He slipped his arm around her, drawing her against him. His attention was still fixed on her book. “Why do you have so many of Marshland’s novels to catch up on?”

“I stopped reading him for a time.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “One drifts away from authors occasionally.” It was inevitable given the sheer number of novels available. There was always something new to try—a new writer, a new story. But with Marshland, it had been something specific that had made her stray. “I think it had to do with the last book of his I read. The one released when I was eighteen. The Missing Heir, I believe it was called.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“It wasn’t anything specific. More of a feeling. It was different than Marshland’s previous work—serious and even a little sad. I suppose, at the time, I preferred stories that were more thrilling.”

“And now? You liked The Garden of Valor well enough.”

“Yes. It was exceedingly poignant.” She turned the page of her book. “It made me wish I’d never strayed. I’d forgotten how different Marshland is from other authors.”

“Different how?”

“For one thing, he’s not anywhere near as prolific. His novels used to come out with some frequency, but in the last several years, his publications have slowed to a trickle. They’ve changed as well. The Missing Heir and The Garden of Valor are nothing like his earlier works, the ones I read as a girl.”

“Perhaps he’s grown up.”

“Perhaps. It may be why I stopped reading him for a time. I do love his style, but when compared to Mrs. Braddon and Mrs. Trent-Watkinson, his stories seem to lack something.”

Jasper was quiet a moment before asking, “Such as?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made a thorough study of it. But I think that perhaps Marshland’s stories lack adventure.”

“The Garden of Valor is about a knight on a quest. That’s not adventurous?”

“It’s too realistic. People don’t read sensation novels for realism. They want thrills and danger.”

Jasper’s mouth hitched. “Murderous lady bigamists pushing people down wells?”

“Something like that.” Julia turned another page. “I will say Marshland’s romantic sentiment far exceeds any other author I’ve read of late.”

“I’m pleased he can do something right,” Jasper said dryly.

“The speeches Sir Richard made to Lady Elaine in The Garden of Valor were so beautiful. In this novel, too, the hero, Colonel Lawrence, expresses himself in the most heart-stirring terms.” She glanced up at him again, temporarily diverted. “Do you suppose Marshland says such things to his own wife?”

Jasper’s gaze held hers. “Is that the sort of thing a wife wants to hear?”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “I daresay she does, if a husband means it. And we were speaking about Mr. Marshland, not about you and me.”

“Quite.” He drew her closer. “As to that, doubtless the poor fool saves it for his novels.”

“I hope not. What a waste it would be to keep such things to himself. If he does feel that way, I mean. And if he is married. He may well be a grumpy old bachelor.”