Chapter Fourteen

The Challenge of Children

Frederica sat in Lord Hartwell’s carriage, watching him as they headed to London. His arms were folded, and he slept. It was better he rested and not watch her fretting. It was November twenty-third. And she only possessed one confirmed offer from her newspaper advertisement responses—the vicar.

Hartwell snored. A reddish curl flopped onto his brow then flipped back when his head tossed.

Her heart melted a little. He reminded her of his daughter Lucy with his sleep-flushed cheeks. Theodosia said the poor man had ridden to Town to sit with his daughter last night. Lucy had a high fever. Then he’d ridden back to Tradenwood early this morning so that he could escort Frederica to meet with the barrister.

This was the first time in a week they’d seen each other. How had he spent his time? Had he been to his tavern looking for conversations or had he returned to his fondness for brandy?

His head flopped to the side. His neck would hurt. How many times had Frederica made sure the duke was comfortable when he’d fallen asleep in the parlor listening to her play?

Deciding to help, she crossed to his seat.

Tentatively, she pushed at his neck, massaged the tight muscles to straighten him up, but the big man toppled right on top of her.

The viscount was heavy, very heavy, and his shoulder pressed her into the carriage wall. With a bit of effort, she gave him a small shove, hoping he’d sit erect.

Hartwell shifted just enough to free her shoulder, but then he dove headlong into her lap. Thwack! His head bounced a little then settled.

“Yes, my dear,” he said in a voice that sounded sleepy. “Nice thick thighs. This is much better than your bony shoulder.”

Frederica froze as he put a palm on her knee and made himself more comfortable.

“And nice legs, nice like I remember.”

Cheeks flaming, she wanted to squirm from under him, but that might make him think she was afraid of his touch or his burdens. She wasn’t. Not anymore.

Instead, she took her muff and squished it beneath his neck. He chuckled then slipped back into an almost unconscious level of sleep, sprawled on her lap.

The man was handsome with a strong jaw that she couldn’t resist stroking.

He awoke, caught her hand, tugged her glove free then laid her fingers firmly to his face.

“We’re not quite halfway, my lord. We can beg off. You can return to Grandbole or even Tradenwood for a nap. Barrister Smythen has canceled our appointment before.”

“If you’ve reconsidered your mad dash to the altar, I’ll turn the carriage around now. But something tells me you are still aiming for a Christmas date to speak your vows.”

“I’ve not changed my mind. But another day’s delay won’t matter. I’ll still be a Yuletide bride. I’ll make the selection tomorrow. The banns could be read starting Sunday in St. George’s.”

“Then we continue. The vicar needs competition. And from everything I heard of the social climbing Barrister Smythen, he’ll do nicely.”

“What? Why?”

Hartwell made a show of stretching, pushing his shoulders a little more across her knees. “He’s young and brash, nice dark hair. Everything a young woman desires.”

Frederica shook her head. “No. No, my lord. Some of us merely want care and the safety of our friends.”

Hartwell stilled, captured her gaze, and sat up. “What has happened?”

With a sigh, she dipped into her reticule and pulled out the notes that Ester had given her. “These were sent to Nineteen Fournier. The evil note writer thought I was there.”

The viscount sat up with a grunt and took the blue stationery. His face reddened as his fingers tightened about the pages. Furious-sounding sighs left his throat. “You’ve held on to these for days. I thought you were merely being quiet about the brooch and Magdalen.”

“I am upset that my mother’s jewelry has been sold all over town, and that I may never see the jewelry box again. But Mrs. Bexeley is being watched. I’ve put her and her family in danger.”

He crumpled the notes in his palms. “I need to pay attention like you do. Then I could’ve done something a week ago. I will double up the grooms when we head back. In fact, we should stop now. This man could see you in Town.”

“No. I have to see the barrister. I need to know I reviewed every option before I decide upon my husband. Don’t you see? The thief is targeting my friends again, threatening to hurt them like he implied he would three months ago. Your brother has said nothing has come to Tradenwood, so far. But no one will be safe until I am married.”

He reached up to strike the roof, probably to signal to his grooms, but she caught his hand and held it. “Please, Lord Hartwell. Don’t give up on this now.”

He gripped her palm and stared at her with an expression that looked like love, one she’d keep forever in her heart. “Frederica. Do you honestly think being married will stop someone from wanting you?”

Her mouth went dry as his blue eyes caressed her as much as his fingers lightly stroking her neck.

“My dear, certain fires burn slowly, but they do not die.”

It took more than a few moments for words to stir to life on her tongue, but they came. “Wanting and having are two different things. And there’s a man out there who doesn’t think I deserve to choose. I do get to choose, Hartwell. I know my worth. I know the love and comfort I will bring to the right situation.”

He bent and pulled out a short-sheathed knife from the secret drawer he’d shown her earlier and slid it in his boot. “We’ll keep going, Butterfly, but I need to know everything. How else can I protect you and make sure that you get to St. George’s on time?”

He’d never know everything. She couldn’t survive him knowing everything. Not how much she’d missed him these past seven days. Not how much her like-liking of him had grown, or how much she wanted his kiss and hoped beyond hope that it was good.

She swallowed to keep her thirst for him distant. “Some things, even the dutiful Lord Hartwell won’t know. You and I will have to live with that.”

“Give me everything that you have. I can take it.” His fingers trailed that spot along her neck that had become too sensitive to his touch. It was as if his mouth touched her flesh, nipping at her heart.

“Frederica, I’ll treasure you and store up every taste of you. I’ll sip from your palm if you’d trust me with everything.”

Her heart whimpered. What did he mean?

She was too afraid to ask.

So she stayed silent, brushing her rabbit muff, stroking the fur, changing the color from dark to light.

“Wake me when we reach the Old Bailey, Frederica. How you choose to do so is entirely within your discretion. Surprise me. You can try my second or first favorite ways. I won’t mind.”

No more surprises or flirting. No more wanting Hartwell or his kiss or anything she couldn’t have always. Marriage must dissuade her two most ardent suitors, the villain and the viscount.

…

Frederica sat on the edge of her seat in the spectator gallery in the Old Bailey. Barrister Smythen was fabulous.

Inhaling the sweet lilac of the nosegay, she peered down at the orator who had the Old Bailey cheering. He was thin but tall. If she closed her eyes and listened maybe she could love Barrister Smythen like Ester did her husband.

For what it was worth, she’d give it a try.

But the closing of her lids cheated her.

Her vision returned her to the old church near Grandbole, where she’d made a fool of herself declaring her want of Hartwell. Another blink, and she was in their shared carriage, and he slyly declared his want of her, too.

The viscount sat beside her, arms folded, his head dipping, but the man wasn’t agreeing with the barrister’s words. He’d fallen asleep again.

He’d spent hours on horseback and more in a carriage, just to retrieve her. That action told her he cared. Actions did mean more than words, didn’t they?

“Now, dear jurymen, look.” Barrister Smythen’s loud voice commanded her attention.

Frederica turned to the barrister and the poor woman in chains in the witness box, the light of the reflecting surface beaming on the threadbare prisoner.

“Look,” he said again. “This is the face of innocence. You must find this woman, this mother of three, not guilty.”

The crowds that surely had been sitting on their hands went wild, cheering.

Lord Mayor Thorpe, the duke’s friend, the one who’d given his wife Burghley’s brooch, pounded his gavel and said, “Jurymen, what say you?”

Frederica brushed her shoulder against Hartwell’s. “Don’t miss the verdict.”

The man jolted forward. Wide blue-gray eyes opened, one winking at her. Then he rested his hand about the small of her back.

“Not guilty,” the foreman said.

The crowds erupted, but Frederica couldn’t concentrate on that, not with the strength of Hartwell’s fingers steadying her, a nice firm hand. How was it possible to be calm while one’s stomach did somersaults?

“Miss Burghley, watch the horrid Thorpe flex his red robe and pound the gavel.”

She offered him a weak smile. “Don’t bring up the brooch. Not now, not without the duke. Promise me, Hartwell.”

“I won’t today.” The viscount’s glance was heated and bored through her. “But what else do you want, truly want?”

A roar whipped through the gallery when the prisoner was released from the chains on the stand. That woman was free.

But Frederica wasn’t.

She was chained to emotions she couldn’t understand or forget—nor did she want to. She could admit that to her soul, even if she refused to voice it.

Suddenly Hartwell stood over her, covering up, blocking a fellow court watcher from getting close.

The wild movement of the men in the gallery made Frederica feel small and lost. For a moment, she drew closer to Hartwell who was big and strong. His hand was still upon her back guiding her.

His formerly sleepy eyes blazed with life, a life that she wanted to covet for as long as they both should live, but she looked away. Why torment herself with a comfort her soul couldn’t keep? “Let’s go speak with the barrister.”

Lord Hartwell shrugged, but led her down the stairs.

A group of women surrounded Smythen. The man was young and handsome, with rich black hair sticking out of his silver horsehair court wig. She wished it was an indeterminate red, a brassy blond, and that he possessed blue-gray eyes, ones that looked at her as a full person, with respect and desire.

Hartwell growled, and Frederica noticed he stared at Lord Mayor Thorpe. The duke’s friend dipped through the doors behind his large desk and disappeared.

Barrister Smythen moved to the viscount, whispered something, and pointed to the bustling hallway at the side.

Frederica took Hartwell’s arm, and he led her out of the courtroom. Then they waited a couple of minutes, watching the barrister entertain the ladies of the court, chatting with them, making them laugh.

Hartwell growled again. “He’s not worthy.”

Unable to agree or disagree, Frederica stood still. “Perhaps he’s merely friendly. Some have accused me of being overly friendly. We may have that in common.”

Hartwell groaned like Remus. “Jealous fools who don’t know you would think that.”

Smythen came. Before Frederica could enjoy the admission.

“Ah, Lord Hartwell and the enchanting Miss Burghley. Step this way.

He shuffled them into a room to the left. “Miss Burghley, we meet again.”

“Again, sir?”

“Yes, at the engagement ball for the duke, early October.”

Always good at details, Frederica was at a loss. “Were we introduced?”

“No, I was very much at the Lord Mayor’s disposal. I was quite shocked to discover that I had corresponded with you, Advertisement Number Eleven.”

Hartwell’s countenance soured more. “Lucky number eleven.” The viscount seated himself atop the table. “Congratulations on another win.”

Smythen clamped his hand on the open front of his ebony robe. “Yes, I am glad the young mother was freed.”

Frederica seated herself in one of the oak chairs. “Yes, false accusations are horrid, sir.”

Smythen gave a laugh, a good hearty one. “No, the accusations were true, but the good jurymen were convinced not to convict. She needed to feed her young. Yes, she was guilty, but I didn’t mind being her defender.”

Frederica’s breath caught, and she thought of the girls tossed on the street. Would this be a man who’d support her charity ideas? “You did good, barrister. I know she and her children must be grateful.”

Hartwell nodded. “Yes, wonderful, sir. But your profession, does it require you to work a great number of hours?”

The man took off his horsehair wig and loosened his snow-white bib collar, the fashion of law arbiters. “The cause of justice waits for no one. So yes, it demands long days and nights.”

Fidgeting, Hartwell stood. “We don’t want to waste your time. Are you still inclined to a marriage of convenience?”

Barrister Smythen folded his arms behind his back as if he were again preparing to put his case to a jury. “Perhaps. I’ve attracted the favor of a young widow with a considerable fortune. But the Lord Mayor says that Miss Burghley also comes with a sizable prize. And now that I see her again up close, I see her as a prize, too. I think we should speak further, dear lady.” He nodded his head, his gaze assessing her as if she were sitting on the scales of justice.

It wasn’t disrespectful, but she wasn’t comfortable with the attention.

“I would like to speak with Miss Burghley in more detail. Let me finish up here, and we shall meet at the White Horse Cellar Coaching Inn.” The barrister gazed at her again. “Yes, Miss Burghley’s hand…is something to consider.”

“We’ll meet you at the White Horse Cellar. We’ll head there directly to ensure a proper table, but Miss Burghley shouldn’t be given to a man who can change his mind so easily. Your widow will be heartbroken.” Hartwell sounded annoyed, almost rude.

Wincing at Hartwell’s clipped tone, Frederica stood, but she was slow to take Hartwell’s outstretched hand. “My lord, I think the barrister has a right to weigh his options as much as I.”

Smythen chuckled and pushed her chair underneath the table. “Thank you, Miss Burghley. A bold woman who puts an advertisement in the newspapers surely knows the value of weighing options. I hear you play an excellent pianoforte. I do love music.”

Squinting, Hartwell blocked the door. “How did you know? She didn’t play the pianoforte the night of the engagement party.”

“The Lord Mayor’s dear friend, Lord Canterfield, has spoken of Miss Burghley. They each have said they’ve never heard anything so great. I’m sorry about the theft at the duke’s. It is a shame that nothing has turned up, as the Lord Mayor told Lord Hartwell yesterday.”

Hartwell had talked to the Lord Mayor? Why hadn’t he said something? She tightened her grip on her silky reticule. “Yes, it’s a shame.”

“It is. And such a peculiar crime. One of great passion,” Smythen said.

This time Frederica felt the barrister’s gaze run the length of her, from the high collar of her carriage gown to her onyx short boots.

“Miss Burghley is aware of the dangers, and I am protecting her.” Hartwell’s tone sounded as if he was ready for fisticuffs.

The barrister’s smile lessened. “It’s a hard crime to obtain a conviction with no witnesses. The intensity of such a fiend to slash your personal items shows instability. He will strike again or die trying.”

Frederica gasped. Her heart seized.

Hartwell towered over the man a few inches less his height. “No one will ever hurt her. So there is no need for this talk.”

“I’m intense, Hartwell. And I understand risks, both legally and otherwise. Some of my colleagues are quite progressive, as am I, even radical in our thinking on equality. Having a legal brainbox at your disposal, Miss Burghley, might come in handy. Times are not changing fast enough. There are many risks.”

If he thought bragging about her potential to be victimized again was something in his favor, he was sadly mistaken. And if the conversation was to be only about abolition or racial conventions, then he’d be no better than the duke’s lecherous friends, like Lord Canterfield. The boorish Canterfield had tried to say how progressive he was, but only to placate her brown ears. She’d heard the jokes he made in private when he thought no one listened.

Frederica sighed and kept her face polite. The man didn’t know her yet and didn’t know how to talk to her as a whole person.

“Let’s go, Miss Burghley.” Hartwell looked livid. His cheeks flushing. “Time for us to head to the progressive White Horse Cellar to make room for the impassioned radical.”

“Hartwell, laugh if you must. Sometimes, it is not about justice but passion. The man with the greater passion often wins.” The barrister held the door open. “I’ll see you shortly, Miss Burghley, Lord Hartwell.”

She nodded and took Hartwell’s arm and waited for his lecture, but none came. That was unusual, so she pried as they settled in his carriage. “Do you think the barrister is right on this matter, that no one will ever be held accountable for the theft? And is there a risk to being associated with me? Will I always be a danger to my friends?”

Hartwell tucked her arm closer to him. The scent of him—woodsy, leather, sweet orange—wafted about her. “There’s a risk with you, but it’s of a man falling completely in love with you. Hopelessly, hard to think, hard to breathe, in love with you.”

She trembled a little in his gaze, but then disappointment hit her. It wasn’t Hartwell. It was never going to be him loving her. “Perhaps the barrister will be brave enough to take the risk.”

The look he cast her was bone-tremblingly fierce. She looked away. It took two to accept the risk of the heart. Hartwell wouldn’t do it. A gravestone separated them. The sooner Frederica chose between the humble vicar and the brash barrister, the better. She’d decide today so the banns could be read Sunday, the first step to being married in the Yuletide season.

…

Jasper sat at a table next to Frederica’s as she had tea with Barrister Smythen at the White Horse Cellar. The man hovered over her, touching her hand, smirking at her.

Could Jasper hate anything more?

Yes. Yes, he could. Frederica smiling back at Smythen. Offering those lips and her humor and talents to anyone but him was unacceptable.

When she smacked the man’s hand with her fan, Jasper’s gut filled with great satisfaction. Women do well to carry fans. He chuckled again at her next parry against the young man’s thrust.

Deciding that Frederica could handle the barrister, Jasper went to the long bar where the servers stood. He needed a better position to view anyone staring at her. This thief knew where Mrs. Bexeley lived. Had he followed Jasper there the day he’d rescued her from a broken saddle? Was he watching her now?

The knife in his boot was ready for whatever.

In the next round of searching, he spied Lord Canterfield coming up from the cellar.

Jasper growled inside as the man headed in his direction, but his lordship’s view was dead on Frederica.

The earl came near. “So, Burghley’s daughter is back. The rumor that she’d been traveling since the party must not be true.” He signaled a server.

“Canterfield, are you about to do some traveling, or are you just now returning?”

“I come to the Cellar to hear the rebel talk. I want in on the next revolution.” He laughed but looked again at Frederica.

Jasper stewed but tried to look calm. Canterfield was one of the duke’s friends, one the man had tried to settle his daughter with.

“Did you say where Miss Burghley has been?” he asked Jasper. “And have you been enlisted by the duke to chaperone?”

Canterfield signaled for two glasses of brandy to be poured, but Jasper remembered Frederica’s warning about staying alert and decided not to imbibe. A lucid mind was what he needed. “I am at the duke’s disposal.”

“Where did you say she’s staying, Hartwell?”

Jasper put a few pence on the bar serving table and paid for the drinks. “Butterflies float about. Not sure where she’ll light. Perhaps she’ll travel and meet up with the duke again. But yes, if we are both in Town, I’m to chaperone her meetings.”

“Meetings with men? What is Burghley’s daughter up to? I’d like a turn.”

Jasper’s mouth foamed with anger like the duke’s dogs. “Be careful, Canterfield. Miss Burghley’s reputation is spotless. And she is soon to be engaged.”

The man paled. “Not to a man like Smythen. He’s a lecher and a usurper. There are others who are worthier.”

With that sentiment, Jasper could agree, but it was his Butterfly’s decision. “I’ll make sure she gets in no trouble in London and that no trouble finds her.”

Canterfield pulled on his black coat, gloves, and his heavy tan scarf, all while staring at the barrister. “If you need a respite, Hartwell, contact me. I’d share your troubles. The duke’s an old friend. I’d gladly be of aid.”

The way the man looked at the couple—stiff, brooding—he was as jealous as Jasper. “I’ll contact you, Canterfield, if I need your assistance.”

“Of course, you will, Hartwell. You’re Crisdon’s good son.” The man tipped his hat, scowled again toward the couple, then headed out the door.

The brandy the server had left looked beautiful, amber and luscious, but the need to stay vigilant pressed. From the barrister’s implied threats and this plain one from Canterfield, the last thing Jasper needed was a fogged head.

Like the night of the duke’s celebration.

Images of Canterfield and Smythen being at Downing, flirting with a tipsy Frederica, returned.

Jasper touched his brow. Why were his own memories of the night so fogged?

A serving girl came near. “Sir, is this not up to expectations? Would you like something else to drink?”

Something to drink… “No.”

That night, Jasper had drunk from Frederica’s glass.

Was the thief at the duke’s party? Had he targeted the Butterfly and contaminated her drink? Jasper’s fingers tightened into a death-like grip. Mrs. Bexeley had been right. The drink had been fouled, but by whom?

The barrister.

He had lied about being at the celebration.

Jasper turned and stared at Smythen.

The liar was trying to hold the Butterfly’s hand. A liar who was young enough and fit enough to scale her window. Perhaps he was good at dictating threats, too.

Jasper stalked to the table. “It is time to go, Miss Burghley.”

The barrister laughed and stood. “Yes, I’ve trials to prepare. It was a pleasure spending time with you.”

Frederica slipped her fan onto her arm. “Yes, it was.”

“Miss Burghley, I’ll write to you in a few days. Where should I address the letter so that you get it directly?”

Jasper cut in between them. “To Downing. All her correspondences should be sent there.” His tone was harsh, and he intended it to be so.

The barrister tossed coins on the table. “Then that’s what I’ll do. You’re charming, Miss Burghley. I would like to know if your hand is still available. I won’t propose to my widow if that is the case.”

“Go to the door, Miss Burghley. I’ll be along in a moment.”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded and moved away.

Jasper crowded Smythen. “Take Miss Burghley off your list.”

The barrister laughed. “Why? Because you want her?”

“Because she doesn’t deserve a liar.” He gripped the man’s coat collar and shoved him deeper into the corner. “You were at the duke’s wedding celebration, and you lied about attending.”

Smythen shook free. “I was, but my behavior was not the best. I remember making a fool of myself. Miss Burghley was quite tipsy. I’d hoped she didn’t remember.”

It sounded plausible, but reason had left Jasper’s head. “I said take her name from your mouth. Don’t come near her.”

The man held Jasper’s furious gaze. “Is that a threat, Lord Hartwell?”

“Yes, and a promise.” Jasper turned, kicked a chair out of the way, and headed to the door.

Miss Burghley clutched his arm with no resistance. If his anger frightened her, she did not say.

But Jasper seethed.

Not punching the barrister’s face was a regret that would stay with him for a long time.

Patient Miss Burghley waited a good ten minutes in his carriage before she set her hazel eyes on him. “I take it you don’t like the barrister.”

Jasper rubbed at his brow. “No.”

“Was it because he was too familiar? I tried to dissuade him, Lord Hartwell.”

Her voice was small, like the man’s pushy behavior was her fault. “Frederica, you’re perfect. The man lied about being at the duke’s wedding celebration. He could’ve tampered with your drink. He could be the thief.”

“Oh. But the handwriting—”

“He could’ve had someone else write those horrible notes.”

She knitted her fingers together. “I thought you were angry at me. I know you don’t like me being too flirtatious.”

“Woman. I don’t want another man to look at you. I’d rather keep you sequestered away from the touch of every fool who could possibly hurt you.”

She stared, and a hint of a smile returned. “I’ll try to be careful around you. I suspected you were a jealous man.”

His mind reverted to his accounting system. He wasn’t sure where things stood, but this recognition had to be at least ten jots. “You know I like you, Frederica. I can’t promise you—”

“Then don’t. I’ve made my decision. I choose the vicar. I’ll be settled far into the country. And we can stop doing this.”

He frowned at her. “What are we doing?”

“Dancing about the feelings between us. Your love and your name are not available to me. I understand, but this chaperoning keeps putting us here, making me wonder if I said the right thing, if I missed a signal, hoped for something—I can’t do this, not anymore.”

“So you will accept the vicar, who’ll tell everyone your beautifully soft skin is tanned by the sun. And if you have children and the babe is blessed to breathe air, and his complexion is darker, are you prepared for the slights, even from the proud Papa?”

“Nothing is instant. I’ll be a good wife to him, and that will bridge the divide. I’ll be an excellent mother to his sons.”

He knew she could be a good stepmother from the way she paid attention to his own daughters. But that would be ceding to her logic and agreeing that she should marry the vicar. Never. “When it’s time to be a mother, I’m sure you will excel at it just like the pianoforte. But Frederica, you’re not ready for an instant family. You can’t go from being the belle of the duke’s parties to wiping multiple mucus-filled noses, all at the same time.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of or what I like. You don’t pay attention.”

“Miss Burghley, how will you stand to miss your theater outings?”

“I won’t go as often. Those outings were about being seen and being accepted in Polite Society. Then there were the rare occasions the duke came, too. He’ll be attending with the duchess. I won’t be missed.”

“I know what you like and what you don’t. And I can prove it.”

“So what will you do, Lord Hartwell? I say nothing.”

He saw something in her manner he hadn’t seen before, something almost brazen, something defiant, as if she didn’t understand how hard it was to be a friend and nothing more.

Her lips pursed. “I said you’d do nothing. Absolutely, nothing. my lord.”

“Gunter’s ice.”

“What?”

Jasper scooted to share her seat, nice and close as they’d ridden before. He bent his head to her ear. “Lemon or barberry, my dear? Lemon or barberry?”

“What does…you honestly don’t know me.”

“I know that the vicar has sons. He won’t care for mulatto heirs, not like the children of his first wife.”

“Then it’s no surprise why I choose the vicar. You two are similar. You also don’t have the heart to love anyone who isn’t Maria.”

They weren’t supposed to be talking about Jasper but about Frederica—the stubborn woman who didn’t want to wait. “My heart is only so big. I know its limitations. I can’t foist my shortcomings on anyone else. We talked this through at the old church. You said you understood.”

“That seems like a hundred years ago.”

“I’ll show you that I know you and that you’re not ready for this life-changing decision. You’ll come with me, and I’ll show you. So what will it be, lemon or barberry?

“Lemon.” Her wondrous lips had puckered again as if she’d bitten the fruit. But he needed those lips to frown and admit she was no more ready to be a stepmother than she was to be a Yuletide bride.

“Excellent. Get ready for an education, Miss Burghley.”

He’d show her that she did not want to be a stepmother, with the trio who’d broken multiple governesses—his sweet, mischievous daughters.

They’d teach her.

Then the butterfly would do the sensible thing and wait.

And Jasper knew he just needed a little more time to resolve everything in his own head. These feelings he had for Frederica were not even a month old. A little more time, the New Year perhaps. If he still felt this crazed, he’d be ready to make an offer to Miss Burghley, the one woman who had a hold on what remained of his heart.