Jasper stripped off her other stocking. It took an effort not to linger. Her calves were muscled from riding, her ankles so narrow he could encircle them with his fingers. And her feet, delicately arched and pale, and small enough to cradle in his hand.
He cleared his throat. “Is that all?”
“She brushed my hair.”
“You couldn’t brush it yourself?”
“It wasn’t like that. It was a ritual we had—one of my favorite parts of the day.” She inhaled another sharp breath as his arms came around her, fingers moving to the fastenings at the back of her skirts.
“Describe it to me,” he said, endeavoring to distract her.
“I-I would sit in front of my dressing table. Mary would unpin my hair and start brushing. One hundred strokes, she liked to say, but it wasn’t ever as many as that.” Julia was quiet for a moment before admitting, “I’ll miss that part of my old life the most.”
“Why?”
“It made me feel as though someone cared for me. And it always helped soothe me to sleep.”
As she spoke, Jasper removed her skirt, petticoats, and crinoline, tugging them down over her hips and legs. Her corset cover came next, then the corset itself with its row of strong metal hooks at the front of her midriff.
Her breath came faster as he stripped it away.
His own breath wasn’t coming at all. It was dammed up in his chest, his pulse throbbing with stifled longing. Thus far, he’d remained purposeful. Respectful. But by God, he wasn’t made of stone.
By the time he was finished, she was clothed in nothing but her short-sleeved cambric chemise and matching cambric drawers. It was a modest enough ensemble, though doubtless, she was feeling more exposed than she had in her life.
“Do you wish to sleep as you are?” he asked, scarcely recognizing the sound of his own voice. “Or would you prefer a nightgown?”
“A nightgown, if you please. There’s one in the brown carpetbag.”
He retrieved it for her. It was the same nightgown she’d been wearing when he’d rescued her. A ruffled white cotton garment, as primly virginal in its construction as anything he’d ever beheld.
“You can leave now,” she said as she took it from him. “Or at least . . . turn around.”
He obliged her. As he stood facing the fire, he heard the frantic rustle of soft garments coupled with the sound of her quickening breath. “Are you certain you don’t need my help?”
“No, thank you.”
He waited awhile longer before inquiring again.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I’m finished now.”
He turned back to her. He’d seen her in her nightgown before. But she hadn’t only changed her clothes. She’d taken down her hair. It tumbled loose over one shoulder in a thick ebony spill.
Regarding her from across the room, Jasper felt a disconcerting mix of emotions. Not only desire for a beautiful woman, but affection, compassion, and a deep thread of masculine possessiveness.
“Would you like me to brush it for you?” he asked impulsively.
She blinked. “Would you?”
His mouth hitched in a sudden smile. “Why not?”
* * *
As Julia angled herself on the edge of the bed, a cashmere shawl wrapped around her in lieu of a dressing gown, it occurred to her that having her new husband brush her hair was very different than having her maid do it.
For one thing, she hadn’t anticipated how trembly and breathless it would make her feel. And she was already quite trembly and breathless enough after Jasper had helped to undress her.
He’d removed her corset, for heaven’s sake. And he’d touched her bare legs and even her naked feet.
Butterflies rampaged in her stomach to recall it.
In other circumstances, the whole experience might have left her mortified beyond permission, but Jasper had done nothing to exacerbate her embarrassment. He’d been both gentle and ruthlessly efficient. Just as he was being now.
As he sat next to her, running her brush through the length of her hair, Julia was plagued by a gnawing sense of guilt.
Her new husband might be a fortune hunter, and theirs might be a marriage of convenience, but he was still a man, and this was still his wedding night. Doubtless he hadn’t expected to spend it caring for an invalid bride.
“I’m not always this frail,” she informed him.
Jasper continued plying the hairbrush. “I realize that.”
“In a day or two, I shall be myself again.”
“I trust you will, providing you get enough rest.”
She glanced back at him, struck by a sudden suspicion. “You aren’t going to insist I remain in bed, are you?”
His countenance was stern. “If that’s what it takes to recover yourself.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted.
“It won’t be.” She bent her head, allowing him to continue brushing. “By tomorrow I’ll be much stronger. You’ll see.”
He gathered a section of her hair in his hand. His fingers skimmed the shell of her ear.
The contact made Julia’s pulse quicken.
He was sitting at an angle beside her. All she need do was lean back against his chest. And then . . .
If she was lucky, he would take her in his arms and hold her as he had in those moments before they’d sat down to dine. A crushing, all-consuming embrace. It had made her feel so safe. So wanted.
It was a feeling she longed to repeat.
“There’s no hurry,” he said.
Her heart missed a beat. For an instant she thought he’d read her mind. Foolish. He was talking about her recovery. “There is,” she replied. “I don’t want the children to know I’ve been ill.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to make a good first impression.” They were going to be her family now. She had a keen desire not to disappoint them. “I’d like them all to think well of me.”
“Julia . . .” The brush stilled on her hair. “If you’re expecting a warm welcome . . .”
She looked back at him once more. “Shouldn’t I be?”
Jasper’s scarred face was shadowed in the dim glow cast by the oil lamp on the bedside table. “I told you the children were wild. They can be quite a handful. Especially the boys.”
“Charlie and Alfred.” She recalled him mentioning their names at Lady Holland’s dinner. “Charlie’s twelve, didn’t you say?”