Chapter 32
Jasper adjusted his grip upon the cue, smiling in lazy amusement, though he was anything but idle.
No, he did not expect Miss Tolliver to let him win, nor to be merciful. She never was. Not with her tongue, not with her wagers, and certainly not with—well.
Jasper Deverell would not admit to a wounded heart.
His pride had suffered a bruise, certainly, but he was convinced that he was not a man to surrender his heart to anyone.
No, he had assured himself of that only this morning, whilst enduring the pieties of Lady Malverne’s parish church and fixing his attention upon the sermon with more severity than the text deserved.
His proposal had been no romantic folly, but a matter of plain logic. Entirely practical. He enjoyed Miss Tolliver’s company—greatly—and if Langley meant to sever that company unless Jasper married her, then marriage was the obvious solution. Obvious. Sensible. Barely romantic at all.
If Miss Tolliver must marry—and she must, for families were forever troublesome in such matters—then better it be to him than to some other dull fellow.
He could give her liberty, fortune, amusement, and a name sturdy enough to withstand scandal.
A reasonable arrangement, with nothing tender in it whatsoever.
At least, that was what Jasper Deverell told himself, and if he repeated it often enough, perhaps even he might begin to believe it.
Miss Tolliver had taken up her stance across the table with the air of a duellist preparing for pistols at dawn—indeed, he was brought back to the moment of seeing her in trousers at a certain morning duel.
She bent over the table and struck. The balls skimmed across the baize with a boldness that drew laughter from the men.
“Bravo, Miss Tolliver,” Gainsford declared. “I would sooner stake my fortune at cards than play against you for my dinner.”
“You would go hungry either way, my lord,” she returned, missing her next stroke by a hair.
Jasper stepped in, struck cleanly, and pocketed a ball to approving murmurs. He caught her eye as he straightened.
“Fortune favours you, sir,” she said.
“I prefer not to leave matters to fortune.”
The game tightened, ball for ball, until the company leant forward at every stroke; even the duke tucked a hand under his chin in interest. Lottie struck with reckless brilliance, the balls scattering like startled birds; Jasper answered with maddening calm, each shot slipping neatly into the pocket.
When her final ball clipped the edge of the pocket and refused to fall, Gainsford groaned as though personally bereaved.
Jasper finished the game with a clean, quiet shot.
“Victory to Deverell!” Gainsford cried. “By heaven, man, how many wives shall you claim now? A dozen? A score? You must own yourself beaten, Miss Tolliver!”
Lottie straightened, tapping her cue against the floor with a tight smile. “Then I must congratulate Mr Deverell. England’s unmarried ladies may breathe easy, for the good sir is free to establish his harem at once.”
The room erupted in laughter again, but Jasper merely inclined his head. “Ah, but I have no wish for a harem, Miss Tolliver. One wife would be quite enough for any gentleman of sense.”
“Indeed,” she countered. “And I quite pity her. To be governed by a man so convinced of his own sense would be dreadful indeed.”
“Governed? You mistake me, Miss Tolliver. I have it on good knowledge that wives are formidable creatures. Terrifying in their wisdom and relentless in their opinions. A husband’s only hope is to survive them.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Gainsford elbowed his cousin. “Hear that, Morleigh? Survival, he says! You might take notes.”
The duke’s mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. “My wife’s wisdom has never required my survival, Gainsford. Only my agreement.”
That earned another round of laughter, though Jasper’s gaze had not left Lottie’s.
She tilted her head. “Matrimony sounds a most dreadful ordeal. I cannot imagine why women rush so eagerly towards it.”
“Necessity, perhaps,” he said, idly nudging a ball across the baize with his cue.
“Or folly,” she countered. “For what is marriage but a bargain in which women surrender freedom in exchange for the fiction of protection?”
A ripple of murmurs stirred through the spectators, who watched on with wide eyes. One lady whispered to a beau behind her fan, prompting stifled laughter.
Jasper watched Lottie intensely. “Perhaps the wiser sort of wife does not surrender her freedom at all but merely disguises it. A clever woman learns to bend the rules to her favour.”
“And must twist herself into knots to do so!” Lottie returned, stamping her cue on the ground.
The assembly went silent, and Jasper took a slow step nearer. “Knots are not always chains, Miss Tolliver. Sometimes they hold fast what would otherwise come quite undone.”
He watched as Lottie’s lips parted, and the cue slipped from her grip, clattering to the floor. Heat flamed in her cheeks as she glanced around; the onlookers pretended fascination with their wineglasses, fans, and cuffs, though several eyes darted her way with undisguised curiosity.
Jasper bent, retrieved the fallen cue, and offered it to her. “Allow me.” And as he rose, he said for her ears alone, “Even the fiercest of us drop something now and then, Miss Tolliver. Pride. Fear. A cue.”
She huffed. “You think me afraid?”
“Never. I think you clever. Far too clever not to see that the world has already placed its chains about you—married or not. I should only wish to see you wear them loosely, and of your own choosing.”
“Have you learnt nothing at all, Mr Deverell? Liberty granted by another is no liberty at all.”
“Then we are at an impasse,” he said quietly. “You will have no master, and I would have no prisoner.”
“Then we agree at last,” she replied, before sweeping past him and from the billiards room.
The door closed upon Miss Tolliver’s retreat, leaving a ripple of laughter in her wake.
Jasper exhaled, slow and low, turning the cue absently in his hands.
A quiet presence drew beside him. “Do you mean to go after her, Deverell,” asked the Duke of Morleigh, “or remain here looking the perfect fool?”
Jasper glanced sideways. “I have already achieved the latter, Your Grace.”
Morleigh’s expression did not shift, though his brow lifted by the smallest degree. “Quite so. You’ve a talent for spectacle.”
“I try to provide amusement where I can.”
“Hmm.” The duke turned and studied the green baize. “You are more a fool than I had thought, Deverell.”
Jasper gave a wry laugh. “How so?”
Morleigh did not immediately answer. Instead, he began to set the balls back upon the table as though restoring order to a scene of chaos.
Only when the triangle was full and neat once more did he speak, his tone as even as ever.
“It is a singular blindness,” he said, removing the frame and setting it aside, “to stand so close to a thing and yet fail entirely to see it.”
“You will have to be plainer, Your Grace. I suffer from many deficiencies—clarity chief among them.”
The duke sighed, positioned himself at the table, and struck the cue ball. It cracked through the formation, scattering the coloured balls in every direction. “You are in love with her, Deverell.”
Jasper sighed in return, and chalked his cue. He lined up a shot in silence, before sending a red ball neatly into the corner pocket. “And what of it? You disapprove of me on principle, as I recall.”
Morleigh’s gaze followed the ball’s smooth path. “Langley has vouched for your character. He seems to think you a good sort of fellow, and I am partial to his judgement. Nevertheless, my patience wears thin.”
“Your patience, Your Grace?” Jasper asked lightly. “I was not aware it had been put to the test.”
“It has,” Morleigh said. He set his cue aside and straightened. “Langley’s ultimatum was not given in jest. Marry her or quit her company for good. It is a fair offer, and a generous one—the night at Bellamy’s considered.”
“Ah yes. That most unfortunate misunderstanding.”
The duke ignored him. “If you mean to make her your wife, Deverell, you had best act with some haste. By the end of this week, Miss Tolliver will be betrothed. The only question is whether it will be to you or some other hapless fool with less charm and greater sense.”
Jasper let out a breath that was half a laugh. “It is no simple endeavour, Your Grace. The lady has made it perfectly clear she has no wish to marry.”
Morleigh’s gaze remained steady. “Then persuade the lady otherwise.”
Jasper glanced up. “Is that your idea of approval, Your Grace?”
“It is as near as you shall ever have it.” Morleigh crossed his arms. “Go after her, Deverell. Before you lose her altogether.”
For once, Jasper found no clever answer. He placed the cue down, nodded his thanks, and departed.
And here, dear reader, we must pause to acknowledge the irony of the moment, for while the Duke of Morleigh’s counsel may have been wise, it was also precisely the sort of masculine authority Miss Tolliver so passionately despised.
One man granting another permission to pursue her was, of course, the very injustice against which she railed.
Alas, neither gentleman seemed the least bit aware of it, fools that men often are.
Nor, indeed, were they prepared for what awaited them next—for an unexpected guest was already en route to Lady Malverne’s country house, and, to the delight of all who revel in the most wicked of fantasies, Mr Deverell had yet to claim the personal forfeit Miss Tolliver now owed him.
I, of course, as your shamelessly obliging author, shall indulge you soon enough—though really, my dearest reader, patience is a virtue.