Page 39 of To Wager with Love

“Only one worth a damn,” he said, reaching out and tracing the line of her jaw. “And it’s becoming rather less of a secret by the minute.”

She stared at him, torn between hoping he’d say it and hoping he wouldn’t. How much more could her heart withstand before it capitulated entirely and dissolved into a puddle at his feet?

Forestalling the question entirely, she kissed him. He pulled her to him, deepening the kiss, and awakening all sorts of sensations as her body responded at once despite her fatigue.

“Stay,” he said, such pleading in his eyes she couldn’t refuse. Not when she wanted to do as he’d asked, anyway. “Please,” he added. “I want to wake up with you.”

With a sigh, she moved closer and put her head on his chest, closing her eyes as he stroked a lazy hand down her back.

“Very well,” she said, closing her eyes. “I’m too tired to argue.”

“Miracles do happen,” he murmured and, for once, she let him have the last word.

***

The next morning dawned with the fresh vivacity that always followed a summer downpour. The sun-parched earth had soaked up every drop and the grass was brighter, the colours more dramatic, as though Mother Nature was having one last burst of glory before the approaching autumn stole summer’s thunder.

Minerva looked out of her bedroom window with a burst of anticipation. There was a trip planned today, to Tunbridge Wells. Though she’d stopped there with Bonnie and Ruth, they had by no means seen all there was to see, and she was very much looking forward to exploring a bit more. If she was honest, however, her main reason for wanting to return was the very slim chance of bumping into Mr de Beauvoir for a second time.

Why she was so struck with him, after such an inauspicious meeting, she hadn’t the faintest idea. It had occurred to her that perhaps it was some perverse desire to thwart her mother, who had been aggressively in search of a titled husband for her daughter since the moment she’d come out. Minerva had been bullied and forced to this and that social event, told what to do, what to say, how to act, when to smile… until she was dizzy and sickened by the whole affair and had forgotten who she was and what she wanted for herself. With Prue’s help she had changed that, and had promised herself she would make her own decisions from now on. The intriguing Mr de Beauvoir would be everything her mother would abhor. He was not titled or rich, had no charming manner or handsome face to recommend him and, heaven forfend, he was an intellectual.

If her dear mama had the slightest inkling of Minerva’s thoughts, she’d probably suffer a nervous collapse.

Nonetheless….

Minerva still hoped she would see him again. Chewing at her lip, she considered what to wear that would show her in her best light, and then she considered what might actually impress him, as she doubted it would be her dress.

“I wonder if Harriet has any interesting books I could borrow?” she wondered aloud.

If she could show him she was attempting to expand her brain, perhaps that would impress him. Minerva pulled a face and sighed. Only if she could talk about said book with any conviction, which she felt unlikely. Still, it was the only thing she could think of.

***

Jasper blinked, staring at the woman sleeping next to him with the dazed disbelief of a man waking from a dream. For a terrible moment dreams and reality overlapped, and he feared it had been nothing more than his imagination, but then she made a little snorting sound, somewhere between a snore and a huff, and his mouth curved into a grin.

The sound woke her and she blinked in the dim light of his room, eyes widening with shock as she saw him.

“Oh,” she said in surprise, and then let out a breath. “Good morning.”

“Marry me,” Jasper said, unable to keep the words back any longer. “Please, Harry, say you will.”

He watched her brow wrinkle, saw the troubled look enter her eyes.

“I’ll make you happy. I swear it.”

She sighed and turned onto her back. “We can’t spend our lives in bed, Jasper. There’s more to a marriage than that.”

“I know,” he said, reaching out and cupping her face, turning it back to look at him. “But bed is more important than I think you realised. Could you really marry him now? Won’t you be thinking of me whenever he touches you? For it won’t be like it is with us, Harry. I promise you that.”

The words had sounded a little harsher than he’d intended, fuelled by jealousy. He didn’t think his heart would survive if she chose de Beauvoir over him.

She said nothing, just stared up at him, her dark eyes solemn. Panic rose in his chest. Why would she choose him? She thought he was a brainless fop, and he didn’t know how to convince her otherwise, not when he feared it was true. One day soon he’d have to tell her the truth, he owed her that much, but the idea made him feel sick. What if she was appalled by him, embarrassed even, or worse, what if she pitied him? How would he bear it?

“You have to marry me now, anyway,” he said, sounding far harsher than he’d intended, unnerved by her silence, lashing out as he always did when she unsettled him and dented his confidence. “You could be carrying my child.”

“Yes, I realise you made sure that was a possibility,” she said, her voice cool and direct

Jasper flushed, torn between wishing he had done it on purpose and mortification. Good God, why did she always make him feel like such a foolish boy? “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said stiffly. “I… I just didn’t think, couldn’t think. I lost control.”