To Wager with Love (Girls Who Dare Book 5) Read online

  “She says her aunt has been ill, and she’s been looking after her. They’re very close, I believe?”

  Bonnie nodded. “I think she lives with her aunt, does she not?”

  Matilda nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Anyway, I must call on her when I return to town.”

  “I wish I could go with you,” Bonnie said, her tone wistful.

  “Are you returning to Scotland, Miss Campbell?” Lady St Clair asked, with what Minerva suspected might be a hopeful tone.

  “I imagine so,” Bonnie replied, returning a smile that was quite obviously forced. Minerva felt a surge of pity for her, more so as Bonnie’s gaze moved to Jerome and settled there.

  “Did you hear the news?” Lady St Clair asked, drawing Bonnie’s attention away from her youngest son as her voice vibrated with suppressed excitement. “The Marquess of Montagu was coming to visit us this afternoon when he got caught in that dreadful storm. He was thrown from his horse.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow,” Jerome quipped, earning himself a snigger from Bonnie and a glare from his mother.

  “Did you not see him, Miss Hunt?” Lady St Clair asked, turning to Matilda. “He must have been travelling the same road as you at the same time.”

  Matilda’s cheeks flamed as all the Peculiar Ladies present looked up to stare at her with identical expression of enquiry.

  “I-I-I,” she stammered.

  “It’s a long road, Lady St Clair,” Harriet blurted, taking everyone’s attention from Matilda. “And Matilda got soaked, but she returned home long before the storm was over, didn’t she, Henry?”

  Henry stared at his sister for rather too long a moment before he spoke. “Yes. Yes, indeed. I saw her, you see. Wet. Very wet, but… but it was still storming, thundering, that is…. Lightning, too.”

  “So, Montagu was likely miles away from her, still at the other end of the road,” Harriet added, with a tad too much force.

  “Oh,” Lady St Clair said with a nod, and returned her attention to her soup.

  Henry cast his sister a what the devil was that about look, but Harriet ignored him. Matilda concentrated on her own bowl and did not look up. Minerva wondered what Matilda was hiding. Was there something going on with her and Montagu? Surely not. Not after what he did to her.

  “Is he badly hurt?” Henry asked, as everyone looked back to Lady St Clair once more.

  “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 gr
own 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.

  Anyway, Harriet had never written to him. Not once, and the hurt of that been worse than he’d imagined possible. He’d thought the kiss they’d shared had been special, perfect. It had been for him. He’d not been slow in taking up a young man’s interest in amorous adventures, and by that time he’d learned enough to know that kiss had been out of the ordinary, that Harriet was out of the ordinary. She’d been there, right in front of him all that time, but it was only that summer that he’d truly seen her for what she was, and had fallen for her, hook, line, and sinker.

  Jasper smoothed his hand over the worn leather of the binding and tilted it slightly, so it fell open at the only page that mattered. A neat little pencil drawing of Harriet met his eyes, the picture so familiar he knew every line, every shaded contour. She was younger in the image, naturally, but she’d changed very little, her expression as serious as ever. He drew in a deep breath and wished he knew how things had gone so wrong. For a while he’d believed it was because he’d never written, and he’d tried to speak to her—prepared to humiliate himself by explaining, if that was why she was so hurt—but either she lied very convincingly or there was some other, deeper reason for the way she’d cut him out of her life.

  He would know, he promised himself. He’d get to the truth, and then he’d do whatever it took to make it right, no matter what he had to say, what he had to do. The idea of his life, of his home, without Harriet in it, was too bleak an image to contemplate.

  There was a quiet knock at the door and Jasper almost dropped the book, he was so surprised. All at once his heart was thundering in his ears and he put the book back in the drawer and hurried to the door, pulling it open.

  “Jaz, can I borrow that green waistcoat of yours…?”

  Jasper glared at his brother, torn between breaking his nose again and howling with despair.

  “Fine, yes, whatever. I’ll have Merrick bring it to you in the morning.”

  “Jolly good, thanks, old man, oh, erm… Jasper…?”

  “Yes, what?” he practically snarled, wanting his brother gone at once.

  “Oh, well,” Jerome hesitated and then reached out an awkward hand and patted Jasper’s shoulder in the most uncomfortable show of familial affection it had been Jasper’s misfortune to witness. “I just… well, I hope. You’re all right, aren’t you, Jasper?”

  Despite Jasper’s irritation, his brother’s concern was touching. “I’ll do, Jerome. There’s no need to fret, I’ve no intention of throwing myself off a cliff and landing you with the earldom, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Jerome said with obvious relief. “I mean, that’s not why I was worried,” he added in a rush. “Not the earldom bit, I mean.”

  Jasper snorted, knowing that was entirely true, but also that his brother would rather die than become earl. Far too much responsibility. “I know, Jerry. Don’t fret. Thanks for troubling yourself, though.”

  “Oh, well, you’re my brother, Jaz. Don’t like to see you so Friday faced.”

  Jasper nodded and made a shooing motion. “Away with you, nodcock. I’m devilish tired and will be in no better frame of mind if you don’t let me sleep.”

  Jerome grinned, nodded, and bade him goodnight, obviously quite as anxious as Jasper was to let the conversation lie. With a heavy sigh, Jasper shut the door and leaned back against it. Bloody fool. Of course it wasn’t Harriet. It would never be Harriet. She had more bloody sense than that. Good heavens, the woman had a brain the size of England… what on earth would she want with him?

  The knock that sounded was so faint he might have missed it if he hadn’t been leaning against the door. As it was, he jolted in shock and yanked the door open so fast that Harriet leapt back with a squeal.

  “Were you waiting by the door?” she demanded, pressing a hand to her heart.

  “No!” Jasper retorted, a little too quickly and with too much force, before realising she ought not be seen outside his room and opening the door wide for her to enter. “I… I was just passing the door when… when you knocked,” he said, wincing inwardly as he sounded like a complete idiot. Nothing new there, then.

  Harriet entered his room and Jasper closed the door, staring at her in wonder. She’d come. He couldn’t believe it. She’d actually come to him. His throat went dry as he looked at her. She wore a simple white cotton nightgown and wrap. No frills or lace, nothing the least bit provocative about it. How very Harriet, and how very unlike every other woman he’d ever bedded, who’d been all silk and seductive techniques. Yet Jasper had never felt longing the like of which rose inside of him at the sight of her.

  She clutched her arms about herself, obviously nervous, and Jasper’s heart ached.

  “I didn’t think
you’d come,” he admitted.

  She shrugged as though it was nothing of import, but it was a stiff movement. “I said I would.”

  “I know, but….” He hesitated, wanting to be honest with her, and wanting her honesty in return. “I was afraid you wouldn’t, all the same. I’m so glad you did.”

  “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” she said, tugging at the ties on her wrap with unsteady hands.

  Jasper felt the words like a knife but just took a deep breath and stepped closer, stilling her hands with his own. “Harry,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

  She shook her head, and he put his hands on her shoulders to find she was trembling.

  “Don’t be frightened, love. Not of me. I’d do nothing you didn’t want, surely you know that? I’d not hurt you for the world.”

  She snorted at that, and he swallowed.

  “I know I have hurt you. I know that, but you have to believe me when I tell you I don’t—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Harriet reached up and put her hands to his head, pulling him down to her and kissing him, ending any further discussion. Heat erupted between them and he pulled her into his arms, sighing against her mouth at the rightness of it.

  This was where she was supposed to be, where she belonged; with him, and he would never let her go.

  Chapter 10

  Auntie was in fine form as always and sends her best love to you. I am having a lovely time here at Holbrooke House. Bonnie and Minerva and Matilda and Harriet are so kind, and Lady St Clair is very welcoming, making us all feel quite at home.

  Yes, the earl is still every bit as handsome and charming as he is purported to be, but no, father, he really won’t offer for me. Not even if you double my dowry. I believe he has fixed his interests elsewhere already.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Ruth Stone to her father.

  The night of the 31st August 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.