The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(67)

Julia had a troubling thought. “You don’t expect me to civilize them, do you?”

A wry smile sounded in his voice. “You can but try.”

“I’d rather be a friend to them.”

“I hope you will be,” he said.

She gradually relaxed under his ministration, sighing with contentment as the brush moved over her hair. He had a stronger stroke than Mary. It was exceedingly pleasurable.

“You’re very good at this,” she observed.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Have you done it before?”

“Often. I frequently assist in readying Daisy for bed or in helping her to dress in the morning. She’s not as fond of having her hair brushed as other ladies I’ve known.”

Her mind latched on to a single phrase. “Have there been others?”

He was silent.

“Have there?” she asked again.

He stopped brushing. It was answer enough.

A stab of jealousy took Julia unaware. She turned to look at him. And something in his face told her that there hadn’t been others; there had been only one. Another woman he’d been intimate with in this exact same way.

Hurt warred with curiosity within her breast. “Who was she?” she asked. But she feared she already knew the answer. It was his mistress, of course. The mother of his three children. Judging by their ages, Jasper had been with the woman for years.

He neither confirmed her suspicions nor denied them. Instead, he set aside her hairbrush and, rising from the bed, crossed the room to stand in front of the fire.

Worse and worse.

“You can tell me,” she said. “I won’t be jealous.” It was a lie. She was already jealous.

He faced her from across the short distance, the flames at his back. “You have no reason to be. It was a long time ago.”

She studied him in the firelight. “Did you care for her very much?”

“I did,” he admitted. “I loved her.”

Julia’s stomach clenched. Well. There it was. He’d been in love with his mistress. Perhaps he still loved her.

It served Julia right for asking.

A shiver went through her. She drew her shawl more firmly about her shoulders. If she had any sense, she wouldn’t ask him anything more. But as always, her inquisitiveness got the better of her. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “She died.”

Any relief Julia might have felt at the revelation was overshadowed by a genuine and immediate sympathy. “Oh, my dear,” she said softly. “I am sorry.”

Something flickered in his eyes. An emotion she couldn’t interpret. “Don’t be,” he said. “I told you, it was a long time ago.”

“I’m still sorry. If you loved her—”

“It’s in the past. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” He came toward her. “You’re cold.”

She stood; the ends of her shawl twined in her fingers. “I am, rather. It’s past time I went to bed.”

He reached out to her.

“No, no.” She drew back from him. “I can manage. You must attend to yourself. I daresay you’re as tired as I am.”

She didn’t give him an opportunity to object. Hastily pulling back the coverlet, she clambered into bed and slid clumsily beneath the sheets. The faded pillow slip was soft on her cheek as she burrowed her face into the pillow, determined not to look as Jasper disrobed.

If he was disrobing.

The room had gone silent, save for the intermittent crackle of the fire. She sensed his presence near the bed, still standing there, as if on the verge of saying something.

Or doing something.

Anxiety bubbled within her. The mattress was indeed small. And Jasper Blunt was a large man. He outstripped her in height by nearly a foot. And he was easily more than six stone heavier than she was. She knew that much for a certainty. Only moments ago, she’d felt every inch of his powerfully muscled frame as he’d held her in his arms and kissed her.

And now he was going to be sleeping beside her.

Goodness.

Goodness.

She waited for him to speak, but he never did. He withdrew to the other side of the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. In time, she heard the sound of clothing being removed. First his boots, then everything else—or so she imagined.

But when he at last came to join her in bed, she opened her eyes to discover him still wearing his shirt and trousers. She caught a glimpse of his untucked linen shirt before he turned down the oil lamp.

“You’re still dressed,” she said with some chagrin.

“I am.” He climbed in beside her. The already sagging mattress sagged still further under his weight.

Julia had to grip her side of the bed to keep from rolling against him. A futile effort. In seconds, they were as close as they’d been when he’d embraced her.

They faced each other in the firelit darkness, practically nose to nose.

Her heart hammered so hard it stole her breath. “Won’t you be uncomfortable?”

“I’ll be uncomfortable regardless.”

“Then why—”

“I mean to keep my promises to you—one way or another.”

She offered him an uncertain smile. “Am I that hard to resist?”