“Because, sweetest wife,” he said, “if I know when your flow ceases, then I will know when I may visit your rooms again.”
That made her quiet for a few minutes, and then she said softly, “Usually five.”
His brows drew together. This was the third day. If she was “usual,” then he might bed her again in three nights. He was rather looking forward to the prospect, actually. The first time was never very good for the lady—or so he’d heard. He wanted to show her how lovely it could be. He had a sudden vision of cracking that mask she wore, making her head arch back in ecstasy, her eyes opened wide, her mouth soft and vulnerable.
He shifted uncomfortably at the thought. Several days of waiting yet. “Thank you for telling me. Still. Rotten luck, that. Does it happen with every lady?”
She turned her head to stare at him. “What?”
He shrugged. “You know. Does every lady have this much pain, or do—”
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, either to herself or to the horses; there wasn’t anyone else within earshot. “I know you weren’t born under a rock. Why are you asking these questions?”
“You’re my wife now. I’m sure every man wants to know these things about his wife.”
“I very much doubt it,” she muttered.
“I at least want to know these things.” He felt his lips curve. Theirs might be an unorthodox conversation, but he was enjoying it nevertheless.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife,” he said, and knew suddenly that it was true, deep in his soul. “My wife to hold, my wife to protect and shield. If there is something hurting you, I want—no, I need— to know it.”
“But this isn’t something you can do anything about.”
He shrugged. “I still need to know. Don’t ever keep this or any other pain from me.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand men,” she said under her breath.
“We’re a rummy lot, it’s true,” he said cheerfully. “But it’s good of you to put up with us.”
She rolled her eyes at that and then leaned forward, unconsciously placing her hand on his arm. “Turn the corner here. My aunt’s house is down this lane.”
“As my lady wife wishes.” He guided the horses as directed, all the while aware of her hand on his arm. She let it drop a minute later, and he wished he could have it back.
“Here it is,” she said, and he halted the horses in front of a modest town house.
He tied the reins off and jumped from the phaeton. Even with his haste, by the time he rounded the carriage, she had stood and was about to get down from the high seat by hrthigh seaerself.
He gripped her about the waist and looked her in the eye. “Permit me.”
He hadn’t made it a question, but she inclined her head anyway. She was a tall woman, but fine boned. His hands nearly met around her waist. He lifted her easily and felt a kind of thrill go through his body. Held above his head, she was helpless and in his power.
She looked down at him and arched an awful eyebrow, despite the fact that he could feel her trembling beneath his hands. “Might you set me on the ground now?”
He grinned. “Of course.”
He lowered her slowly, relishing the feel of control. He knew it wouldn’t become an everyday occurrence with her. As soon as her toes touched the road, she stepped back and shook out her skirts.
She gave him a repressive look from under her brows. “My aunt is rather hard of hearing, and she doesn’t like gentlemen much.”
“Oh, good.” He held his arm for her. “This should be interesting.”
“Humph.” She placed her fingertips on his sleeve, and again he felt that thrill. Perhaps he’d had too much tea at breakfast.
They mounted the steps, and he let the tarnished brass knocker fall against the door. Then there was a rather extended wait.
Jasper glanced at his bride. “You said she was deaf, but are her servants deaf as well?”
She pursed her lips, which had the contrary effect of making him want to kiss her. “They’re not deaf, but they are rather old and—”
The door creaked open, and a rheumy eye peered out at them. “Aye?”
“Lord and Lady Vale to see Miss . . .” He turned to Melisande and whispered, “What was her name again?”
“Miss Rockwell.” She shook her head and addressed the aged butler. “We’re here to see my aunt.”
“Ah, Miss Fleming,” the old man wheezed. “Come in, come in.”
“It’s Lady Vale,” Jasper said loudly.
“Eh?” The butler cupped a hand behind his ear.
“Lady Vale,” Jasper bawled. “My wife.”
“Yes, sir, indeed, sir.” The man turned and tottered down the hall.
“I don’t think he understood me,” Jasper said.
“Oh, good Lord.” Melisande tugged at his sleeve, and they entered the house.
Her aunt must either have a dislike of using candles or be able to see in the dark, for the hallway was very nearly black.
Jasper squinted. “Where’d he go?”
“This way.” Melisande marched forward as if she knew exactly where to go.
And she did, for after a series of turns and a flight of stairs, they were presented with a door and a room with a light.
“Who’s there?” a querulous voice asked from beyond the door.
“Miss Fleming an’ a gentleman, mum,” the old butler replied.
“Lady Vale,” Jasper shouted as they entered the room.
“What?” A petite elderly lady sat upright in a daybed, surrounded by white lace and ribbons and bows. She held a long brass horn to her ear, which she swiveled in their direction. “What?”
Jasper bent and spoke into the ear horn. “She’s Lady Vale now.”
“Who?” Miss Rockwell lowered the ear horn in evident exasperation. “Melisande, dear, it’s so nice to see you, but who is this gentleman? He says he’s a lady. That can’t be right.”
Jasper felt a tremble go through Melisande’s slight frame, and then she was still again. He had a violent urge to kiss her, but he suppressed it with effort.
“This is my husband, Lord Vale,” Melisande said.
“Is he indeed?” The lady didn’t look particularly pleased at the news. “Well, why’ve you brought him ’round here?”
“I wanted to meet you,” Jasper said, tiring of being talked about as if he weren’t there.
“What?”
“I heard you had the best cakes,” he bawled.
“Cheek!” The old lady’s head reared back, making the ribbons on her cap tremble. “Who told you that?”
“Oh, everyone,” Jasper said. He sat in a settee and pulled his wife down to sit beside him. “Isn’t it true?”
The old lady pursed her lips in a manner he’d grown to recognize from Melisande. “My cook does make rather good cakes.”
She nodded at the butler, who looked somewhat surprised to be sent from the room.
“Splendid!” Jasper crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. “Now, I’m hoping you know what kind of mischief my wife used to get up to as a child.”
“Lord Vale!” Melisande exclaimed.
He looked at her. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were wide in irritation. She was quite lovely, in fact.
He tilted his head toward her. “Jasper.”
She pursed her lips.
His eyes dropped to her mouth and then rose again to meet her own. “Jasper.”
Her mouth opened, vulnerable and a little tremulous, and he thanked God that the skirts of his coat covered his groin.
“Jasper,” she whispered.
And at that moment, he knew he was lost. Lost aady lost. nd blind and going down for the third time without any hope of salvation, and he didn’t give a damn. He would give anything to unravel this woman. He wanted to search out her innermost secrets and bare her soul. And when he knew her secrets, knew what she kept hidden away in her heart, he would guard it and her with his life.
She was his, to protect and to hold.
IT WAS WELL past midnight by the time Melisande heard Vale return home that night. She’d been dozing in her own room, but the muted voices in the hall brought her to full wakefulness. After all, she’d been waiting for his return. She sat up in excited anticipation, and Mouse stuck his black nose out from under the covers. He yawned, his pink tongue curling up.
She tapped his nose. “Stay.”
She rose and reached for the wrapper laid out in the chair beside her bed. It was a deep violet color, shaped almost like a man’s banyan and without the usual feminine frills and ribbons. Melisande pulled it on over her fine lawn chemise and shivered from the sensuous weight. It was of heavy satin, overembroidered in fine crimson thread. As she moved, the fabric subtly changed color from violet to crimson and back again. She crossed to her dresser and dabbed scent at her throat, trembling as the cold liquid slid between her breasts. The scent of bitter oranges rose in the air.
Thus armored, she went to the connecting door and pulled it open. The rooms beyond were Vale’s, and she’d never ventured into his domain. She looked about curiously. The first thing she saw was the enormous black wood bed, draped in linens of such a dark red it was almost black. The second thing she noticed was Mr. Pynch. Vale’s man had straightened away from the banyan he’d laid on the bed and now stood, huge and immobile, in the middle of the room.
Melisande had never actually spoken to the valet. She leveled her chin and looked him in the eye. “That will be all.”
The valet didn’t move. “My lord will need me to undress him.”
“No,” she said softly. “He won’t.”
The valet’s eyes sparked with something that might’ve been amusement. Then he bowed and glided from the room.
Melisande felt a knot between her shoulder blades loosen in relief. The first obstacle passed. Vale may’ve surprised her this morning, but tonight she planned to turn the tables on him.
She glanced around the room, noting the fire blazing in the hearth and the abundance of lit candles. The room was almost as bright as day. Her brows rose a little at the expense, and she strolled the room, pinching out a few of the tapers until only a soft glow lit the room. The scent of candle wax and smoke drifted in the air, but under them was another, more exciting scent. Melisande closed her eyes and inhaled. Vale. Whether she imagined it or not, the scent of her husband was in the room: sandalwood and lemons, brandy and smoke.
She was trying to calm her nerves when the door opened. Vale walked in, already shrugging out of his coat.
“Have you sent for hot water?” he asked, throwing the coat into a chair.
“Yes.”“Yesnt>
He whirled at the sound of her voice, his face oddly expressionless, his eyes narrowed. If she were not a very, very brave woman, she would’ve stepped back from him. He was so large and stood so still and grim, staring at her.
But then he smiled. “My lady wife. Forgive me, but I didn’t expect you here.”
She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice. A queer shivering excitement gripped her, and she knew she must control herself so that her emotions might not burst forth.
He crossed to the dressing room and glanced in. “Is Pynch here?”
“No.”
He nodded, then closed the dressing room door.
Sprat entered the open door, carrying a large steaming pitcher. He was trailed by a maid bearing a silver tray of bread, cheese, and fruit.
The servants set down their burdens, and Sprat looked at Melisande. “My lady?”
She nodded. “That will be all.”
They trooped from the room, and then there was silence.
