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Thus armored, she went to the connecting door and pulled it open. The rooms beyond were Vale’s, and she’d never ventured into his domain. She looked about curiously. The first thing she saw was the enormous black wood bed, draped in linens of such a dark red it was almost black. The second thing she noticed was Mr. Pynch. Vale’s man had straightened away from the banyan he’d laid on the bed and now stood, huge and immobile, in the middle of the room.
Melisande had never actually spoken to the valet. She leveled her chin and looked him in the eye. “That will be all.”
The valet didn’t move. “My lord will need me to undress him.”
“No,” she said softly. “He won’t.”
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.
Vale looked from the tray of food to her. “How did you know?”
She’d found out easily enough from the servants that he habitually ate a light snack when he returned in the evenings. She shrugged and glided to him. “I do not mean to disturb your schedule.”
He blinked. “That’s, ah . . .”
He seemed to lose his train of thought, possibly because she’d started unbuttoning his waistcoat. She concentrated on the brass buttons and the slitted holes, aware that her breathing had quickened with the temptation of his proximity. This close she could feel his warmth through the layers of his clothes. An awful thought intruded: how many other women had had the privilege of undressing him?
She looked up, meeting his turquoise blue eyes. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, kind of you.”
“Is it?” She raised her brows and returned her gaze to the buttons. Had he been with another woman tonight? He was a man of known appetites, and she was unable to fulfill them at the moment. Was it enough to make him look elsewhere? She slipped the last one through the hole and glanced up. “Please.”
He raised his arms, allowing her to slide the garment from his shoulders. She was aware of his intent gaze as she untied his neck cloth. His breath stirred her hair, and she could smell wine. She had no idea where he went in the evenings. Presumably he was out doing gentlemanly things—gambling, drinking, and perhaps wenching. Her fingers fumbled on that last thought, and she finally identified the emotion flooding her brain: jealousy. She was completely unprepared for it. She’d known before they’d married who he was—what he was. She had believed she would be content with whatever small part of himself he could share with her. The other women, when they came, she would simply ignore.
But now she fodthut now und she couldn’t. She wanted him. All of him.
She laid aside his neck cloth and started unbuttoning his shirt. The warmth of his skin seeped through the thin cloth and surrounded her fingers. The scent of his skin was hot and masculine. She breathed in through her nose, discreetly sniffing. He smelled of sandalwood and lemon soap.
