It felt like a window thrown open to the breeze. A dreadful, high, impossible window, certainly—one from which a girl might break her neck if she leapt foolishly—but beyond it there was air.
“And so,” he said, with an unsteady little grin that was very nearly Jasper again and not quite, “I have arrived at the only solution that does not make me despise myself. The choice must be yours. If you wish to marry me, marry me. If you wish only to flee, flee. If you wish to take my money and abandon me in Philadelphia after three weeks, I shall object bitterly but provide recommendations for lodging.”
A laugh broke from her before she could stop it. Then, to her horror, tears followed. She turned away at once. “Do not look at me.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” She wiped beneath one eye with the heel of her hand. “Oh, I do not know what I want.”
He waited, which was just so, for if he had pressed her or pleaded, she might have snapped.
“I thought I did. I thought I wanted no one to touch my life. No husband, no keeper, no duke arranging matters in a voice like a court order. I thought I wanted to be left entirely alone.”
“And now?”
She looked back at him. “Now I am not certain I should like it.”
No, Lottie truly did not know what she wanted, and whether running away to America was romantic or madness, or both—but she knew she did not wish to wake tomorrow and find that her life had been decided in some breakfast room by men who loved her, men who pitied her, men who meant well, and men who therefore never doubted their right to do it. And she knew, too, that she did not wish Jasper Deverell to disappear from her life because everyone else had decided he must.
She stood. “When do we leave?”
Jasper’s countenance changed, not triumphantly—thank God, not triumphantly—but as though the words had struck him. “Tonight, if you wish.”
“Tonight?”
“There is a packet leaving from Portsmouth within the week. We could be there before anyone knew where to look. Or not Portsmouth. Or not America. Say Paris, and I shall arrange Paris. Say the devil’s own doorstep, and I shall send ahead for rooms.”
She gave a watery laugh. “Rooms at the devil’s doorstep feels quite accurate. We shall leave tonight, for if I sleep, I shall wake up sensible. What must I bring?”
Jasper bit his cheek. “As little as you can bear. A travelling dress. Money, if you have it. Anything you cannot leave behind.”
Lottie felt the full weight of their plan settle heavily in her chest. “And you? What is the plan?”
“I shall arrange horses first. A chaise after that, if I can manage it without half the county taking note. We leave after midnight, when the house is quiet.”
Lottie nodded quickly. She would not admit, even to herself, that she was frightened.
“Jasper,” she said.
“Yes?”
“If we go, I do not belong to you.”
“No.”
“And you do not belong to me.”
His mouth curved faintly. “A pity. I should have made a stunning decorative possession.”
She looked at him with intent and held out her hand. “No cages.”
He looked at it for a heartbeat, then took it, as a man making an agreement with his equal. “No cages.”
Chapter 40
By eleven o’clock, Charlotte Tolliver had packed for ruin.
This was not a particularly extensive undertaking, for ruin required only a dark travelling dress, a warm cloak, a small purse of coins, one pistol, two books, three folded chemises, and a willingness to disappoint everyone who had ever loved her.
