The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(62)

A frown notched Jasper’s brow.

Bloody hell. This was his wedding night. A night he was meant to spend in that bed deflowering his new bride.

It wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. He’d promised her that. Nevertheless . . .

The bed was there, an almost taunting reminder.

Julia hadn’t noticed it yet. After being set down, she stood against him for a moment to get her bearings, head bent and gloved hands flat on his chest. Her bosom rose and fell rapidly, as if she had been the one to climb the stairs and not him.

Blood loss made one short of breath. Jasper recalled that much from his own experience. The saber cut to his face had bled like the dickens. In the aftermath of the skirmish, packed onto a ship with hundreds of other injured and dying soldiers, he’d made the brief voyage from Sebastopol to Constantinople, breathless and weak, falling in and out of consciousness, only to awaken boiling with fever in a bed at Scutari Hospital.

He didn’t know how much blood the doctor had taken from Julia, but he could well imagine how she must be feeling.

“Easy,” he murmured as he untied her bonnet. Removing it from her head, he tossed it onto the bed alongside his hat. Her cloak followed, then her gloves. She submitted to his ministrations without a word. “Would you like to sit down or lie down?”

“Sit down,” she said. “And then lie down.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Both, then.”

The chair was only a few steps away, but Julia made no move to go to it. She seemed reluctant to leave him.

He smoothed a hand over her rumpled hair, brushing it back from her face. It was one of the dozens of minor liberties he’d already taken with her—as tender as it was proprietary.

It should have been enough.

But this was the first time they’d ever been alone. Truly alone. There were no servants about. No riders on Rotten Row or party guests smoking on a balcony or encroaching at the edges of a darkened garden. For the first time, he had her all to himself, inside a bedchamber, behind a securely locked door.

And she was his wife.

He dropped his hand from her hair to cup her face, tipping it up to his. Her skin was satiny warm, her blue eyes burning bright in the firelight. “Julia.” His voice went gruff. “I mean to keep my promise to you about waiting to consummate our marriage. But it is our wedding night, and . . .”

A wash of rosy pink crept up her throat and into her face. “Yes?”

He moved the pad of his thumb over the slope of her blushing cheek in a slow caress. “I’d like to kiss you.”

Her lips trembled. She didn’t give him permission. Not with her words. But her arms slid up to wrap about his neck.

Heat surged through his veins as he felt the soft curve of her hand on the bare skin at his nape. She coaxed him to her. He needed little enough encouragement. Bending his head, he caught her mouth in a fiercely passionate kiss.

Her fingers slid into his hair, twining tightly.

And everything within him—from his heart to his lungs to his very soul, now bound for eternity with hers—contracted with a pleasure so keen it was almost too much to bear.

He wrapped his arms around her, one at her waist and one about her shoulders, holding her small body against his from her bosom to her knees. Her skirts tangled about his legs, crinoline and petticoats pushed all out of shape.

Alarm bells went off at the back of his mind, warning him to be careful with her, not to crush her with his size or overwhelm her with the strength of his passion.

But Julia showed no signs of being put off by his ardor. Standing on the toes of her boots, she strained up to meet him. Their breath mingled as she returned his kiss with soft, half-parted lips, her mouth yielding beneath his in the same blood-stirring fashion it had when he’d kissed her in the Claverings’ garden.

Though untutored, she was not unskilled. There was a natural sensuality in the way she touched him. The way her lips moved on his with a sweetly seeking pressure.

It was an agony to break the kiss. Even when he did, he still held her in the same crushing embrace, his lips sliding along her jaw and cheek and temple.

“My darling girl,” he murmured roughly. “You must tell me if I’m hurting you.”

Her fingers loosened from his hair. “You’re not hurting me.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite certain.” She slid her hands to his shoulders. “I wish you could hold me like this forever.”

A husky laugh rose up in his throat. It might have been a groan. He rested his cheek against her brow. “Don’t tempt me.”



* * *





?For once, Julia was grateful to be exhausted. If she wasn’t burnt to the socket, she might have expired from repressed embarrassment.

Illuminated by a glass oil lamp standing on the bedside table, the bed itself seemed to fill the whole of their small attic room. Everywhere she looked, there it was. There was no avoiding it, or the dilemma that would face them when it was time to retire.

Were they going to sleep together? Or would Jasper sleep on the floor? And after that kiss . . .

Good heavens.

She hadn’t unwittingly changed the terms of their agreement, had she? In kissing him so passionately, she hadn’t given him permission for more?

Not that he needed her permission.

A wife belonged to a husband in every regard. Her money wasn’t her own. Her body wasn’t her own. Even her children—if she ever had them—wouldn’t be hers. Not in the eyes of the law. Once married, a husband and wife became one person. According to the law, that person was the husband.