The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(63)

For all intents and purposes, the moment she’d said I will at the little church in Camden, Julia had ceased to exist.

She could only imagine what Anne might have to say about it. Indeed, Anne’s voice was echoing in Julia’s mind with increasing frequency.

What have you done? Did you not stop to think for a moment that you might be leaping out of the frying pan and straight into the fire?

It was difficult not to think it now, despite how kind Julia’s new husband was being.

They ate dinner alone in their room at a small table set up in front of the fire. Though solicitous about serving her meat and refilling her glass, Jasper was—for the most part—silent. Julia was equally so. The memory of their kiss was a palpable presence. A veritable third guest at their table, preventing any hope of normal conversation.

At last, the tension could be borne no longer.

She set down her fork. “Jasper—”

“I wonder,” he said, “if we might not have progressed past the point of names.”

Her attention was momentarily diverted. “You don’t wish me to call you Jasper?”

He shrugged. A deceptively casual gesture.

Julia couldn’t help feeling his remark was anything but. “What would you like me to call you?”

“The possibilities are limitless.” He methodically folded his napkin, setting it down beside his plate. “How do your parents address each other?”

“They don’t,” she said frankly. “Not if they can help it. And when they do it’s rarely directly.” She hesitated before continuing. “My father refers to my mother as ‘your poor dear mama’ and my mother refers to him as ‘your poor father.’ That would hardly suit in our case.”

Jasper’s mouth tipped up at one corner. “Not yet anyway.”

A blush threatened. But she wouldn’t be distracted. “Don’t you like my name?”

“Your name is beautiful. I like it very much.”

Her brows knit. “Then . . . is it your name you don’t like?”

“I confess, I don’t. I’d rather you call me something else.”

Her expression turned quizzical. “An endearment, do you mean? Or should I choose a different name altogether?”

“An endearment will suffice.” He loosened his black cravat. He’d already removed his coat when they sat down. Another reminder of their newly minted intimacy. Clad in his shirtsleeves, his black waistcoat buttoned over his trim midsection, he appeared even larger and more powerful than ever.

“Is there one you’d prefer?” she asked.

“I’d like you to choose.” Again, that deceptively casual tone. As if his request meant nothing at all. As if it was merely a whim.

Julia didn’t understand him. “A name is important. I’ve realized that recently. It’s part of a person’s identity. You can’t simply take it away from them and turn them into someone else.”

His fingers stilled on the knot of his cravat. He looked at her intently.

“My parents renamed all our servants,” she explained. “That’s not fair, is it, to call a girl Jane when her name is Florence? It may seem like nothing very much, but if someone takes away your identity what do you have left?”

“I thought you were fascinated by the idea of people reinventing themselves.”

“Only if they choose to do it freely.”

“It is my choice,” he said. “And it’s not a reinvention. It’s a privilege of being married.” He finished removing his cravat. The collar of his white linen shirt gaped open, revealing a glimpse of the strong column of his throat.

Her eyes fell briefly to that exposed piece of bare skin. Like his face, it was gilded bronze by the firelight. When her gaze lifted back to his, it was to find him watching her. She moistened her lips. “I suppose, if you don’t object to it too strenuously, I could refer to you as my dear or dearest.”

His gaze didn’t waver, but his throat bobbed on a swallow.

“Is that all right?” she asked.

“For now,” he said.

She brightened. “What will you call me?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I might have to experiment to see what best suits you.”

“You may keep calling me Julia if you wish. I have no objection. Unlike you, I rather like my name.” She failed to stifle a yawn. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I do beg your pardon!”

He smiled. “You should have been in bed hours ago. Are you finished eating?”

“I am.” Her eyes once again drifted to the bed. She must have stolen three dozen glances at the dratted thing since she and Jasper first sat down. Even while eating, it had been there, looming large at the edge of her vision.

His deep voice recalled her attention. “You were going to say something before I interrupted you?”

Julia gave him a rueful look. “There’s only one bed.”

“There is,” he agreed solemnly. “You’ll take it, of course.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“On the floor. Or perhaps in this chair.”

Neither appeared very inviting. The floor was hard wood, the rug all but threadbare. The chair was little better. Its upholstery was faded, and the springs and cushioning seemed to have long given up the ghost.