“No.”

“You shouldn’t be. Your writing is beautiful. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your wife. I told you as much before I knew Marshland’s novels were really yours.”

“Yes, you did.” Hearing it now, he felt the same ridiculous surge of pleasure he’d felt then. “You have no idea what it meant to me.”

“Yet still you kept it secret?” Her eyes searched his. “Why? I wouldn’t have judged you for it. Indeed, it would have made me care for you even more.”

She did care for him, then.

On some level, he’d already known it. It was there, evident in the way she held his arm when they walked together. The way she looked to him for guidance and approval. The way she melted into his embrace.

He reached for her hands. She let him take them, let him hold them gently in his grasp. A tremor of connection passed between them, stirring his blood. He had a vivid recollection of how he’d kissed her yesterday in the downstairs hall.

But he didn’t want her kisses now. He wanted something else. Something more.

He wanted her to know him.

A futile impulse.

There was too much risk associated with it, and not only to him. He knew that. His spirit nevertheless railed against the constraint.

He drew her to stand between his booted feet. His voice roughened with repressed emotion. “My father didn’t approve of novels. I had to hide my writing from him. It’s always been a secret to me. The most private part of myself. I’ve never had the urge to share it.”

“You do share it. There are countless readers who adore your stories. They’d be glad to know you. Indeed, you could be as celebrated as any famous author if you wished.”

“I don’t. It’s the writing I love, not the notoriety. Not the lifestyle. I’ve never been interested in holding court in coffee shops or giving talks at lecture halls. I prefer anonymity.”

“Even from those you love?”

He huffed. “That hasn’t been much of a concern until now.”

Until now.

The two words hung between them. He hadn’t intended to utter them. But once spoken, he could no more deny the truth of them than he could all the rest of it. It was simply a fact.

He was no longer alone—a cursed character in another man’s story. He had someone of his own now. A wife who, somewhere between Belgrave Square and Yorkshire, he’d fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with.

The realization of it squeezed at his heart and lungs so he could scarcely breathe.

“I don’t want to be a stranger to you,” he said.

“Then don’t be.” Her slim fingers slid through his in an intimate clasp. “Let me into your life just a little. Let me share some of your secrets.”

He bowed his head to hers. “Everything I have—everything I am—is yours.”

Thirty

It wasn’t many hours until it was time to retire, but every moment seemed to drag on forever. Julia’s gaze kept tangling with Jasper’s, all through dinner, and the long hours that followed after as they dutifully repaired to the drawing room to drink tea and talk with the children about the events of the day.