The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(106)

Jasper was jealous of every moment she spent away from him.

It took an effort not to distract her. Not to touch her as often as he would have liked. Indeed, since they’d consummated their marriage, he couldn’t seem to stop touching her, in their bed as well as out of it.

He was becoming insatiable.

Becoming. As if he wasn’t already a lovestruck madman. A besotted fool who, at any given moment, was stroking his wife’s cheek, kissing her hand, or tucking a stray lock of her hair back into her coiffure.

“I love you,” he’d told her after he’d taken her for the first time. “You’re not obliged to say it back.”

But he longed for her to say it. He wanted her love as much as he wanted all the rest of her—her friendship, her respect, her approval.

Why else had he asked her to read his bloody manuscript?

When she at last turned over the final page, he went still, bracing for the worst. “Well?”

She lifted her gaze to his. “It’s quite good.”

Quite good. It was faint praise. She might as well have said it was rubbish.

“But not as good as The Fire Opal,” he concluded. It had been his bestselling work. It was also one of his oldest, written before the war.

“It’s different,” she said. “A bit more serious.”

“Ah.”

“That isn’t bad.”

“No. But it’s the very thing you said about The Garden of Valor. And we both know how well that’s sold.” Jasper stood from the blanket.

“Is it only the sales you’re concerned about?” she asked.

“Frankly? Yes.” He was dependent on his royalties. Along with his soldier’s pension, it was his only source of income.

Granted, it wasn’t enough to repair the roof or to rebuild the rotting east wing, the tenants’ cottages, or the stables, but it was enough to feed and clothe them. To pay Beecham’s modest salary, and to patch the cracks as they appeared.

Never mind that Jasper was in expectation of Julia’s fifty thousand pounds. He didn’t wish to rely on it. Not after his meeting with Piggott.

The old solicitor hadn’t exactly instilled Jasper with confidence. In discussing their course of action, Piggott had been as uncertain of the outcome as Jasper was himself.

“Sir Eustace could, naturally, cause a substantial delay if he takes a mind to,” Piggott had said. “As the girl’s father, and a resident of London in good standing in fashionable society, the bank and the courts will be favorably disposed to him.”

Jasper had departed York in a foul mood. These past days with Julia had done much to improve his frame of mind, but in moments such as these, when confronted by the fact he might have another literary failure on his hands, his spirits once again plummeted.

“If this manuscript performs as badly as The Garden of Valor, not only will I lose out on potential royalties, I may lose my publisher altogether.” He extended his hand to Julia.

Gathering his manuscript under one arm, she permitted him to help her up. “Mr. Bloxham has published all your books thus far. I see no reason he’d give up on you now.”

“He’s not running a charitable institution. He expects the novels he publishes to sell. If enough of mine don’t, he has no reason to keep printing my books. It doesn’t matter how much money I’ve made for him in the past.”

She gave a huff of disapproval. “One would think he’d show some loyalty.”

An unwilling smile tugged at Jasper’s mouth. She was on his side. She’d always be on his side. That much he’d learned about her since their marriage. He may not have her love, not yet, but he had her loyalty absolutely.

He slid his arm around her waist as they walked back to the house. She was soft and pliant, with no corset to constrain her. “Even you abandoned my books for a time, sweetheart,” he reminded her.

“I was very young.”

He turned his face into her hair. Pulled back in a plaited chignon, it was sleek and sweet-smelling. As fragrant as it had been last night when it was unbound, a wild tangle of ebony waves about her bare shoulders. “You’re still very young.”

“Don’t tease me. You know that once I came back to your novels, I was sorry I’d ever given them up.”

“The rest of my readers aren’t so enlightened. When they abandon my books, they simply move on to the next better thing.”

Julia covered his hand at her waist. “There’s no one better than you.”

His heart squeezed. “I shall remind you of that one day.”

“I won’t need reminding,” she said.

He brushed a kiss to her temple. The unruly hedges at the edge of the garden all but shielded them from view. One of the rare benefits of being unable to afford a gardener.

She leaned into him, his manuscript clutched protectively to her bosom. “I’m not a writer myself, but I’ve read more novels than I can count. If you like, I could offer some general advice.”

“I’d prefer the specific kind.”

“You won’t take offense?”

“How could I? I already know you think my stories lack excitement.” He flashed her a wry look. “Even the ones with actual knights. Or the ones that take place on smoking Belgian battlefields.”