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“No.”
“Then why are you up so early?”
“Perhaps I was hungry for my marmalade jam.”
She looked at him from under her brows.
He stared back, his look rather disconcerting. “Or perhaps I fancied my lovely wife’s company for breakfast.”
Her eyes widened. She wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or alarmed at his sudden interest. “Why would—?”
Two maids entered, bearing his breakfast, and she swallowed the question. They were both silent as the maids arranged the dishes and looked to her for approval. Melisande nodded and the servants left.
“Why—?”
But he spoke at the same time. They both stopped, and he gestured for her to speak.
Melisande said, “No, I beg your pardon. Please continue.”
“I merely wish to inquire about your plans for the day.”
She reached across the table and poured him some tea. “I hope to call on my great-aunt, Miss Rockwell.”
He looked up from buttering his toast. “On your mother’s side?”
“No. My father’s mother’s sister. She’s quite elderly now, and I heard that she took a fall last week.”
“A shame. I’ll come with you.”
She blinked. “What?”
He took a huge bite of toast and crunched it, holding up a finger to indicate she should wait. She stared as he masticated and then gulped down half his tea.
“Ouch. Hot,” he muttered. “Think I’ve burned my tongue.”
“You cannot mean to accompany me on a visit to my aunt,” Melisande burst out.
“Actually, I do.”
“My elderly aunt, who—”
“I’ve always had a terrible fondness for elderly ladies. It’s a weakness of mine, if you must know.”
“But you’ll expire from boredom.”
“Oh, no, not whilst in your company, sweet wife,” he said softly. “Unless, of course, you don’t wish me to accomt yh me topany you?”
She looked at him. He lounged in his chair like a big tomcat, his expression relaxed as he ate his bacon. But his greenish-blue eyes had a spark in them. Why did she feel as if she’d just walked straight into a trap? What possible motive could he have to want to visit her great-aunt, of all people? If he were the cat, did that make her the little brown mouse? And why did the thought of playing mouse to his cat make her so very, very warm?
Oh, she was an idiot. “I’d be most pleased to have you accompany me,” she murmured, the only answer she could possibly make to his question.
He grinned. “Excellent. We’ll take my phaeton.” And he crunched into a fresh slice of toast.
Melisande’s eyes narrowed. She was sure of it now. Her husband was up to something.
IT COULD’VE BEEN worse, Jasper thought cheerfully as he handled the ribbons of his phaeton. She could’ve been going to see . . . hmm. Actually, there really weren’t too many things worse than an elderly maiden aunt. But it didn’t matter. He’d sent Pynch off this morning to learn if Lord Hasselthorpe was in town and, if so, where Jasper might find him. In the meantime, Jasper had no pressing business. The day was fine, he was driving his new phaeton, and his lovely wife sat beside him unable to escape. Sooner or later, she would have to talk to him too.
He glanced sideways at her. She sat ramrod straight in the phaeton seat, her back not even touching the crimson leather seat. Her expression was serene, but she clutched at the carriage side. At least her eyes no longer held that edge of pain he’d seen two nights before. He looked away. He’d rarely felt as useless as he had the other night, seeing her in pain but unable to do anything about it. How did other men deal with this part of marriage? Did they have some secret remedy for a wife’s womanly ills, or did they simply pretend nothing was wrong?
