Loving Julia by Karen Robards Page A

so that the lamplight shone directly on it. His free hand caught the towel, pulling it from her head so that her hair fell from what remained of its pins to straggle in a damp, midnight black rat’s nest to her waist. His eyes raked the mess, then moved over the high cheekboned, pointy chinned face. Jewel knew that she was no beauty, but still she resented the almost clinical detachment with which he assessed and then dismissed each individual feature: high broad forehead partly hidden under the tangled mass of hair, thick brows as black as her hair winging upward at the edges so that they seemed to take flight at her temples, black-lashed eyes the color of amber set deep and with a faint slant at the edges, a small straight nose unbecomingly reddened, parchment pale skin that was chapped and roughened by exposure to the elements stretching taut over hollowed, hungry cheeks, and a full-lipped mouth that lacked color. Jem had often said that she looked like a little gypsy, but still it was galling to be less than pretty in the eyes of this haughty lord who was so dazzingly beautiful himself.
    “Open your mouth,” he said. Jewel blinked at him, and tried to jerk her chin free. Once again those long fingered hands proved surprisingly strong.
    “I ain’t a bleedin’ ’orse!”
    “No one said you were. Now open your mouth.”
    Sulkily Jewel obeyed. There was something about him that made a body feel that she was better off to do as he said. Not that she was afraid of him, mind.
    His eyes ran over her small teeth, which were relatively even and strong. He nodded once, and Jewel took that for permission to close her mouth. She did so, looking him over from head to toe with open provocation just so he would know she was not totally cowed. But he didn’t seem one whit disturbed by her close inspection; on the contrary, it was she who was bothered. Seen so close, it was apparent that the lean, broad shouldered frame beneath the impeccable evening clothes was impressively muscular. Jewel hadn’t realized it before, but now she became aware that she liked leanly muscled men. His physique didn’t repulse her as had, say, Mick’s burly form.
    “Stand up.”
    “Wot?” His command caught her by surprise, and she frowned. He repeated it with a cool lack of emphasis, and stepped back from her, allowing her sufficient room to obey. Jewel, to her own surprise, stood without further question, looking at him warily. The blanket drooped from her shoulder, and he reached out to remove it altogether, throwing it aside as though it might be unclean.
    “I ain’t got the pox, if that be wot’s worryin’ ya.”
    “You relieve my mind.” His voice was as tranquil as if they were discussing the weather. Jewel ground her teeth. This fine earl would drive her to drink within a week, she thought—or maybe even to murder him. The thought made her smile.
    “How old are you?” he demanded abruptly, his eyes narrowed as he watched the change a smile brought to her face.
    “Sixteen, or thereabouts, I think. How old ya be?”
    It was deliberate impertinence, and Jewel did not really expect him to answer, but he did without apparent rancor.
    “Thirty-one.”
    Exactly fifteen years older than herself, Jewel calculated as his eyes ran over her again. Old enough so that he was a full grown man, not a clumsy boy.
    “You’re way too thin, but I suppose that’s only to be expected and can be remedied. We will hope that your figure will improve as your diet does.”
    His eyes turned critically to her small breasts, clearly revealed even to the tiny upright nipples by the damp silk that clung to her. His gaze rested there for an instant before moving down over her tiny waist and boyish hips. The only undergarment she ever wore was a pair of drawers, and with her dress as wet as it was, every curve and hollow of her shape was revealed to him. Looking down at herself, Jewel felt a sense of shame that her body wasn’t more lushly female. But she