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The valet’s eyes sparked with something that might’ve been amusement. Then he bowed and glided from the room.
Melisande felt a knot between her shoulder blades loosen in relief. The first obstacle passed. Vale may’ve surprised her this morning, but tonight she planned to turn the tables on him.
She glanced around the room, noting the fire blazing in the hearth and the abundance of lit candles. The room was almost as bright as day. Her brows rose a little at the expense, and she strolled the room, pinching out a few of the tapers until only a soft glow lit the room. The scent of candle wax and smoke drifted in the air, but under them was another, more exciting scent. Melisande closed her eyes and inhaled. Vale. Whether she imagined it or not, the scent of her husband was in the room: sandalwood and lemons, brandy and smoke.
She was trying to calm her nerves when the door opened. Vale walked in, already shrugging out of his coat.
“Have you sent for hot water?” he asked, throwing the coat into a chair.
“Yes.”“Yesnt>
He whirled at the sound of her voice, his face oddly expressionless, his eyes narrowed. If she were not a very, very brave woman, she would’ve stepped back from him. He was so large and stood so still and grim, staring at her.
But then he smiled. “My lady wife. Forgive me, but I didn’t expect you here.”
She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice. A queer shivering excitement gripped her, and she knew she must control herself so that her emotions might not burst forth.
He crossed to the dressing room and glanced in. “Is Pynch here?”
“No.”
He nodded, then closed the dressing room door.
Sprat entered the open door, carrying a large steaming pitcher. He was trailed by a maid bearing a silver tray of bread, cheese, and fruit.
The servants set down their burdens, and Sprat looked at Melisande. “My lady?”
She nodded. “That will be all.”
They trooped from the room, and then there was silence.
o;Because, sweetest wife,” he said, “if I know when your flow ceases, then I will know when I may visit your rooms again.”
That made her quiet for a few minutes, and then she said softly, “Usually five.”
His brows drew together. This was the third day. If she was “usual,” then he might bed her again in three nights. He was rather looking forward to the prospect, actually. The first time was never very good for the lady—or so he’d heard. He wanted to show her how lovely it could be. He had a sudden vision of cracking that mask she wore, making her head arch back in ecstasy, her eyes opened wide, her mouth soft and vulnerable.
He shifted uncomfortably at the thought. Several days of waiting yet. “Thank you for telling me. Still. Rotten luck, that. Does it happen with every lady?”
She turned her head to stare at him. “What?”
He shrugged. “You know. Does every lady have this much pain, or do—”
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, either to herself or to the horses; there wasn’t anyone else within earshot. “I know you weren’t born under a rock. Why are you asking these questions?”
“You’re my wife now. I’m sure every man wants to know these things about his wife.”
“I very much doubt it,” she muttered.
“I at least want to know these things.” He felt his lips curve. Theirs might be an unorthodox conversation, but he was enjoying it nevertheless.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife,” he said, and knew suddenly that it was true, deep in his soul. “My wife to hold, my wife to protect and shield. If there is something hurting you, I want—no, I need— to know it.”
“But this isn’t something you can do anything about.”
He shrugged. “I still need to know. Don’t ever keep this or any other pain from me.”
