Page 31 of To Wager with Love

“A sprained ankle, I believe,” the lady replied. “Painful, but not serious.”

“Pity,” Bonnie murmured under her breath as Minerva tried not to choke on her soup.

“Lady Helena was lovely, wasn’t she?” Lady St Clair said, changing the topic once more.

“Oh, yes,” Minerva said, glad to have something to contribute. She knew Lady Helena well now, since Prue had married her brother, the Duke of Bedwin. “She is lovely, so vivacious, and always on the move. I swear she’s never tired. I never met anyone so full of energy, and so sweet natured too.”

“Yes, exactly as I found her.” Lady St Clair nodded, pleased, before turning to her son. “Did you not think so, Jerome?”

Jerome, who had clearly not been attending the conversation, looked up from his dinner.

“What’s that?” he asked, whilst pulling a bread roll in half.

“Lady Helena,” his mother said patiently.

“What about her?” He stuffed a large chunk of roll into his mouth and chewed while he waited.

“Honestly, Jerome, I may as well talk to the wall. Do attend the conversation, dear. What did you think of Lady Helena?”

“Oh,” Jerome said, swallowing. He paused, giving it some thought. “Which one was she?”

Bonnie snickered, and there was a flash of impatience in Lady St Clair’s eyes. “Never mind,” she said, giving up on the conversation.

Minerva bit her lip and applied herself to her soup once more, until everyone had finished and the staff cleared the table and brought in the next courses. Though it was only an informal dinner, the table was laden. A fish dish Minerva could not identify was served alongside roast beef, several roast chickens, pigeon pie, harrico of mutton, veal collops, an almond tart, and several dishes of vegetables.

With a happy little sigh of anticipation, Minerva accepted servings of the pie, roast chicken, and a good helping of vegetables.

“It’s good to see you eating properly,” Bonnie murmured to her. “The first time I saw you at dinner I worried for you. You didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive.”

Minerva grinned at her, then took a deliberately large mouthful of roast chicken and gave a contented sigh. Bonnie laughed and followed her example. Minerva looked around the table to see if everyone else was tucking in, and noticed Harriet picking at her dinner with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. A glance down at the other end of the table confirmed that St Clair was doing little better. His hand rested on the stem of his wine glass which he was twisting back and forth as he studied the contents with an inscrutable expression.

Minerva sighed and hoped the two of them could sort their problems out. It was possible. Bedwin and Prue had been in a terrible fix once the duke had discovered who had written that salacious story about him. Surely if they could overcome such problems, St Clair and Harriet could find a way forward.

Wistfully, Minerva’s memory returned to the book shop and the rather unnerving grey-green stare of the man she’d met. They must have more hope than she did, at any rate. For there was no earthly reason a man considered one of the great minds of our generation would take a second glance at a pretty little ninny like Minerva.

With a dejected sigh, Minerva returned her attention to her dinner and tried to put him out of her mind.

***

Jasper didn’t exactly run from the room the moment dinner was over, but it was a close thing. It had been an interminable evening, made worse by Harriet’s pale, troubled expression as she stared at her plate and barely ate a mouthful.

Was this what the coming night meant to her? Was it an ordeal to be got through? His heart plummeted to his boots. If it was, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. He’d never taken an unwilling woman to his bed, and he wasn’t about to start now. Yet, she’d not been unwilling when he’d kissed her earlier, any more than she had been last night, and this morning she’d been perfectly sober. The moment he had her in his arms she’d become all heat and pliant limbs, her desire quite unmistakable. Well, she’d obviously changed her mind. She’d not come tonight, so he may as well not get his hopes up.

Not that he was giving up—far from it—but if he couldn’t get her into his bed, he had to acknowledge that his chances were diminishing. Even if he managed it, he had to admit his problems might have just begun. What would happen when the novelty of bedding him diminished? What if that was all they could find in common? He loved her company, loved to hear her talk so passionately about whatever new thing she was interested in, no matter if he understood it or not, but what about her? What happened when she grew tired of him and he could not capture her interest anywhere else but in bed?

Still, he couldn’t help but listen for every creak and footstep as he prepared for bed and dismissed his valet, assuring the man he’d not be needed again and could retire for the night. Jasper moved to the bed and sat down at the edge of the mattress, remembering a time when Harriet had looked at him as if he’d hung the moon for her alone. The year she’d turned sixteen he’d bathed in that adoration, even as he’d feared putting it to the test. What if he let her in and she saw how far he really was from the ideal she’d fallen for? What if she saw the truth of him and changed her mind? Seeing that adoration turn to regret—or worse, pity—would be appalling. The fear of it had nearly killed him. Yet it had happened anyway.

He remembered all the evenings they’d spent together when Harriet had read to them, Jerome, Henry, and he gathered about her in front of the fire as she weaved a magical tale. Jasper had loved those evening most of all. He’d loved to hear stories as a child but, as he’d grown older, he could ask no one to read him a bedtime story for fear of being thought a baby. Reading himself was such a chore it took any pleasure from the story, and so he’d given up, but Harriet would read to him whenever he asked and seemed to enjoy doing so. His favourite had been The Arabian Nights Entertainments. They’d been romantic adventures, full of danger and intrigue, love and betrayal, and to hear Harriet read them had made the stories come alive. She must have read that book a dozen or more times, and even though their brothers objected and demanded she read something else, she’d just smile, take the book from his hand, and begin all over again.

Jasper rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart, trying to shift the ache that had settled there. She’d loved him then. She’d loved him for so long, and then it had stopped. Harriet had stopped looking at him with adoration. She’d stopped looking at him at all. She’d not talk to him unless spoken to, and then she was polite and distant. He’d been cut from her life and he’d not understood it. The pain of it had made him angry and he’d lashed out, mocking her in front of friends when she was clever, taunting her for being more interested in books than real life. She borne it at first, with all the quiet dignity she was capable of, but he’d kept on until she’d retaliated, until she hated him for it. He’d watched her retreat from the world, knowing it was his fault and hating himself for it, but unable to stop. If he stopped tormenting her he’d cease to exist in her world. She would forget him utterly, and that felt like dying.

So there was no point in sitting here waiting for her to come. He’d destroyed his own happiness and, even if Harriet still wanted him physically, she was far too clever to give in to such shallow desires.

With a sigh he pulled open a drawer on the nightstand and took out a battered little book. He carried it with him wherever he went. No matter if it was just a few days away, or a month, the book came too. It was a diary, or ought to be. The fact that he’d never written a word in it made his chest tight. How he wished he could. He’d wanted to tell Harriet about all the extraordinary and wonderful things he’d seen when he went to Russia. He’d longed to write to her, too, and had been torn between praying she’d write to him and praying she wouldn’t. For there were no little schoolboys to read to him or help him write out a reply, and even if such a thing could be had, he could hardly have anyone else read such a personal letter, nor write a reply. He’d been stuck. Nowadays he got away with it by acting the part of lofty nobleman, too high in the instep to be bothered with reading correspondence, let alone replying, but it had been harder then.

So, he’d watched the arrival of the post with anxiety. Letters arrived from his parents every few weeks or so, and he spent hours labouring over them to decipher anything of importance he needed to know… or any mention of Harriet. At least they never expected a reply. The family joked about what a terrible correspondent Jasper was and believed him too lazy and tied up with his own affairs to bother to reply. Besides, his guide, Mr Winslow, had been tasked with reporting back to his parents.

At least since he’d become earl, he’d employed a secretary, ostensibly because he was far too self-important to read or write for himself, but in truth because it was the only way he could manage. It didn’t help with personal affairs, though.