“Do we have to share it with other passengers?” Julia asked as Jasper guided her to one of the thickly padded upholstered seats. There were four of them altogether, a pair on either side facing each other.

“I doubt it. There aren’t many leaving for Yorkshire at this time of day.” He sank down next to her. “Consider it a wedding gift. I don’t expect we’ll be traveling first-class again anytime soon.”

Outside, a shrill whistle cut through the noise from the platform. The conductor shouted something unintelligible, and then, with a great heave of machinery, the train ground into motion.

Julia’s stomach lurched. The fastest she’d ever gone was on a galloping horse in Hyde Park. The train was exponentially faster. It rolled out of the station in a cloud of smoke and steam, gaining speed with every second.

Soon, King’s Cross was far behind them.

Jasper removed his hat and unbuttoned his coat, making himself comfortable in his seat.

Julia waited to follow suit. Only when the danger of a stranger entering their compartment seemed unlikely did she risk removing her bonnet. Her hair was pressed all out of shape, stray tendrils escaping from her silken hairnet to curl about her face. She smoothed them back from her brow with a trembling hand.

“I’ve never traveled first-class,” she confessed. “Or any class for that matter. This is the first time I’ve been on a train.”

Jasper frowned at her. “You never said anything.”

“I assumed you knew.” She turned back to the window. “I haven’t ever been out of London before. So far, all my travels have been in my imagination.”

Outside, the scenery whipped by at an alarming rate, the hustle and bustle of London rapidly giving way to an ever-increasing emptiness. She’d known it would to some degree. The outskirts of town, and the environs beyond it, were naturally less vibrant than the heart of the city. Nevertheless, seeing the familiar landscape slip away made her insides quaver as surely as the motion of the train.

Dropping her gaze, she withdrew a book from her reticule, anxious for the comfort of its pages.

Jasper stilled, his scarred face inscrutable. “Another Marshland novel.”

Julia felt a trace of self-consciousness. She supposed a married lady shouldn’t be reading a novel on her first journey alone with her husband. The pair of them were meant to be holding hands and cuddling, even kissing perhaps, taking full advantage of their private compartment.

But she and Jasper hadn’t married out of any romantic attachment. He required her fortune to repair his estate, and she required his name to buy her freedom. That was the sum total of their agreement.

Never mind that he’d kissed her in the Claverings’ garden. Or that he’d rushed to her bedside today, holding her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles like a man very much in love.

He didn’t love her.

And what she felt for him was likely fueled as much by her own romantic longings as reality.