Page 110 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“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?”