Page 65 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

He saw that now. She was only drained and weak. Urgently in need of the restorative power of sleep, just as her maid had insisted.

And what had he done?

He’d traveled here at breakneck speed, bribing his way into her rooms like some desperate character from a penny novel.

“Forgive me,” he said gruffly. “I heard you were ill. I had to come.”

“I’m not ill. Just . . . tired.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you to rest.” Rising from the chair, he loosened his grasp, expecting her to withdraw her hand. She didn’t. Quite the reverse. Her fingers curled around his with a trust that entirely disarmed him.

“Please don’t go,” she said.

His chest constricted with emotion. He sank back into his seat. “I won’t. Not if you don’t wish me to.”

She was quiet, lids heavy as he held her hand. He began to think she was nodding off again, when her lashes lifted and her eyes lit on something to his right.

Jasper followed her gaze to the round bedside table. It was stacked with books. Five of them altogether, bound in familiar green cloth. He might have seen them on his approach to the bed if his attention hadn’t been fixed solely on Miss Wychwood.

Looking at them now, a strange sense of rightness came over him. As if the hand of destiny had reached out across time and space, bringing him to this moment. For an instant, he could almost believe in fate.

“My J. Marshland novels,” she said.

“So I see.” He turned back to her. Somehow, he managed a smile. “Have you finished them already?”

“Not yet. After Dr. Cordingley’s visit . . . I haven’t felt much like holding a book.”

Jasper’s expression sobered. “Why did your parents summon him?”

She lifted her shoulder in the barest suggestion of a shrug. “I said I was poorly. It wasn’t serious, but . . .”

“He bled you. Twice.”

“He thinks I read too many novels.” She cast a rueful look at the stack of books on her bedside table. “Perhaps I do.”

Jasper’s temper flickered. “No one with any sense believes that reading novels promotes illness in women. Not anymore.”

Granted, it had been a popular belief once. One predicated more on the fear that novel reading would take time away from a woman’s household duties than on the fear that the content of the novel would do her actual harm. That hadn’t stopped physicians, quacks, and writers of dubious medical tracts from attributing all manner of illnesses—both mental and physical—to the overstimulation provided by a good work of fiction.

“Dr. Cordingley believes it,” she said. “And my parents would never contradict a doctor. They’d allow him to do anything he wanted to me. It wouldn’t matter if I objected.”

“Did you object?”

“Yes.”

Jasper’s shoulders tensed. He had to make an effort not to grip her hand even tighter.

“I’m afraid my situation has become untenable,” she said. “It has been for a long while, only I was too stupid to recognize it.” A frown puckered her brow. “I wish I had. I’d have had more time.”

He scowled at her. “Don’t talk that way. You do have time. You’re not dying.”

She smiled faintly. “Of course not. I only meant . . . I thought there was time before I’d have to make a decision about what I’m to do next. And I must do something. A lady can’t spend her whole life being pulled along by the current. Not if she’s to find any degree of happiness.” Her eyes met his. “I do so want to be happy.”

His heart ached with unrequited affection for her. It deepened his voice to a rasp. “What would make you happy?”

She didn’t reply. She only looked at him.

How she looked at him.