To Seduce a Sinner (16 page)

When the movement next brought them close, he murmured, “I had not hoped to see you here.”

“No?” She raised her eyebrows behind her mask.

“You seem to favor the day.”

“Do I?”

The dance took them apart while she thought on that odd statement. When they drew close again, she laid her palm against his as they paced in a semicircle. “Perhaps you mistake habit for love.”

His eyes seemed to spark behind his mask. “Explain.”

She shrugged. “My usual social rounds are in the day; yours are in the night—but this does not mean that you love the night and I the day.”

A line appeared between his brows.

“Perh Csizsizaps,” she whispered as they moved apart again, “you play in the night because that is what you’re used to. Perhaps you actually prefer the day.”

He tilted his head in query as they paced together. “And you, my sweet wife?”

“Perhaps my domain is really the night.”

They parted and glided away. She moved through the figures of the dance until they came together again, the touch of his hand on hers sending a thrill through her.

He smiled as if he knew what his touch did to her. “What would you do with me, then, my mistress of the night?” They paced around each other, only the fingertips of their hands touching. “Will you lead me? Taunt me? Teach me about the night?”

They separated and dipped. She watched him the entire time. His eyes glinted with green and blue lights. They advanced, and he bent his head to her ear, their bodies not touching at all. “Tell me, madam, will you dare to seduce a sinner such as I?”

Her breath was coming fast, her heart fluttering in her chest, alive with excitement, but her face was serene. “Is that really the question?”

“What question do you prefer?”

“Will you allow yourself to be seduced by me?”

They halted as the dance concluded and the music died away. Her eyes on his, Melisande sank into a curtsy. She rose, her gaze still locked with her husband’s.

He took her hand and bent over the knuckles, murmuring as he kissed her hand, “Oh, yes.”

He guided her from the dance floor, and they were immediately surrounded.

A gentleman in a scarlet domino pressed into Melisande’s side. “Who is this delectable creature, Vale?”

“My wife,” Vale said lightly as he adroitly maneuvered Melisande to his other side, “and I’ll thank you not to forget it, Fowler.”

Fowler laughed drunkenly, and someone else shouted a quip that Vale responded to easily, but Melisande couldn’t hear the words. She was too conscious of the press of hot bodies, of the leer of unkind eyes. Mrs. Redd had disappeared—for good, she hoped. She’d found Vale and danced with him, and now only wished to go home.

But he was guiding her farther into the crowd, his hand firm and strong on her elbow.

“Where are we going, my lord?” Melisande asked.

“I thought . . .” He glanced at her distractedly. “Lord Hasselthorpe just came in, and I had some business to discuss with him. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

They’d reached the knot of gentlemen standing by the entrance to the ballroom. They were a noticeably more somber group than the one Vale had been with earlier.

“Hasselthorpe! How fortuitous to meet you here,” Vale called.

Lord Hasselthorpe turned, and even Melisande could see his confusion. But Vale held out his hand, and the other man was forced to take it, eyeing him warily. Hasselthorpe was a nondescript man of medium height with heavy-lidded eyes and deep lines incising his cheeks about his mouth. His habitual expression was grave as befitted a leading member of Parliament. Beside him was the Duke of Lister, a tall, heavyset man in a gray wig. Hovering several paces away was a beautiful blond woman, Lister’s longtime mistress, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She didn’t look to be enjoying the ball, standing all by herself.

“Vale,” Hasselthorpe said slowly. “And is this your lovely wife?”

“Indeed,” Vale said. “I believe you met my viscountess at your house party last fall?”

Hasselthorpe murmured an assent as he bowed over Melisande’s hand. He hadn’t taken his eyes from Vale’s face, and indeed she might not’ve been there at all. She looked at Vale as well and saw that he wasn’t smiling. There was an undercurrent of something here that she couldn’t quite place, but she knew one thing—it was masculine business.

Melisande smiled and placed her hand on Vale’s sleeve. “I fear I’ve grown weary, my lord. Will you be terribly disappointed if I retire home early?”

He turned and she could see the conflict in his face, but then he darted a look at Lord Hasselthorpe and his expression smoothed. He bowed over her hand. “Terribly, terribly disappointed, my heart, but I shall not detain you.”

“Good night, then, my lord.” She curtsied to the gentlemen. “Your grace. My lord.”

The gentlemen bowed, murmuring their farewells.

She stood on tiptoe and whispered in Vale’s ear, “Remember, my lord: one more night.”

Then she turned away. But as she made her way through the crowd, she heard two words from the group of huddled men behind her.

Spinner’s Falls.

Now he widened his eyes in a last desperate attempt at seeming awake and entered the breakfast room. There she sat, her back ramrod straight, every hair carefully controlled into a simple knot at the crown of her head, her light brown eyes cool and composed.

He bowed. “Good morning, my lady wife.”

Watching her this morning, one would never guess at the mysterious woman in the purple domino from the night before. Perhaps he’d dreamed that seductive vision. How else to explain the dichotomy of the two women living in one body?

She glanced at him, and he thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of his midnight mistress, lurking somewhere behind her serene gaze. She nodded. “Good morning.”

Her little dog came out from beneath her skirts to cast a jaundiced eye on him. Jasper stared the animal down, and it retreated again under her chair. The dog obviously loathed him, but at least they’d established which of them was master in this house.

“Did you sleep well?” Jasper asked as he strolled to the side table.

“Yes,” she replied from behind him. “And you?”

He stared blindly at the plate of fish staring blindly back at him and thought of his rude little pallet on the floor of his dressing room. “Like the dead.”

Which was correct, assuming the dead slept with a knife under their pillow and tossed all night long. He stabbed a fish and transferred it to the dish in his hand.

He smiled at Melisande as he neared the table. “Do you have plans for the day?”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Yes, but none that would interest you.”

This statement had the natural effect of piquing his interest. He sat opposite her. “Oh, indeed?”

She nodded as she poured him a cup of tea. “Some shopping with my maid.”

“Splendid!”

She peered at him skeptically. Perhaps his enthusiasm was overdone.

“You don’t mean to accompany me.” It was a statement, her lips pressed together primly.

What would she say if she knew her censorious face only aroused him? She’d be appalled, surely. But then Jasper recalled the seductive woman from the night before, the one who’d whispered a bold challenge with unflinching eyes, and he wondered. Which was his true wife? The prim lady of the day or the adventuress of the night?

But she waited for his reply. He grinned. “I can think of nothing more enjoyable than a morning of shopping.”

“I can’t think of any other man who would say the same.”

“Then you’re K">“y o lucky to be married to me, are you not?”

She didn’t answer that but merely poured herself another cup of chocolate.

He broke open a bun and buttered a piece. “It was a delight to see you at the ball last night.”

She stiffened almost imperceptibly. Was he not supposed to mention her nocturnal actions?

“I had not met your friend Matthew Horn until yesterday,” she said. “Are you close?”

Ah, then this was how it would be played. She would try to ignore her own nightly mechanisms. Interesting.

“I knew Horn when I was in the army,” he said. “He was a good friend back then. We’ve grown apart since.”

“You never speak of your time in the army.”

He shrugged. “It was six years ago.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How long were you commissioned?”

“Seven years.”

“And you held the rank of captain?”

“Indeed.”

“You saw action.”

It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t know if he should bother to answer.
Action.
Such a small word for the blood and sweat and screaming. The thundering of the cannons, the smoke and ashes, the corpses littering the field afterward. Action. Oh, yes, he’d seen
action.

He sipped his tea to wash the taste of acid from his mouth. “I was at Quebec when we took the city. A tale I hope to someday tell our grandchildren.”

She looked away. “But that’s not where Lord St. Aubyn died.”

“No.” He smiled grimly. “Think you this is a pleasant conversation for the breakfast table?”

She didn’t back down from him. “Should not a wife know about her husband?”

“My time in the army is not everything I am.”

“No, but I think it is a fair part of you.”

And what could he say to that? She was right. Somehow she knew, though he didn’t think he’d given any sign. She knew he was changed, forever scarred and diminished, by what had happened in the north woods of America. Did he wear it like a badge of the devil? Could she see what he was? Did she know somehow of his deepest shame?

No, she must not. If she knew, her face would hold contempt. He looked down as he broke apart the rest of his bun.

“Perhaps you no longer want to accompany me this morning?” his wife asked softly.

He looked up at that. Sly creature. “I don’t scare that easily.”

Her eyes widened a bit. Perhaps his smile had shown too much teeth. Perhaps she’d seen Kps ighthe thing that lurked beneath. But she was brave, his wife.

“Then tell me,” she said, “about the army.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he lied. “I was a captain in the 28th.”

“That was Lord St. Aubyn’s rank as well,” Melisande said. “You bought your commissions together?”

“Yes.” So young, so thickheaded. He’d been mostly interested in the dashing uniform.

“I never knew Emeline’s brother,” Melisande said. “Not well, at least. I only saw him once or twice. What was he like?”

He swallowed the last of his bun, trying to buy time. He thought of Reynaud’s crooked grin, his dark laughing eyes. “Reynaud always knew he would someday inherit the earldom, and he spent his life rehearsing for that day.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “As a boy, he was too serious. That burden of responsibility marks a man, even when he’s but a child. Richard was the same way.”

“Your elder brother,” she murmured.

“Yes. He and Reynaud were more alike.” His mouth twisted at the old realization. “Reynaud should’ve chosen him as a friend, not me.”

“But perhaps Reynaud saw in you something that he himself lacked.”

He cocked his head and smiled. The idea that he should possess a feature that Richard, his perfect elder brother, lacked seemed comical. “What?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Your joy of life?”

He stared at her. Did she really see joy of life in the shell that was all that remained of him? “Perhaps.”

“I think so. You were a friend full of delight and mischief,” she said, and then, almost to herself, “How could he resist you?”

“You don’t know that.” His teeth scraped together. “You don’t know me.”

“Don’t I?” She rose from the table. “I think you’d be surprised how much I know you. Ten minutes, then?”

“What?” He was caught flat-footed and blinking up at his wife like a fool.

She smiled. Maybe she had a love of fools. “I’ll be ready to go shopping in ten minutes.”

And she slipped from the breakfast room, leaving him confused and intrigued.

M
ELISANDE WAS STANDING
by the carriage consulting with Suchlike when Vale emerged from the town house a short time later. He ran down the front steps and sauntered over.

“Are you ready?” Melisande asked.

He spread his arms. “I am at your disposal, my lady wife.” He nodded to Suchlike. “You may go.”

The little maid flushed and looked worriedly at Melisande. Suchl Klisheiike usually came on these outings to consult with wardrobe selections and to carry packages. Vale was watching her, too, waiting to see if she’d object.

Melisande smiled tightly and nodded at the maid. “Perhaps you can do that mending.”

Suchlike bobbed a curtsy and went into the town house.

When Melisande turned back to Vale, he was eyeing Mouse, who was standing against her skirts.

She spoke before he could dismiss her dog as well. “Sir Mouse always accompanies me.”

“Ah.”

She nodded, glad that at least was established, and mounted the steps to the carriage. She settled on the plush seat that faced the front, and Mouse hopped up beside her. Vale sat facing her, his long legs stretched diagonally across the floor. It had seemed like a large—even huge—vehicle until he entered, and then the space was filled with male elbows and knees.

He knocked on the roof and looked across at her, catching her frowning at his legs. “Anything wrong?”

“Not at all.”

She glanced out the window. It seemed strange to be confined with him in such a small space. Too intimate somehow. And that was an odd thought. She’d had sexual congress with this man, had danced with him only the night before, and had had the audacity to strip off his shirt and shave him. Yet those things had been done in the night, lit only by candlelight. Somehow she found it easier to be relaxed at night. The shadows made her brave. Perhaps she really was the mistress of the night, as he called her. And if so, did that make him master of the day?

She watched him, struck by the thought. He sought her out mainly during the daylight hours. Stalked her in the sunlight. He might like to go to balls and gaming hells at night, but it was during the day that he sought to discover her secrets. Was it because he sensed that she felt more weak exposed to sunlight? Or because he was stronger in the day?

Or maybe both?

“Do you take it everywhere?”

She glanced at him, her thoughts scattered. “What?”

“Your dog.” He pointed his chin at Mouse, curled on the seat beside her. “Does it go everywhere with you?”

“Sir Mouse is a
him,
not an
it,
” she said firmly. “And, yes, I do like taking him places that he might enjoy.”

Vale’s eyebrows shot up. “The dog enjoys shopping?”

“He likes carriage rides.” She stroked Mouse’s soft nose. “Haven’t you ever had any pets?”

“No. Well, there was a cat when I was a boy, but it never came when I called it and had a habit of scratching when displeased. It was often displeased, I’m afraid.”

“What was its name?”

“Cat.”

She l Ksizeigooked at him. His face was solemn, but there was a diabolical gleam in his blue eyes.

“And you?” he asked. “Did you have pets as a child, my fair wife?”

“No.” She looked out the window again, not wishing to revisit her lonely childhood.

He seemed to sense her aversion to talking about that time and for once did not press. He was silent a moment before saying softly, “Actually, the cat was Richard’s.”

She looked at him, curious.

His wide lips curved into a lopsided smile as if he mocked himself. “Mother doesn’t particularly like cats, but Richard was sickly as a child, and when he took a liking to a kitten in the stables”—he shrugged—“I suppose she made an exception.”

“How much older than you was your brother?” she asked softly.

“Two years.”

“And when he died?”

“Not yet thirty years.” He no longer smiled. “He’d always been weak—he was thin and often had trouble catching his breath—but he took the ague while I was in the Colonies and never quite recovered. Mother didn’t smile for a year after I came home.”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned his palm upward. “It was long ago.”

“And your father was already dead, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him, lounging so carelessly in the carriage as he talked about the premature death of his brother and father. “You must have found that hard.”

“I never thought I’d be the viscount even though Richard was always so ill. Somehow everyone in my family thought he would live to beget an heir.” He suddenly looked at her, the corner of his mouth cocked. “He might have been weak of body, but my brother had a strong spirit. He carried himself like a viscount. He could command men.”

“As do you,” she reminded him gently.

He shook his head. “Not as he did. Nor as Reynaud did, for that matter. They were both better leaders than I.”

She found that hard to believe. Vale might mock himself, might like to tell jokes and sometimes play the fool, but other men listened to him. When he entered a room, the very air sizzled. Both men and women were drawn to him like a miniature sun. She wanted to tell him this, wanted to tell him how much she herself admired him, but the fear that she might reveal too much of her own emotions held her back.