The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(60)

“Different how?”

“For one thing, he’s not anywhere near as prolific. His novels used to come out with some frequency, but in the last several years, his publications have slowed to a trickle. They’ve changed as well. The Missing Heir and The Garden of Valor are nothing like his earlier works, the ones I read as a girl.”

“Perhaps he’s grown up.”

“Perhaps. It may be why I stopped reading him for a time. I do love his style, but when compared to Mrs. Braddon and Mrs. Trent-Watkinson, his stories seem to lack something.”

Jasper was quiet a moment before asking, “Such as?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made a thorough study of it. But I think that perhaps Marshland’s stories lack adventure.”

“The Garden of Valor is about a knight on a quest. That’s not adventurous?”

“It’s too realistic. People don’t read sensation novels for realism. They want thrills and danger.”

Jasper’s mouth hitched. “Murderous lady bigamists pushing people down wells?”

“Something like that.” Julia turned another page. “I will say Marshland’s romantic sentiment far exceeds any other author I’ve read of late.”

“I’m pleased he can do something right,” Jasper said dryly.

“The speeches Sir Richard made to Lady Elaine in The Garden of Valor were so beautiful. In this novel, too, the hero, Colonel Lawrence, expresses himself in the most heart-stirring terms.” She glanced up at him again, temporarily diverted. “Do you suppose Marshland says such things to his own wife?”

Jasper’s gaze held hers. “Is that the sort of thing a wife wants to hear?”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “I daresay she does, if a husband means it. And we were speaking about Mr. Marshland, not about you and me.”

“Quite.” He drew her closer. “As to that, doubtless the poor fool saves it for his novels.”

“I hope not. What a waste it would be to keep such things to himself. If he does feel that way, I mean. And if he is married. He may well be a grumpy old bachelor.”

“Speaking of marriage . . .” His hand stroked over her arm in a soothing caress. “How are your bridal nerves?”

“Better.” An uneasy thought occurred to her. “Is that why you’ve been indulging all my senseless chatter?”

“It’s not senseless,” he said. “Your opinions are perfectly sound. I’m grateful to hear them on any subject.”

It was by far one of the most wonderfully romantic things anyone had ever said to her. Almost as romantic as when he’d told her she was a beautiful soul. Or when he’d kissed her or held her hand. Indeed, it seemed that within the short time she’d known him, he’d gifted her with a half dozen romantic moments—a smile, a touch, a gruffly expressed sentiment. Like so many jewels, each of them more precious than the last.

She settled against his shoulder with a sigh, her novel still open on her lap.

The train rolled on, the rhythm of the wheels and the regular shriek of the metal and steam lulling her ever closer toward sleep.

Time must have passed because, eventually, she felt Jasper close her book. The gold-stamped title and author name on the cloth cover blurred before her weary gaze.

The Hero’s Return by J. Marshland

It was the last thing she saw before her eyes drifted shut. “I wonder what the J stands for,” she murmured.

Jasper didn’t answer her. At least, she didn’t think he did. But as exhaustion wrapped itself around her mind and body, dragging her down into oblivion, she was certain she heard him whisper a reply very softly against her ear.

“It stands for James.”





Nineteen





As promised, Jasper let his new bride sleep all the way to York. He might have slept, too, if he didn’t feel so damned protective of her. It wasn’t a new sensation. He’d been experiencing it ever since he’d rushed to her bedside in Belgrave Square. This urge to shelter and defend her. To keep her safe. He wouldn’t have thought it could get any stronger.

More fool him.

When the ill-humored vicar at the little church in Camden had pronounced them man and wife, he may as well have uttered a magical incantation. The words had had a startling and immediate effect, not only deepening the strength of Jasper’s feelings for his new bride, but seeming to alter the very alchemy of his soul.

Seated beside her in their first-class compartment, cradling her in the crook of his arm and feeling the precious weight of her head resting on his shoulder, he was conscious of the great responsibility he owed her.

She was his now completely, in law as well as in spirit. His own selfish choice. One that had nothing at all to do with the estate or the children or anything else that had come either before or after the war.

No matter that it hadn’t started that way. That it had been her dowry—not her kindness or her sweetness or even her taste in novels—that had first inspired his interest.

They were long past that now.

When they arrived in York, he gentled her awake just long enough to change trains. She was still pale and weak. He expected it would take several days for her to regain her pallor after her ordeal. In the meanwhile, she was content to lean on him and he was glad, quite shamelessly glad, to assist her in dozens of little ways—tying the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin, holding her hand, and encircling her waist as he guided her to their new compartment.