Page 167 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“Quite.” Julia advanced on her father. “Which is why you’re going to cease employing them to meddle in my affairs. You’re going to write out a letter to Hoares this very instant, instructing them to release my funds.”

“Impudent girl!” Mama cried.

“Or you can accompany me there yourself,” Julia said, undaunted. “It’s up to you, Papa.”

Her father at last seemed to register the sincerity in her voice. To understand she would not bend or break. That she would not be bullied.

He sank back into his chair with a rattling sigh. “Would that I’d had a son,” he muttered impotently. And then: “Tell the maid to fetch me my writing box.”

A half hour later, Julia emerged victorious from the morning room, her bonnet in hand and her father’s letter to the bank tucked safely in her reticule.

Triumph surged within her breast.

She’d done it. She’d actually won. And she hadn’t needed Anne or Jasper or even Mr. Finchley to do it for her. She’d faced it herself, and she’d prevailed.

Though she hadn’t been completely alone. Not in spirit.

She’d been strengthened by the support of her friends, and by the love of her husband. People who cared for her and accepted her exactly as she was—an odd, anxious, romantic-minded bluestocking who preferred the safety of novels to the uncertainty of real life.

At least, she had done.

But not anymore. Now, she longed for a happily-ever-after of her own. It didn’t matter that Jasper had deceived her about his past. Or rather, it did, but it wasn’t the sum total of her feelings for him.

Real life was more complicated than that. And real love was more complex still. It wasn’t faint or feeble. It was rich and nuanced and strong. So relentlessly strong. It had to be. Human beings were fallible. They stumbled and fell. They made mistakes. Love didn’t crumble in the face of those errors. It held fast and true.

An ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.

Julia couldn’t articulate it as well as Shakespeare, not even to herself. She wasn’t the writer in the family. For that, she needed her husband. He would understand precisely what she was feeling in this moment. She desperately wished he was here.

And miraculously . . . there he was.

As she approached the top of the curving oak staircase, she saw him standing in the entrance hall below—tall, dark, and menacing—looming over the unfortunate footman who had answered the door. “I ask you again,” he growled, “where is my wife?”

Julia’s heart soared.

Good heavens.

He’d come for her. And directly from the railway station if the leather Gladstone bag in his hand was any indication. He looked tired and rumpled and so extraordinarily dear.

And she didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. Hurtling down the stairs, she ran to him and threw herself straight into his arms. “Oh, my darling love. It really is you!”

Thirty-Eight

Jasper’s arms closed around her, dropping his bag as he lifted her straight up off her feet. She clung to his neck, her full skirts frothing against his legs. “This is a far warmer welcome than I’d anticipated,” he murmured gruffly against her ear. “Mind you, I’m not complaining.”

The footman tactfully receded from the hall, leaving the front door standing open to the square.

Julia hardly noticed. Tears of joy blurred her vision. “I was certain I must be dreaming.”

Jasper turned his face into her neck, his breath warm on her bare skin. “Don’t cry, love.”

“I’m not crying. I’m just so glad to see you. I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

“I should have been here with you.” His voice deepened to a husky rasp. “I should never have let you go in the first place.”

“You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” She smoothed her hands over his nape. “When did you arrive in London?”

“An hour ago. I traveled straight from Malton without stopping. Forgive me. I’m a bit worse for wear.”