She glanced up, studied him, and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing he was willing to admit.
He forced what he hoped was a teasing smile. “I see I have been supplanted in—”your affections. His heart and his words both stuttered. “At earliest opportunity, you fled.”
“Nonsense.” She grinned. “My first thought, I’ll have you know, was for your pillow.”
For his pillow. “But maybe, just a little, for me, too?”
Her smile softened. Her eyelids fluttered down. “Yes, for you, too.”
One, gently whispered sentence razed the wall that dread had erected. She wouldn’t lead him to ruin. She was his wife. His very pretty wife. And she was wearing nothing more than a night rail, wrapper and cap.
“Shall Mercy stay with me?” she asked. “Or do you wish him to remain with you for the night?”
“Are you inviting us both to spend the night?” He knew she hadn’t been, but he couldn’t resist asking.
“If you spend the night in my bed,” she replied carefully, “you’ll send Sally into a tizzy.”
“Marsden will be up first,” he reasoned. “He’ll give Sally fair warning.”
She hadn’t rejected him outright, so he reentered her chamber, waited a moment, and then closed the door behind him. She placed Mercy on the floor. The puppy’s ears flopped as he bounded over to Harbury’s feet. Harbury scooped him up and settled him into the crook of his arm. Cassandra made a soft sound.
Harbury raised his gaze, catching an expression on her he’d never seen before. An expression that could—optimistically—be interpreted as love.
His limbs went heavy, and his throat thickened.
She adjusted her wrapper and then turned away. She sat down at her dressing table and, slowly, pulled off her cap. Lock by lock, her thick, tousled hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“Glorious,” he said in a strained whisper.
“I didn’t re-braid my hair before taking the dog out.” She flashed a nervous smile. “I was too worried about your linens.”
He swallowed roughly. “I’m disappointed you did not leave your hair down for me.”
“I cannot sleep with it down. If I do, Sally will have a matted messon her hands in the morning.”
“I understand,” he replied.
Cassandra picked up her brush and drew the pliant bristles down through the curly mass—dark and rich like chocolate, soft as the petals of a rose. Intimate, watching her tend her hair.
More intimate still, if she permitted him to touch.
He shrugged out of his banyan, transferring the dog to his other arm. Then, he used his robe to arrange a makeshift puppy cradle at the mattress’s foot.
“This,” he spoke in a tone Mercy would understand, “is for you.”
He placed the pup on the bed. Mercy gave the banyan a thorough sniffing before deciding the arrangement would suit. Then, he curled up and sighed, leaving Harbury free to saunter over to his wife.
He rested his hands on her shoulders. “May I?”
“May you…?” she queried.
“Brush your hair.”
Her doubtful gaze met his in the mirror.
“I know enough not to pull,” he assured. “Whenever Sarah caught me—”
