The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(26)

Jasper thought he detected a flush of color in her cheeks. It was difficult to tell through that dratted veil of hers.

If she was blushing, he couldn’t blame her. He felt a little warm under the collar himself now he understood her meaning.

It was something he’d never considered. An unforgivable oversight on his part. Of course she must want children of her own. Children with him.

And why shouldn’t he oblige her?

There was little else he was capable of giving her. The house was derelict. Charlie, Alfred, and Daisy were half-wild.

And worse.

Miss Wychwood would have to contend with having Jasper as her husband. His great scarred, hulking self in her house—and in her bed.

His muscles clenched low in his belly.

It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. No opportunities existed in Yorkshire. And on those rare occasions when the chance had presented itself elsewhere, he’d felt no great impulse to exert himself.

He was a dashed sight too romantic-minded, that was the problem.

Perhaps that was what he and Miss Wychwood had in common.

“I suppose,” he said carefully, “a certain amount of my wife’s dowry must be set aside for any children arising from our union.”

Her brows knit. “But not the estate?”

It was a valid question. Jasper cursed himself for not having prepared for it. What had he expected? That his future wife wouldn’t want their children to inherit the one thing of value he possessed? That she’d quietly accept him leaving the whole of it to his bastards?

“It’s rather complicated,” he said.

“Undoubtedly.” She fell quiet, the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves on the hard-packed earth the only sound. “Does the children’s mother live with them at the Hall?”

Jasper failed to suppress a flinch. Her question was as startling in its frankness as a sharp slap across the face. To be sure, he’d have preferred the slap.

She hastened to apologize. “Forgive me. I’d assumed your children all shared the same mother.”

If her first question was a slap, the conclusion she drew from his response to it was as brutal as a punch in the jaw.

Good God. She must take him for a whoremonger.

“They do,” he said tightly. “I’m not completely lost to decency.”

It was a ridiculous distinction. He knew it as soon as he made it. After all, what was the difference between one mistress and three of them? A whoremonger was a whoremonger. The rest was only arithmetic.

“And no,” he added. “She does not live with us. She hasn’t been a part of our lives for a long while. My youngest scarcely remembers her.”

Miss Wychwood went quiet again.

Her silence set Jasper’s teeth on edge. He hated that they must discuss this. Hated that any gently bred young lady—Miss Wychwood in particular—should be obliged to give voice to anything so coarse and unsavory.

He nevertheless continued, though the words stuck in his throat. “Allow me to say that I would never ask a lady to join me in living at the Hall if I thought the situation there would degrade her.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Miss Wychwood said. Her words were softened by the trace of a smile.

“You don’t find the presence of my three children too scandalous to be borne?”

“It is scandalous,” she acknowledged. “But I suspect many ladies would be willing to bear the scandal if it meant marrying well and being mistress of their own property.”

For an instant, he took leave to hope.

“Are you one of those ladies?” he asked.

“Does it matter? If it’s money you require, I daresay any heiress would do. If not me, then someone else. Miss Throckmorton, perhaps.”

He couldn’t dispute the fact. Money was his primary concern. It was what had brought him to London in the first place.

But it wasn’t what had brought him here this morning.

On rising from his bed, he hadn’t thought of riches, or even of Goldfinch Hall. He’d thought only of seeing Julia Wychwood again.

“Miss Throckmorton is an impressive young lady,” he said.

“She is,” Miss Wychwood replied without a hint of malice. “It was good of her to come to my aid last night.”

“As I say, an impressive young lady. However . . .” He cast her a weighted glance. “She wasn’t my first choice.”

“I know that.” She straightened her habit skirt—a restless movement not entirely in keeping with her quiet hands and seat. “What I don’t understand is why.”

Honeyed words might have been difficult, but the truth came easily enough. Jasper didn’t hesitate to utter it. “You’re beautiful.”

She returned both hands to the reins. Her horse tossed his head, sending the curb chain of his Pelham bit clinking. “I’m flattered you think so. But beauty doesn’t last.”

“Your kind will.”

She gave him a doubtful look.

He gazed steadily back at her, as solemn as he’d ever been. “I believe, ma’am, that you have a beautiful soul. That you are a beautiful soul. I don’t expect that will alter with age.”

She stared at him for an instant, seemingly speechless. Her mouth trembled. “What a lovely sentiment.”