Page 137 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“There’s nothing easy about it,” he said. “My writing is personal to me. Something private that’s mine alone.” He moved to his desk, gathering up the rest of his manuscript and returning it to the drawer. He slammed the drawer shut. “I’ve been doing it since I was a lad. It’s not anything I’ve ever wished to share with anyone.”

“I see.”

He turned back to her. “You don’t. I can tell by your face. You’re hurt.”

“Not hurt, no, but . . . I wish you hadn’t let me run on giving my opinions about your books as if we were talking about a stranger. When I think of all I said—”

“I told you. I value your opinions.”

“I would that you’d valued my confidence a little more,” she said. “That you’d trusted me.”

He leaned back against his desk, half sitting on the edge of it. He regarded her with a frown, uncertain of what he could say to make things right. In real life, he was rarely as eloquent as the heroes in his novels. The more deeply he felt something, the less he could articulate it. With Julia, he’d increasingly found himself reduced to grunts and growls.

“Does anyone else know?” she asked.

“No one,” he said.

“Mr. Bloxham must. It’s why you were at his shop that day, wasn’t it? To discuss something about your novels?”

“It was.” He’d managed to get fifty pounds out of the man in unpaid royalties for The Fire Opal. “But you’re wrong. He doesn’t know they’re my books. To him, I’m merely the author’s proxy.”

Julia’s expression of doubt lingered. “He doesn’t know you’re James Marshland?”

Jasper shook his head. “When he bought my first book, we corresponded by post. It was the same with my subsequent novels. I only visited him in person after I returned from the war.”

He’d had no choice. There had been no other way to arrange for payment on his previous works, or to negotiate sales of future ones.

Julia came to stand in front of him. Her full skirts bowed against his legs. “Are you ashamed of the stories you write?”

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be. Your writing is beautiful. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your wife. I told you as much before I knew Marshland’s novels were really yours.”

“Yes, you did.” Hearing it now, he felt the same ridiculous surge of pleasure he’d felt then. “You have no idea what it meant to me.”

“Yet still you kept it secret?” Her eyes searched his. “Why? I wouldn’t have judged you for it. Indeed, it would have made me care for you even more.”

She did care for him, then.

On some level, he’d already known it. It was there, evident in the way she held his arm when they walked together. The way she looked to him for guidance and approval. The way she melted into his embrace.

He reached for her hands. She let him take them, let him hold them gently in his grasp. A tremor of connection passed between them, stirring his blood. He had a vivid recollection of how he’d kissed her yesterday in the downstairs hall.

But he didn’t want her kisses now. He wanted something else. Something more.

He wanted her to know him.

A futile impulse.

There was too much risk associated with it, and not only to him. He knew that. His spirit nevertheless railed against the constraint.

He drew her to stand between his booted feet. His voice roughened with repressed emotion. “My father didn’t approve of novels. I had to hide my writing from him. It’s always been a secret to me. The most private part of myself. I’ve never had the urge to share it.”

“You do share it. There are countless readers who adore your stories. They’d be glad to know you. Indeed, you could be as celebrated as any famous author if you wished.”

“I don’t. It’s the writing I love, not the notoriety. Not the lifestyle. I’ve never been interested in holding court in coffee shops or giving talks at lecture halls. I prefer anonymity.”

“Even from those you love?”