Page 118 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

Jasper turned back to her. “She has a vivid imagination. I don’t usually discourage it.”

“‘An imagination is nothing to apologize for,’” she quoted back to him. “You told me that at Lady Holland’s dinner. Do you remember?”

“I remember everything we’ve ever said to each other.”

Her cheeks warmed. “That’s very flattering.”

He shrugged. “It’s the truth.” His gaze dropped briefly to the front of her bodice. She’d unfastened it almost to the waist. “Do you need help?”

“No, thank you. I can manage.” She focused on removing her own clothing, first endeavoring to ignore the intensity of his regard, then attempting to ignore the fact that he was disrobing, too.

As she stepped out of her skirts and petticoats, she cast him a cautious glance through her lashes.

He’d already removed his top boots and stripped off his shirt.

Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never seen him shirtless before—or any gentleman, come to that.

He was impossibly large and powerful. All broad shoulders, hard muscles, and sun-burnished skin. A picture of raw masculine power, rather like the Grecian friezes and sculptures in the British Museum.

One of them in particular: the reclining Dionysos. She remembered admiring it once in company with Anne, the two of them staring wide-eyed at the god’s nude torso, every plane and groove of his chest chiseled in perfect relief.

Jasper’s naked chest was as mightily defined as the sculpture, but there the similarities ended. Unlike the marble flesh of Dionysos, her new husband’s skin was riddled with scars. Raised scars that resembled the slash on his face, and other scars, too—small and puckered, as if he’d been scorched or burned.

“Bullet wounds,” he said.

Her gaze leapt to his, her face flaming with mortification. She’d been staring at him like some silly schoolgirl. “You were shot?”

“Several times.” His hands were at the front of his breeches, unbuttoning them as if it were the veriest commonplace. “It’s been my misfortune to always find myself in the way of stray bullets. Luckily, none have penetrated so deeply that the surgeons couldn’t remove them.”

“Was this in the Crimea?”

“It was. All of these scars—” He stopped. “Forgive me. I realize it isn’t pleasing to look at.”

“No. It’s . . . You’re . . .” She moistened lips that were suddenly dry. “It pleases me very much.”

His mouth hitched in a lopsided smile. One of his boyish smiles—as rare as it was potent.

The impact on her constitution was immediate. Her stomach fluttered and her heart turned over, leaving her flustered and breathless and wanting nothing more than to throw herself straight into his arms.

A foolish notion.

The children were within view, and she was in no state to be embracing anyone. Indeed, wearing nothing but her chemise and drawers, the sun warming her skin through the thin layers of cambric, she felt positively naked.

“Don’t forget your boots and stockings,” Jasper said.

“I haven’t forgotten them.” She bent to unlace her half boots, heedless of her chemise gaping open at her neck. It took her longer than usual. She was all thumbs. By the time her legs and feet were bare, she’d been bent over for heaven knows how long.

Straightening, she found Jasper staring at her. A dull red flush was evident high on his cheekbones.

A surge of self-consciousness made her hesitate. “What is it?”

His throat worked on a swallow. “Nothing.”

Her gaze flicked briefly downward. He’d already removed his breeches and was wearing nothing save a pair of flannel drawers. She expected to be scandalized, but the garment wasn’t at all indecent. In fact, they were rather utilitarian in appearance, falling partway to his knees, with an overlapping front secured with small buttons.

She bit her lower lip.

To think just a week ago he’d been a stranger to her. And now, here they were. Not only married, but standing out of doors together in their knickers. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to swoon.