To Seduce a Sinner Page 9

  His mouth twitched. “I am chastised, madam. Then shall I compliment your eyes?”

  She widened them. “Are they liquid pools that doth reflect my soul?”

  A surprised laugh burst from his lips. “Lady, you are a hard critic. Shall I tell you of your wondrous smile?”

  “You may, but I may yawn.”

  “I can shower praises on your figure.”

  She arched a mocking brow.

  “Then I shall expound upon your sweet soul.”

  “But you don’t know my soul, sweet or otherwise,” she said. “You don’t know me.”

  “So you’ve said before.” He sat back in his chair and examined her. She looked away from his gaze as if regretting her challenge. Which only piqued his interest more. “But you haven’t offered any insight into who you are either.”

  She shrugged. One hand was pressed to her belly; the other idly twirled her glass stem.

  “Perhaps I should go exploring into my lady wife’s mind. I shall begin simply,” he said gently. “What do you like to eat?”

  She nodded to the cooling beef and Yorkshire pudding on her plate. “This is nice.”

  “You don’t make this easy.” He cocked his head. Most ladies of his acquaintance loved to talk about themselves—it was their favorite subject, in fact. Why not his wife? “I mean, what do you like to eat most of all?”

  “Roast chicken is nice. We can have that tomorrow night, if it’s agreeable to you.”

  He placed his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “Melisande. What is your favorite food in all the world?”

  She finally looked up at him. “I don’t believe I have a favorite food in all the world.”

  Which nearly drove him over the edge of reason. “How can you not have a favorite food? Everyone has a favorite food.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it.”

  He sat back in exasperation. “Gammon steak? Biscuits with butter? Ripe grapes? Seed cake? Syllabub?”

  “Syllabub?”

  “You must have something you like. No. Something you adore. Something you crave in the dark of night. Something you dream about at afternoon teas when you should be listening to the old lady sitting next to you, droning on about cats.”

  “You yourself must have a favorite dish, if your theory holds true.”

  He smiled. A feeble attack. “Pigeon pie, gammon steak, raspberry tart, ripe fresh pears, a good beef steak, biscuits hot from the oven, roasted goose, and any kind of cheese.”

  She touched her wineglass to her lips but did not sip. “You’ve listed many foods, instead of one favorite.”

  “At least I have a list.”

  “Perhaps your mind cannot settle on one favorite.” Her lips tilted at one corner, and he noticed for the first time that although they weren’t lush and full, her lips were elegantly curved and rather lovely. “Or perhaps, having none to raise above the others, they are all equally mundane to you.”

  He sat up in his chair and cocked his head. “Are you calling me frivolous, madam?”

  Her smile widened. “If the shoe fits . . .”

  An affronted laugh puffed from his mouth. “I am insulted at my own table and by my own wife! Come, I will kindly give you a chance to retract your statement.”

  “And yet I cannot in all conscience do so,” she replied at once. That smile still played about her mouth, and he wanted to reach across the table and touch it with his thumb. To physically feel her amusement. “What would you call a man who has so many favorite foods he can’t choose amongst them? Who gains and loses two fiancées in the course of less than a year?”

  “Oh, a low blow!” he protested, laughing.

  “Who I have never seen wear the same coat twice.”

  “Ah—”

  “And who is the friend of every man he meets, yet has not a favorite friend himself?”

  Her smile had died, and he had stopped laughing. He’d had a favorite friend once. Reynaud St. Aubyn. But Reynaud had died in the bloody aftermath of Spinner’s Falls. Now he spent his nights among strangers. She was right, his damnable wife; he was the acquaintance of many and the soul mate of none.

  Jasper swallowed and said low, “Tell me, madam, why having a plethora of likes is worse than being too fearful to pick one at all?”

  She set her wineglass on the table. “I don’t like this conversation anymore.”

  Silence hung between them for several heartbeats.

  He sighed and pushed back from the table. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  She nodded and he strode from the room, feeling as if he were admitting defeat. No, this wasn’t defeat; this was a short retreat to regroup his forces. Nothing shameful in that. Many of the best generals considered falling back much preferable to an all-out rout.

  SHE’D COME CLOSE to revealing too much about herself this evening. Too much about her feelings for Vale.

  Melisande pressed a hand to her lower belly as Suchlike pulled a brush through her hair. To have anyone, but especially Vale, be that interested in discovering her inner soul was seductive. His entire attention had been focused on her tonight. That kind of total concentration might very well become addictive if she wasn’t careful. She’d let her emotions take hold of her once before with Timothy, her fiancé, and it had nearly destroyed her. Her love had been deep and single-minded. To love like that was not a blessing. It was a curse. To be capable of—to endure—that unnaturally strong emotion was a kind of mental deformity. It had taken her years to recover from losing Timothy. She kept the reminder of that hurt close, a warning of what might happen if she let her emotions gain control of her person. Her very sanity depended on her strict constraint.

  She shivered on the thought, and another pain hit her. The ache was low and dull in her belly, like a knot drawn tight there. Melisande swallowed and gripped the edge of her dresser. She’d been enduring this monthly pain for fifteen years, and there was no point in making a fuss over it.

  “Your hair’s so pretty when it’s down, my lady,” Suchlike said from behind her. “So long and fine.”

  “Fine brown, I’m afraid,” Melisande said.

  “Well, yes,” Suchlike conceded. “But it’s a pretty brown. Like the color oak wood turns when it ages. Sort of a soft blondy brown.”

  Melisande stared skeptically at her maid in the mirror. “There’s no need to flatter.”

  Suchlike met her gaze in the glass and seemed genuinely startled. “It’s not flattery, my lady, if it’s true. And it is. True, that is. I like the way your hair waves a bit about your face, if you don’t mind me saying so. Pity you can’t wear it down always.”

  “A fine sight that’d be,” Melisande said. “Me looking like a sad dryad.”

  “I don’t know about them things, my lady, but—”

  Melisande closed her eyes as another pain squeezed her belly.

  “Are you hurt, my lady?”

  “No,” Melisande lied. “Don’t fuss.”

  The lady’s maid looked uncertain. Naturally she must be aware of what the problem was since she took care of Melisande’s linens. But Melisande hated having anyone, even someone as innocuous as Suchlike, know such an intimate thing.

  “Shall I fetch a heated brick, my lady?” Suchlike asked tentatively.

  Melisande almost snapped at the maid, but then another pain hit her, and she nodded mutely. A wrapped hot brick might very well help.

  Suchlike hurried from the room, and Melisande made her way to the bed. She crawled underneath the covers, feeling the ache reach long tentacles into her hips and thighs. Mouse hopped on the bed and crept over to lay his head on her shoulder.

  “Oh, Sir Mouse,” she murmured to the dog. She stroked the tip of his nose, and his tongue darted out to lick her fingers. “You are my most loyal cavalier.”

  Suchlike returned, carrying the hot brick wrapped in flannel. “There, my lady,” she said, shoving the brick beneath the bedcovers. “See if that helps at all.”

  “Thank you
.” Melisande hugged the brick against her belly. Another wave crested and she bit her lip.

  “Can I get you something else?” Suchlike still stood beside the bed, her eyes worried, her hands twisted together. “Some hot tea and honey? Or another blanket?”

  “No.” Melisande softened her voice. The little maid really was a dear. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  Suchlike bobbed a curtsy and shut the door quietly.

  Melisande closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pains. Behind her, she felt Mouse creep beneath the covers and settle his warm little body against her hips. He sighed and then there was silence in the room. Her mind drifted a bit, and she shifted a little, groaning under her breath as her belly fisted.

  A knock came on the connecting door and then it opened. Lord Vale strolled in.

  For a second, Melisande closed her eyes. Why had he chosen tonight to resume his marital duties? He’d kept his distance since their wedding night, presumably to let her heal, and now here he came when she was entirely unable to entertain him. And how exactly was she to tell him that without sinking through the floor in mortification?

  “Ah, already abed?” he started to say.

  But he was interrupted by Mouse bursting from the covers, leaping atop her hip and barking furiously.

  Lord Vale started back, Mouse lost his balance and skidded off her hip, and Melisande groaned as she was jostled by the terrier.

  “Has he hurt you?” Lord Vale came toward her, his brows knit, which caused Mouse to bark so hard that all four paws left the bed at once.

  “Hush, Mouse,” Melisande moaned.

  Lord Vale looked at Mouse with cold blue eyes. Then, in a move so sudden and fast she didn’t have time to protest, he grabbed the dog by its ruff, picked him up off the bed, and tossed him into the dressing room. He shut the door firmly and returned to the bed to frown down at her.

  “What is the matter?”

  She swallowed, a bit put out that he’d taken Mouse away. “Nothing.”

  Her answer caused him to frown more sternly. “Do not lie to me. Your dog has hurt you somehow. Now tell me—”

  “It wasn’t Mouse.” She closed her eyes, because she couldn’t look at him and say this. “I have my . . . my courses.”

  The room was so quiet, she wondered if he was holding his breath. She opened her eyes.

  Lord Vale was staring at her as if she’d metamorphosed into a salted herring. “Your . . . ah . . . quite.”

  He glanced about the room as if for inspiration.

  Melisande wished she could vanish. Simply disappear into the air.

  “Do you . . . ah.” Lord Vale cleared his throat. “Do you require anything?”

  “Nothing. Thank you.” She tucked the comforter under her nose.

  “Good. Well, then—”

  “Actually—”

  Her words collided with his. He stopped and looked at her, then gracefully waved a large-knuckled hand for her to speak.

  Melisande cleared her throat. “Actually, could you let Mouse out again?”

  “Yes, of course.” He strode to the dressing room door and cracked it open.

  Mouse immediately darted out, scrambled onto the bed, and resumed barking at Lord Vale as if the intervening session in the dressing room hadn’t happened at all. Her husband grimaced and came to the bed, looking down at her pet. Mouse had his stumpy little legs braced and was growling.

  Lord Vale arched an eyebrow at Melisande. “Your pardon, but it’s best if we work this out now.”

  Once again he moved with startling speed, but this time he reached out and closed his hand about the dog’s muzzle. Mouse must’ve been surprised as well, for he squeaked.

  Melisande opened her mouth in instinctive protest, but Vale shot her a glance, and she closed it again. It was his house, and he was her husband, after all.

  Still holding Mouse’s muzzle, Lord Vale leaned down and looked the dog in the eye. “No.”

  Man and dog stared a moment more, and man gave the dog a firm shake. Then he released him. Mouse sat down against Melisande and licked his muzzle.

  Lord Vale’s gaze returned to her. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” she murmured.

  And he left the room.

  Mouse came and pressed his nose against her cheek.

  She stroked his head. “Well, you really did deserve that, you know.”

  Mouse exhaled gustily and then pawed the edge of the coverlet. She held it up so he could creep beneath and resume his place against her back.

  Then she closed her eyes. Men. How was it possible that Vale had had a parade of paramours in the last several years and still didn’t seem to know what to do with his own wife? Even insulated as she was by society, she’d heard whispers each time he’d taken a new mistress or formed a liaison. Each time it was like a tiny bit of glass pressed into the softness of her heart, grinding, grinding, oh so silently, until she no longer noticed when she bled. And now she had him—finally had him—all to herself, and it turned out that he had the sensitivity of . . . an ox.

  Melisande turned and thumped her pillow, causing Mouse to grumble as he resettled himself. Oh, this was a great cosmic joke! To have the man of her dreams and find he was made of lead. But he couldn’t be a universally bad lover and have the reputation he had with the ladies of the ton. Some of them had stayed with him for months, and most were sophisticated creatures, the type who could have their pick of paramours. The type who had dozens of men.

  She stilled at the thought. Her husband was used to experienced lovers. Perhaps he simply did not know what to do with a wife. Or—terrible thought!—perhaps he intended to keep his passion for a mistress and use his wife merely to mother his children. In that case, he might feel that there was no need to expend extra energy in seeing that she enjoyed the marriage bed.

  Melisande scowled into the darkness of her lonely room. If they continued on their present course, she would have a loveless and sexless marriage. The love she could do without—had to do without, if she were to maintain her sanity. She no more wanted Vale to find out her true feelings for him than she wanted to jump from the roof of a building. But that didn’t mean she had to do without passion as well. If she was very careful, she might seduce her husband into a satisfying marriage bed without him ever discovering her pathetic love for him.

  EVERY TIME HE looked at Matthew Horn, he felt guilt, Jasper reflected the next afternoon. They were riding side by side in Hyde Park. Jasper thought of his thin pallet and wondered if Matthew had a secret badge of shame as well. They all seemed to, in one way or another, the ones who had survived. He patted Belle’s neck and pushed the thought aside. Those demons were for the night.

  “I forgot to offer felicitations on your marriage the other morning,” Horn said. “I had thought not to see the day.”

  “You and many others,” Jasper replied.

  Melisande had still not risen when he’d left the house, and he supposed his wife might spend the day abed. He wasn’t very well versed in these feminine matters; he’d known many women, but the subject had not arisen when the ladies in question had been paramours. This marriage business took more work than it first appeared.

  “Did you tie a blindfold around the poor lady’s eyes to get her to the altar?” Horn asked.

  “She came most willingly, I’ll have you know.” Jasper glanced at the other man. “She wanted a small wedding; otherwise, you would’ve been invited.”

  Horn grinned. “Quite all right. Weddings tend to be dull affairs for all but the principals. No offense meant.”

  Jasper inclined his head. “None taken.”

  They guided their horses around a stopped carriage. A scrawny fellow was sitting, scratching his head under his wig as his female companion leaned down to gossip with two lady pedestrians. He and Horn doffed their hats as they passed. The gentleman nodded absently; the ladies curtsied and then bent their heads together to whisper furiously.

  “Have you any aspirations in that
direction yourself?” Jasper asked.

  Horn turned to look a question at him.

  Jasper nodded to the various knots of vibrant colors that marked the presence of the female sex in the park. “Marriage?”

  Horn grinned. “Thus it begins.”

  “What?”

  “Every newly married man must needs lure his fellows into the trap.”

  Jasper arched an eyebrow repressively.

  Not that it did any good. Horn shook his head. “Next you’ll be introducing me to a whey-faced creature with a squint and informing me how vastly improved my lot will be once I tie myself to her forever.”

  “Actually,” Jasper murmured, “I do have a maiden cousin. She’s nearing her fourth decade, but her estate is quite large and of course her connections good.”

  Horn turned a face full of mute horror.

  Jasper grinned.

  “Oh, mock me if you will, but I had a very similar offer just last month.” Horn shuddered.

  “Is this unnatural aversion to the fairer sex your reason for spending so much time on the continent?”

  “No, indeed.” Horn bowed to a carriage of elderly ladies. “I traveled Italy and Greece to view the ruins and collect statuary.”

  Jasper raised his eyebrows. “I had not realized you were a connoisseur of art.”

  Horn shrugged.

  Jasper looked ahead. They’d nearly reached the far end of the park. “Did you find Nate Growe?”

  “No.” Horn shook his head. “When I went to the coffeehouse I thought I’d seen him at, they had no knowledge of him. It may not even have been Growe in the first place. It was months ago now. I’m sorry, Vale.”

  “Don’t be. You tried.”

  “Who does that leave us with?”

  “Not many. There were eight captured: You, me, Alistair Munroe, Maddock, Sergeant Coleman, John Cooper, and Growe.” Jasper frowned. “Who am I missing?”

  “Captain St. Aubyn.”

  Jasper swallowed, remembering Reynaud’s sharp black eyes and sudden wide grin. “Of course. Captain St. Aubyn. Cooper was killed on the march. Coleman died from what the Indians did to him when we made the camp, as did St. Aubyn, and Maddock died in the camp as well,from his battle wounds festering. Who does that leave alive?”