Page 9 of To Wager with Love

Her hair was an unremarkable shade of brown, neither dark nor light, as were her eyes. She was of average height and her figure neat enough, but neither exceptionally slender nor voluptuous. Harriet was the girl that people walked past without noticing, and that was fine, she told herself. If anyone ever noticed her it was either oh, the girl with the spectacles, or a combination of sniggering and bewilderment because she’d said something no one else understood.

Still, she didn’t have to enjoy this, only convince Jasper that she was, and it really didn’t matter why they danced with her, only that they did. So she pasted an expression of delight onto her face and beamed at Jerome, who returned a cautious smile, and around they went again.

***

Jasper watched as Jerome said something to Harriet and she tipped her head back and laughed. Jerome looked a little startled, as did those dancing on either side of them, but it seemed Harriet’s laughter was infectious. Everyone grinned at her and she laughed again as Jerome chuckled and shook his head.

Damn it, you bloody fool, Jasper cursed himself. He’d played this all wrong. He was going to lose her.

As the night wore on, Harriet’s dance partners came and went, all of them shaking their heads and laughing when they left her. Indeed, some didn’t leave. They remained to talk to her and fetch her glasses of punch between dances. When they finally parted, they looked bemused at having been so entertained, which only made Jasper gnash his teeth harder. They were only now seeing what he’d always known. Harriet was a remarkable young woman when she was relaxed and happy. Once upon a time it had only been him who’d seen it, but he had seen it, he’d seen it before anyone else had and surely that meant something. It bloody well ought to. Some of her dance partners looked regretful as they walked away, and it seemed quite a few secured a second dance with her.

Jasper felt his jaw clench tighter. She’d better have saved the midnight waltz for him.

By now, he didn’t know if he was longing for midnight or willing it away. For all that jealousy was burning him from the inside out to see her having such fun with every other eligible man but him, he was terrified that she would simply look him in the eyes and tell him he meant nothing to her. Perhaps she’d say that she hated him, or perhaps she merely disliked him. Somehow, he preferred hatred to anything less… at least it was a strong reaction. To be merely disliked seemed a pitiful fate. He could not even believe that she would look into his eyes and tell him she loved him, that she’d always loved him and always would. Yet surely she cared, just a little? His heart felt squeezed in his chest.

She had once. She had for years and years. He knew she had, and he’d taken it all for granted, fool that he was, but perhaps she could again? Might she give him the chance?

No matter what, he would jump on the slightest sign that she cared for him and take her down to the bloody summerhouse. Oh, not that he would force himself on her, he wasn’t a blackguard, but he needed to be alone with her, needed a chance to win her back, and he didn’t know how else to try when she wouldn’t speak with him. He knew that women desired him, knew every other woman here believed him exceptionally handsome; it was only Harry who seemed immune to his charms. The trouble was he didn’t care what anyone else thought, and he never had. Harry judged people on their minds. She had no interest in a handsome face or a strong physique, and that was where everything fell apart. She thought him a fool, and he couldn’t pretend she was wrong.

He wished he was clever enough to impress her, and it wasn’t as if he’d not tried. He’d tried bloody hard at school, studying until all hours until he’d realised it was hopeless, and it was less humiliating to pretend he didn’t care than to keep failing.

Naturally she despised him for not caring, for acting as though he had no interest in learning, in anything beyond the superficial, yet he was too mortified to explain the truth.

If she knew she’d pity him, and that would crucify him.

Finally, midnight arrived and Jasper crossed the floor towards her. Please, he prayed as he walked towards her, please, give me a chance.

Harriet was waiting for him, and all the laughter had gone by the time he reached her. She was wide-eyed as she looked up at him; he thought perhaps she was trembling. He hoped so, because if it wasn’t her it was him. Not that this wouldn’t be humiliating enough when she told him she wanted him to leave her alone. He wasn’t entirely a fool, he knew that was the only reason she’d accepted his dare, in order to never be bothered by him again.

Jasper swallowed and took her in his arms, drawing her closer than he ought but unable to stop himself. If this was the last time he’d hold her, he was damned well going to make the most of it.

Chapter 3

Dear Matilda,

How kind you are to worry so about me. I assure you there is nothing dastardly or Gothic in my disappearance. Far from it, I’m afraid for I should be vastly entertained by a villain at this point. Sadly, there is no riveting mystery to entertain you with. My aunt has been a little under the weather these past weeks and she frets when I’m away from her. She’s been such a dear to me that the least I can do is give her my company.

So there, you see. A dull explanation, but nothing to upset your tender heart.

I hope I have put your mind at rest.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Jemima Fernside to Miss Matilda Hunt.

Still the night of the St Clairs’ summer ball. 30th August 1814, Holbrooke House, Sussex.

Harriet shivered as Jasper drew her into his arms for the waltz. Strangely, she’d enjoyed herself this evening, as Jasper must well know. For once her nerves had deserted her, and she’d danced and laughed and had a rather wonderful time. How odd, when she’d always despised dancing. Yet, if she were being honest, that wasn’t entirely true. Jasper had been quite correct; she hadn’t always despised dancing. She’d just never learned to enjoy it with anyone but Jasper and his brother. Harriet had learned with Jasper and Jerome and her own brother, taking turns with each of them under the dance instructor’s tuition as she was the only girl. She’d loved those lessons, they’d been full of laughter and fun, and she’d loved dancing with Jasper most of all, because she’d loved him most of all too.

Though she’d told herself all night that she was dreading this moment—for she must tell a bare-faced lie to walk away from him once and for all—she found now that dread was far from her thoughts. She smiled as she remembered those lessons, remembered how patient Jasper had been when she’d trodden on his toes, and the way he’d grinned at her when he spun her into a complicated turn, and she didn’t trip up.

“What are you smiling at?” His voice was soft, and she was too lost in the memory's sweetness to find an easy lie.

“I was remembering our dance lessons,” she admitted, knowing it was a dangerous thing to say in the circumstances. She had to tell him he meant nothing to her. She had to get free of him once and for all.

“That was my favourite time of the week,” he said, surprising her.

“You rotten liar,” she retorted, shaking her head in disbelief. “You hated dance lessons and always said it was a waste of a perfectly fine afternoon.”

Jasper stared down at her and she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Lord, but he was beautiful. His eyes were remarkable, neither green nor blue but a tantalising mixture of the two, a bright aquamarine that stole her breath whenever she saw them.