The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(22)

“Naturally,” she said. “No man could write about romance in such a way.”

“And yet . . . I’ve heard that Marshland is, in fact, a man.”

She drew back, skeptical. “Who says so?”

“I read it somewhere,” he said vaguely.

“Where?”

“I can’t recall. But it’s true nonetheless.”

Her soft mouth tugged into a frown. “Well . . . I don’t suppose it matters overmuch. A good writer is a good writer, no matter their sex.”

“Even when it comes to love?” he asked.

“If he’s experienced it himself, he may well write about it.”

He set his hand next to hers on the railing. Their little fingers nearly touched. “And if he hasn’t experienced it yet?”

“But he must have done to write about it so eloquently. If he is a man, I expect he’s suffered some terrible tragedy in love. How else could he explain what Sir Richard feels when Lady Elaine refuses his offer and marries another?”

“Anyone might feel the same who’s had something valuable slip out of their grasp.”

“Not something,” she pointed out with the apple-tart sternness of a schoolmistress. “A lady. The lady he’s loved the whole of his life.”

Jasper had to make an effort not to smile. For all she was shy and romantic-minded, Miss Wychwood had starch in her. “You didn’t find his constancy difficult to believe?”

“No. He was a knight, adhering to a code of chivalry. And anyway, it is just a novel.”

“A fantasy, then.”

“Unfortunately. Real men don’t go to such lengths for love. I daresay some never experience the emotion at all.”

His mouth hitched at one corner. “You’re well acquainted with gentlemen’s hearts?”

“Not personally, but I know plenty of ladies who are.” She paused, confessing, “When one isn’t comfortable talking in company, one learns to be a prodigiously good listener. I’ve heard the most dispiriting things as a consequence.”

Jasper could well believe it. If there was one thing he knew about ladies, it was that they talked freely among one another, often with a level of candor that would put most gentlemen to the blush. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Oh, I don’t. But I believe enough to know that real gentlemen are nothing like the heroes in novels. For one thing, they wouldn’t pursue a lady for as long as Sir Richard did, and with so little hope of having their feelings reciprocated.”

“No indeed,” he said quietly. “A real gentleman would respect a lady’s wishes and cease his pursuit.”

Understanding registered on Miss Wychwood’s face. A blush followed with it. But she didn’t look away from him. She held his gaze, her bosom rising and falling on a tremulous breath.

“He would leave her alone,” Jasper murmured. “Unless she’d changed her mind about him.”

Silence stretched between them. There was no muffled conversation from the other people on the balcony. No music drifting from the interior of the house. Only a thick band of tension, pulled so tight it felt as though it might snap at any moment and obliterate them both.

Jasper’s heart thudded hard. “Have you changed your mind?”

Miss Wychwood’s flustered gaze dropped to their hands, side by side on the railing. “I don’t know you well enough to say.” Her soft, halting words were husky as velvet. “I . . . I’d like to know you.”

Triumph surged through him. It wasn’t a full-throated endorsement of his intentions toward her, but by God, it was a start. “Then you shall,” he vowed.

The sound of the French doors opening prevented him from saying anything more. He removed his hand from the rail, turning around to come face-to-face with Miss Wychwood’s redoubtable chaperone.

“Miss Wychwood,” Mrs. Major said in ominous tones. “What are you doing out here? And without your wrap! You’ll catch your death.”

“I needed some air,” Miss Wychwood replied. “Captain Blunt kindly offered to escort me.”

“Captain Blunt.” Mrs. Major’s attention lingered on his scar. Her lip curled in unconscious revulsion. “You’ve done quite enough, sir. I shall take charge of her now.”

“I trust you won’t neglect her, ma’am,” Jasper said.

Mrs. Major bristled at the reproof. “Indeed. Come, Miss Wychwood. Lord Gresham has been asking after you.”

Miss Wychwood caught Jasper’s gaze as she moved to rejoin her chaperone. “Thank you,” she said under her breath.

He inclined his head. “Enjoy your ride in the morning, Miss Wychwood.”

She glanced back at him, eyes round.

Mrs. Major nudged her through the French doors. “Inside,” she said. “And promptly. His lordship is waiting.”





Seven





The Wychwoods’ carriage rolled down the streets of Mayfair, the team of matched bays heading home to Belgrave Square at an easy pace. It was only a short distance from Lady Holland’s residence, but long enough for Mrs. Major to fit in a stern lecture.

“Captain Blunt is not the sort of gentleman with whom you should be associating,” she pronounced from her seat across from Julia. “I would have thought that was evident.”