damp hands over her hair from her crown to her hips. Soon her hair was lying in obedient waves.
“Give me the brush,” Wolfe said.
His voice was low, almost hoarse, and his eyes were nearly black. He dampened the brush slightly, then returned to work on Jessica’s hair. Unlike her maid, he stood in front of her rather than in back as he brushed her hair.
“Wolfe?”
“Hmm?”
“My maids stand behind me.”
“Too many buttons. Don’t want to tempt the beastly appetites.”
Jessica looked up at Wolfe, curious about the velvety roughness of his voice. Her breath caught as she realized she was standing closer to Wolfe than she had when they waltzed on the night of her twentieth birthday. With other men, she hadn’t liked being close, but with Wolfe she had resented the decorum of the waltz that had prevented her from burrowing closer to Wolfe’s strength.
The pulse in his neck beat strongly, intriguing her. If she stood on tiptoe and leaned forward just a bit, or if she lifted her hand, she would be able to feel his heartbeat.
“Did that hurt?” he asked.
“Hurt?”
“Little redheaded parrot,” he murmured. He gathered a handful of hair, lifted it well away from Jessica’s breasts, and brushed slowly all the way to the ends as he talked. “When you made that odd little sound, I thought I had hurt you again.”
She shook her head slowly, sending the cool silk of her loose hair over Wolfe’s hands. “No. I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I’ve never noticed the pulse beating in your neck before. Once I noticed it, I thought of touching it, of feeling the very movement of your life beneath my fingertips…”
Wolfe’s hand jerked at the sudden surge of his heart. The motion brought him very close to touching her breasts. He stopped brushing her hair.
“Dangerous thoughts, Jessi.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes a man want to let you touch the life in him.”
“Why is that dangerous?”
Wolfe looked down into Jessica’s clear eyes and knew that she hadn’t the faintest idea how much her words might arouse a man.
Teach the stubborn little nun not to fear a man’s touch. Then you’ll both be free.
Wolfe wondered if Jessica was teasing him solemnly once more, as she had about the ferocity of her silky, unbound hair. Slowly, he decided that she wasn’t teasing him. She truly didn’t know what he was talking about. The extent of her innocence astonished him. The aristocratic ladies he had known in England acquired new lovers the way a gambler acquired new cards—frequently and unemotionally.
“Have you ever touched a man like that, feeling his very life?” Wolfe asked, lifting the brush once more.
“No.”
“Why not, if it intrigues you so?”
“I never noticed it before now. And if I had, I would have done nothing.”
“Why?”
“I would have to stand quite close to a man to touch him like that,” Jessica said. “The thought appalls.”
“You’re standing quite close to me. I’m a man.”
“Ah, but you’re my very own Lord Wolfe. When the storm had me in its teeth, you snatched me close and held the thunder at bay. When other children teased me savagely about my common blood, you came and put an end to it. You taught me to shoot and to ride and to fish. And no matterhow I teased you, you were never cruel to your elf.”
“Very few men are cruel to elves.”
A delicate shiver of pleasure moved over Jessica’s skin as Wolfe resumed brushing her hair.
“You’re shivering. Would you like a wrap?”
“It was pleasure, not a cold draft that made me shiver.”
Again, Wolfe’s hand hesitated as the meaning underlying Jessica’s words sent a shaft of desire through him.
“Did Lady Victoria teach you to flirt like this?” he asked curiously.
“Flirting consists of feints and sighs and lies. I am merely telling the truth. It never felt this good when Betsy brushed my hair.”
There was a time of silence broken only by the whisper of
“Give me the brush,” Wolfe said.
His voice was low, almost hoarse, and his eyes were nearly black. He dampened the brush slightly, then returned to work on Jessica’s hair. Unlike her maid, he stood in front of her rather than in back as he brushed her hair.
“Wolfe?”
“Hmm?”
“My maids stand behind me.”
“Too many buttons. Don’t want to tempt the beastly appetites.”
Jessica looked up at Wolfe, curious about the velvety roughness of his voice. Her breath caught as she realized she was standing closer to Wolfe than she had when they waltzed on the night of her twentieth birthday. With other men, she hadn’t liked being close, but with Wolfe she had resented the decorum of the waltz that had prevented her from burrowing closer to Wolfe’s strength.
The pulse in his neck beat strongly, intriguing her. If she stood on tiptoe and leaned forward just a bit, or if she lifted her hand, she would be able to feel his heartbeat.
“Did that hurt?” he asked.
“Hurt?”
“Little redheaded parrot,” he murmured. He gathered a handful of hair, lifted it well away from Jessica’s breasts, and brushed slowly all the way to the ends as he talked. “When you made that odd little sound, I thought I had hurt you again.”
She shook her head slowly, sending the cool silk of her loose hair over Wolfe’s hands. “No. I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I’ve never noticed the pulse beating in your neck before. Once I noticed it, I thought of touching it, of feeling the very movement of your life beneath my fingertips…”
Wolfe’s hand jerked at the sudden surge of his heart. The motion brought him very close to touching her breasts. He stopped brushing her hair.
“Dangerous thoughts, Jessi.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes a man want to let you touch the life in him.”
“Why is that dangerous?”
Wolfe looked down into Jessica’s clear eyes and knew that she hadn’t the faintest idea how much her words might arouse a man.
Teach the stubborn little nun not to fear a man’s touch. Then you’ll both be free.
Wolfe wondered if Jessica was teasing him solemnly once more, as she had about the ferocity of her silky, unbound hair. Slowly, he decided that she wasn’t teasing him. She truly didn’t know what he was talking about. The extent of her innocence astonished him. The aristocratic ladies he had known in England acquired new lovers the way a gambler acquired new cards—frequently and unemotionally.
“Have you ever touched a man like that, feeling his very life?” Wolfe asked, lifting the brush once more.
“No.”
“Why not, if it intrigues you so?”
“I never noticed it before now. And if I had, I would have done nothing.”
“Why?”
“I would have to stand quite close to a man to touch him like that,” Jessica said. “The thought appalls.”
“You’re standing quite close to me. I’m a man.”
“Ah, but you’re my very own Lord Wolfe. When the storm had me in its teeth, you snatched me close and held the thunder at bay. When other children teased me savagely about my common blood, you came and put an end to it. You taught me to shoot and to ride and to fish. And no matterhow I teased you, you were never cruel to your elf.”
“Very few men are cruel to elves.”
A delicate shiver of pleasure moved over Jessica’s skin as Wolfe resumed brushing her hair.
“You’re shivering. Would you like a wrap?”
“It was pleasure, not a cold draft that made me shiver.”
Again, Wolfe’s hand hesitated as the meaning underlying Jessica’s words sent a shaft of desire through him.
“Did Lady Victoria teach you to flirt like this?” he asked curiously.
“Flirting consists of feints and sighs and lies. I am merely telling the truth. It never felt this good when Betsy brushed my hair.”
There was a time of silence broken only by the whisper of
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