To Seduce a Sinner (24 page)

“ sontor.She’s a pretty bit o’ rough,” one said, and then a whirlwind caught him from behind.

Vale was on the man, hitting him savagely and silently. He was barefoot and wearing only his breeches. He took the man by the hair and slammed his face into the floorboards. Blood splattered.

Two of the drunkards blinked at the sudden violence, but the third swung forward. Before he could reach Vale, he was grabbed from behind by Mr. Pynch and hauled into the hallway. A thud shook the wall, and one of the small horse paintings fell. Vale rose from the still man on the floor and advanced on the other two men. Melisande bit back a cry. They might be drunk, but it was two against one. Mr. Pynch still fought the other man in the hall.

One tried to smile. “Jess a bit o’ fun.”

Vale hit him in the face. The man spun from the force of the blow and went down like a felled tree. Turning to the last man, who was trying to back away, Vale took him by the coat, turned him about, and ran him headfirst into the wall. The other horse painting fell. Mouse attacked the frame.

Mr. Pynch appeared in the doorway.

Vale looked up from where he stood panting over the last fallen man. “Everything settled out there?”

Mr. Pynch nodded. His left eye was reddened and beginning to swell. “I’ve roused the footmen. They’ll spend the rest of the night in the corridor to prevent further incidents.”

“What about Bob?” Vale demanded. “He was supposed to be outside my wife’s door.”

“I’ll find out what happened,” Mr. Pynch said.

“See that you do,” Vale snapped. “Tell the others to get this rubbish out of here.”

“My lord.” Pynch disappeared back into the hallway.

Vale finally looked at Melisande. His face was savage, a cut on his cheek leaking blood. “Are you all right, my lady wife?”

She nodded.

But he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. “I promised you this wouldn’t happen.”

“Jasper—”

“Goddamnit!” He kicked one of the fallen louts.

“Jasper—”

Mr. Pynch returned at that moment with the other menservants. They dragged the louts from the room, none of the men daring to even glance at her. Melisande still sat up in her bed, the sheets drawn to her chin. Bob appeared, white-faced and stricken and trying to explain that he’d been ill. Vale turned his back on the footman and clenched his fists. She saw Mr. Pynch jerk his chin to the footman, silently telling him to leave the room. Poor Bob slunk away again.

And then her room was clear. The servants left and only Vale remained, pacing the room like a caged lion. Mouse gave a last bark at the door and jumped on the bed to receive his praise. Melisande stroked his soft, smooth ears as she watched her husband shove a chair against the door. The frame sor.e hwas splintered near the lock and wouldn’t close properly.

Melisande watched him for a moment, then sighed and climbed from the bed. She padded barefoot to the table, poured a glass of wine, and held it out to him.

He came and took the glass from her hand without a word and tossed back half the wine.

She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That he’d had the foresight to post a guard and when that had failed, he’d arrived in time. But she knew that nothing she said would stop him from berating himself. Perhaps in the morning she could talk about it, but not now.

After a while, he swallowed the rest of the wine and put the glass carefully down as if it might shatter. “Go back to bed, dearest heart. I’ll stay here with you the remainder of the night.”

He settled in one of the chairs by the fire as she got back into bed. It was only a straight-backed wooden chair, which couldn’t be terribly comfortable, but he stretched out his long legs and folded his arms across his chest.

Melisande watched him sadly for a while, wishing he would sleep with her, and then she closed her eyes. She knew she wouldn’t sleep again tonight, but if she lay awake, it would worry him, so she feigned slumber. After a bit, she heard a low murmur at the door and the scrape of a chair. Vale moved about nearly silently, and then all was quiet again.

Melisande cracked her eyelids. Her husband lay in a corner on a kind of pallet. Very similar, in fact, to the one that had been in his dressing room. He was on his side, his back to the wall. She watched him for a bit until his breathing grew slow and even. Then she waited some more.

When she could wait no longer, she crept from the bed and tiptoed to the pallet. She stood for a moment, watching him sleep on his crude bed; then she stepped over him. She’d meant to squeeze by him and ease down between him and the wall, but the moment she set her foot by him, his hand shot out and grabbed her ankle.

Vale looked up at her, his blue-green eyes nearly black in the darkness. “Go back to bed.”

Very carefully, she knelt beside him. “No.”

He released her ankle. “Melisande—”

She ignored his pleading tone, lifting the blanket covering him and lying down behind his back.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

“Hush.” She lay facing his strong, broad back. Slowly she smoothed her hand over his rigid side and inched forward until she hugged against him. She inhaled his scent, rising with the heat of his body. He was warm and comforting, and she gave a little sigh, her face nuzzling his wide shoulders. He’d been stiff at first, but now he relaxed, as if conceding the moment to her. She smiled. All her life she’d slept alone. Now she did not.

Finally, she was home.

JASPER WOKE TO
feminine hands sliding down his back, and his first emotion was shame. Shame that she knew he slept on the floor like a beggar. Shame that he couldn’t sleep in a bed like other men. Sha soths sme that she knew his secret. Then her hands moved lower, and lust uncurled in his belly.

He opened his eyes and found it still dark, the fire having died down. Normally he would light a candle, but at the moment, the dark didn’t bother him. Her hand crept around his side to clasp his cock, and he groaned. To feel those cool, slim fingers curiously exploring his heat was the stuff that men dreamed about late at night when they were far from home. She fingered the head of his cock and then wrapped her hand about the shaft, slowly sliding up and down. His balls were drawn up hard and tight; he could feel the press of her small, lovely breasts against his back, and it was more than he could take this early in the morning.

He turned over. “Climb atop me.”

Her hair was down, waving about her face, and in the dim glow of the fireplace, she looked like some fey creature come to lure him away from his mortal existence. She sat up and swung a long slender leg over his hips. Then she sat straight and tall and so prim on top of his throbbing prick.

“Take me inside, my lady wife,” he whispered. “Put me in your pretty cunny.”

He thought he saw her frown in the dark, as if disapproving of an inappropriate subject at tea. She might look prim and proper when at tea in the afternoon, but at night and with him she was a wanton creature.

“Ride me, my heart,” he urged. “Ride me until you weep on my prick. Ride me until I fill you with my seed.”

She gasped then and rose. He could feel her hands about him as she sank down, and it was all he could do not to cry out. Tight wet feminine heat. Holding him. Yielding to him. He arched up and at the same time grabbed her buttocks to pull her firmly against him.

She placed her hands on his chest and slid against him, her back straight, her long hair brushing his face. She rode him, biting her lip, grinding her pelvis against his. He waited, holding back, watching her expression. Her eyes were closed, her lovely face tipped back. He moved his hand to palm her breast, and she arched her back. He pinched that pretty little nipple, torturing that bit of flesh until she gasped. And then he flicked it lightly.

“Jasper,” she panted. “Jasper . . .”

“Yes, my love?”

“Touch me.”

“I am,” he said lightly, innocently, though his face shone with sweat.

She jolted against him, swiveling her hips to punish him, and for a moment he lost all coherent thought.

Then she said, “Not like that. You know.”

He shook his head gently and flicked her nipple again. “You’ll have to say it, my heart.”

She sobbed.

He should’ve taken pity, but alas he was a wicked carnal man, and he wanted to hear those sweet, prim lips utter the words. “Say it.”

“Oh, God, touch my pussy!”

And he felt the first spurt, just at the words. He gasped and thumbed her wildly rocking cunny, feeling his hard flesh working in and out of hers, and it was too much.

He arched up off the floor and caught her mouth to his to muffle his yell. And he came, exploding into her, showering her with his soul.

She lay a moment smiling before rising and calling for Suchlike. Half an hour later, she was downstairs, ready for breakfast, but her husband was not to be found.

“Lord Vale went riding, my lady,” a sheepish footman said. “He said he’d be back when ’twas time to leave.”

“Thank you,” Melisande said, and went into the little dining room to break her fast. It was no good chasing him. Besides, he’d have to come back eventually.

But Vale chose to ride his horse beside the carriage that day, and she swayed inside with just Suchlike for company.

They made Edinburgh by late afternoon and pulled up beside Vale’s aunt’s stylish town house just after five in the evening. Vale opened the door to the carriage, and Melisande only had time to place her hand in his before his aunt was welcoming them. Mrs. Whippering was a small, stout lady wearing a sunny yellow dress. She had rosy cheeks, a perpetual smile, and a rather loud voice, which she kept constantly in use.

“This is Melisande, my lady wife,” Vale said to his aunt when she paused for breath in her effusive welcome.

“So happy to meet you, my dear,” Mrs. Whippering yodeled. “
Do
call me Aunt Esther.”

So Melisande did.

Aunt Esther led them into her house, which had apparently been redecorated on the occasion of her marrying her third husband. “New man, new house,” she said merrily to Melisande.

Jasper just grinned.

It was a lovely house. High on one of Edinburgh’s many hills, it was of Whitestone and had clean, classical lines. Inside, Aunt Esther favored white marble and a checkered black and white floor.

“In here,” she called, bustling down the hall. “Mr. Whippering is
so
looking forward to meeting both of you.”

She led them to a red sitting room with paintings of enormous baskets of fruit bracketing a black enamel and gilt fireplace. A man so tall and thin he looked like a knobby walking stick sat on a settee. He had a muffin halfway to his mouth when they walked in.

Aunt Esther flew at him in a flurry of flapping yellow skirts. “
Not
the muffins, Mr. Whippering! You know they are not good for your digestion.”

The poor man gave up his muffin and stood to be introduced. He was even taller than Vale, his coat hanging on him in folds. But he had a very sweet smile as he peered at them over half-moon glasses.

“This is Mr. Horatio Whippering, my husband,” Aunt Esther announced proudly.

Mr. Whippering bowed to Vale and took Melisande’s hand, twinkling up at her roguishly.

The introductions made, Aunt Esther plopped herself down on the settee. “Sit down, sit down, and tell me all about your trip.”

“We were attacked by highwaymen,” Vale said obligingly.

Melisande arched an eyebrow at him and he winked.

“No!” Aunt Esther’s eyes rounded, and she turned to her spouse. “Did you hear that, Mr. Whippering? Highwaymen attacking my nephew and his wife. I never heard the like.” She shook her head and poured tea. “Well, I expect you frightened them off.”

“All by myself.” Vale smiled modestly.

“You’re lucky to have such a strong, brave husband,” Aunt Esther told Melisande.

Melisande smiled and avoided Jasper’s gaze for fear she might laugh.

“I think they should be hung, really I do,” the little woman continued. She passed a cup of tea to Vale and Melisande and one to her husband, admonishing him, “Mind you don’t add cream. Remember what it does to your digestion, dear.” Then she sat back with a plate full of muffins on her lap and announced, “I must take issue with you, dear nephew.”

“And why is that, dear aunt?” Vale asked. He’d chosen the largest muffin, and now he bit into it, spilling crumbs down his shirt.

“Why, this hasty marriage. There’s no reason for such haste unless”—she peered at them sharply—“there
is
a reason?”

Melisande blinked and shook her head.

“No? Well, then, why the rush? Why, I’d hardly got the announcement that you had changed fiancées and in the very next post—it was the very next post, wasn’t it, Mr. Whippering?” she appealed to her spouse. He nodded, obviously well used to his part in her monologues. “I thought so,” Aunt Esther continued. “As I say, the
ve {ay, Hery next post,
a letter came from your mother writing that you’d already married. Why, I hadn’t even time to think of a suitable wedding present, let alone make plans to travel to London, and what I want to know is why marry so fast? Mr. Whippering courted me for three years, did you not, Mr. Whippering?”

A dutiful nod.

“And even then I made him wait nine months for a proper engagement before we were wed. I can’t think why you should marry in such a hurry.” She stopped to inhale and drink some tea, frowning ferociously at her nephew.

“But, Aunt Esther, I had to wed Melisande as soon as humanly possible,” Vale said, all wounded innocence. “I was afraid she might call it off. She was surrounded by suitors, and I had to beat them off with a stick. Once I had her pledge, I got her to the altar as swiftly as possible.”

He finished this outrageous pack of lies by smiling innocently at his aunt.

The lady clapped her hands delightedly. “And so you should’ve! Well done! I’m glad you caught such a fine lady to make your wife. She looks like she has a level head on her shoulders—that should balance your foolery.”

Vale clasped his chest and swooned in his chair dramatically. “You wound me, dear lady.”

“Pish,” said his aunt. “You are a silly fool, but then most men are when it comes to women, even my dear Mr. Whippering.”

They all looked at Mr. Whippering, who tried his best to appear suitably scampish. He was somewhat hampered by the teacup balanced on his knobby knees.

“Well, I wish you both a long and happy marriage,” Aunt Esther declared, popping a bite of muffin into her mouth. “
And
a fruitful one.”

Melisande swallowed at the allusion to babies and looked blindly down at her cup of tea. The thought of holding a small bit of her and Jasper, of stroking baby-fine reddish brown hair, sent a bolt of painful yearning through her. Oh, how wonderful it would be to have a baby!

“Thank you, Aunt,” Vale was saying gravely. “I shall endeavor to father at least a dozen or so offspring.”

“I know you jest with me, but family is most important.
Most
important. Mr. Whippering and I have discussed this on numerous occasions, and we both agree that children settle a young man. And you, dear nephew, could do with a bit of settling. Why, I remember the time—” Aunt Esther cut herself off with a start and a squeak as she stared at the mantel clock. “Mr. Whippering! Look at the time. Look at the time! Why didn’t you tell me it was so late, you horrid man?”

Mr. Whippering looked startled.

Aunt Esther rocked violently, trying to get up from the settee. She was hampered by her voluminous skirts, her teacup, and her plate of muffins. “We have guests for supper tonight, and I must get ready. Oh, do help me!”

Mr. Whippering stood and pulled his wife from the settee.

She bounced up and ran to ring for the maid. “We’re to have Sir Angus, and he’s a terrible stickler, but don’t {leront let that bother you,” she confided to Melisande. “He tells the most delicious stories after he’s had his second glass of wine. Now, I’ll have Meg show you to your room and let you wash up, if you desire, but be sure to come down by seven o’clock, for Sir Angus is sure to be on the doorstep at exactly that time. Then we shall have to somehow make conversation with him while we wait for everyone else to arrive. Oh, I’ve invited some lovely people.”

She clapped her hands like an excited little girl, and Mr. Whippering beamed down at her fondly. Melisande set aside her plate and rose, but Aunt Esther was listing her guests on her fingers.

“Mr. and Mrs. Flowers—I’ve seated you next to Mr. Flowers because he’s always quite kind and knows when to agree with a lady. Miss Charlotte Stewart, who has the best gossip. Captain Pickering and his wife—he used to be in the navy, you know, and has seen the strangest things, and—oh! Here’s Meg.”

A maid, presumably Meg, had entered the room and curtsied.

Aunt Esther flew to her. “Show my nephew and his wife to their room—the blue room,
not
the green. The green might be bigger, but the blue is ever so much more warm. There’s a draft in the green,” she confided to Melisande. “Now don’t forget: seven of the clock.”

Vale, who had been sitting all this while, complacently munching muffins, finally rose. “Don’t you worry, Aunt. We’ll be down precisely at seven and with our best bows and buttons.”

“Lovely!” his aunt exclaimed.

Melisande smiled, for it seemed quite useless to try and say anything, and began to follow the maid from the room.

“Oh, and I forgot,” Aunt Esther called. “One other couple will be there as well.”

Both Melisande and Vale turned politely to hear the name of these new guests.

“Mr. Timothy Holden and his wife, Lady Caroline.” Aunt Esther beamed. “They used to live in London before they moved to Edinburgh, and I thought they might be a treat for the both of you. Mr. Holden is quite a dashing gentleman. Maybe you even know him?”

And for the life of her, Melisande didn’t know what to say.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG
with Melisande, Jasper thought later that night. She sat on the farther end of the long supper table from him, between the kind Mr. Flowers and the punctilious Sir Angus, the latter already on his third glass of tongue-loosening wine. Melisande wore a deep brown dress with small green flowers and leaves embroidered down the bodice and around the sleeves. She looked quite lovely, her pale oval face serene, her light brown hair softly pulled back. Jasper doubted anyone else in the room noted her unease save he.

He sipped his wine and considered his lady wife, smiling vaguely at something Mrs. Flowers leaned close to say. Perhaps the company of newly met people intimidated Melisande. He knew she was a shy creature, as all the fey were wont to be. She didn’t like crowds, didn’t like long social events. It was opposite to Jasper’s own nature, but he understood this about her, even if he could never feel that way himself. He was used to her stiff reticence when they went out.

neight="0%" width="4%">But this unease was more than that. Something was wrong, and it bothered him that he didn’t know what.

It was a pleasant gathering. Aunt Esther’s cook was very good, and the supper was plain but enjoyable. The narrow dining room was intimately lit. The footmen were generous with the wine bottles.
Miss Stewart was to his right. She was a woman of mature years, with powdered and rouged cheeks and an enormous gray-powdered wig. She leaned toward Jasper, and he caught the strong scent of patchouli.

“I hear you’ve just come from London, what?” the lady said.

“Indeed, ma’am,” Jasper replied. “Over hill and over dale we’ve ridden, just to visit sunny Edinburgh.”

“Well, at least you didn’t come in winter,” she retorted somewhat obscurely. “Travel’s dreadful after the first snowfall, though the city’s pretty enough—all the snow cloaking the dirt and soot. Have you seen the castle?”

“Alas, no.”

“You should, you should.” Miss Stewart nodded vigorously, making the wattles beneath her chin shake. “Magnificent. Not many English appreciate the beauty of Scotland.”

She fixed him with a gimlet eye.

Jasper hastily swallowed a bite of the very fine lamb his aunt had served. “Oh, quite. My lady wife and I have been stunned by the countryside thus far.”

“And so you should be in my opinion.” She sawed at her lamb. “Now, the Holdens moved here from London some eight or ten years ago, and they haven’t regretted it for a day. Have you, Mr. Holden?” she appealed to the gentleman sitting across the table from her.

Timothy Holden was strikingly handsome if one liked men with soft cheeks and red lips, which apparently most women did, judging from the feminine glances aimed his way. He wore a snowy white wig and a red velvet coat, worked in gold and green embroidery at the sleeves.

At Miss Stewart’s question, Holden inclined his head and said, “My wife and I enjoy Edinburgh.”

He glanced down the table, but oddly it wasn’t his own wife he looked at but rather Jasper’s.

Jasper sipped his wine, his eyes narrowed.

“The society here is quite superior,” Lady Caroline chimed in.

She looked to be a good deal older than her handsome husband and was titled to boot. There must lie a tale. She had blond hair so light it was nearly white, and pale pinkish skin that made her as nearly monochromatic as paper. Only her light blue eyes gave her any color, poor woman, and they looked rimmed in red against her colorless skin, giving her the appearance of a white rabbit.

“The garden is lovely this time of year,” she said. “Perhaps you and Lady Vale will honor us by coming to tea during your visit?”