“I would never marry a woman like that,” he added, self-conscious now. He reached up to rub a hand over his hair, still damp from his bath and a little textured from the ocean water. “I don’t want to give that family the impression that’s what I’m after or, God forbid, encourage my actual future wife to act that way. You have to put some of the fire back into her.”
“Oho, I ‘have to’?” she returned, flashing her teeth at him. “I thought you were in love with every woman, Jasper Townsend. Now, suddenly, you have preferences? How do you know Miss Templeton-Rath isn’t docile and sweet herself? What if she is, all on her own, without trying to imitate an imaginary princess? Then what?”
“The woman who threw fish heads on a dock while introducing herself?” he asked, raising his brows. “She seemeddocileto you?”
“She seemed many things to me beyond simply a woman, cat-loving, and brunette!” Libba answered. “It sounds like you noticed more than you said as well. I cannot continue in this endeavor if you will not be honest with me, Jasper.”
“Iambeing honest with you,” he told her through his teeth. “I can’t pretend to even feign interest inthatXandine. She has to be more like… She has… Libba, just fix her!”
She watched him, the smile melting off her lips until the corners sagged. “More like what, Jasper?”
He pressed his lips together, his color rising. He averted his eyes, turning his face away from her so that she was speaking to his wounds rather than to him.
“More like me?” she suggested quietly, something stirring in her chest like disturbed gravel, furious and warm. “Is that what you were going to say?”
His jaw ticked, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. “Just fix her,” he said again, stubborn and firm. “Like I said. Put some of the fire back.”
For a moment, she just stared at him. She wasn’t sure if it was offense or disbelief or a paralyzing dose of annoyance, but she could only stare.
“You want fire?” she finally managed to bite off, snatching up the hourglass just a few grains short of its seven minutes completing and stuffing it into her pocket as she rose to her feet.“I will give you fire. And you will remember through every burn that you asked for it.”
“Now, hold on,” he said, turning to watch her as she stepped around his chair.
“Patch up your lips again, Jasper Townsend,” she said without looking at him, walking straight and upright out of the room. “They’re bleeding.”
Jasper did taste blood, bitter and hot, but he imagined that had very little to do with his wounds.
Chapter Thirteen
Libba had nothad an enjoyable week.
Given how pointless her meticulous planning had been leading up to the first encounter with the Templeton-Raths, she had embarked on the new septet of days with the intention of trying the opposite: improvisation.
Unfortunately, that had become necessary before noon on Sunday, when she’d had to do an abrupt reversal from the path to church because the entire Templeton-Rath family was in attendance.
Even more unfortunately, she’d had to drag Lem away as well, putting his ingratiation with the vicar in somewhat of a perpetual limbo for the time being.
It was infuriating and guilt-inducing, to say the least. Her involvement in Lem’s plans were sincere, righteous, and necessary. Jasper’s plans were none of the three, and yet here they were, taking precedence.
In any event, she’d found the perfect excuse to postpone dinner with her father. The only problem was getting it into the correct tone with ink to paper before she sent off the regrets and promise of a later date.
She had rotated her first sheet of paper no fewer than five times, each with different opening lines facing outward like some sort of deranged sigil.
Sometimes, inspiration just refused to come. Libba knew that very damned well.
Which meant she knew the improvisation pivot was a bad idea. It was far less satisfying doing something petty when one knew it was a bad idea.
She grimaced and pushed her window open, listening for the cluck of the hens in the coop below.
Instead, she heard Ruby and Errol having a tiff about flowers.
He sounded exasperated but never once raised his voice. Instead, he just repeatedly sighed and said things in aggressively more reasonable tones. “Because it isn’t a hothouse. It is agreenhouse. It takes only the heat the sun provides. Orchids will die in that environment in England! It would need a tropical heat, something small and devoted and reinforced by external boilers. Do you know how many we’d have to plant to replace your import supply, anyway?”
“No,” Ruby snapped back, evidently unconcerned with volume or tone. “I don’t know how many bloody vanilla beans to a flower. Are you going to tell me?”
There was a long pause.
And then he muttered, “Well, I was going to, but now I don’t think I should.”
