many other women had he hurt while she hid away in silence? How many balls and dinner parties and days in the park had he enjoyed while she’d fought just to keep food on the table for herself and Richard?
She missed her parents. She missed her cousins and friends and aunts and uncles. And she didn’t want to allow Withernsea to take any of it away from her or Richard any longer.
But if she returned to London, she’d need help. Withernsea would try to make her his again. He’d claim Richard was his and try to take him away. She had to show everyone what the duke really was. She had to stand up to the scandal of returning unmarried and with a child. Her parents hadn’t been able to protect her before.
But she knew someone who could.
AFTER DINNER, OLIVIA tucked Richard into bed and kissed his forehead. All the time in the sun had tired the boy and she hadn’t even needed to read to him before his eyes drooped. She climbed down from the loft and took a deep breath, not certain where to begin.
And then she forgot all about what she’d wanted to say because when Lord Jasper turned to face her she saw he’d removed his mask. He trusted her. He trusted her enough to remove it in front of her again. And she’d forgotten how very handsome he was.
“I can put it on if looking at my face offends,” he said.
Olivia realized she’d been standing there speechless, and he’d taken her reaction the wrong way. “Please don’t. I was surprised you felt comfortable enough to remove it, that’s all. I promise, your face is far from offensive, my lord.”
He winced. “You overheard us. I didn’t mean to gainsay you, but it seems ridiculous to call me lord when I’m mucking out the stable.”
“Not to mention you are such good friends.”
“I’d like to be your friend,” he said in a way that made warmth spiral into her belly. “I’d like for you to use my name, Olivia.”
He was probably right. What she would ask of him tonight was an act of friendship. “Very well, Jasper. We’ll be friends.”
He smiled, but the smile was wary. She turned away from him and reached for the shirt she’d hung on a peg. “I finished your shirt. I thought you might want to try it on.”
She held it out to him and he took it, holding it out to inspect it. “I’m impressed.”
“I didn’t learn much as the daughter of a viscount, but I did master embroidery and from there I taught myself to sew. It won’t be the quality you’re used to—”
“You have no idea what I’m used to. This is perfect.” He stripped off the blanket, and she had to remind herself not to stare. More heat pooled in her belly. He pulled the shirt over his head then paused and flinched.
“What’s wrong?” She went to him.
“I can’t reach up on the wounded side. I’m not certain how to get my arm in.” He started to slip the shirt off again, raising the arm on his good side, but she put her hand on the garment, holding it in place. He was remarkably warm underneath the fabric.
“I’ll help you.” She moved before him and helped guide his arms into the sleeves. She took each cuff and secured it, noting goosebumps where her fingers brushed. Was he merely cold or was he attracted to her? Did she even want him to be attracted to her?
Not certain what she should do and a bit flustered, she began to tie the neck closed, but he caught her hand. “I’m sorry. I always do that for Richard.”
“I’m not a child.” He didn’t release her hand nor did he hold it tightly. She could have pulled away.
“I can see that.”
“I told myself to stay away from you.” His finger stroked the inside of her wrist, making her tremble.
“Why?”
“Because I knew if I was close I’d want to kiss you again.” His gaze moved from her mouth to her eyes, and she knew he was judging her reaction to that. She wondered what he saw—not disgust, as he probably expected—but perhaps a bit of the fear that leapt into her heart.
She should move away, snatch her hand back. But he didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t move to force her. “You want to kiss me?” she asked, pressing her luck.
“Can’t you tell?”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand men.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I don’t understand women, and since I don’t want a misunderstanding between us, I’m telling you I want to kiss you. That doesn’t mean you have to allow it.”
Her head swam at his touch and his words. “Why?” she blurted. “I mean, why do you want to kiss me?”
He looked puzzled, as though he hadn’t expected that question. “I
suppose I first wanted to kiss you because you were pretty and smelled...” He looked at the fire then back at her. “I liked how you smelled. But after that it was because you were kind.”
“And now?” she whispered.
He looked back at her and released her hand. “Now?” He touched her cheek briefly, and her breath hitched in her throat. Seeing she didn’t object to his touch, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “I suppose because I like you. You’re brave, resourceful, intelligent, and on top of all that, a brilliant mother.”
She shook her head. She was a coward. “I’m not brave.” And she’d made so many mistakes in her life. “And I’m not smart.”
“You’re both, although if you allow me to kiss you, I’d definitely not call you wise.”
She shivered when he touched her cheek again. “Because it wouldn’t be wise to kiss you?”
“Not at all. If you kiss me, then you’ll want more.”
She laughed nervously. “I’ll want more?”
He nodded. “And we should remain friends.”
“And what if I want you to kiss me?” her voice sound low and husky, and she couldn’t quite believe she’d said the words aloud. Blame it on her racing heart, that heat in her belly, and her shaky legs.
“Then put your arms around me, and I’ll oblige.”
Her arms felt heavy and almost impossible to lift. Fear rippled through her, but there was curiosity too. She’d liked the kiss they’d shared the night before. Would this be the same? And what if she kissed him and he took it as a license to go further?
She cut her gaze to him, and he looked steadily back at her, his head turned slightly so the scar was in shadow. So he felt unsure and vulnerable as well. Somehow knowing that erased her fears. She could trust him.
Her arms lighter, she raised them and placed her hands on his shoulders.