She turned her attention back to the children. “I hope we’ll spend a lot of time out of doors together when the weather clears.”
“It’s not all fun and games here at the Hall, ma’am. Not even when the sun’s shining.” Mr. Beecham refilled his glass from the carafe of watered wine on the table. “The boys have lessons in the mornings. We’re reading Plato, aren’t we, lads?”
“It’s better than Mr. Filbert making us read the dratted Bible every day,” Charlie grumbled.
“Charlie,” Jasper warned.
“He did make us,” Alfred said. “Charlie and me more than any of the others. He hated us.”
“Filbert’s a strict fellow,” Mr. Beecham said. “He’d have done better as a clergyman than a schoolmaster, but he doesn’t have the learning for it.”
Julia offered her glass for Mr. Beecham to refill. “He sounds like my old nurse, Nanny Plum. Whenever I was in her black books, she’d make me sit in the corner of the nursery and read from an old Bible for hours on end. She thought it a punishment.”
“It is a punishment,” Charlie declared.
“Not at all,” Julia said. “The Bible can be as exciting as a novel if you know where to look. It’s filled with countless exciting tales.”
Alfred was skeptical. “I never read any.”
“Oh yes,” Julia went on. “Let me see. There’s the story of Daniel in the lion’s den. And the one about Samson and Delilah—though it paints ladies in rather a poor light. Then there’s the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. That’s my own favorite. It’s filled with injustice, revenge, hidden identities, and a spectacular triumph at the end. There are even prophetic dreams. Quite thrilling, I must say.”
Charlie scrunched his nose in disbelief. “Those stories are in the Bible?”
“They are, and plenty more besides. I can show you if you like. And then, if ever anyone again attempts to use reading the Bible as a punishment, you shall have the last laugh.”
Alfred’s mouth quirked. “Mr. Filbert wouldn’t like that.”
Julia smiled at him as she resumed her dinner.
Jasper gave her an odd look. “‘Hours on end?’” he repeated. “How old were you?”
“Not much older than Daisy.” Julia cut herself another piece of boiled carrot with her dull knife. “And Nanny Plum wasn’t the worst of them. One day”—she gave the children a portentous look—“I shall tell you about Nanny Bracegirdle.”
“Was she unkind to you?” Daisy asked.
“Not unkind, no.” Julia dropped her voice to a confiding whisper. “But she did have a mustache.”
The boys exploded into peals of laughter.
“Ladies don’t have mustaches, do they, Papa?” Daisy asked Jasper.
Jasper choked on his wine.
“Would anyone care for cake?” Mr. Beecham inquired before Jasper could answer. “There’s plenty left over from tea.”
Daisy’s attention was instantly diverted. “I would! Can I have cream, too?”
“May I,” Jasper said quietly.
“May I have cream?” Daisy amended.
“Don’t see why you shouldn’t.” Beecham’s chair scraped back on the stone floor as he got to his feet. “There’s enough for everyone.”
* * *
Later that evening, while Jasper bid good night to the children, Julia washed and changed into her nightgown. She was already in bed, sitting up against a pile of pillows, when he returned.
He hesitated for a moment on the threshold, watching her plait her hair. “You don’t wish me to brush it for you?”
Her hands stilled on the three sections she was twining together. Her heart performed a queer little somersault. “You needn’t.”
“You told me it was the thing you’d miss most about your old life, having your maid brush your hair each evening.”
“You’re not my maid,” she pointed out.
“No, indeed. I’m your husband.” He stripped off his coat and unknotted his cravat.
Heat rose up Julia’s throat. She wasn’t as tired as she’d been last night at the inn. Then, she’d been too exhausted from travel and blood loss to fully appreciate the intimacy of a man disrobing in front of her.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she was wide awake and attuned to Jasper’s every movement.
After removing his cravat, he unthreaded his pocket watch from his waistcoat and placed it on the brass-cornered mahogany chest of drawers by the window. His cuff links followed, making a decisive clink against the wood as he set them down. His waistcoat was next—tossed over the back of the same wingback chair where he’d draped his coat—leaving him in nothing but his shirtsleeves and a pair of black wool trousers.
Her mouth went dry as he removed his boots.
It was her own fault. She was the one who had asked if they could share a room.
She reminded herself that he’d wanted it, too. Whatever had happened in the intervening hours, he still seemed to want it.
He retrieved her hairbrush from the dressing table. His dressing table. Earlier, when she’d unpacked, it had felt a trifle presumptuous to put her things there.
What few things she had.
Mary hadn’t packed everything. The carpetbags and portmanteau had been stuffed full to bursting, but with Julia’s clothes, hats, and shoes, not with any less-essential luxuries.
She had no lotions or powders. No perfumes, save a bottle of lavender water.
It was rather dispiriting.
Jasper arched a brow at her as he approached the bed. He held up the brush. “Well?”
In answer, she abandoned her efforts at plaiting her hair and angled herself on the bed to make room for him.
The mattress springs creaked under his weight as he sat behind her. He was dangerously close. Closer even than he’d been last night. And this time there was no cashmere shawl to act as a barrier between them. There was only him—large and warm at her back.
He gathered her hair in his hand, pausing to run his fingers through it. She heard him take a deep breath. “How beautiful it is.”
She didn’t reply. Not because she had nothing to say, but because it seemed he was on the verge of saying something more himself.
But he didn’t speak again. He simply brushed her hair.
Her eyes closed with pleasure at the sensation. “Thank you.”