Page 73 of Holding Onto Love

“Let us speak of love, instead. Yours.”

“Ha.” He grumbled and turned his back. “There is nothing to say.”

“I was hoping to hear a word from Vanessa. But she is stubborn. She has a right to be, I suppose.”

“Enough, Crispin. I was wrong. Don’t rub salt in it. I should’ve married her, not taken her as a mistress.” He walked farther away, to the window to look out, so as not to look at his brother. But Crispin’s gaze was inescapable. It seared holes through his back. He repeated his mea culpa. “I should have married her.”

“I have a quibble with that, but we will come to it.”

“Leave it, Crispin.”

“Who says you should have married her?”

“Everyone thinks it.”

“Surely not.”

“Crispin.” He turned to confront him. Anger building slowly. He didn’t want to be angry. Not with Crispin and not with himself. “Don’t play your games with me.”

“I understand why you did not. Honestly. I do. She’s a commoner. And while that occasionally does not prove a barrier to men of our ilk—money, beauty, even that strange intangible called ‘love’ have been used as excuses—you don’t make excuses. Not when it comes to duty. You just do it. And earls marry blood; it is their duty to carry forth the line.”

“You think I’m cold.”

“I admire you. I won’t repeat that ever, but it is true.”

Again, Jasper was nonplussed.

Crispin, of course, had more words. “Yet I have never known an aristocrat who did not possess a quirk. It’s a duty, too, I think, to do one thing wrong. You’re allotted one mistake. It’s courteous to use it; perfection is obnoxious.”

Jasper groaned. “You will play your games regardless.”

“Granted, you were due a blushing virgin on your wedding night.”

“Stop.” His tone threatened.

“But she was a pretty young widow. Widows are acceptable enough. Even for you.”

“Stop.” He used his earl’s voice.

“You could have married her.”

Damn, it. Nothing stopped Crispin once he began. So Jasper surrendered.

“I know that. Do you think I do not thrash myself every day? I was a different man, then. A blind one.”

“Not so different,” Crispin murmured. “Say it again. What you should have done.”

“I should have married her! Now go to hell.”

“That, your verb tense, is my quibble. Though I’m not thrilled with the imperative, either.” The damn eyebrow arched. “So you say that you thrash yourself with this daily? Do you envision these your dying words?”

“The mistake is made. I can’t go back and undo it.”

“My God.” Crispin laughed his disbelief. “Your head is thick. Move forward. Not back.”

“If you have something worthwhile to say—”

“Marry her. Is that plain enough?”