The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(84)

Twenty-Five





Hunched over his desk, head resting in one hand, Jasper stared down at the script-covered sheet of paper in front of him. Scowling, he crossed out another sentence. The nib of his quill pen dripped a spatter of ink across the page. Blast it. This was the third time he’d used the same phrase to describe something.

He was becoming careless.

It had been three days since they’d returned to Yorkshire. Three long days of working alone in his study during the morning hours and courting his wife in the afternoon and evening. It was the latter that had thrown all his cautious habits out of balance.

Thoughts of Julia permeated his every waking hour. And most of his non-waking hours, too. Lying beside her in their bed, attempting to maintain some semblance of detachment as she snuggled against him in her sleep, he was fast approaching a permanent state of distraction.

This morning, anxious to leave before she awoke in his arms, he’d washed and dressed so quickly, it wasn’t until he was downstairs, halfway through his breakfast, that he’d realized he’d forgotten both his pocket watch and his study key in the bedroom.

Obliged to go back and retrieve them, he’d ended up walking in on Julia sponging herself in front of the basin.

She’d looked up at him with a start, her ruffled nightgown drawn partway to her waist and the wet sponge dripping in her hand.

Jasper had frozen on the threshold as the door snicked shut behind him, standing there like a great bewildered lummox who’d just received a blow to the head.

The moment he’d regained his wits, he’d averted his eyes. “Forgive me. I should have knocked, but . . .” He’d willed himself not to look as she righted her clothing. “I didn’t wish to wake you.”

“Do you require something of me?” she’d asked.

“No. Nothing like that.” Regaining some small measure of composure, he’d stalked to the chest of drawers, sweeping his pocket watch and key up in his hand, aware all the while that she was watching him. “Forgive me,” he’d muttered again before taking his leave. And then—rather lamely: “I’ll procure a screen.”

Jasper had been replaying the encounter over and over in his head all morning. “I’ll procure a screen.” Good God.

A screen wasn’t going to solve his problem. Nothing would except for having her. And he was a fair way from attaining his goal.

The most he’d achieved was that she was giving him a chance. An opportunity to court her. To show her who he really was, even if he couldn’t tell her.

And he’d been trying to show her in dozens of different ways. Talking to her and listening to her, accompanying her out on the grounds with the children every afternoon and brushing her long raven tresses every night.

Setting down his quill, he raked both hands through his hair.

How was he to convince a gently bred lady to give herself to a monster? To vouchsafe her heart—and her body—to a man whose reputation was as black and irredeemable as that of Hades himself?

A true villain would simply have taken her. Affection could come later. Perhaps even love.

But Jasper didn’t believe it would. Not with Julia. Real life wasn’t, after all, a myth or a fairy tale.

Rising from his chair, he went to the high, narrow tower window. The rectangular sliver provided no view of the grounds, only of the sky. It was clear outside today, the sun burning as brilliantly as it had since Monday. There was no longer any sign of the fog and the damp that had greeted them when they’d arrived on Sunday.

A glance at his pocket watch revealed the time: half past twelve. The boys should be done with their lessons soon.

He exited his study and, locking the door behind him, made his way downstairs.

Julia emerged from the drawing room at the same moment he stepped down into the hall. Catching sight of him, she stopped where she stood, blushing to the roots of her hair.

An answering heat crept up from beneath his collar and cravat, sneaking its way into his face.

Bloody hell.

He wasn’t some raw lad. He was a man in his thirty-second year. A man who should be well past the point of blushing.

But she was his wife. A wife whose lushly curved body he’d held while she slept. One who he’d seen, not four hours ago, in a blood-stirring state of undress, her nightgown at her hips and her bosom bare, as perfectly proportioned as any sculpture of a Grecian goddess.

He swallowed hard. “Er, good morning.”

“Good morning.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Or, rather, good afternoon. It’s nearly one o’clock.”

“So it is.” He crossed the hall to join her. She looked unbearably pretty in her plain white frock with its violet ribbon sash at her waist. Soft and touchable. He suspected she wasn’t wearing her corset.

Without a lady’s maid to assist her, she’d been managing her own morning toilette. Of necessity, some components had gradually fallen by the wayside. The result was a softer, simpler style of dress that suited her far better than the overly constricted silhouettes of her days in London. Even her hair was lovelier than it had been in town. No longer pinned into submission, it was swept back into loose chignons or haphazardly tucked into silken nets.

Imperfection became her. Made her even more beguiling. Like a wild rose blooming in a hedgerow.