He went to move his missing left arm to reach for the wine.
Jasper saw it in the betraying twitch of Sam’s shoulder and the slight twist of the left side of his body towards the decanter on the table.
And he saw from Sam’s expression that Sam knew Jasper had seen.
For a moment, they were both silent. Then Sam blurted, “Sometimes, I forget it’s gone.”
He looked—Christ above, he looked ashamed.
Jasper wished he knew what to say to eradicate that expression from Sam’s face. Sam Alderton had no business feeling shame over this. He was a damned hero. The bravest man Jasper had ever known.
“It must feel strange to you,” Jasper said. Immediately, he cursed himself for saying such a dull-witted thing—of course it was bloody strange!—but Sam didn’t seem put out. He seemed to be considering Jasper’s words.
“When I went to reach for the decanter just now,” he said after a moment, “my arm was there.” He met Jasper’s gaze and smiled crookedly. “At least, I thought it was. I could feel it, you see.”
Jasper frowned, puzzled. “Like a memory?”
Sam shook his head. “No, I could actually feel it. The weight and shape of it. My hand, my fingers.”
“How extraordinary,” Jasper said softly. “Has that happened before?”
Sam nodded. “Sometimes I feel tingling or twinges of pain.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Sometimes.” Sam toyed with the stem of his wine glass, watching the gleam of the candlelight in the ruby depths. After a long pause, he added, “It’s been eight months since it happened. A sabre slash at Toulouse. I’m lucky to be alive. Lucky to have lost only my left arm.”
Jasper opened his mouth to say something, but for a confirmed chatterbox, he found himself curiously at a loss for words.
And then Sam was smiling ruefully and saying, “That’s quite enough about my arm. Let’s talk about you.”
“Oh no, Sam!” Jasper said, “I’ve done nothing but talk about me all night. You must be bored stiff!”
Sam chuckled. “Not at all,” he said. “Besides, you still haven’t told me about those sketchbooks in your bedchamber—those were sketchbooks, I take it?”
It was Jasper’s turn to flush then, and he did, to Sam’s obvious amusement.
“I’ve been doing some drawing,” he mumbled.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Sam said curiously. “You used to love drawing—you were always much better than any of the girls.”
The girls—both Sam’s and Jasper’s sisters—had all had the benefit of lessons with drawing masters, since that was considered an appropriate occupation for a young lady. Jasper, however, had not been allowed to join those lessons, despite pleading with his father.
Jasper understood the real reason behind his father’s stubbornness now. He had been trying to push Jasper into every manly pursuit he could think of in some vain attempt to turn him into the sort of man he thought he should be. Jasper never did become that man, but he did end up an excellent horseman, an execrable dancer, and a talented artist despite not being allowed to take any drawing lessons.
Until now anyway.
“I’ve been taking some lessons,” he admitted to Sam. “With an artist friend. He thinks—” He broke off.
“Yes?” Sam prompted.
Jasper flushed again. “He says he thinks I’m rather good. He suggested I try painting with oils.”
Sam beamed. “You should. I would love to see what you produce.”
Jasper bit his lip against the smile that wanted to break out over his face, ridiculously pleased by Sam’s reaction. The truth was, he was exceptionally proud of the praise Perry had given him, but he was so used to hiding his art away that he found it difficult to talk about.
Even with Sam.
“Perhaps you could show me your sketchbooks?” Sam said then.
Jasper thought of the pages and pages and pages of nude male figures, and once again, his flush rose.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” he said.
Did Sam look disappointed?
Hurriedly, Jasper tried to change the subject.
“And what about you?” he asked. “What do you plan to do now that you’re out of the cavalry?”
It was a clumsy question. He realised it as soon as the words were out. The last thing Sam likely wanted to be reminded of was what he’d lost.
But again, Sam surprised him. He seemed unoffended by the question; indeed, his face took on a dreamy look. “One day I’d like to travel again. I’d like to go to Italy and Greece.” He smiled at Jasper. “Maybe Constantinople.”
“It’ll be hot there, I expect,” Jasper replied. “Not like here.”
“No,” Sam agreed with a crooked smile. “The heat does take a little getting used to. It’s entirely different to England.”
“Speaking of weather,” Jasper said. “Do you suppose it’s still snowing?”
Sam rose from his chair. “Only one way to find out.”
He crossed the room to the windows and pushed back the heavy drapes.
“Look at that,” he breathed as Jasper approached.
Outside, the snow was still swirling. The gardens were covered in deep drifts of white, a smooth, undulating landscape that glowed faintly in the darkness. The blizzard was not, however, quite so wild as it had been at first. Now the snow, though still thick, danced and twisted at a more leisurely pace.
Sam set his right hand against the window, moving closer. His breath made a circle of white on the glass.
“It’s so beautiful,” he breathed, and God, he was a picture, standing there. Desire pierced Jasper, low in his belly.
“Do you want to go outside?” Sam asked suddenly, turning his head to look at Jasper. He wore an expression of boyish wonder that warmed Jasper’s heart as surely as his physical beauty had hardened Jasper’s cock.
Christ, but he was still a sap for Sam Alderton after all these years, wasn’t he?
Jasper met Sam’s hope-filled gaze.
“I’d love to,” he said, and his smile was helpless.
Jasper had spent many of his Christmases with the Aldertons, both here in Wiltshire and at home in Berkshire. Perhaps it was his memory playing tricks on him, but for some reason, it always seemed to snow here at Alderton Hall and never at home.
But even in his fondest memories, there had never been snow like this: thick and soft and white—the most perfect snow he had ever seen.
When he and Sam let themselves out onto the garden terrace, they entered a hushed and magical world. The great sky above them was densely, softly black, and the layer of white beneath their feet was deep and untouched.
Virgin snow.
The first snow of winter.
Jasper sullied it with his footsteps, crossing the terrace to stand at the balustrade and gaze out over the grounds of the Hall.
There was a good four inches sitting on the top of the balustrade. Jasper brushed some of it off with the back of his hand. It was feather-soft and freezing.
“Do you remember the snow fights we used to have?” Sam asked behind him. There was laughter in his voice.
Jasper turned to find Sam eyeing him with a snowball in his right hand and a familiar, merry glint in his eye that made Jasper’s heart clench.