“Yes, Papa.”
He pivoted her small body toward the pond. “Go on.”
She burst into a run the second he released her, leaping into the water with as much exuberance as the boys had. They greeted her as she paddled out to them, splashing and cheering her in equal measure.
Jasper raised his voice. “Charlie, Alfred, look after your sister!”
The boys answered in unison: “Yes, sir!”
Julia observed the interaction as she unfastened the hidden hooks at the front o f her bodice.
Jasper turned back to her. “She has a vivid imagination. I don’t usually discourage it.”
“‘An imagination is nothing to apologize for,’” she quoted back to him. “You told me that at Lady Holland’s dinner. Do you remember?”
“I remember everything we’ve ever said to each other.”
Her cheeks warmed. “That’s very flattering.”
He shrugged. “It’s the truth.” His gaze dropped briefly to the front of her bodice. She’d unfastened it almost to the waist. “Do you need help?”
“No, thank you. I can manage.” She focused on removing her own clothing, first endeavoring to ignore the intensity of his regard, then attempting to ignore the fact that he was disrobing, too.
As she stepped out of her skirts and petticoats, she cast him a cautious glance through her lashes.
He’d already removed his top boots and stripped off his shirt.
Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never seen him shirtless before—or any gentleman, come to that.
He was impossibly large and powerful. All broad shoulders, hard muscles, and sun-burnished skin. A picture of raw masculine power, rather like the Grecian friezes and sculptures in the British Museum.
One of them in particular: the reclining Dionysos. She remembered admiring it once in company with Anne, the two of them staring wide-eyed at the god’s nude torso, every plane and groove of his chest chiseled in perfect relief.
Jasper’s naked chest was as mightily defined as the sculpture, but there the similarities ended. Unlike the marble flesh of Dionysos, her new husband’s skin was riddled with scars. Raised scars that resembled the slash on his face, and other scars, too—small and puckered, as if he’d been scorched or burned.
“Bullet wounds,” he said.
Her gaze leapt to his, her face flaming with mortification. She’d been staring at him like some silly schoolgirl. “You were shot?”
“Several times.” His hands were at the front of his breeches, unbuttoning them as if it were the veriest commonplace. “It’s been my misfortune to always find myself in the way of stray bullets. Luckily, none have penetrated so deeply that the surgeons couldn’t remove them.”
“Was this in the Crimea?”
“It was. All of these scars—” He stopped. “Forgive me. I realize it isn’t pleasing to look at.”
“No. It’s . . . You’re . . .” She moistened lips that were suddenly dry. “It pleases me very much.”
His mouth hitched in a lopsided smile. One of his boyish smiles—as rare as it was potent.
The impact on her constitution was immediate. Her stomach fluttered and her heart turned over, leaving her flustered and breathless and wanting nothing more than to throw herself straight into his arms.
A foolish notion.
The children were within view, and she was in no state to be embracing anyone. Indeed, wearing nothing but her chemise and drawers, the sun warming her skin through the thin layers of cambric, she felt positively naked.
“Don’t forget your boots and stockings,” Jasper said.
“I haven’t forgotten them.” She bent to unlace her half boots, heedless of her chemise gaping open at her neck. It took her longer than usual. She was all thumbs. By the time her legs and feet were bare, she’d been bent over for heaven knows how long.
Straightening, she found Jasper staring at her. A dull red flush was evident high on his cheekbones.
A surge of self-consciousness made her hesitate. “What is it?”
His throat worked on a swallow. “Nothing.”
Her gaze flicked briefly downward. He’d already removed his breeches and was wearing nothing save a pair of flannel drawers. She expected to be scandalized, but the garment wasn’t at all indecent. In fact, they were rather utilitarian in appearance, falling partway to his knees, with an overlapping front secured with small buttons.
She bit her lower lip.
To think just a week ago he’d been a stranger to her. And now, here they were. Not only married, but standing out of doors together in their knickers. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to swoon.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I think so.” She walked alongside him down to the bank of the pond. The children splashed nearby, oblivious to any shyness or discomfort Julia might be feeling. “Is the water very cold?”
“Let’s see.” Jasper stepped into it ahead of her.
And that’s when she saw it. A sight that stopped her heart from flip-flopping and her stomach from trembling. It was his back—broad and lean and muscular as all the rest of him. It was scarred, too. But not with cuts like the one on his face and chest, and not with bullet wounds. These scars were uniform, one laid down after the other as if made with the same implement over and over again.
Julia had never seen anything like it, but some part of her recognized it for what it was. He’d been beaten. Flogged.
She couldn’t comprehend it.
Who on earth would have had the temerity to flog the notorious Captain Blunt?
Twenty-Six
The water rose up around Jasper, first to his waist, then to his chest, hiding his scars from view. He turned back to Julia.
“Your turn now,” he said. “The temperature’s perfect.”
It was all she could do to keep her countenance. “I’m coming.”
She dipped a toe into the water. It was cool, but not unbearably so. She walked into it as he had, slowly and deliberately submerging herself as she made her way out to where he stood. Her teeth chattered, all thoughts of the whip marks on his back forgotten. “It’s freezing!”
“It won’t be for long,” he said. “Not once you start moving.”
She took another few steps. The uneven bed of the pond was slippery beneath her feet. As she walked deeper, the hem of her chemise floated up from her body. She slapped a hand down over it. “Oh, this is dreadful,” she muttered. “I don’t think I like it at all.”