The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(126)

They weren’t the only ones.

There was a nurse lingering by the green with her three young charges, and two well-to-do gentlemen strolling along who had slowed to look.

Flushing with embarrassment, Julia backed out of Jasper’s grasp. “We shouldn’t be embracing in front of an open door.”

“No. You’re right.” He looked outside, frowning. “Is that Lady Arundell’s carriage?”

“It is. Anne loaned it to me for the afternoon.”

“Generous of her.” Jasper picked up his bag. “Shall we?”

“Yes, of course.”

Setting his hand at her back, he guided her out the door and down the front steps to the waiting carriage. The footman looked straight ahead as he opened the door for them and set down the step. Jasper assisted Julia in himself before climbing in after her to sit at her side. He dropped his bag onto the floor.

“Back to Grosvenor Square?” the footman asked.

“By way of Hyde Park,” Jasper said. “And take your time.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman shut the door.

Julia’s pulse quickened as the carriage sprang into motion, rolling away from Belgrave Square.

Jasper met her inquiring gaze. “I need to say a few things. And I don’t expect we’d have any privacy at Lady Anne’s house.”

“Probably not,” Julia conceded.

She loved her friend, but between Anne and her mother, privacy at the late Earl of Arundell’s residence could be difficult to come by. Julia had scarcely been alone except for on her visits to see Mr. Finchley and her parents.

But she was alone now. Alone with her husband.

The air between them crackled with a palpable tension.

She had to remind herself to breathe. “What is it you wish to say to me?”



* * *





?Jasper devoured her with his gaze. The thought of seeing her again had spurred him on for miles on end, by rail and hired coach, all the way from North Yorkshire to Mayfair. He was tired and irritable and fully aware that his suit was in need of pressing. But none of that mattered now he was with her.

Her skirts were bunched against his legs as the two of them sat side by side on the upholstered seat, angled to face each other. Sunlight shone through the cracks in the curtains that covered the carriage windows, glinting in her blue eyes and over her ebony hair.

His heart clenched with love for her. “First? That I’ve missed you, too, quite desperately. Nothing has been right since you left me.”

“I didn’t leave you. I told you—”

“You left me. And with good reason. I kept something important from you, when what I ought to have done was tell you everything the moment we decided to marry.”

“You couldn’t take the risk. I understand. The children—”

“Yes, the children. They were the root of it. But I can’t pretend I wasn’t motivated by other impulses. The fact is, I wanted you badly. I didn’t dare take a chance that the truth would drive you away.”

She searched his face. “Have you told me the whole of it?”

“I have,” he said. “God help me. The secret’s not easy to bear. I would have spared you the burden of it if I could.”

“You’re bearing it,” she said. “Indeed, it seems to me that since you took on Captain Blunt’s identity you’ve been a veritable Atlas. Don’t you ever rail against having to atone for the man’s crimes? You’re not, after all, the one who committed them.”

“No, I didn’t. But I’m rarely called to account anymore, except occasionally by Charlie.” He paused, his mouth hitching ruefully. “And by you.”

The carriage rolled through the street, bouncing gently as the coachman expertly navigated the afternoon traffic on the way to the park.

“I should have known none of it was true,” she said. “That it wasn’t the real you.” Her brows knit in an elegant line. “I think I did know. It never made sense that The Fire Opal could have been written by a man so cruel and brutal. Only a dreamer could have imagined that story. Someone with a romantic heart and a heroic spirit.”

Heat crept up his neck. “I was young when I wrote it. Full of idealistic notions. I’d seen nothing of the world outside of my village.”

“You were like me?”

“Yes, I suppose I was,” he said, though he privately thought that no one was like her. No one on this earth. She was utterly unique. The only lady he’d ever loved. That he could ever love. A beautiful soul who had, by some miracle, been fashioned just for him.

Good Lord. What if he’d never come to London all those months ago? What if he’d never found her?

“I saw Mr. Finchley yesterday,” she said. “You were right. We are married.”

“Yes,” he replied gravely. “We are.”

Julia leaned into him, sweet with the fragrance of lavender water and starched petticoats. An intoxicating scent. It stirred his senses, setting his heart to thumping in an erratic rhythm.

She reached to touch his cheek. “You must promise never to lie to me again.”

He covered her hand. “I promise.”

“And you must swear not to withhold things from me. Even if you think it’s for my own good. It’s no different from lying.”