Chapter Thirty

T he cottage was small. It was terribly small. Jasper’s chest constricted as he imagined Vanessa, the woman he loved, reduced to this.

At least, it appeared in good repair. The paint was relatively new, and the thatch was not rotting. A diminutive garden on the side of the house, one that appeared utilitarian rather than decorative, was not overgrown with weeds. Vanessa must be able to afford a decent groundskeeper. Still. God. Still.

He had to duck beneath the lintel to follow her into her home.

There was no entry hall. One stepped directly into what must be the parlor. It was empty of anything except a single worn chair, a cold hearth, a lamp, one small table, and a bookshelf—one shelf with fewer than a dozen books—on the otherwise barren walls. It was a devastating sight.

“Vanessa—”

“Come into the back. I’ll make some tea.”

If she noticed his perturbation, she called no attention to it. He followed her into the back room, a small kitchen of sorts. Here he had more of a sense of her presence. The windows were open, and a floral breeze wafted through. Vanessa gestured to a chair next to a table covered with a prettily embroidered square of linen. There was a bowl of wildflowers in the center. He sat and watched her stir the embers of a stove, then set a kettle on top.

She was perfectly at home here. And that made him feel hopeless. If this was what she wanted, he had nothing to offer. Vanessa could not be swayed by his wealth or his title—of course, he’d always known this. He could give her nothing but himself.

He was asking her to give up her way of life for him when he had never truly considered giving up his for her. Yes, he’d claimed he would abandon his newfound interest in politics, but in truth, he needn’t. There were many lords in Parliament who had been involved in scandals far worse than falling in love with a mistress. The sacrifices would all be on her part.

She sat on the second chair and murmured, “It will be a few moments.”

Her answer must be no, or she would have put him out of his misery at once with a yes. He did not want to hear no. Not yet.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and retrieved a tissue-wrapped gold chain with a tiny sapphire. He’d recognized it the minute Crispin put it in his hands.

“Crispin found this. By the lake.”

She unwrapped it carefully, then tears stood in her eyes as she said, “Oh, thank God. I thought I’d lost it forever.”

“The clasp is broken. I would have had it fixed for you but…” But it wasn’t his place. She had been wearing Henry’s gift, not one of his.

“Thank you, Jasper.” She wrapped it back into the tissue paper and put it into an empty teacup on her countertop. She regarded it quietly for a long moment. Then she faced him again, smiling wryly. “Safe for now. I’ll put it up later.”

“Tell me about your life here, Vanessa.”

“You mean, how have I gotten through the days?”

He nodded, a sharp ache in his throat. Had she gone through the motions as he had, only to be struck, over and over, by waves of sorrow?

“The daily activities of life take up more time than you might think when one has no servants. And I’ve made friends here.”

“Lydia?” His voice rasped with the effort to speak naturally. No servants? Was she trying to relive the experience of the Peninsula? Why? Was that the key to understanding her? Had he pushed too much of himself, his life, his friends, and his wants, upon her? “Crispin said there was a woman here that you knew. That’s why you chose Cartmel.”

She nodded. Then she said, “Jasper, I do want to marry you.”

“You do?” His heart jolted. He’d been prepared for a no. Now he waited for the but .

She answered with a whisper. “Yes. I do.”

“Vanessa!”

He leaped from the chair and dropped to one knee beside her, reaching, fumbling in his pocket for the ring he’d dared to bring. She let him slip it onto her finger. Then her words, her actual words, registered.

“You want to. But will you?” he asked.

“Yes. Jasper. Unconditionally yes.”

He kissed her hands, so, so very grateful, then the tender inside of her wrists. He stood up, pulling her into his arms and kissing her as he’d dreamed of doing, as he’d been yearning to do. Vanessa returned his embraces just as hungrily, making the mewling noises in the back of her throat that always drove him mad with desire. He kissed her neck, just beneath her ear, knowing what would arouse her, and when she clutched his shoulders and moaned his name, he lost all control.

Lifting her up, he backed her against the wall, hoisting her skirts so that she could wrap her legs around his hips. It was not new or even particularly unusual for them to make love standing, but it felt clumsy. She wore oddly heavy footwear and if he didn’t lay her down it would become awkward. He considered, briefly, carrying her to her bedroom—there must be one—it couldn’t be more than ten steps away—but ten steps were too far. Swinging her about, he laid her down on the table, knocking the wildflowers to the floor. He bent over her, reaching beneath her skirts. There was no sweeter sound than Vanessa, murmuring Jasper, no sensation more pleasurable than her fingers twining through his hair. They should talk things through, somewhere deep in his brain he knew they should talk first, but she had said yes, and he was on fire.

“I need you,” he begged. He needed her desperately.

“Yes, Jasper. Please.”

He tugged at his trousers and let them fall around his ankles, then yanked her shirts above her waist. He tried to be considerate of the discomfort of her position, at least to slow down, but she responded to his haste with an urgency of her own. They didn’t speak, didn’t tease one another, didn’t play with one another to savor the experience. He lost himself in a whirlwind of lust too long denied, giving over to it with an incoherent shout of release. Too late, he realized he’d spent his seed inside her.

Vanessa gasped, then laughed a little. She shifted position, her eyes dewy and her cheeks reddened. She gestured toward the stove, making him aware that the kettle was boiling. It probably had been for some time.

“Do you still want tea?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “That was selfish of me.” He continued stroking her thighs, but when she pushed down her skirts and wriggled up to be seated, he fixed his own clothing also.

She laughed again, less awkwardly. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me.”

“Again and again.” But it was not only taking his pleasure without ensuring hers that had been selfish. His haste, his careless haste, may have robbed her of the opportunity to decide differently. Apparently, he’d given her two days, not the three she’d requested. And now, they must marry soon.

She went to fetch the kettle. He watched every movement, memorizing her all over again, replaying in his mind her acceptance of him. Of them .

Unconditionally, yes. An odd way to respond to a marriage proposal.

He waited for her to bring him his cup.

“You accepted me using the language of surrender. I don’t want to…to win if it makes you feel that you’ve lost.”

“Jasper, the one thing I can’t bear to lose is you.” She sat beside him.

“But you’re giving up things that are important to you.” He touched her chin, trying to get her to meet his gaze, but she would not look up.

“I merely meant I don’t want our solicitors negotiating another contract. I don’t want to argue over conditions.”

“Not conditions, Vanessa. Not negotiations. We won’t argue. But tell me your concerns.”

She hunched over her teacup. She seemed to want to say something. He gave her time, but she didn’t speak, so he pressed.

“You have concerns.”

“We’ve discussed them before. They’re irresolvable. I’m concerned that the ton will never truly accept me. I don’t care so much for myself. I don’t belong in that world, not fully, but you do. And I don’t want you to be hurt when we’re excluded from it.”

“I won’t be hurt. Anyone who would exclude us is no one I care to remain friends with.”

“Jasper.” She laughed as though groaning. “You’re being too agreeable again.”

“Too agreeable?” Olivia had accused him of something similar once. As though amiability was a fatal flaw.

“You think you are addressing my concerns. You even make me believe you’re addressing them. But you’re really only dismissing them.”

He stared. He tried to sort through what she was saying. He didn’t know what she wanted, but tried again.

“I don’t mean to be dismissive. Perhaps I’m being na?ve. I might be unpleasantly surprised by people I consider my friends. Then, likely, I will be hurt. And angry. But if you’re concerned that will lead to regret, it won’t.” He frowned, hearing his own words. “Is that still dismissive?”

Her lips curled.

“Skip that one,” he said, frustrated with himself. At least he was amusing her. “What other concerns do you have?”

“I don’t know how to be a countess. And your household must be huge.”

“That’s valid.” Damn it. He was trying to be disagreeable by agreeing with her. He forged on. “There is a ridiculous amount of protocol for you to learn.”

“Ridiculous but critical.”

“Georgiana and Olivia will help you. Vanessa, my mother will help if you let her. I don’t think you’ll find it as onerous as you fear. And as for running the household, I’m certain you’ll manage. I have an excellent staff besides.” Good God. He was doing it again. She lived in four tiny rooms with no servants. Her friends were commoners. “It will be an adjustment…” He trailed off before saying “but” and assuring her he believed her up to the challenge.

“I don’t want to abandon the mill.”

What the devil? “The mill?”

“The Comptons. Their boot mill. Didn’t Olivia tell you? Or Crispin?”

He shook his head. The two of them had rather infuriatingly refused to tell him anything of their dinner with Vanessa, though he’d tried begging and bribery.

“Tell me.”

“My friend, Lydia, and her husband and brother-in-law are bootmakers. They made these.”

She twisted sideways in her chair and lifted her hem to display a pair of tooled leather Hessians. They were unconventional in appearance and, as he’d just learned, packed rather a kick when one was in too much of a hurry to remove them. There was something absurd about them, yet ladies’ shoes had always seemed absurd to him, so why should combining prettiness with practicality not make sense?

“We’ve just begun to sell them—”

“We?” He heard the beginnings of enthusiasm in her voice and tempered his own confused disapproval with a tentative smile. “You’re not simply a customer?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been spreading the word.”

He nodded warily. “And?”

“Georgiana, Rose, Effie, and I suspect Olivia will also model Bitter’s boots.”

“Bitter?”

“He’s the engraver. He can’t walk. And the other bootmakers are wounded soldiers.” She spoke quickly, earnestly, with a furrowed brow. “But they can’t sell the boots if no one ever sees the product. They need ladies with means to parade their wares. They need samples in shops. In London shops. And they have to be ready to expand production if orders come in as quickly as I think they will.”

If he understood correctly, she meant to market these boots. To utilize her connections, his connections, to sell footwear. He did not like this idea. Not at all. It would draw more attention to Vanessa, more unwanted attention.

Of course, he couldn’t stop Georgiana and Olivia from doing what ladies did, passing along word of new fancies. But Vanessa’s role was evidently more mercantile. Samples in shops? Expanding production? Good God.

“You want me to allow you to become a boot peddler?”

Vanessa bit her lip. Then nodded.

He shook his head. That was simply not possible.

“It…it would be crass. It’s trade . I know I sound toplofty, but allowing my wife to engage in trade would be thumbing my nose at the ton.”

“Thumbing your…for pity’s sake. You are marrying your mistress!”

The ton would consider boot peddling a step below courtesan.

“Vanessa, we shouldn’t make this harder on ourselves.”

She stood to snatch up their teacups and carted them to the basin. Her back to him, she said, “So I am to sacrifice my friends for our convenience?”

Her voice had taken on a peeved tone, so he made his own even more reasonable. He didn’t want to argue.

“I think ‘sacrifice’ is overly dramatic. They were bootmakers before you came to Cartmel, weren’t they?”

She spun to face him. “They made plain boots for common men. They need my help to sell these boots.”

“Let them go back to making plain boots,” he said, getting to his feet because it seemed they were arguing after all.

“They can’t! There is no profit in that.”

“Well,” he fumed, ready to be very disagreeable, “even I have a better business sense than that. If they were never turning a profit—”

“They were! The mill provided a living for half a dozen people until the Leather Tax—”

“The Leather Tax?” His knees nearly buckled.

“Yes, Jasper. A tax on leather. The damn nobs thought to pay for the war on the backs of hardworking cobblers, injured veteran bootmakers, saddlers, and…and…”

“Children who need shoes,” he said hollowly. He rattled his head, then stomped to the window and faced out. “Bloody hell!”

“Jasper?” Now she sounded more worried than annoyed. “Jasper, what’s wrong?”

“I’m one of the damn nobs.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “You voted for the tax?”

He exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled. Then he turned. The expression on her face—disappointment. In him. There was no point in claiming his single vote made no difference in the outcome. The point was, he’d voted carelessly and wrongly.

“Vanessa, I’m…I won’t ask you to abandon your friends. I’ll support you however you need.”

Her mouth pursed. “That doesn’t change—”

“No, of course it doesn’t. It won’t make up for anything. I erred and I regret it. But the only thing I can do is learn to do better. I have been trying. I want to be a good man—”

“You are a good man.”

“Then a less…” He knew the word. It wasn’t fear of being “boring” that haunted him. “A less shallow man. There is so much that I need to learn to understand. Things I never had the cause or opportunity to understand. I-I need your help.”

Vanessa’s face softened. She came to him and wrapped her arms about his waist, then laid her head on his chest. He lifted her chin and kissed her.

“Do you still want to marry this Tory nob?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I do.”

“We should marry quickly. Perhaps a special license?”

“Jasper, I would like to have the banns read.” She sounded wistful. He remembered her first marriage had been a hasty elopement. She deserved better.

“Yes, of course. Banns.” That would take a month. But it wasn’t as though an early babe would surprise anyone. No one imagined they’d been chaste for four years. “Ah, what the devil. They say the first babe always comes in seven months; it’s only the rest that take nine.”

He meant it as a jest, but her eyes had a stricken look before she managed a smile.

She said, “Your ton friends should be grateful. We are providing them with years’ worth of drawing room chatter.”

“Yes, quite.” That hurt in her eyes bothered him. What had he said wrong? He pressed on more gently. No big ton wedding, obviously. “Would you prefer to be wed here in Cartmel?”

She considered the question.

“No, that wouldn’t make sense. It would inconvenience your family. Besides, I don’t want to overwhelm everyone here. Imagine what they’ll think when I reveal I’m a Culpepper. And that I’m going to be a countess. Jasper, I’m not going to swallow up their enterprise the way my father would, then pay them an unlivable pittance.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. “But I wouldn’t blame them for thinking that’s my intention.”

“Focus, love. I merely asked where we should wed.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “In Iversley. And I’d like to honeymoon in Binnings, if Crispin permits, but you must promise me you won’t fix anything there.”

“Binnings?” The deuce. “But you’ve seen the cottage. It’s a hovel. Crispin hasn’t the time or the funds to restore it. After all he has done for me, for us—”

“It is hardly a hovel,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “It is his own little Eden.”

Eden? More likely, Crispin’s headache. But Jasper was more than happy to leave it to him. He glanced about the cramped kitchen. Wondering.

“Is this yours? Your little Eden?”

She hesitated before answering, a little sourly, “In a way. But when we wed, it will become yours.”

He grimaced. Unfair, perhaps, yet that was the law. Wives could not own property in their own right. She was attached to it, but Cartmel was out of the way and not a particularly charming place to visit. He envisioned the house falling apart like the Binnings cottage. It made more sense to sell it. But she was attached to it. And the mill was here.

“Should we keep it?” he asked.

“I’d like to. And hire Bitter and Nan to live here as caretakers.”

“Bitter and Nan?”

She started to explain, something about a colony of bootmakers and craftsmen and nursemaids, but he stopped her.

“My love, yes. Whatever you want.” He laughed. “I’ll wear flowered boots onto the floor of Parliament. But now, we need to return to Binnings. I left Olivia on tenterhooks and Crispin cross as crabs. My coach is in Paxton Downs. Crispin said not to bring it here. Can you pack a few things? We’ll send for the rest.”

“I haven’t much, Jasper. If you go fetch the coach, I’ll be ready before you return.” She held out her hand. “But come with me for a moment first?”

She looked up from under her lashes rather enticingly. He laid his hand in hers, expecting a tour of the bedroom. But she led him back through her parlor, out her front door, and down the walk. She shushed him when he tried to ask where they were going.

When she pushed open her neighbor’s gate, a woman came dashing out of the house. She was young and apple-cheeked— pretty in a common way. No. He kicked himself. She was pretty. Full stop.

Vanessa whispered to him, “She will have seen you enter my cottage. It’s cruel to keep her in suspense.”

“And who is this?” the woman cried.

Jasper ignored the egregious manners and made a small bow.

“Lord Taverston, this is my dear friend Mrs. Charlotte Gowe.”

“I’m delighted, Mrs. Gowe.”

“Taverston?” Charlotte said. Her eyes widened.

“Lord Jasper Taverston. The Earl of Iversley,” Vanessa explained.

She gaped. “Jasper?”

Vanessa nodded. “With a J .”

The girl’s squeal of delight pierced his eardrums. Oddly, if he wasn’t mistaken, it wasn’t his title that thrilled her but his J .