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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. Hhern the rer 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.
pped from his wineglass and watched over the rim to see if his new wife would agree with his self- assessment of assedness, but as usual, the dratted woman wore a polite mask.
“Cook does make a pleasant Yorkshire pudding,” she murmured.
He’d hardly seen her in the last few days, and this was the first supper they’d shared together. Yet she didn’t scold or fret or indeed show any emotion at all. He set his wineglass down and tried to pinpoint the source of his discontent. This was what he’d wanted, surely? To have a complacent wife, one who didn’t make scenes or cause a fuss? He’d thought—when he’d thought ahead at all—that he’d see her now and again, escort her to the odd ball, and when she’d become safely pregnant, discreetly take a mistress. He was well on the way to achieving that goal.
And yet the reality was oddly dissatisfying.
“We’ve invitations to Lady Graham’s annual masked ball, I noticed,” he said as he cut his beef. “Rather a tedious event, of course, what with the need to wear masks. Mine always makes me hot and gives me a terrible urge to sneeze. But I thought you might like to come?”
She winced slightly as she raised her glass of wine. “Thank you for asking, but I don’t think so.”
“Ah.” He applied himself to his meat, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “If a mask is the problem, I can have one made in a trice. Perhaps a gilt one with feathers and little jewels about the eyes?”
She smiled at that. “I should look like a crow in a peacock’s finery. Thank you, but no.”
“Of course.”
“I trust you’ll attend, however,” she said. “I wouldn’t wish to spoil your enjoyment.”
He thought of the endless damnable night hours and how he tried to fill them with the company of drunken strangers. “Most kind. I’m afraid I can’t withstand the temptation of a masquerade ball. Perhaps it’s the pleasure of watching otherwise dignified gentlemen and ladies prance about in dominoes and masks. Childish, I know, but there it is.”
She didn’t comment but merely watched him as she sipped from her wineglass. A single line had incised itself between her brows. Perhaps he’d revealed too much.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said to change the subject. “The candlelight becomes you.”
“I’m disappointed.” She shook her head sadly. “I sit with one of London’s most famous lovers, and he tells me the candlelight becomes me.”
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.”
