For Love of the Duke(69)

His hand paused mid-stroke. Oh, God, he didn’t want to hear another blasted bit of this bloody story.

“They took every single volume, and I swore I’d never, ever again pick up another book of Byron’s sonnets,” she said. “With the loss of nearly all our personal belongings and estates, the silly sonnets of love and purity and innocence all seemed so very puerile.”

Katherine leaned into his touch the way a kitten stole warmth from its master. “I swore I’d never read another book of poetry again,” she said.

Jasper understood that, all too well.

“But then, I began to miss the words. Those sonnets had carried me away to beautiful places of love and even loss. No matter how much I pledge to never touch a volume, my heart craved it as much as my mind.” Katherine stepped away from him, and wandered ahead several steps, until he was filled with a sudden fear that she intended to leave and he’d never know the remainder of her story.

Except, she only paused at the peak of the hill, and stared out at the smallish-looking landscape below. “I felt that in picking up another book, it made me weak, and it reminded me of all my hurt and anger and resentment. But the heart knows what it needs, Jasper. I could no sooner refrain from opening the pages of another book than I could give up food. I allowed myself just one poet.” Katherine reached for another flake. She caught one effortlessly between her gloved fingers.

Wordsworth.

“Wordsworth,” she said.

“Byron and all those other romantic poets seemed so very silly, but Wordsworth, he seemed real. His words are not always joyous and hopeful.”

He understood, because it had been what had drawn Jasper to the poet’s works.

With that one story, Jasper now understood her desire for the lone copy of Wordsworth’s volume at the bookshop. His heart thumped hard in his chest, as he silently acknowledged her great sacrifice—she’d given the lone book to him.

Jasper stood there, appreciating her delicate profile.

As though she felt his gaze upon her, Katherine turned around to face him. “I hated my father for losing everything that I’d at one time valued. I resented the loss of all those material possessions, but you see, Jasper, if none of those great sadnesses had befallen me, I would have never discovered Wordsworth.” She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Perhaps it seems a very small consolation, after all, Wordsworth can never rival Byron in terms of greatness but happiness can still be found—just on a different page.”

Somewhere along the way, they’d ceased to speak of poets. Rather, a more significant meaning was buried within his wife’s words.

Jasper trailed his eyes over her pert nose, her full lips, and the cat-like slant to her brown eyes. Oh, Katherine is that what you believe you are? A mere consolation? A lesser work?

Nothing could be further than the truth.

Katherine cleared her throat, and walked back over to the forgotten pile of branches. She bent down and proceeded to collect the thick, evergreen branches. Unbidden, Jasper strode over to her. He hesitated.

She paused in her efforts, and from where she knelt in the thick blanket of snow glanced up.

Jasper lowered himself to a knee. “Here,” he murmured. He relieved Katherine of her burden and then made short order of picking up the other displaced branches. He stood.

Katherine caught his gaze with hers, and then smiled up at him. “I imagined you would leave them here, considering my intended use for them.”

He frowned and glowered at her from the corner of his eye. “I’m not an ogre, Katherine.” Is that what his new wife believed? That he’d show his displeasure by abandoning her to her own efforts.

“Well, sometimes you are.” A mischievous glimmer sparkled in her eyes.

Jasper’s lips twitched in response. “Yes, yes I am,” he concurred.

It struck him then, how very much he’d like to remain here atop this snowy knoll, just the two of them and the quiet peace of the winter sky. The snow continued to fall down at an increasingly, heavy rate, and it wouldn’t do for them to remain in the cold this far from the castle. “We should return,” he said, the words dragged reluctantly from him.

Katherine placed her fingertips along his forearm. His body went taut at her delicate touch. She seemed unaware of his body’s physical reaction to her nearness; the mad rush of desire that coursed through him, his racing heart, the quick, rise and fall of his chest. He wanted her. He wanted her with an aching desperation that dared him to spit in the face of the pledge he’d taken, all to claim her as his own.

“You do realize I intend to use these to decorate for Christmas?”