Page 36 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

For an instant, he took leave to hope.

“Are you one of those ladies?” he asked.

“Does it matter? If it’s money you require, I daresay any heiress would do. If not me, then someone else. Miss Throckmorton, perhaps.”

He couldn’t dispute the fact. Money was his primary concern. It was what had brought him to London in the first place.

But it wasn’t what had brought him here this morning.

On rising from his bed, he hadn’t thought of riches, or even of Goldfinch Hall. He’d thought only of seeing Julia Wychwood again.

“Miss Throckmorton is an impressive young lady,” he said.

“She is,” Miss Wychwood replied without a hint of malice. “It was good of her to come to my aid last night.”

“As I say, an impressive young lady. However . . .” He cast her a weighted glance. “She wasn’t my first choice.”

“I know that.” She straightened her habit skirt—a restless movement not entirely in keeping with her quiet hands and seat. “What I don’t understand is why.”

Honeyed words might have been difficult, but the truth came easily enough. Jasper didn’t hesitate to utter it. “You’re beautiful.”

She returned both hands to the reins. Her horse tossed his head, sending the curb chain of his Pelham bit clinking. “I’m flattered you think so. But beauty doesn’t last.”

“Your kind will.”

She gave him a doubtful look.

He gazed steadily back at her, as solemn as he’d ever been. “I believe, ma’am, that you have a beautiful soul. That you are a beautiful soul. I don’t expect that will alter with age.”

She stared at him for an instant, seemingly speechless. Her mouth trembled. “What a lovely sentiment.”

He shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” he returned. “Or better yet . . . tell me something of your own feelings.”

Her expression became wary. “What about them?”

“You said you wished to know me better. I assume that’s why you’re here. You must have known I’d be here, too. That I intended to speak with you away from your chaperone.”

“I always ride at this time of morning. But . . . Yes. I understood what you meant when we parted last night. I may be silly on occasion, but I’m not a fool.”

“No indeed.” He frowned. “Yet still you came.”

She gave him a bemused glance. “You sound as though you’re trying to warn me off.”

“I should,” he said. “I still might.”

“Your very changeable, sir.”

“I suffer from pangs of conscience. An unfortunate condition. I’m endeavoring to overcome it.”

She laughed.

The sound provoked a lump of yearning in his chest. He realized, to his disquiet, how much he wanted to be the one to make her laugh.

“Unfortunate, to be sure,” she said. “Given your purpose for being in town.”