Page 19 of To Wager with Love

Clever de Beauvoir might be, but he had miscalculated this time, for once Jasper had Harriet in his bed, he’d make damn sure she never wanted to leave it again. Maybe he was no intellectual giant, but he knew his way around a woman’s body. Perhaps he was nothing but a pretty face, but that face would work in his favour now. He didn’t care what he had to do, how dirty he had to play… Harriet would want him. She’d already admitted as much. She’d want him, flesh and blood and fighting for her. He’d make her need the heat, the passion, and the joy he could give her. Last night had been nothing, a sweet taste of what could be between them, a tantalising glimpse of what it would be like when he made her his. God help him but he would make her so crazy with wanting him she wouldn’t remember her own name, let alone Inigo bloody de Beauvoir.

Once he had some semblance of control over himself, he turned to look at her. She was standing by the window, staring out over the gardens. Her shoulders were hunched, her arms wrapped about herself, the picture of misery.

“Do your parents know?” he asked. “About the engagement?”

She shook her head. “I’m of age,” she said curtly. “They’ve taken little interest in my life to date. I see no reason why it should bother them now.”

Jasper winced. For as long as he could remember, Harriet had longed for her father’s attention. Another brilliant man with cogs and wheels instead of a heart. No matter how hard she’d tried—and she had tried—she could not impress him, for he did not believe the female brain capable of brilliance. Henry was a disappointment to his father in other ways. Oh, he was not stupid—he’d done far better than Jasper had, at any rate—but he couldn’t hold a candle to Harriet. Not that her father ever deigned to notice.

“Do you mean to go through with it?”

“With the engagement?” she asked, her voice dull. “Why not?”

Jasper let out a breath, fighting for calm. “Because you don’t love him, and don’t give me some supercilious nonsense about social mores. You need to be loved, Harry. Everyone does. You deserve it.”

“Perhaps I need to be understood more.”

“A hit, Harry,” he acknowledged, feeling the barbed edge of that comment sink into the exposed flesh of his heart. He seemed always to wear it on the outside of his ribs these days, open to attack. “Is that why you despise me, because you think me a fool?”

She turned at that, her surprise evident. “I don’t despise you, and I’ve never thought you a fool. Quite the reverse. I’m just tired of being the subject of your derision, and I can’t respect a man who despises learning as you do, who mocks me for everything I hold dear.”

“But I don’t, Harry,” he ground out. “I’ve always admired you. Surely you know that?”

Her bitter bark of laughter startled him. “Oh, yes. You’ve always made a point of admiring my intellect. My, my, the things you know, Miss Stanhope,” she mimicked, capturing his arrogant drawl with quite uncanny accuracy. “How many times have you humiliated me in public, Jasper? Would you like to count the occasions?”

Jasper flushed, knowing he’d deserved that. He had mocked her terribly for her intelligence, often and unkindly, and yes, in public, but only because he was so damned tired of being ignored. Better she hate him and lash out at him, than he cease to exist in her world.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, knowing that was an inadequate reply, but he’d never been eloquent around her, and he didn’t expect to manage it now. “I just…. Damn it, Harry, you make me so bloody wild when you ignore me!”

She laughed then, and it was such a tired and weary sound his heart ached. “I know,” she said, the words almost soothing. “Poor Jasper. You’ve never been denied anything, have you? God, you were so spoiled. You and Jerome both. The apple of your mama’s eye. It’s a wonder you can dress yourself, oh, but… you have a valet, don’t you?” she added, smiling.

“That’s it then? You think me a pampered puppy with fluff between my ears?”

She shook her head and there was no malice in her words, no heat, but they burned all the same. “I think you’ve never had to work for anything you wanted. You’ve got a decent brain in your head, but you don’t use it because you’ve never needed to, and you’re too lazy to try to be more than you are.”

That was so far from the truth he wanted to wail at the unfairness of it, except she didn’t know that. No one did. She didn’t know it had all been an act to disguise the truth, that he didn’t have a decent brain in his head. It was so much better to be thought a rake and a libertine who didn’t give a damn about his books and his schooling, than let anyone know he was an ignorant fool.

What would she say if she knew he could barely write, any attempt filled with spelling mistakes and odd sentence structure, and that reading was such a chore it made his head explode? Whenever he tried, the letters seemed to rearrange themselves and make no sense at all until he wanted to scream with frustration. He’d gotten by at school by getting the younger boys to read things for him and to write out his homework, learning as much as he could by heart. How could he tell her that? Bright, brilliant Harriet, whom he’d worshipped for so long, so in awe of her abilities… how could he tell her he was all but illiterate? Surely she’d despise him. He was the Earl of bloody St Clair and it took him hours to write the simplest of notes, which would still be barely legible. It was beyond humiliating.

Jasper forced down the knot in his throat. He couldn’t confess the truth, but he could keep trying to make amends for taunting her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it with such force the words sounded odd to his ears, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for all the times I mocked you and made you angry. I never meant it, Harry. I admire you so much, love. I swear I do. Please, don’t refuse my offer without even thinking about it. We… We were close once, you liked me once. You even—”

“No, Jasper.” She swung about and faced him, her eyes glittering and overly bright, but her voice even. “I’ll marry Mr de Beauvoir. It’s for the best. You’ll see that once I’m gone. The minute I’m out of your sight, you’ll forget all about me.”

Jasper’s breath caught at her words. This was what she thought of him, that he was a shallow fool, callous and heartless? Hurt rose in his chest, hot and angry.

“And what about last night, Harry?” he demanded, his voice low as he stepped closer to her. “What about the fact you begged me to make love to you?”

Harriet’s cheeks blazed scarlet, and she tried to turn away from him, but Jasper caught hold of her and pulled her into his arms. She gasped in shock and made a sound of protest until he kissed her, smothering it before she could tell him no. There was a moment of resistance and then she melted, opening her mouth to his and kissing him back. Jasper held her to him so tightly he must have crushed the air from her lungs, but she made no objection, her hands fisting in his hair and pulling, pain that sent desire surging through him, knowing they were both angry, but that she wanted him badly, even though she hated that she did.

“Deny that,” he taunted breathlessly as he stared down at her.

She stared back at him, her dark eyes wider than ever behind her spectacles. They were all askew and she ought to have looked comical, but his heart clenched with longing. God, he was a fool. Of all the women to fall for. It wasn’t arrogance to believe he could have almost any woman he chose with little more than a crook of his finger, it was the simple truth, and he’d fallen for the only one he could never hope to impress.

“I can’t deny there is a… a physical attraction,” she said, the words so cold and clinical he wanted to shake her. “Inigo… Mr de Beauvoir was correct.”

“Oh, yes, love, he was correct.” Jasper laughed, a dark, unhappy sound he didn’t much like. “But I tell you now, if you think you can get me out of your system in a week, you’re very much mistaken. Once I have you in my bed, you’ll never want to leave.”