Jasper
Chapter 56
The morning of the Winterset Ball dawned bright, and by midday, the townhouse was already humming with quiet excitement. In the kitchens, platters were being arranged and crystal polished to a gleam. Upstairs, maids darted back and forth with freshly pressed garments and last-minute ribbons. Emmeline had been temporarily relocated to Philip and Sophia's townhouse for an overnight visit with her cousin, and for the first time since they had arrived for the Season, the Winterset nursery was still.
Abigail stood at the window of her bedchamber, watching as hired footmen strung the final garlands across the garden terrace. Her gown hung from the wardrobe door nearby, the soft blue silk catching the afternoon light.
Her thoughts, however, were far from flowers or fabric.
The night before, after supper, she and Jasper had lingered in the drawing room—as they had often done lately—enjoying a glass of wine and each other's company. Conversation had flowed easily between them until, with a trace of hesitancy, he had asked where she might like to go once the Season concluded. He mentioned several possibilities: the seaside villa they had once intended for their honeymoon, a quiet estate in Somerset, a lake house said to be beautiful in early autumn, or Roselawn Manor—adjacent to her parents' country estate. Allwere furnished and ready, he assured her, and well-suited for Emmeline.
It had been a casual question. A simple, open offer.
But Abigail had heard the deeper note beneath it:What do you want next—for us?
Her thoughts had stuttered to a halt. In the beginning, she had fought the very idea of coming to London with her husband—resisted the notion of staying under Jasper's roof. And now, with the Season nearly at its close, she found herself reluctant to leave.
Not because of the parties.
Not because of the invitations.
Because of him.
Because, despite everything, the life they had shared these past few months had begun to feel almost real.
And if they left—if they went somewhere new—could that fragile closeness survive? Would it grow stronger? Or would the unfamiliar undo all they had begun to rebuild?
For a woman nearly two years married, she felt startlingly inexperienced at being a wife.
A gentle knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Come in," she called.
Jasper entered, carrying a small velvet-lined box. He hesitated just inside the threshold, then smiled, his gaze flicking to the gown hanging from the wardrobe.
"I'm glad I caught you before you began dressing." His voice was soft, warm. "When I commissioned the gown from Madame Mercier, I paid a visit to the family jewel vault. I hoped to find something that might suit."
He crossed the room and held out the box. Inside, nestled in folds of ivory satin, lay a set of pearl-drop earrings, a matching necklace, and two silver combs tipped with tiny paste diamonds—delicate, refined, and clearly chosen with care.
"They were my mother's," he said quietly. "But I think she would have liked you to have them."
Abigail's breath caught.
"They're beautiful," she murmured, fingers brushing lightly over the pearls. "Jasper..."
His gaze held hers. "You don't have to wear them. Only if you wish to."
She nodded slowly. "I do. I loved your mother dearly. It would be an honor."
Jasper lingered for a beat longer, as if weighing something unsaid. Then he smiled, lifted her hand to his lips in a gentle kiss, and left her to prepare.
By the time Abigail descended the main staircase, music had begun to swell. Guests were arriving in a steady stream—gowned, gloved, and glittering under the soft glow of candlelight. Footmen in full livery moved with practiced ease, directing guests toward the ballroom and drawing rooms.
Jasper stood waiting at the base of the staircase, where he had been welcoming guests for the past ten minutes.
He had not yet seen her.
When she stepped into view, a hush rippled through the entry hall. Heads turned. Fans stilled. Even the musicians, seated nearby, seemed to soften their playing.
