The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(127)

“I swear it. From now on, I’ll tell you everything.” Drawing her hand from his face, he tugged off her kid glove, needing to feel the silky softness of her skin. When her hand was bare, he pressed a kiss to her palm before lifting it back to his cheek.

Her fingers curled to cradle his face. “I want it all,” she said. “The good and the bad, for better or worse, just like we vowed to each other in church.”

“It’s yours,” he said. “I’m yours.”

She held his gaze, her blue eyes luminous with warmth. “I love you, James.”

James.

His heart stopped, only to start again, beating stronger and steadier than before. He gathered her in his arms, bending his head to hers. “Julia—my dearest girl—I love you more than life.”

Her hand slid to curve around his neck. She tugged him closer, stretching up to him as their lips met.

It was a gentle kiss that swiftly transformed into something fiercer and deeper. An affirmation of their love for each other. Of their trust and unconditional acceptance.

One kiss led to another and another, each dissolving into the next, punctuated by murmured words of praise and affection.

“Come home with me,” Jasper said.

She stilled. “Right this minute?”

He smiled against her mouth. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“Actually, yes.” She pulled back from him to fumble for her reticule. “I never finished telling you what happened at my parents’ house. My father has written a letter to the bank, you see, and—”

He kissed her again.

She laughed. “Don’t you even care about the money?”

“I care about you. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“I’m rather proud of myself,” she admitted. “I was frightened to go back there, but I did it anyway. Now we can repair the Hall, and hire a governess for Daisy, and a tutor for the boys. Servants to do the cooking and cleaning—and the washing. You shall have more time to write.”

“Ah. As to that.” Reluctantly releasing her, he reached for his Gladstone bag. He opened it and withdrew his manuscript. “I’ve finished my book.”

“Did you?” She gave him an uncertain look. “And . . . ?”

“I incorporated some of your suggestions,” he said. “I also made a few changes of my own devising.”

“Such as what?”

He smiled dryly. “Colonel Dryden is now presumed dead for the last quarter of the story, Eloise is the natural daughter of a duke, and there’s a fortune in jewels sewn into the coat of the soldier Eloise nurses when she’s at the convent in Brussels.”

“She’s in a convent? But why?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, goodness! She’s not a nun, is she?”

“Do you want me to spoil it?”

“No, no,” Julia said hastily. She took the manuscript from him. “I shall read it myself.”

He regarded her with sudden solemnity. “It’s not a poem, I realize. But it’s for you, nonetheless. I trust it’s romantic enough as gestures go.”

Her eyes glistened. “It’s romantic enough.”

He gathered her back into his arms. She came willingly, eagerly, melting into his embrace.

“I do love you,” she said. “So very much.”

“And I love you,” he whispered in return, capturing her mouth with his.

Daisy had asked him what happened after the happily-ever-after. He hadn’t known then. Not for certain. But now he did.

It was this.

And more of this.





Epilogue





Yorkshire, England

October 1862

Julia leapt up from the drawing room sofa. “Is that the post?”

The silver salver in Mr. Beecham’s hand held a small stack of letters, along with what looked to be a literary journal. “It is, ma’am. Plimstock’s just returned with it from the village.”

“I’ll take it,” Jasper said. Though better at hiding it, he was as anxious for news as Julia was herself. Clad in his shirtsleeves, his black cravat tugged loose at his throat, he’d been pacing the room all morning.

It had been over a fortnight since the release of Reunion at Waterloo. Mr. Bloxham had been so excited by the novel he’d rushed it to print, promising a letter by the fifteenth of the month to report its performance. And today was the fifteenth.

“Shall I bring up the champagne?” Mr. Beecham asked. Julia had instructed him to keep a bottle iced and at the ready.

“Not yet,” Jasper said grimly. “There may be no need of it.”

“As you say, sir.” Mr. Beecham tactfully withdrew.

Julia fluttered around her husband as he rifled through the post. One of the envelopes was addressed in bold script to the care of Capt. J. Blunt. “Is that it?”

“It is.” Jasper stared at it for a moment before flipping through the remaining envelopes. “The rest are for you. Letters from Lady Anne, Miss Maltravers, and Miss Hobhouse.” He passed them to Julia. “One from your father as well.”

Julia took them, vowing to give them her full attention later. But not now. Now her mind was wholly fixed on Mr. Bloxham’s letter—and on the literary journal still in Jasper’s hands. “That must be my copy of the Weekly Heliosphere.”