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?”

In answer, she abandoned her efforts at plaiting her hair and angled herself on the bed to make room for him.

The mattress springs creaked under his weight as he sat behind her. He was dangerously close. Closer even than he’d been last night. And this time there was no cashmere shawl to act as a barrier between them. There was only him—large and warm at her back.

He gathered her hair in his hand, pausing to run his fingers through it. She heard him take a deep breath. “How beautiful it is.”

She didn’t reply. Not because she had nothing to say, but because it seemed he was on the verge of saying something more himself.

But he didn’t speak again. He simply brushed her hair.

Her eyes closed with pleasure at the sensation. “Thank you.”

“For the compliment?”

“Yes. And for the service. It feels divine.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You made a splendid effort with the children this evening. I’m grateful for it.”

“I hope I wasn’t too silly, telling them about Nanny Plum and Nanny Bracegirdle.”

“Not at all. It amused them greatly.”

But not him, it seemed. Julia sensed an underlying tension in his frame. As if something about their dinner conversation had troubled him.

“Have you always escaped into stories?” he asked.

“For as long as I can remember,” she said. “What is it you called novels at Lady Clifford’s musicale? ‘An inexpensive escape from the realities of life’?”

It’s what they’d been for her. An escape. A gateway to another world. Somewhere she could experience romance and adventure without anxiousness or fear—even if that experience was only in her imagination.

“I did,” he said. “But that’s not all they are.”

“What else?”

He ran the brush through her hair—one long, deep stroke from her roots to the end of her thick tresses. Julia’s limbs turned to treacle under his ministrations. Mary’s brushing had never had this effect. It had never made Julia feel so warm and languorous, as if she might melt with every sweep of the bristles.

“Stories like the ones we read in novels help us understand the human condition,” he said. “They teach us empathy. In that way, they’re more than an escape from the world. They’re an aid for living in the world. For being better, more compassionate people.”