The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(49)

Jasper followed her gaze to the round bedside table. It was stacked with books. Five of them altogether, bound in familiar green cloth. He might have seen them on his approach to the bed if his attention hadn’t been fixed solely on Miss Wychwood.

Looking at them now, a strange sense of rightness came over him. As if the hand of destiny had reached out across time and space, bringing him to this moment. For an instant, he could almost believe in fate.

“My J. Marshland novels,” she said.

“So I see.” He turned back to her. Somehow, he managed a smile. “Have you finished them already?”

“Not yet. After Dr. Cordingley’s visit . . . I haven’t felt much like holding a book.”

Jasper’s expression sobered. “Why did your parents summon him?”

She lifted her shoulder in the barest suggestion of a shrug. “I said I was poorly. It wasn’t serious, but . . .”

“He bled you. Twice.”

“He thinks I read too many novels.” She cast a rueful look at the stack of books on her bedside table. “Perhaps I do.”

Jasper’s temper flickered. “No one with any sense believes that reading novels promotes illness in women. Not anymore.”

Granted, it had been a popular belief once. One predicated more on the fear that novel reading would take time away from a woman’s household duties than on the fear that the content of the novel would do her actual harm. That hadn’t stopped physicians, quacks, and writers of dubious medical tracts from attributing all manner of illnesses—both mental and physical—to the overstimulation provided by a good work of fiction.

“Dr. Cordingley believes it,” she said. “And my parents would never contradict a doctor. They’d allow him to do anything he wanted to me. It wouldn’t matter if I objected.”

“Did you object?”

“Yes.”

Jasper’s shoulders tensed. He had to make an effort not to grip her hand even tighter.

“I’m afraid my situation has become untenable,” she said. “It has been for a long while, only I was too stupid to recognize it.” A frown puckered her brow. “I wish I had. I’d have had more time.”

He scowled at her. “Don’t talk that way. You do have time. You’re not dying.”

She smiled faintly. “Of course not. I only meant . . . I thought there was time before I’d have to make a decision about what I’m to do next. And I must do something. A lady can’t spend her whole life being pulled along by the current. Not if she’s to find any degree of happiness.” Her eyes met his. “I do so want to be happy.”

His heart ached with unrequited affection for her. It deepened his voice to a rasp. “What would make you happy?”

She didn’t reply. She only looked at him.

How she looked at him.

Jasper covered her hand with both of his. He brought it to his lips. “Miss Wychwood—”

“You’re in my bedchamber, Captain Blunt. My name is Julia.”

Julia.

It was the greatest intimacy she’d allowed him. Almost as great as the kiss they’d shared at the ball. To call someone by their given name was to know them as only their closest friends and family knew them.

He granted her the same privilege, such that he was able. He wished it might be more. “Jasper.”

“Jasper.” Her mouth curved. “I didn’t realize. Aside from rumors about the war, no one knows anything about you.”

“Thank God for that.” It was bad enough that Ridgeway should suspect the truth. Jasper couldn’t afford for anyone else to do so. Not even her.

She searched his face. “But you’ve changed since then. For the better. You told me so yourself. You’re not cruel anymore. You’re not unkind.”

“I try very hard not to be.”

“Can you promise that? That you’re a different man now?”

Jasper felt her question as much as heard it. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to weep. “My dear girl, that I can promise you absolutely.”

“Good,” she said. “Good.”

A fleeting smile tugged at his mouth. “Is my reformed character of such importance to you?”

“It is. Because it prompts me to ask you something of a more personal nature.” Her fingers pressed gently around his. “I was wondering . . . Would you like to marry me?”

Jasper stared down at her. He didn’t know what he’d expected her to ask, but it hadn’t been that. The question hit him like a prizefighter’s blow to the chest. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He could only look at her, dumbstruck, certain he must have misheard.

She went on in the same earnest voice. “I know you’ve a preference for Miss Throckmorton. You must think her dowry greater than mine. But it isn’t. I have one hundred thousand pounds coming to me on my marriage. It’s more than twice what hers is. Did you know that?”

He hadn’t known. Ridgeway had said Julia was in expectation of fifty thousand pounds upon her marriage, not one hundred. Either way, it made little difference. Without her father’s permission, Jasper would get none of it.

That fact should have been foremost in his mind. But sitting at Julia’s bedside, her hand cradled in both of his, all he could think of was having her.