To Seduce a Sinner (12 page)

Jasper closed the tin snuffbox and replaced it under the linens in the bottom drawer. Then he stood and looked around the room. He wouldn’t find her here. The only way to learn Melisande would be to study the lady herself.

He nodded to himself, decision made, and left the room.

Melisande paused with her cup halfway to her lips and darted a quick glance at the china clock that stood on the side table. She hadn’t mistaken the time. The clock read 8:32.

She took a sip of her chocolate and set the cup precisely back down on the saucer, glad that her hands didn’t tremble at his presence. “Good morning, my lord.”

Lord Vale smiled, those lines beside his mouth deepening in a way she’d always found devastatingly charming. “Good morning, my dearest wife.”

Mouse came out from under her skirts, and for a moment, man and dog eyed each other. Then Mouse wisely conceded the moment and retreated to his lair.

Her husband strolled to the sideboard and frowned. “There isn’t any bacon.”

“I know. I don’t usually eat it.” Melisande beckoned to the footman, standing by the door. “Have Cook prepare some bacon, eggs, a few buttered kidneys, toast, and a fresh pot of tea for Lord Vale. Oh, and make sure that Cook includes some of her good marmalade.”

The footman bowed and left the room.

Vale came to sit opposite her. “I am enchanted. You know what I like to eat in the morning.”

“Of course.” She’d been studying him for years, after all. “That is one of a wife’s responsibilities.”

“Responsibility,” he murmured as he slouched in his chair. His lips twisted a little as if he found the word distasteful. “And is it the
responsibility
of a husband to know what his wife eats?”

She frowned, but as she’d just put a forkful of egg into her mouth, she couldn’t reply.

He nodded. “I think it must be, so I shall take note. Soft coddled eggs, buttered buns, and hot chocolate. No jam or honey for your buns, I see.”

She swallowed. “No. Unlike you, I don’t much care for jam.”

He slouched farther into the chair, his turquoise eyes lazy. “I admit I have a sweet tooth. Jam and honey and even treacle syrup. Spread it on anything and I just might lick it off.”

“Would you?” She could feel her belly heat at just his words, wicked, wicked man.

“I would indeed. Would you like me to list the possible things I could spread treacle on?” he asked innocently.

“Not at the moment, thank you.”

“Pity.”

She eyed him. She was terribly pleased that he’d joined her, but what an odd mood he seemed to be in

“No.”

“I’ve never known you to rise before eleven of the clock.”

“True, but you’ve only been married to me less than a week. Perhaps I habitually rise before nine or even five, like a crowing cock.”

She felt a blush begin to heat her cheeks. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you up so early?”

“Perhaps I was hungry for my marmalade jam.”

She looked at him from under her brows.

He stared back, his look rather disconcerting. “Or perhaps I fancied my lovely wife’s company for breakfast.”

Her eyes widened. She wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or alarmed at his sudden interest. “Why would—?”

Two maids entered, bearing his breakfast, and she swallowed the question. They were both silent as the maids arranged the dishes and looked to her for approval. Melisande nodded and the servants left.

“Why—?”

But he spoke at the same time. They both stopped, and he gestured for her to speak.

Melisande said, “No, I beg your pardon. Please continue.”

“I merely wish to inquire about your plans for the day.”

She reached across the table and poured him some tea. “I hope to call on my great-aunt, Miss Rockwell.”

He looked up from buttering his toast. “On your mother’s side?”

“No. My father’s mother’s sister. She’s quite elderly now, and I heard that she took a fall last week.”

“A shame. I’ll come with you.”

She blinked. “What?”

He took a huge bite of toast and crunched it, holding up a finger to indicate she should wait. She stared as he masticated and then gulped down half his tea.

“Ouch. Hot,” he muttered. “Think I’ve burned my tongue.”

“You cannot mean to accompany me on a visit to my aunt,” Melisande burst out.

“Actually, I do.”

“My
elderly
aunt, who—”

“I’ve always had a terrible fondness for elderly ladies. It’s a weakness of mine, if you must know.”

“But you’ll expire from boredom.”

“Oh, no, not whilst in your company, sweet wife,” he said softly. “Unless, of course, you don’t wish me to accomt yh me topany you?”

She looked at him. He lounged in his chair like a big tomcat, his expression relaxed as he ate his bacon. But his greenish-blue eyes had a spark in them. Why did she feel as if she’d just walked straight into a trap? What possible motive could he have to want to visit her great-aunt, of all people? If he were the cat, did that make her the little brown mouse? And why did the thought of playing mouse to his cat make her so very, very warm?

Oh, she was an idiot. “I’d be most pleased to have you accompany me,” she murmured, the only answer she could possibly make to his question.

He grinned. “Excellent. We’ll take my phaeton.” And he crunched into a fresh slice of toast.

Melisande’s eyes narrowed. She was sure of it now. Her husband was up to something.

I
T COULD’VE BEEN
worse, Jasper thought cheerfully as he handled the ribbons of his phaeton. She could’ve been going to see . . . hmm. Actually, there really weren’t too many things worse than an elderly maiden aunt. But it didn’t matter. He’d sent Pynch off this morning to learn if Lord Hasselthorpe was in town and, if so, where Jasper might find him. In the meantime, Jasper had no pressing business. The day was fine, he was driving his new phaeton, and his lovely wife sat beside him unable to escape. Sooner or later, she would have to talk to him too.

He glanced sideways at her. She sat ramrod straight in the phaeton seat, her back not even touching the crimson leather seat. Her expression was serene, but she clutched at the carriage side. At least her eyes no longer held that edge of pain he’d seen two nights before. He looked away. He’d rarely felt as useless as he had the other night, seeing her in pain but unable to do anything about it. How did other men deal with this part of marriage? Did they have some secret remedy for a wife’s womanly ills, or did they simply pretend nothing was wrong?

He slowed the phaeton as a gaggle of ladies crossed the street in front of them. “You seem better this morning.”

Her back stiffened even more. He knew at once that it was not the right thing to say. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know.” He gave her a look.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

A perverse part of him couldn’t let it go. “You weren’t perfectly fine two nights ago, and I only saw you in passing yesterday.”

Her lips pressed together.

He frowned. “Is it always like this? I mean, I know it happens monthly, but is it always so painful? How long does it last?” A sudden thought struck him. “I say, you don’t think it’s because we—”

“Oh, dear Lord,” she muttered. Then rapidly, in a low voice he had to bend his head to hear, “I’m perfectly fine. Yes, this happens every month, but only for a few days and the . . . the pain is usually over after the first day or two.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“How many days, exactly?”

She shot him a look of pure exasperation. “Whyever would you wish to know that?”

“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.