Receivehim? He cringed. If Loftus noticed this unfortunate choice of words, he didn’t show it, but merely bowed, his expression neutral. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As soon as Loftus turned his back, Jasper snatched up the decanter, poured a small measure of brandy into his glass and drank it down in one swallow. The sensible part of his brain let out a faint cry of dismay, but reason was no match for panic.
What did he know about bedding a virgin? Not a blessed thing. He knew even less about bedding a wife, but he had a vague notion it wasn’t at all the same sort of thing as bedding a mistress, which was a loud, carnal, sweaty, even acrobatic affair. Surely, a gentleman wasn’t meant to behave with such shocking savagery with hiswife?
Damn it, why hadn’t he thought to ask Basingstoke about how to manage it? Basingstoke’s own duchess seemed rather fond of him, so he must have done a decent enough job of—
“Mrs. Stritch informs me that Her Grace awaits your pleasure, Your Grace.”
His pleasure? Alas, another unfortunate choice of words.
Loftus’s gaze landed on the empty brandy glass in Jasper’s hand. “Perhaps the sooner the better, Your Grace.”
Jasper scowled at him. “Yes, alright, Loftus. You may go.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Loftus went, closing the bedchamber door behind him.
Right, then. Time to bed his wife. Jasper threw his shoulders back and tightened the tie of his banyan. Really, he was being ridiculous, making such a fuss over it. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what he was doing, for God’s sake. A mistress wasn’t a wife, no, but presumably they shared the same anatomy.
He strode to the door that connected his bedchamber to Prue’s, tapped his knuckles against the wood, then tapped harder, taking care to make his knock as commanding as possible.
A feeble knock wouldn’t do, in these circumstances.
“Yes?” Prue’s voice drifted through the door. “Come in, Your Grace.”
He simply had to take care to be mindful, and above all, gentle. It wouldn’t do to allow himself to become too inflamed with his animal passions. A gentleman didn’t fall upon one’s innocent wife like a ravening animal—
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
He froze just inside the door, his mouth going dry. The room was dim, no doubt in deference to Prue’s modesty, but a dozen or so candles had been lit, their gentle light casting the bedchamber in a golden glow. She was standing in front of the fireplace in a flowing white night rail, her hands clasped modestly in front of her. The flickering flames behind her revealed and then hid the outline of her body by turns, as if playing a game of hide and seek, and her hair . . .
He bit back a groan.
That glorious hair he’d spent so many weeks admiring had been gathered into a loose plait, tied at the end with a white ribbon and draped over one of her shoulders. The muted light danced over it, turning the gilded threads the color of golden treacle.
One tug on the end of that ribbon and those thick locks would spill about her shoulders in a loose, golden-brown waterfall. He could touch it, tangle his fingers in it, raise each shining strand to his lips—
“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” Prue’s smile faded, her brow puckering uncertainly.
He’d been silent too long. He was already making a mess of this, damn it. “I . . . no. You look . . .” He cleared his throat. “Just lovely.” The word wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but the extravagant compliments that usually fell from his lips with such practiced ease utterly failed him.
Yet it seemed to be enough for her. “Thank you, your . . . thank you, Jasper,” she murmured, a delicate flush rising in her cheeks. She didn’t say anything more, but just stood there plucking at the folds of her night rail, as if waiting for something.
Him. She was waiting forhim. He was thehusband, for God’s sake, and meant to take matters in hand. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, then crossed the bedchamber and took her hands in his, squeezing her fingers to stop their trembling. “There’s no need to be nervous,” he murmured, meeting her gaze. “I’m going to take care of you, Prue.”
He meant it. God, he’d never meant anything as much as he meant those words, but men and mice might make their plans one moment only to see them go awry in the next, and already the brandy and her nearness were making his head spin.
Mindful, and above all, gentle . . .
He reached for her, stroking his fingertip down her long, thick plait before catching the end of the white ribbon in his fingers. “May I?”
She nodded, her gaze never leaving his face as he tugged the ribbon loose and let it flutter to the floor, then unwound the plait until her hair hung like a golden curtain over her shoulder. “So beautiful,” he murmured, running his fingers through it. “I’ve always thought so.”
“You have?” She let out a nervous laugh. “I never would have guessed.”
“Yes.” He wound one of the thick locks around his finger, fascinated by the way the light danced over it. “So many colors, and so soft. Softer even than I imagined it would be.”
She flushed. “You . . . you imagined it?”
