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“This is the room the viscount uses to breakfast when he has guests,” Oaks said. “Naturally, should you wish to make other arrangements, you need only inform me.”
“No. This is quite nice. Thank you, Oaks.” She smiled and sat in the chair he held for her at the long, polished wood table.
“Cook’s coddled eggs are excellent,” Oaks said. “But if you wish for herring or—”
“The eggs will be fine. I’d also like a sweet bun or two and some hot chocolate.”
He bowed. “Then I shall have a maid bring them up directly.”
Melisande cleared her throat. “Not yet, please. I’d like to wait for my husband.”
Oaks blinked. “The viscount is a late riser—”
“Nevertheless, I shall wait.”
“Yes, my lady.” And Oaks eased out of the room.
Melisande watched Mouse finish his business, then come trotting to the house. In another few minutes, he appeared at the breakfast room door with the footman. Mouse’s button ears pricked forward when he saw her, and he ran over to lick her hand and then settle beneath her chair with a groan.
“Thank you.” Melisande smiled at the footman. He looked quite young, his face still spotty beneath his white wig. “What is your name?”
“Sprat, my lady.” His cheeks reddened at her notice.
Good Lord, hopefully his parents hadn’t christened him Jack. Melisande nodded. “Sprat, you shall be in charge of Sir Mouse. He needs to visit the garden in the morning, again just after lunch, and before retiring for bed. Can you remember to see to him for me?”
“Yes, my lady.” Sprat’s head jerked down in a nervous bow. “Thank you, my lady.”
Melisande repressed a smile. Sprat didn’t look entirely sure if he should be grateful. From beneath her chair, Mouse gurgled a soft growl. “Thank you. That will be all.”
Sprat backed out and Melisande was alone again. She sat for a minute until her nerves couldn’t stand her inaction anymore; then she stood and paced to the windows. How to face her new husband? With wifely serenity, of course. But was there any way she could gently—discreetly—make it known that last night had been, well, a disappointment? Melisande winced. Probably not over the breakfast table. Gentlemen were notoriously sensitive in this area, and many were not at their most reasonable in the early m>much better than last night.
Somewhere a clock chimed the nine o’clock hour. Mouse stood and stretched, yawning until his pink tongue curled. With a twinge of disappointment, Melisande gave up waiting and went to the hall. Sprat was standing there, staring rather vacantly at the ceiling, although he brought his gaze hastily down when he saw her.
“Please bring me my breakfast,” Melisande said, and went back to the breakfast room to wait. Had Vale already left the house, or did he always sleep this late?
After a solitary meal shared with Mouse, Melisande turned her mind to other matters. She sent for the cook and found an elegant yellow and white sitting room to plan the week’s meals.
The cook was a small, wiry woman, her face thin and lined with concern, her graying black hair scraped back into a tight knot at the crown of her head. She perched on the edge of her seat, leaning forward and nodding rapidly as Melisande spoke to her. Cook didn’t smile—her face didn’t seem to know how—but the tight purse of her mouth relaxed as Melisande praised the tasty coddled eggs and hot chocolate. In fact, Melisande was just feeling that she’d established a nice understanding with the woman when a loud commotion interrupted their discussion. Both women looked up. Melisande realized that she could hear barking at the center of raised male voices.
Oh, dear. She smiled politely at the cook. “If you will excuse me?”
She rose and walked unhurriedly to the breakfast room where she found the makings of a pantomime drama. Sprat stood gaping, Oaks’s beautiful white wig was askew, and he was talking rapidly, but unfortunately in a voice that couldn’t be heard. Meanwhile, her husband of only one day was waving his arms and shouting as if impersonating a particularly angry windmill. The object of his ire stood resolute only inches from Lord Vale’s toes, barking and growling.
“Where did this mongrel come from?” Vale was demanding. “Who let it in? Can’t a man have breakfast without having to defend his bacon from vermin?”
“Mouse,” Melisande said quietly, but it was loud enough for the terrier. With one last triumphant arf! Mouse came trotting over to sit on her slippers and pant.
“Do you know this mongrel?” Lord Vale asked, wild-eyed. “Where did it come from?”
Oaks was straightening his wig, muttering under his breath, while Sprat stood on one leg.
Melisande’s eyes narrowed. Really! After making her wait an hour. “Mouse is my dog.”
Lord Vale blinked, and she couldn’t help noticing that even confused and out of sorts, his blue eyes were startling in their beauty. He lay on me last night, she thought, feeling the heat pool low in her belly. His body became one with mine. He is my husband at last.
“But it ate my bacon.”
Melisande looked down at Mouse, who panted up at her adoringly, his mouth curvedrea mouth as if in a grin. “He.”
