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JASPER’S HEART QUAKED, and he stepped away. The task felt momentous, as if he were a magnet who’d managed to separate from his mates. He looked around, as if rather expecting a journalist to appear to write an article about his powers of restraint.
Even now, he longed to clasp Margaret in his arms again. He wanted to feel her warmth and her soft curves. He wanted to run his hands through her thick locks, and he wanted to kiss her lips.
Blast it, he wanted to kiss more than her lips.
He wanted to trail kisses over her throat. He wanted to press his lips against the space where her neck and shoulders met, and he wanted to nibble on the delectable lines of her collar bone.
And then he wanted to explore more.
He craved to kiss her bodice. He yearned to free her of her fichu, toss it from the balcony so it sunk to the bottom of this wretched moat. He wanted to feel more softness, more roundness, more Margaret. He wanted to place his hands on her waist, then do indecent things. Things that involved raising her skirt, things that involved truly knowing her, things that a gentleman should not think about with a young lady of a good reputation.
“I—I should go,” he said hoarsely.
Hurt flickered across her face.
Blast it, this wasn’t the gentlemanly way to leave her.
But it would hardly be gentlemanly to stay with her. Not when he craved to pull her toward him.
He sighed.
He’d always prided himself on having more restraint. He wasn’t a schoolboy. He wasn’t a student at Cambridge, eager to explore carnal pleasures.
And yet he was certain that even then, even when kisses were new and pleasurable, his heart hadn’t soared with that vigor as when kissing her.
Kissing Margaret hadn’t been supposed to feel that good. It hadn’t been supposed to wrap him in a cozy feeling, as if he were being tucked into a friendly cloud.
Blast it.
He’d been a fool. He hurried outside, farther away from Margaret, and his feet pounded over the grass, neatly trimmed by the flock of sheep kept for that purpose. But then he stopped.
He was behaving idiotically.
He couldn’t just kiss a woman, then run away. She must think him completely mad. Or worse, she might think he abandoned her.
He halted his frantic pace.
Dukes of Jevington did not abandon a lady in a garden. No matter how much her presence might make him think of doing all sorts of unspeakable things to her. No matter how much their kiss had shattered him. He jogged back toward the garden. The other dukes saw him and waved.
“Over here, Jevington,” Ainsworth called.
“Just popping into the garden for a bit first,” Jasper called back.
“Because he destroyed all the roses,” Brightling told Ainsworth in an overly loud whisper.
Jasper ignored the curious expressions of his friends and reentered the garden. The soft floral scent and the barrage of beauty was not enough to put him at ease. He needed to get to Margaret.
At once.
*
JASPER HAD KISSED HER. And it had felt wonderful, as if some pyrotechnic display were happening inside her.
But he hadn’t kissed her because he loved her. He hadn’t kissed her because he was courting her.
He’d planned this whole spectacular event simply to ensure that she never became entangled with him again.
And now she’d ruined it.
Jasper didn’t want to be with her. Jasper was kind and generous and spectacular. He was a paragon of everything good in the world. He didn’t need to be tied with her.
Because Margaret might pretend not to hear what the ton said about her, but she knew. She’d even heard the servants at home gossip about her, when they didn’t think she could hear.
She knew she was different. She struggled to fit in with other debutantes, to take the requisite interest in haberdashery and coiffures. She wasn’t good at water coloring, and the thought of running this large house didn’t fill her with excitement, but with dread.
No. If Jasper ever decided to marry, he could pick someone else. Someone better. Someone whose parents hadn’t forced him to marry. Someone he loved.
Margaret sat back on the bench, lest her feet decide to stop working.
No one had ever kissed her before.
After all, most debutantes hadn’t been kissed, even if some of them might speak about certain gardeners and groomsmen at their country estates with delight.
One could hardly go about kissing if one had no intention of marrying. Doing anything but marrying well would be an insult to one’s upbringing, the skills of one’s governesses, the vigor of one’s pastor at preaching on the necessary importance of following one’s elders’ wishes, no matter how unpleasant, and finally to oneself.
And yet the duke had kissed her. Jasper had kissed her.
“Margaret?” Jasper’s voice sounded behind her, and her heartbeat quickened, recognizing her given name on his lip.
He approached her rapidly, and despite her earlier worry that her legs might have developed toppling tendencies, she stood.
“I shouldn’t have left,” he said.
She waited, unsure what he was going to say next. Her heart clenched, and perhaps she couldn’t have spoken, even if she knew what to say.
And yet, her body longed for him. It craved him. She yearned to collapse against his strong, sturdy chest. She wanted to lean into his arms, to inhale his scent of cotton and citrus, of utter masculinity.
Even though they’d only kissed briefly, not kissing him now seemed odd and confusing, as if her body thought she were denying it oxygen or some other vital element.
She moved her gaze up from his broad chest, to his slightly rumpled cravat, to his sturdy chin and chiseled cheekbones. His hair curled appealingly, just as it always did, but when she gazed at his eyes, she halted.
His eyes didn’t sparkle, and they didn’t gleam or shimmer. His eyes appeared solemn, and her heart thudded.
The man may as well have been any man wearing a mask that resembled Jasper. Every limb appeared stiff—she drew back automatically.
“About what happened—” The man glanced nervously around. “Er—perhaps we should speak elsewhere.”
She nodded. “My parents are still inside the castle.”
“Then—” He looked around, clearly checking whether anyone might be listening. Voices still murmured from the other side of the hedge. “Follow me.”
He turned abruptly, and she hastened behind him, unsure where he was leading her. Was he taking her toward the lake? Or merely to another garden? Perhaps the spice one? She could smell the scent of rosemary, but he marched past until they reached the maze.
He rotated and grinned. His shoulders lacked their earlier tension. “No one will find us here. This was my favorite hiding space as a child.”
“Your ancestors showed great consideration and forethought.”
He chuckled. “Indeed.”
They reached the opening of the maze, and for a moment Margaret was distracted by the tall hedges that loomed over her.
“After you,” Jasper said, and she stepped inside, her heartbeat thumping.
*
ALL JASPER HAD ACCOMPLISHED now was scaring her.
Blast it.
Jasper didn’t want to scare anyone, least of all Margaret. At some point she’d stopped being Miss Carberry.
“I must apologize,” he said, conscious his voice was hoarser than normal.
She jerked her head toward him.
“My emotions...” He swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
The last word managed to cause his heart to tighten in an odd manner.
He ignored it.
Perhaps he’d been doing too much running. He’d always considered himself athletic, but he was nearly thirty, and everyone said dreadful things happened at thirty.
He’d supposed they were speaking about marriage, but marriage didn’t seem nearly as dreadful as he’d always assumed. Perhaps they were eluding to sprint speeds.
He inhaled the familiar scent of the hedges. The world grew darker, as they proceeded farther into it.
She tensed, and he halted. He refrained from the temptation of simply proceeding farther into the maze, as if they were going for a normal walk, as if he hadn’t just kissed her, as if the world hadn’t simply changed.
“I have one question,” she asked.
“You won’t have a baby from the kiss,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “N-No. That wasn’t the question.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “Then what is it?”
“Why did you kiss me?” she asked, her voice trembling oddly.
Guilt shot through him. “It was ungentlemanly of me.”
“So, you kissed me to be ungentlemanly?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “Nonsense. I kissed you because... I thought you were going to say yes to Mr. Owens. And I was relieved.”
“And kissing is your first reaction after relief?”
He stared at her.
He might be a rogue, but he didn’t go about embracing women normally.
“No.” He frowned and assessed her. “I don’t know how I missed you.”
“Missed me?”
He nodded. “I should have paid attention to you from the very beginning.”
Her cheeks pinkened at his words.
“Oh?” Her voice gave an unladylike squeak, but it didn’t matter.
His eyes didn’t appear as sober before, and his lips twitched.
“You’re quiet,” he said. “That’s how I missed you.”
“Oh?” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said, conscious uttering one syllable words hardly counted as conversation, but unable to say anything more. Words were suddenly very complex things.
“May I kiss you again?” he asked.
She nodded
And so, he did.
And he kissed her.
And kissed her.
And kissed her.
Their tongues danced as he swept his arms about her body, drawing her soft curves toward him. He’d kissed women on dozens of moonlit balconies, the sound of musicians wafting toward him, but nothing compared to this experience. His legs quivered, even though his legs hadn’t even quivered when hundreds of Frenchmen had charged toward him at Waterloo, bayonets in hand.
He needed more. More Margaret. He lay her down on the ground, far from the eyes of anyone. No one would be able to see them.
His valet would wonder what he’d done to his attire when he returned, but it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was Margaret.
All that would ever matter was Margaret.
Because Jasper had no intention of abandoning his plan for the house party. He’d hoped to find her a husband, and he had found one: himself.
They could discuss that later, ideally when Jasper was armed with his mother’s ring.
For now, they could enjoy the moment.
Life was going to become very wonderful.