The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(59)

Dropping her gaze, she withdrew a book from her reticule, anxious for the comfort of its pages.

Jasper stilled, his scarred face inscrutable. “Another Marshland novel.”

Julia felt a trace of self-consciousness. She supposed a married lady shouldn’t be reading a novel on her first journey alone with her husband. The pair of them were meant to be holding hands and cuddling, even kissing perhaps, taking full advantage of their private compartment.

But she and Jasper hadn’t married out of any romantic attachment. He required her fortune to repair his estate, and she required his name to buy her freedom. That was the sum total of their agreement.

Never mind that he’d kissed her in the Claverings’ garden. Or that he’d rushed to her bedside today, holding her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles like a man very much in love.

He didn’t love her.

And what she felt for him was likely fueled as much by her own romantic longings as reality.

She had no wish to make a fool of herself.

“You always speak his name as though you don’t approve of him,” she said.

Jasper’s cool gray eyes were impossible to read. “I don’t disapprove of him. I just wonder why you bought so many of his books all at once.”

“Because I’ve fallen behind on reading him over the years. And because you have an interest in his work. I thought I had better catch up if you and I were to have anything to talk about.”

“We have other things to talk about,” Jasper said irritably, only to fall silent as she cracked open her novel and turned to the folded page that marked her spot.

She’d begun reading it last night before bed and had only got through the first few chapters. Thus far it was a poignant tale, if not a fast-paced one, filled with love, and loss, and unrequited longing. The perfect read to calm her jittery nerves.

“I thought you were going to sleep?” Jasper said after a time.

“I couldn’t,” she replied. “Not yet. I’m far too anxious.”

An understatement.

Seated beside her new husband on a train hurtling rapidly toward her equally new life, Julia felt on the razor’s edge of panic. She didn’t know anything about men except what she’d read in books. She didn’t know anything about being a wife or a mother.

“Bridal nerves?” Jasper’s deep voice was a husky inquiry, as gentle as his touch when he’d last held her hand.

“A little,” she admitted, glancing up from her book. “I hope the children will like me.”

“I like you,” he said.

She met his eyes, her heart thumping. “You’re not having second thoughts?”

“If I am, they aren’t about you.”

She hesitated to ask. “What, then?”

His frown deepened. “Until today, I’ve only ever been truly selfish once in my life. Things didn’t go quite the way I expected them to.”

Julia didn’t understand. “Are you saying that marrying me was selfish?”

“Of course it was,” he answered. “I told you. I like you, Mrs. Blunt. The children will like you, too, once they get to know you.”

Some of the tension in her spine eased. He hadn’t previously addressed her by her married name. It was rather reassuring.

Belgrave Square hadn’t been warm or welcoming—it hadn’t been safe—but it had still been her home. Leaving it made her feel like a boat cut loose from its mooring, set adrift on a turbulent sea.

But she wasn’t adrift at all.

She belonged to Jasper now. He was her husband. Her anchor. Even if they weren’t madly in love, she was still safe and wanted.

“I like you, too,” she said earnestly. “More than any gentleman I’ve ever known.”

He flashed a brief lopsided smile. Except for his scar, it might almost have been boyish. The sort of smile to make a lady’s heart turn over. “Convenient,” he said, “seeing as how we’re married.”

Her heart swelled. Seated side by side, they were already close, her arm pressed to his and her skirts bunched against his leg, the hem pooling intimately over one of his booted feet. She drew closer still as she read, taking comfort from the muscular strength of his large presence.

He slipped his arm around her, drawing her against him. His attention was still fixed on her book. “Why do you have so many of Marshland’s novels to catch up on?”

“I stopped reading him for a time.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “One drifts away from authors occasionally.” It was inevitable given the sheer number of novels available. There was always something new to try—a new writer, a new story. But with Marshland, it had been something specific that had made her stray. “I think it had to do with the last book of his I read. The one released when I was eighteen. The Missing Heir, I believe it was called.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“It wasn’t anything specific. More of a feeling. It was different than Marshland’s previous work—serious and even a little sad. I suppose, at the time, I preferred stories that were more thrilling.”

“And now? You liked The Garden of Valor well enough.”

“Yes. It was exceedingly poignant.” She turned the page of her book. “It made me wish I’d never strayed. I’d forgotten how different Marshland is from other authors.”