The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(107)
“There’s excitement and there’s excitement,” she said. “The history in your latest stories is fascinating, but these are novels, not history books. Most of us shopping at places like Bloxham’s aren’t looking to be educated. We’re looking to be thrilled.”
“Yes, I know. Falsified deaths, bigamy, and murder.” He shook his head. “Such subjects fail to inspire my interest.”
“They did once. Your old novels are all exceedingly thrilling.”
“Perhaps I’m past the point of providing thrills.”
Julia gave him a speaking glance. “I doubt that very much.”
He grinned. “Very well,” he said. “Tell me what it is about this story that you suggest I change.”
Thirty-Two
The week that followed was the most idyllic in Julia’s memory. When she wasn’t in company with the children or Mr. Beecham—attending to the house, riding Cossack, or visiting the kittens—she was closeted with Jasper, talking to him about his novel.
He seemed to value her opinions no matter how unhinged some of them might sound. And they were unhinged; even she recognized that.
She had a lifetime of reading to draw upon. Everything from sensation romances to horror stories, adventure novels, and gothics. She shared it all with him, delighting in the conversations they had together, often punctuated by kisses and embraces, and once—though she blushed to recall it—an instance of lovemaking in his tower study.
“How can we?” she’d asked naively as he’d taken her in his arms. “There’s not even a bed.”
“It doesn’t require a bed,” he’d told her. “Let me show you.”
Thinking of it now, as she sat primly coiffed and clad in the library, Julia feared she was becoming a wanton. Only this morning, she’d lingered in bed with her husband so long that the two of them had missed breakfast. Surely, the entire household was aware of what they were doing.
She’d mentioned as much to Jasper as he’d helped her dress. In response, he’d only twined his fingers in her hair and kissed her deeply.
Infuriating man.
He was seated at the library desk, head propped in his hand as he wrote. His quill pen scratched over the page.
It wasn’t his custom to work in the library. He preferred the privacy of his study. But the heat was oppressive today, and the tower, with its high, narrow window, wasn’t best disposed for elevated temperatures.
The library was more comfortable. Its line of windows faced out over the garden, providing a view of the children at play. Free from their morning lessons, the boys were clacking sticks in a mock battle while Daisy hovered around them, wringing her hands and looking mournful.
“I believe she’s pretending to be the heroine in their little play,” Julia remarked. “And the boys are two rivals dueling for her favor.”
Jasper glanced up, frowning. “They what?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Jasper required silence to write. Julia was forever having to remind herself not to be a nuisance to him.
She was obliged to remind the children, too, and even Mr. Beecham. Since she and Jasper had come downstairs, it seemed one of them had rapped at the library door every ten minutes—the boys asking about taking the horses out, Daisy inquiring about whether she could go swimming, and Mr. Beecham offering to bring them refreshment.
No wonder Jasper preferred the tower.
The thought had just crossed her mind when another knock came to disrupt her husband’s peace.
Mr. Beecham poked his head in. “Excuse me, Captain Blunt. Could I have a private word, sir?”
“Can it not wait?” Jasper asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
Jasper set down his quill pen with a sigh. He stood from his desk, casting Julia an apologetic glance as he walked to the door. “I won’t be a moment.”
Mr. Beecham withdrew, taking Jasper with him. The door clicked shut behind them.
There was still much about the workings of the estate Julia didn’t know. All the little crises that happened on a daily basis. At any given instant, something was always demanding Jasper’s attention.
What was it now?
It couldn’t be the children. They were still playing outside. And it couldn’t be the roof, not now the rain had stopped.
Likely it was something to do with money.
Julia didn’t like to think of it. Not when her own fortune was tied up in London with no means of her getting hold of it at present.
Jasper never reproached her with the fact, but she knew it was the impetus for him revising his latest novel. He was determined it would outsell his previous book.
She hadn’t read any of his changes yet. She didn’t even know what suggestions of hers—if any—he’d decided to implement. He wouldn’t permit her to look at it until it was finished.
Julia nevertheless had every confidence in her husband’s work. She only hoped critics like Mr. Bilgewater wouldn’t savage it in the press before the public had a chance to judge it for themselves.
When Jasper wasn’t back in another five minutes, she got up from her chair and strolled to the bookshelf that held the entirety of his novels. She trailed her finger along the spines, wondering, not for the first time, how a man who had written something as breathlessly exciting as The Fire Opal could have written books like The Garden of Valor and Reunion at Waterloo.