Page 103 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

It was the same thing Julia required of him. Not his love, but his protection. His steadfastness and strength.

Returning to their shared bedchamber, he found her standing in front of the open wardrobe, placing a folded skirt onto a high shelf. Several articles of her clothing had already been carefully put away. They lined the lower shelves in colorful stacks of silk, wool, and muslin.

He scanned the room. “Is Daisy not here?”

Julia glanced at him, her expression peculiarly blank. “She was here.”

“Where did she go?”

“Downstairs, I believe.” Her tone was as opaque as her countenance.

Jasper had a sinking feeling. He entered the room, shutting the door behind him. “I suppose she said something untoward.”

Julia turned to face him. “Nothing you didn’t warn me about.”

“She spoke of her mother?”

“She did.” Julia walked to the window. Framed by folds of heavy leaf-patterned damask drapery, it boasted a deep-set seat much like the one the boys were taking advantage of in the servants’ quarters. She sat down upon it, rain drumming on the glass behind her. “What was her name?”

His sinking feeling swiftly transformed into a leaden weight in his chest.

This wasn’t a conversation he’d anticipated having so soon after their arrival. But like much in his cursed postwar existence, the unpleasant reality of it was unavoidable. The best he could hope for was that, in divulging some semblance of the truth, he wouldn’t hurt Julia in the process.

He approached her slowly, conscious of the fact that it may be too late. That she may already be hurt. “Her name was Dolly Carvel.”

“Is she buried in your garden?”

Bloody hell. Is that what Daisy had told her?

Not that it wasn’t the truth.

“She is,” Jasper said.

“I see.”

He sat next to her in the window seat, far enough away that he could look her in the eye. “You don’t,” he assured her. “There’s no way you possibly could.”

It was the wrong thing to say. That much was evident immediately.

Julia’s beautiful face hardened, twin spots of color rising in her cheeks. “I’m not entirely ignorant, you know. Even though I’ve never been anywhere or done anything. Even though you’re the first gentleman I’ve kissed.”

“That isn’t what I—”

“You loved her. You told me so last night at the inn.”

What?

Jasper opened his mouth to deny it, only to close it again. He belatedly recalled his admission to her as he’d brushed her hair. Good God. She’d assumed he was talking about his mistress.

Of course she had.

He’d been too caught up in his own painful memories to recognize it. And now it was too late. There was no way to correct her misapprehension. Not without divulging more than he was able. But he had to say something.

“I never meant—”

“What I hadn’t realized,” Julia went on, heedless of his protestations, “was that it was the kind of grand passion Heathcliff had for Cathy. Something that transcends a person’s death.”

Jasper choked back what would have been an exceedingly ill-timed laugh. “This isn’t Wuthering Heights. If it were any novel, it would be . . .” He struggled to come up with a comparable title and failed. “Blast it all, Julia, this is real life! There’s nothing romantic about it.”