He slid his arm around her waist as they walked back to the house. She was soft and pliant, with no corset to constrain her. “Even you abandoned my books for a time, sweetheart,” he reminded her.

“I was very young.”

He turned his face into her hair. Pulled back in a plaited chignon, it was sleek and sweet-smelling. As fragrant as it had been last night when it was unbound, a wild tangle of ebony waves about her bare shoulders. “You’re still very young.”

“Don’t tease me. You know that once I came back to your novels, I was sorry I’d ever given them up.”

“The rest of my readers aren’t so enlightened. When they abandon my books, they simply move on to the next better thing.”

Julia covered his hand at her waist. “There’s no one better than you.”

His heart squeezed. “I shall remind you of that one day.”

“I won’t need reminding,” she said.

He brushed a kiss to her temple. The unruly hedges at the edge of the garden all but shielded them from view. One of the rare benefits of being unable to afford a gardener.

She leaned into him, his manuscript clutched protectively to her bosom. “I’m not a writer myself, but I’ve read more novels than I can count. If you like, I could offer some general advice.”

“I’d prefer the specific kind.”

“You won’t take offense?”

“How could I? I already know you think my stories lack excitement.” He flashed her a wry look. “Even the ones with actual knights. Or the ones that take place on smoking Belgian battlefields.”

“There’s excitement and there’s excitement,” she said. “The history in your latest stories is fascinating, but these are novels, not history books. Most of us shopping at places like Bloxham’s aren’t looking to be educated. We’re looking to be thrilled.”

“Yes, I know. Falsified deaths, bigamy, and murder.” He shook his head. “Such subjects fail to inspire my interest.”

“They did once. Your old novels are all exceedingly thrilling.”

“Perhaps I’m past the point of providing thrills.”

Julia gave him a speaking glance. “I doubt that very much.”

He grinned. “Very well,” he said. “Tell me what it is about this story that you suggest I change.”

Thirty-Two

The week that followed was the most idyllic in Julia’s memory. When she wasn’t in company with the children or Mr. Beecham—attending to the house, riding Cossack, or visiting the kittens—she was closeted with Jasper, talking to him about his novel.

He seemed to value her opinions no matter how unhinged some of them might sound. And they were unhinged; even she recognized that.

She had a lifetime of reading to draw upon. Everything from sensation romances to horror stories, adventure novels, and gothics. She shared it all with him, delighting in the conversations they had together, often punctuated by kisses and embraces, and once—though she blushed to recall it—an instance of lovemaking in his tower study.