put his hands on her, she stilled, allowing him to guide her arms into their sleeves and unbutton the high collar enough to permit her dark head to pop through.
Something about helping her into her gown settled him, as well. His breaths calmed, though his cock did not, but he no longer felt as if his heart tried to escape by way of his throat.
She reached up to push the tangles of her hair away from her face, but he beat her to it, smoothing the damp tendrils from her cheeks and elegant neck.
She regarded him with a lost, rather unsure expression that tugged at his heart.
“For future reference, you’re being neither prudent nor good,” he said in a voice suddenly made of silk.
Her lip quirked. “For future reference, my name has always been a lamentable irony.”
She attempted a good-humored smile, but it never took. She only succeeded in looking exhausted and alluring, and very young.
Too young for him, probably.
Good Lord, he didn’t even know his wife’s age. He knew next to nothing about her. Her health. Her skills, her strengths, her flaws. Her life before this.
Before him.
Though he’d had her in a garden, he’d never even seen her naked before tonight.
Certainly, he’d fantasized about it to an obsessive degree, but nothing had been able to prepare him for the perfection of her. Generous breasts, dramatic curves, and an arse so delectable he ached to—
“You really should be lying down,” he said with brusque efficiency, closing the door firmly on those thoughts.
Her face fell. “I needed to dry and dress. I’m not about to meet the doctor in the altogether, am I? Also, my hair will dry in clumps of snarls if I don’t brush it.”
He gently but firmly steered her toward the bed. “I will tend to you.”
She kept any remonstration to herself as she allowed him to tuck the bedclothes around her lap. Her eyes tracked him as he retrieved her silver hairbrush from her vanity and brought it to her. “Allow me to—”
She snatched the brush from him. “No need, I’ve a tender head and it takes a delicate touch.”
Better she do it, then. His hands still shook, and his emotions seemed to be taking wild, pendulum-like swings. His feelings for her, he realized, were not gentle. But ardent.
Violent even.
It was why he stayed away. Something volatile hung in the air whenever she was near, and volatility wasn’t something he allowed himself.
Lord, but it felt as though he were an abandoned tangle of yarn only just discovered by a sharp-nailed woman intent upon unraveling him.
Morley perched on the foot of the bed, bending his knee so he could face her. “Do you still feel ill?” he asked as she began to run the brush through her damp hair, starting at the ends and working her way up.
“I haven’t been for a few days beyond mild bouts of nausea.” She flicked him a shy look from beneath her lashes. “Thank you for the ginger ale. I’ve been sipping it when I feel poorly.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Well. I read about it somewhere.”
He’d read anything he could get his hands on, actually. Books on pregnancy and childbirth. Doctor’s pamphlets and periodicals. Everything. If he was going to be a father, he’d be the most knowledgeable father in the kingdom.
She fell into a contemplative silence, her entire being focused on the task of her hair.
Morley watched her alertly, examining her for signs of… well, of anything out of the ordinary. Not that he exactly knew what to look for. Bleeding, he supposed. Another loss of consciousness. Confusion. Pain.
Charming little mannerisms became apparent under such close scrutiny. She’d one very expressive left eyebrow, while the right one never so much as arched. Her left hand was the dominant one, as well. She’d a freckle beneath her right eye. Just the one. And a little scar behind her jaw on the right side. She slept in a great deal of ruffles.
And when she brushed her hair, she laced her fingers through the section to test for snarls in very rhythmic, graceful gestures.
The inky swath draped over the shoulder of her white nightgown, waving in places and framing her face with little tendrils that beckoned to be touched.
Lord she was lovely.
And she was his.
He’d never seen her like this. Even pale and fresh-scrubbed, damp and unadorned, she remained a beacon of beauty. The kind of siren that would dash a man like him on the rocks.