“Danger!” The bird squawked again.
Julia nuzzled the bird and cooed. “There now, valiant friend.Him, I can handle.”
Handle him, could she?
He only hoped she was able.
“I regret to interrupt afternoon tea,” he said, “but I’d like to have a word with Lady Julia.”
“Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Shillingham said and transferred the bird to her shoulder. “Your groom is waiting.”
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Chapter Thirteen
Rayne concentrated on the weight of Julia’s hand against his forearm. A common enough sensation, and yet his augmented awareness of her presence was proof that everything had changed. His focus fixed to the slight pressure, the warmth, the way she tucked up close against his side, her palm barely spanning the circumference of his muscle.
When they were fighting—when the fire in her fanned to full flame—he hardly noticed the considerable difference in their sizes. Times like this, however, when she was pensive…quiet…she appeared tiny enough to fold into his pocket.
The one in his waistcoat, near his heart.
She, on the other hand, was not focused on him at all. Instead, she took great interest in the corridor wall as they walked, her gaze catching on portraits as if they were briars. Every now and then her lips twitched as if she was working up the courage to speak but wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say.
“Did you see Farring’s letter?” she finally asked.
“No, but James described the important parts.”
She briefly closed her eyes before inhaling and setting back her shoulders. “Then I suppose you know you are one traveling coach richer.”
“So it would seem.”
A generous gift on Farring’s behalf. Truth be told, he’d grown increasingly attached to the carriage. As he’d ridden with Clarissa from London to Southford, Clarissa had bubbled over with happiness to be wed, and every mile since, the chariot had been increasingly marked by images of Julia.
In all, he’d already made more tender memories inside the glossy monstrosity than he’d made anywhere else. Although… “One cannot accept a wedding gift…without a wedding, don’t you agree?”
She stopped walking, withdrew her arm, and turned to him. For a moment, he thought she would launch into his arms the way she had after the bridge.
Instead, she fluttered her hands and then backed up against a column. She slapped her flattened palms behind her against the wall, as if she were afraid she might be tempted to touch him again.
For the first time, he noticed what she was wearing. The same gold-tinted silk she had worn to Clarissa’s wedding had been cleaned, aired, and fell to the floor in elegant folds.
“Let me guess. Farring sent you clothes, too?”
She nodded. “This and three other dresses I had left with Horatia in London.”
Like his mother, Farring had an eye for detail.
He imagined Julia changing inside Southford’s stables while Farring kept watch at the door. He heard the silk whisper as she pulled it over her head, imagined the sound of her laces as she untied her stays. He frowned.
“Do your stays lace in the front or the back?” he asked.
Her expression softened. “I didn’t need help changing into the livery, if that’s what you’re asking. All of my stays lace in the front. While I stayed with Farring’s family, I didn’t like to trouble the duke’s staff more than necessary.” She lifted her brows. “Four young women plus the duchess means a constant flutter of clothing.”
He heard nothing afterlace in the front.
He’d inadvertently discovered why conversations about undergarments were strictly prohibited. He’d been admiring her dress. Now, all he could see were her breasts.
And all he could imagine was undoing her laces.
