Page 55 of To Wager with Love

Her first reaction had been one of profound hurt and indignation that he couldn’t be bothered to sit and read to her to alleviate her boredom. Yet, he’d sat with her for hours, seemingly perfectly content to keep her company, even when she was sleeping. No, it wasn’t unwillingness to entertain her or stay in her company. So, why had he run as if the room was on fire? She’d seen the panic in his eyes when she’d suggested he read to her; it was the closest thing to terror she’d ever witnessed in her life.

The idea unsettled her. What on earth should make Jasper feel so afraid? Try as she might, she couldn’t understand it. He’d tormented her for years about her cleverness, though she understood now that he’d done it for her attention, idiotic as that seemed to her. Men were odd creatures and no mistake. Yet, he’d said he loved her for her cleverness, loved the strange things she knew. He said he’d spend every penny he had on books for her.

If she hadn’t already been madly in love with him, that single statement would have been enough to have her falling head over ears. In Harriet’s opinion, that was the single most romantic thing that anyone had ever said in the history of the world. Why then, if that was so, would he take to his heels when she suggested he read to her? It didn’t make a lick of sense. No doubt there was some cork-brained male explanation that would make her head hurt, but she couldn’t see it.

Sighing, Harry closed her eyes and wished her brain was functioning at its usual speed. Currently, it felt sluggish and full of cotton wool and unequal to the task, but she would figure it out. She would figure him out, puzzle of a man that he was, eventually.

Chapter 17

Dear Mr de Beauvoir,

Please forgive me for my shocking behaviour when you visited Holbrooke House yesterday. I might say that I don’t know what came over me, but I’m afraid I do.

I regret to inform you I am infatuated.

I promise you that the kiss was not planned—how could it have been? —and that there is no plot to entangle you in my snares. Indeed, I am as perplexed by my reaction to you as you appeared to be revolted by it. I might inform you that my mother expects me to marry a titled and wealthy gentleman and, if she had the slightest inkling of my behaviour, she’d likely lock me up.

As a man of science and reason, please explain to me what I must do. How do I rid myself of this silly longing for someone who clearly holds me in contempt—as I always knew you would?

Please advise me, Mr de Beauvoir, for I fear making a fool of myself if ever we meet again.

Yours in admiration,

Miss Minerva Butler

PS. I am very much enjoying the book, as you predicted.

― Letter from Miss Minerva Butler to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.

8th September 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.

Harriet was more than relieved to have finally made it down the stairs. Tucked up before the library fire, she was trying and failing to read the book she’d brought with her. She’d not seen Jasper again yesterday, or this morning, either, and though she still felt tired and sluggish, her mind was not as foggy as it had been yesterday.

“Do you prefer pink or yellow roses?”

Harriet turned towards the desk, where Lady St Clair was happily ensconced, surrounded by lists and planning her and Jasper’s engagement party with the same determined mien Wellington must have worn before the Battle of Waterloo.

“Pink,” Harriet replied absently. “Where’s Jasper?”

Lady St Clair looked up, frowning. “I have no idea,” she said. “Though I’d take a guess he’s probably in that workshop of his.”

“Workshop?” Harriet echoed. “Jasper… works?”

There was a trill of laughter from the desk. “He’s not the idle fop everyone thinks he is, Harriet, dear. I thought you of all people knew that.”

Harriet blushed, wondering what she knew about Jasper, about the man he was now. She had misjudged him badly these past years. What else had she got wrong? Once upon a time she’d known him as well as she’d known herself, but they’d been children then, and there had been so many years since their estrangement. He’d become a man during those years, a beautiful man, with a reputation for wild living and womanising. Though even she had noticed he’d calmed down a great deal over the past years, his reputation still clung to him. A workshop, though?

“What kind of workshop?”

Lady St Clair shrugged. “I’ve no idea, he won’t let anyone in. Even the servants are banned.” She looked up then and Harriet was struck by the quality of her turquoise gaze, the same unusual colour her son had inherited. “Why don’t you find out?”

Harriet quailed a little at barging into Jasper’s private space. It was obvious he guarded it jealously, if he wouldn’t even let the staff in. Naturally, she was now eaten alive with curiosity.

“The doctor told you a gentle stroll in the fresh air would be good for you, did he not?” Lady St Clair remarked, with a deal too much nonchalance.

“Very well,” Harriet said, putting her book aside.

Ten minutes later and she was following Lady St Clair’s little map past the stately stable buildings and farther along, past the vast kitchen garden that supplied the house with fresh produce, and past the hothouses where exotic fruits and blooms were lavished with tender care. On she went to the home farm, noting as she walked how neat, orderly, and well-kept everything was. Gardeners and farm workers doffed their hats and greeted her with cheerful smiles as she cast her eye over a large and well-run enterprise. There wasn’t a roof in need of repair, or a pane of broken glass to be seen. Every yard and path was well swept. Memories rose in her mind of having played in and around these buildings as children, stealing soft fruit and petting the piglets and generally making a nuisance of themselves. It was such a long time since she’d been to this part of the property, and she smiled as she remembered a hundred adventures and squabbles, and a great deal of laughter. Harriet did not remember the place being in such excellent order back then, though. In fact, it had been a far more ramshackle collection of buildings, many of them in poor repair.