It had all been in pursuit of the virtue of punctuality—
“Montford? Is that you?” Basingstoke paused halfway across the dining room at White’s, then hurried forward, his eyebrows raised. “My God, man, are youearly? We’ve been meeting every Wednesday for years now, and I don’t believe that’s ever happened before.”
“Never.” Grantham followed after Basingstoke, his eyes narrowing as he took Jasper in. “And looking so well, too. Quite elegant indeed, Montford.”
Oh, my yes, he was elegant! His cravat was flawless, every strand of his hair was in place, and there wasn’t a speck of lint anywhere on his person. He was the very image of a fashionable gentleman of theton, freshly wed and without a care in the world.
Because that was what hewas, and it was only proper he should look the part.
So, instead of forbidding Loftus to fuss over him as he usually did, today he’d remained quiet while he was brushed, pressed, fluffed, and outfitted to perfection. Loftus, sensing an opportunity, had even managed to squeeze him into his new plum morning coat, the one with such fashionably tight sleeves Jasper had refused to wear it before today.
“We might have canceled, Montford.” Basingstoke gave him a searching look. “A man has only one wedding night, after all. Ideally, at any rate.”
“Yes, aren’t you meant to be cozied up to your new bride, Montford?” Grantham signaled the footman. “Coffee, if you would, Dempsey. I didn’t expect to see you for another fortnight at least, Montford.”
“It’s a marriage, Grantham, not an infectious disease. I see no reason to banish myself to my home simply because I’ve now got a wife.” An enchantingly beautiful wife, with the sweetest lips he’d ever kissed and the softest skin he’d ever had the pleasure of caressing.
Of course, that was neither here nor there.
“Indeed? How singular. If I’d wed as ravishing a creature as the new Duchess of Montford, I wouldn’t leave her bedchamber for the rest of the year.” Grantham eyed Jasper over the edge of his coffee cup. “So, Montford. What are youdoinghere?”
Jasper gave him a scowl that would have cowed a lesser man, but Grantham being Grantham, he only grinned. “I’m here, Grantham, because we have a Wednesday morning engagement, and I intend to go on with my life much as I did before I married.”
Basingstoke snorted with such violence he was obliged to cover his face with his serviette. “Montford, you poor, blind fool,” he finally gasped. “You’ve no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, have you?”
For God’s sake, the sight of those two smirking faces was enough to put him off his roasted lamb. “I have no idea what you’re on about, Basingstoke, nor do I wish to, so you may keep your chortling to yourself.”
“Very well, Montford. All jesting aside, then, how does your duchess do? Is she quite well?”
Ah, now there was a question. But how to answer it? He sliced into his lamb with such savagery his knife screeched against his plate.
Perhaps he should begin by explaining that he hadn’t the first idea how his duchess was, because he’d been so anxious to escape her embrace, he hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with her this morning. Or, failing that, he could describe how he hadn’t taken a moment to bid her good-bye, even after he’d promised he would. Or maybe he should make it simple, and confess that while he was rather an expert at offending his mistresses and earning their unending wrath, he didn’t have the first idea how to make a wife happy—
“Alright, Montford. Let’s have it out, shall we?” Grantham set his coffee aside with a sigh. “Something is troubling you. How are we meant to help you if you don’t tell us what it is? Come, you’ll feel better when you’ve unburdened yourself.”
“You’re not meant to help me at all, because I don’t need any help. It’s kind of you to offer, Grantham, but I don’t know what advice you think you can give me. You’re nearly as useless as I am when it comes to marriage.”
“That’s true enough, but surely Basingstoke here has some precious words of wisdom to impart.” Grantham considered Basingstoke for a moment, then shook his head. “Odd, really. I predicted you’d make a hopeless husband, Basingstoke, but you’re surprisingly good at it.”
“If I’m good at it, Grantham, it’s because I happen to be madly in love with my wife.” Basingstoke leaned back in his chair, a soft smile playing about his lips, just as it always did when he mentioned his duchess. “Marriage is a pleasure when one is married to a lady one loves. At the risk of sounding sentimental, gentlemen, love makes all the difference.”
A pang rose in Jasper’s chest, and he turned his gaze away.
Love was all very well, of course, for those who knew how to do it properly.
Like Basingstoke, for instance. His love for Francesca had made him a better man, yes, but even before he’d met Francesca, Basingstoke had shown the most tender love and care for his mother and his three sisters. The capacity for love had always been there, inside him. It had simply expanded to include Francesca when he’d fallen in love with her.
And hence, a fairy tale was born.
But there was no fairy tale waiting to unfold inside Jasper. He hadn’t had a mother or sisters to help smooth his rough places. Any lady who made the mistake of rubbing up against him was sure to find herself sliced to ribbons on his jagged edges.
It was one of the reasons he hadn’t wanted to marry.
As husbands went, he was sure to be a perfect disaster, and so far, he’d exceeded even his own low expectations of himself. He’d abandoned his sweet wife of a single day because her innocent caresses made his chest ache as if it were cracking open, and all manner of unfamiliar things had begun leaking out of the gap.
And that—thatwouldn’t do.
Even if he wanted to love Prue, he didn’t know how to go about it. He’d make a mess of it, just as he had this morning, and soon enough Prue would grow to despise him, just as Selina and every one of his mistresses before her had done.
