“What is it exactly you plan to do?”

“I don’t know.” She studied his face. It occurred to her that she knew nothing about him. At least, nothing about the man he’d been before he became Jasper Blunt. “I don’t even know what to call you anymore.”

“I suppose an endearment is out of the question.”

She huffed a humorless laugh, comprehending now why he’d objected so strongly to her using his given name in their more intimate moments. He hadn’t been Jasper when he was kissing her and holding her. He’d been James, the bookish son of a country vicar. A man who loved reading and writing novels. A man not made for soldiering.

And yet he’d been a war hero. The true Hero of the Crimea. A young lieutenant whose spectacular act of bravery had served not to bolster his own reputation, but to redeem the reputation of the very man who had flogged him so mercilessly.

It was part of the price he’d paid in taking on Captain Blunt’s identity.

A price he was still paying, for the children’s sake.

“Why did you go away to war?” she asked abruptly.

His frown deepened. He rested a hand on the bookshelf behind him. His fingers curled into a fist. “Because my mother died and I was too angry with my father to remain in the same house with him.”

Julia moved closer. “Angry about what?”

“He was a pious, miserable old hypocrite. He saved the best of himself for the pulpit, and the worst for my mother and me. He didn’t know what kindness was. When my mother became ill . . . he made her last months a misery.”

“Were you close with her?”

“I loved her,” he said. “I tried to make her comfortable—brushing her hair and sponging her brow, but—”

Julia gave him a startled look. “That was your mother? I thought—”

His brows knit. “What?”

She shook her head, realizing her mistake. “I thought it was Dolly whose hair you brushed when she was ill. On our wedding night you said that you loved her. But . . . you weren’t talking about her at all, were you? You were talking about your mother.”

Julia felt the urge to sit down. It was all too overwhelming, this recalibration of everything she’d believed until now. It shifted by the second, making her realize how much she’d misunderstood about him.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned her,” he said. “Certainly not on our first night together. But I wanted to confide in you, even then. I wanted you to know me for who I truly was.”

“It hasn’t all been a lie, surely.”

“No. Not all of it. Only my name and the truth about my past—what there was of it.” He grimaced. “My mother was ill for nearly a year. Our house took on the air of a sickroom, not too dissimilar from your parents’ house. The curtains were always drawn and the fires stoked, even in the summer. The village doctor said it was likely cancer. He recommended she be taken to London for an operation, but my father refused. There was no swaying him. It caused an irreparable breach between us. After the funeral, I stored away my personal belongings—my collection of novels and a few mementos of my childhood—and joined the army. It was done less out of a desire to fight than a desire to punish my father.”