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“No.” He held her gaze. It was strong and steady.
She swallowed and lifted the razor. His cheeks were perfectly smooth now. Only a thin line of soap lingered by the corner of his mouth. She carefully smudged it away with her thumb.
“I’m glad,” she said, her voice husky. She leaned close, her lips hovering over his wide mouth. “Good night.”
Heof t size=r lips met his in a whispered kiss. She felt his arms rise to grasp her, but she’d already slipped away.
Chapter Seven
Now, the princess of this wonderful city was named Surcease, and while Princess Surcease was beautiful beyond a man’s dreams, with eyes as bright as stars and skin as smooth as silk, she was a haughty woman and had not found a man she would consent to marry. One man was too old, another too young. Some talked too loudly, and quite a few chewed with their mouths agape. As the princess neared her twenty-first birthday, the king, her father, lost patience. So he proclaimed that there would be a series of trials held in honor of the princess’s natal day and that the man who won them would also win her hand in marriage. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
After the scene the night before, Melisande had been rather disappointed this morning when she’d breakfasted alone. Vale had already left the house on some vague male business, and she’d resigned herself to go about her own affairs and not see him again until nightfall.
And so she had. She’d conferred with both the housekeeper and Cook, had partaken of a light luncheon and done a little bit of shopping, and then she’d arrived at her mother-in-law’s garden party. Where all her expectations had been overthrown.
“I don’t believe my son has ever attended one of my afternoon salons,” the dowager Viscountess of Vale mused now. “I can’t help but think that it is your influence that has drawn him here. Did you know he would attend this afternoon?”
Melisande shook her head. Her mind was still assimilating the fact that her husband had come to a sedate and boring garden party. This simply couldn’t be one of his usual rounds, and that thought had her rather breathless with anticipation, though she was doing her best to keep a calm face.
She and her mother-in-law sat in the dowager’s large town garden, which was in its full midsummer glory. The elder Lady Vale had had small tables and numerous chairs scattered about on her slate terrace so that her guests could enjoy the summer day. They sat or strolled in small groups, the majority of them well into their sixth decade or older.
Vale stood across the terrace with a group of three older gentlemen. Melisande watched as her husband threw his head back and laughed at something one of the gentlemen said. His throat was strong and corded, and something in her heart clenched at the sight. In a thousand years, she would never grow bored of watching him when he laughed so uninhibitedly.
She hastily glanced away so she wouldn’t be caught making cow’s eyes at him. “Your garden is lovely, my lady.”
“Thank you,” the other woman said. “It should be, considering the army of gardeners I employ.”
Melisande hid a smile behind her teacup. She’d found before her marriage that she greatly liked Vale’s mother. The dowager countess was a petite lady. Her son looked like a giant when he stood next to her. Nonetheless, she seemed to have no problem in setting him or any other gentleman down with merely a poDid„inted stare. Lady Vale wore her softly graying hair pulled into a simple knot at the crown of her head. Her face was round and feminine and not at all like her son’s, until one came to her eyes—they were a sparkling turquoise. She’d been a beauty in her youth and still had the confidence of a very handsome woman.
Lady Vale eyed the pretty pink and white pastries that sat on a dainty plate on the table between them. She leaned a little forward, and Melisande thought she might take a cake, but then the elder lady looked away.
“I was so glad when Jasper chose to marry you instead of Miss Templeton,” Lady Vale said. “The girl was pretty but overly flighty. She hadn’t the temper to keep my son in hand. He would’ve been bored with her within the month.” The dowager countess lowered her voice confidentially. “I think he was enamored of her bosom.”
Melisande checked an impulse to glance at her own small chest.
Lady Vale patted her hand and said somewhat obscurely, “Don’t let it worry you. Bosoms never last. Intelligent conversation does, though the majority of gentlemen don’t seem to realize it.”
Melisande blinked, trying to think of a reply. Although perhaps one wasn’t needed.
Lady Vale reached for a cake and then seemed to change her mind again, picking up her teacup instead. “Did you know that Miss Templeton’s father has given his permission for her to marry that curate?”
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.
