Vale looked from the tray of food to her. “How did you know?”
She’d found out easily enough from the servants that he habitually ate a light snack when he returned in the evenings. She shrugged and glided to him. “I do not mean to disturb your schedule.”
He blinked. “That’s, ah . . .”
He seemed to lose his train of thought, possibly because she’d started unbuttoning his waistcoat. She concentrated on the brass buttons and the slitted holes, aware that her breathing had quickened with the temptation of his proximity. This close she could feel his warmth through the layers of his clothes. An awful thought intruded: how many other women had had the privilege of undressing him?
She looked up, meeting his turquoise blue eyes. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, kind of you.”
“Is it?” She raised her brows and returned her gaze to the buttons. Had he been with another woman tonight? He was a man of known appetites, and she was unable to fulfill them at the moment. Was it enough to make him look elsewhere? She slipped the last one through the hole and glanced up. “Please.”
He raised his arms, allowing her to slide the garment from his shoulders. She was aware of his intent gaze as she untied his neck cloth. His breath stirred her hair, and she could smell wine. She had no idea where he went in the evenings. Presumably he was out doing gentlemanly things—gambling, drinking, and perhaps wenching. Her fingers fumbled on that last thought, and she finally identified the emotion flooding her brain: jealousy. She was completely unprepared for it. She’d known before they’d married who he was—what he was. She had believed she would be content with whatever small part of himself he could share with her. The other women, when they came, she would simply ignore.
But now she fodthut now und she couldn’t. She wanted him. All of him.
She laid aside his neck cloth and started unbuttoning his shirt. The warmth of his skin seeped through the thin cloth and surrounded her fingers. The scent of his skin was hot and masculine. She breathed in through her nose, discreetly sniffing. He smelled of sandalwood and lemon soap.
Above her, his voice rumbled. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
With the last button unfastened, he bowed and she pulled the shirt over his shoulders and head. He straightened and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. He was a tall man—even at her height, her head came only to his chin—and his chest and shoulders were in proportion to his height. Broad and almost bony. With his shirt on, one might think him skinny. With it off, it was impossible to make that mistake. Long, lean muscle corded his arms and shoulders. She knew he rode almost every day, and she must approve of the exercise, if this was the result. He had a light sprinkling of body hair on his upper chest that broke over his abdomen and started again low on his belly. That thin line of hair leading from his navel was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen. She had a desperate urge to touch it, to trail her fingers down that line until it disappeared into his breeches.
She pulled her gaze away and glanced up. He was watching her, his cheeks lined and hollowed. So often his face seemed almost comical, but right now there was no trace of laughter. His lips had a cruel edge.
She inhaled and gestured to the chair behind him. “Please. Sit.”
His eyebrows shot up, and he looked from the pitcher of hot water to her as he sat. “Do you mean to play barber as well?”
She soaked a cloth in the hot water. “Do you trust me?”
He eyed her, and she had to master the twitch of her lips as she laid the cloth against his jaw. She’d found out from Sprat that Vale liked to shave and bathe in the evenings. It was perhaps too soon to help him with his bath, but shaving she could do. When her father had been bedridden in his final illness, she was the only one he’d let near with the razor. Odd, since he’d never been particularly affectionate with her.
She went to the chest of drawers where Pynch had laid out the shaving implements and picked up the razor. She tested the edge with her thumb. “You seemed quite entertained by my aunt’s stories about me this afternoon.”
She watched him as she strolled back to his chair, the razor held casually in her fingers. His eyes glinted with amusement over the white cloth.
He peeled the cloth from his face and tossed it to the table. “I particularly enjoyed the story of how you cut off all your hair at the age of four.”
“Did you?” She set the razor on the table and picked up a small cloth. She dipped it in a pot of soft soap and began rubbing it on his face, working up a lather. The scent of lemons and sandalwood filled the room.
“Mmm.” He closed his eyes and tilted back his head like a great cat being stroked. “And the one about the ink.”
<">She’d drawn pictures on her arms with ink and had looked tattooed for a month.
“I’m so glad to have provided a source of amusement,” she said sweetly.
One bright blue eye opened warily.
She smiled and laid the razor against his neck. She raised her eyes to meet his.“I’ve often wondered where you go in the evenings.”
He opened his lips. “I—”
She touched his lips with her finger, feeling his breath against her skin. “Ah. Ah. You don’t want me to cut you, do you?”
He closed his mouth, his eyes narrowed.
She made the first careful stroke. The rasp was loud in the room. She flicked the lather from the blade with a practiced movement and reapplied the razor. “I’ve wondered if you see females when you go out.”
He started to answer, but she gently tilted his head back and stroked along his jaw. She could see him swallow, his Adam’s apple dipping in his strong neck, but the look in his eyes told her he wasn’t afraid. Far from it.
“I don’t go anywhere special,” he drawled as she wiped the blade. “Balls, soirees, various events. You could accompany me, you know. I believe I asked to escort you to Lady Graham’s masked ball tomorrow night.”
“Hmm.” His reply gave a little relief to the burning jealousy in her breast. She concentrated on his chin. So many indentations just waiting to be nicked. She had a dislike of social events where one was expected to make small talk. To smile and flirt and always have a witty reply on the tip of one’s tongue. That kind of light discourse had never been her forte, and she was resigned to the fact that it never would be. When he’d mentioned the ball, she hadn’t even thought before making an excuse not to attend.
“You could come with me at night,” he murmured. “Attend some of the social events.”
She looked down at her hands. “Or you could stay here with me at home.”
“No.” The corner of his mouth curved in a sad, self-mocking smile. “I fear I am too capricious a creature to be amused for long by evenings by the fire at home. I need chatter and people and loud laughter.”
Everything she hated, in fact. She swished the razor in the hot water.
He cleared his throat. “But I don’t see other women when I go out at night, sweet wife.”
“No?” She met his eyes as she stroked the razor delicately down his cheek.
“No.” He held her gaze. It was strong and steady.
She swallowed and lifted the razor. His cheeks were perfectly smooth now. Only a thin line of soap lingered by the corner of his mouth. She carefully smudged it away with her thumb.
“I’m glad,” she said, her voice husky. She leaned close, her lips hovering over his wide mouth. “Good night.”
Heof t size=r lips met his in a whispered kiss. She felt his arms rise to grasp her, but she’d already slipped away.
Chapter Seven
Now, the princess of this wonderful city was named Surcease, and while Princess Surcease was beautiful beyond a man’s dreams, with eyes as bright as stars and skin as smooth as silk, she was a haughty woman and had not found a man she would consent to marry. One man was too old, another too young. Some talked too loudly, and quite a few chewed with their mouths agape. As the princess neared her twenty-first birthday, the king, her father, lost patience. So he proclaimed that there would be a series of trials held in honor of the princess’s natal day and that the man who won them would also win her hand in marriage. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
After the scene the night before, Melisande had been rather disappointed this morning when she’d breakfasted alone. Vale had already left the house on some vague male business, and she’d resigned herself to go about her own affairs and not see him again until nightfall.
And so she had. She’d conferred with both the housekeeper and Cook, had partaken of a light luncheon and done a little bit of shopping, and then she’d arrived at her mother-in-law’s garden party. Where all her expectations had been overthrown.
“I don’t believe my son has ever attended one of my afternoon salons,” the dowager Viscountess of Vale mused now. “I can’t help but think that it is your influence that has drawn him here. Did you know he would attend this afternoon?”
Melisande shook her head. Her mind was still assimilating the fact that her husband had come to a sedate and boring garden party. This simply couldn’t be one of his usual rounds, and that thought had her rather breathless with anticipation, though she was doing her best to keep a calm face.
She and her mother-in-law sat in the dowager’s large town garden, which was in its full midsummer glory. The elder Lady Vale had had small tables and numerous chairs scattered about on her slate terrace so that her guests could enjoy the summer day. They sat or strolled in small groups, the majority of them well into their sixth decade or older.
Vale stood across the terrace with a group of three older gentlemen. Melisande watched as her husband threw his head back and laughed at something one of the gentlemen said. His throat was strong and corded, and something in her heart clenched at the sight. In a thousand years, she would never grow bored of watching him when he laughed so uninhibitedly.
She hastily glanced away so she wouldn’t be caught making cow’s eyes at him. “Your garden is lovely, my lady.”
“Thank you,” the other woman said. “It should be, considering the army of gardeners I employ.”
Melisande hid a smile behind her teacup. She’d found before her marriage that she greatly liked Vale’s mother. The dowager countess was a petite lady. Her son looked like a giant when he stood next to her. Nonetheless, she seemed to have no problem in setting him or any other gentleman down with merely a poDid„inted stare. Lady Vale wore her softly graying hair pulled into a simple knot at the crown of her head. Her face was round and feminine and not at all like her son’s, until one came to her eyes—they were a sparkling turquoise. She’d been a beauty in her youth and still had the confidence of a very handsome woman.
Lady Vale eyed the pretty pink and white pastries that sat on a dainty plate on the table between them. She leaned a little forward, and Melisande thought she might take a cake, but then the elder lady looked away.
“I was so glad when Jasper chose to marry you instead of Miss Templeton,” Lady Vale said. “The girl was pretty but overly flighty. She hadn’t the temper to keep my son in hand. He would’ve been bored with her within the month.” The dowager countess lowered her voice confidentially. “I think he was enamored of her bosom.”
Melisande checked an impulse to glance at her own small chest.
Lady Vale patted her hand and said somewhat obscurely, “Don’t let it worry you. Bosoms never last. Intelligent conversation does, though the majority of gentlemen don’t seem to realize it.”
Melisande blinked, trying to think of a reply. Although perhaps one wasn’t needed.
Lady Vale reached for a cake and then seemed to change her mind again, picking up her teacup instead. “Did you know that Miss Templeton’s father has given his permission for her to marry that curate?”