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JASPER WAS THE BEST matchmaker in the world.
Both Ainsworth and that Owens fellow seemed taken with Miss Carberry, and if she only spent more time with the others, he was certain she would charm them too. It didn’t matter in the least that Miss Carberry didn’t seem to know all the steps, or at least, had added an additional one comprised of trampling on her dance partner’s feet at odd moments.
Everything was proceeding perfectly.
His bodyguards sat in a corner of the room, slouched against the wall, their arms wrapped around themselves, as if to disguise the size of their fists from a possible attacker.
Perhaps hiring them had been excessive.
After all, the worst thing that might happen to Jasper was that he might marry Miss Carberry. And that was hardly a terror-inducing thought, even if he’d always imagined that marriage would be postponed. No, whichever man married her would be fortunate. He would have an intelligent partner in his life.
Jasper took another sip of his champagne. The bubbles leaped from the flute, as if desiring to take part in the dancing.
The song ended, and Miss Carberry yawned. “I think I shall retire now.”
“You want to leave?” His voice sounded higher than he’d desired, and she raised her eyebrows.
“It’s bedtime.”
In three days, Miss Carberry and all his other guests would return to London, as if this house party had never occurred.
He’d assumed this house party would be tedious, as was so often the case when people from differing backgrounds were thrown together, like a cook, flummoxed by his choice of spices, who’d decided to not put anything in at all. He’d been prepared for courteous conversation that verged on the stilted: polite inquiries about the beauty of Scotland followed by vague professions of interest to one day visit there, when everyone knew the roads to Scotland were appalling and one was far more likely to visit the continent.
And yet somehow, that had not occurred.
“We haven’t danced yet,” Jasper said.
Miss Carberry widened her eyes. “You want to dance with me?”
Jasper nodded. He despised the slight insecurity in her voice.
Of course, he wanted to dance with her.
He gestured to the musicians. “Keep on playing.”
They nodded, then started a languidly paced waltz. He refrained from frowning, though the temptation was palpable.
This was the sort of romantic music the musicians could have been playing when she’d danced with Brightling or Hammett.
Because obviously it was the music that sent odd tremors rushing through him when he took Miss Carberry’s hand. That was the only explanation for it.
He’d thought her quite unremarkable when he first saw her, but then, she hadn’t been following the careful scripts of other women. She’d been quiet, with large eyes that observed him, as if she knew everything about him. As if she merely had to look, and she...knew.
A faint vanilla scent wafted toward him. He inhaled the warm fragrance, reminding him of delicacies and deliciousness.
She swept her long lashes upwards, and a shy smile settled onto her face.
Heavens.
The woman emanated innocence. He felt dreadful for bringing all these men here for her. He’d had it all wrong. Other debutantes might have been cool and calculating in her position. They might have interrogated each man subtly, in between ample references to their own brilliance.
Miss Carberry hadn’t stated her skills with fossils, her interest in birds, her love of animals, and her vast knowledge of literature.
He spun around with her, conscious of her hands on his shoulders, as his hands rested on hers. He stared into her eyes, and for a strange moment it occurred to him that it might be quite pleasant to kiss her. The world spun about them, and furniture and people blurred together.
But he couldn’t fail to see her. He couldn’t fail to see the softness of her pinkening cheeks, the manner in which her dark eyes glimmered, and the swoop of her upturned nose. How had he never realized that her heavy dark brows bestowed her a regal quality? Her olive-green dress was an unusual choice. Most women seemed to favor colors found on petals: whites and pinks, blues and purples. They never chose olive. And yet... The color emanated its own sophistication.
Suddenly Jasper felt ill at ease. Miss Carberry lived in a world he knew little about, a world filled with all manner of facts. He’d sat her beside Ainsworth, and he could swear he’d heard them discuss Latin words. Even finishing fighting the French had not brought him as much joy as had closing his Latin book forever.
The dance ended, and he continued to stare, wishing they might dance more, feeling there was more he wanted to learn. Unlike other gaps in his knowledge, it felt vital he rectify his lack of expertise.
She stepped away, and he nodded to the musicians that they might halt their playing.
Somehow, he didn’t want to see her dance with anyone else anyway. He’d spent much time orchestrating this event, but it failed to usher in the anticipated joy. Miss Carberry would marry someone: it seemed absurd that he’d worried. Perhaps when he’d seen Miss Carberry on his bed, he shouldn’t have let her escape through the window, escape from having more than a cursory appearance in his life.