To Seduce a Sinner
“You seem to favor the day.”
“Do I?”
The dance took them apart while she thought on that odd statement. When they drew close again, she laid her palm against his as they paced in a semicircle. “Perhaps you mistake habit for love.”
His eyes seemed to spark behind his mask. “Explain.”
She shrugged. “My usual social rounds are in the day; yours are in the night—but this does not mean that you love the night and I the day.”
A line appeared between his brows.
“Perh Csizsizaps,” she whispered as they moved apart again, “you play in the night because that is what you’re used to. Perhaps you actually prefer the day.”
He tilted his head in query as they paced together. “And you, my sweet wife?”
“Perhaps my domain is really the night.”
They parted and glided away. She moved through the figures of the dance until they came together again, the touch of his hand on hers sending a thrill through her.
He smiled as if he knew what his touch did to her. “What would you do with me, then, my mistress of the night?” They paced around each other, only the fingertips of their hands touching. “Will you lead me? Taunt me? Teach me about the night?”
They separated and dipped. She watched him the entire time. His eyes glinted with green and blue lights. They advanced, and he bent his head to her ear, their bodies not touching at all. “Tell me, madam, will you dare to seduce a sinner such as I?”
Her breath was coming fast, her heart fluttering in her chest, alive with excitement, but her face was serene. “Is that really the question?”
“What question do you prefer?”
“Will you allow yourself to be seduced by me?”
They halted as the dance concluded and the music died away. Her eyes on his, Melisande sank into a curtsy. She rose, her gaze still locked with her husband’s.
He took her hand and bent over the knuckles, murmuring as he kissed her hand, “Oh, yes.”
He guided her from the dance floor, and they were immediately surrounded.
A gentleman in a scarlet domino pressed into Melisande’s side. “Who is this delectable creature, Vale?”
“My wife,” Vale said lightly as he adroitly maneuvered Melisande to his other side, “and I’ll thank you not to forget it, Fowler.”
Fowler laughed drunkenly, and someone else shouted a quip that Vale responded to easily, but Melisande couldn’t hear the words. She was too conscious of the press of hot bodies, of the leer of unkind eyes. Mrs. Redd had disappeared—for good, she hoped. She’d found Vale and danced with him, and now only wished to go home.
But he was guiding her farther into the crowd, his hand firm and strong on her elbow.
“Where are we going, my lord?” Melisande asked.
“No, of course not.”
They’d reached the knot of gentlemen standing by the entrance to the ballroom. They were a noticeably more somber group than the one Vale had been with earlier.
“Hasselthorpe! How fortuitous to meet you here,” Vale called.
Lord Hasselthorpe turned, and even Melisande could see his confusion. But Vale held out his hand, and the other man was forced to take it, eyeing him warily. Hasselthorpe was a nondescript man of medium height with heavy-lidded eyes and deep lines incising his cheeks about his mouth. His habitual expression was grave as befitted a leading member of Parliament. Beside him was the Duke of Lister, a tall, heavyset man in a gray wig. Hovering several paces away was a beautiful blond woman, Lister’s longtime mistress, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She didn’t look to be enjoying the ball, standing all by herself.
“Vale,” Hasselthorpe said slowly. “And is this your lovely wife?”
“Indeed,” Vale said. “I believe you met my viscountess at your house party last fall?”
Hasselthorpe murmured an assent as he bowed over Melisande’s hand. He hadn’t taken his eyes from Vale’s face, and indeed she might not’ve been there at all. She looked at Vale as well and saw that he wasn’t smiling. There was an undercurrent of something here that she couldn’t quite place, but she knew one thing—it was masculine business.
Melisande smiled and placed her hand on Vale’s sleeve. “I fear I’ve grown weary, my lord. Will you be terribly disappointed if I retire home early?”
He turned and she could see the conflict in his face, but then he darted a look at Lord Hasselthorpe and his expression smoothed. He bowed over her hand. “Terribly, terribly disappointed, my heart, but I shall not detain you.”
“Good night, then, my lord.” She curtsied to the gentlemen. “Your grace. My lord.”
The gentlemen bowed, murmuring their farewells.
She stood on tiptoe and whispered in Vale’s ear, “Remember, my lord: one more night.”
Then she turned away. But as she made her way through the crowd, she heard two words from the group of huddled men behind her.
Spinner’s Falls.
Chapter Eight
Well, you can imagine what happened upon the king’s proclamation. Suitors began arriving in the little kingdom, traveling from the four corners of the world. Some were princes, high and low, with caravans of guards and courtiers and lackeys. Some were dispossessed knights, seeking their fortune, their armor battered from many tournaments. And a few even traveled on foot, beggars and thieves without much hope. But they all had one thing in common: they each believed they were the one who would win the trials and marry a beautiful princess royal. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
For a mistress of the night, his wife certainly rose early in the morning. Standing outside the newly appointed breakfast room, Jasper tried to shake the sleep from his frame. She’d left the ball early the night before, but it’d still been nearly an hour past midnight. How, then, could she be awake and, from the sound of it, already breaking her fast? He, in contrast, had stayed another hour or so, futilely trying to get Lord Hasselt Fhe horpe to listen. Hasselthorpe had found the whole idea of his brother’s regiment being betrayed by a French spy preposterous, and he’d been loud in his denial. Jasper had decided to wait several days before attempting to talk to the man again.
Now he widened his eyes in a last desperate attempt at seeming awake and entered the breakfast room. There she sat, her back ramrod straight, every hair carefully controlled into a simple knot at the crown of her head, her light brown eyes cool and composed.
He bowed. “Good morning, my lady wife.”
She glanced at him, and he thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of his midnight mistress, lurking somewhere behind her serene gaze. She nodded. “Good morning.”
“Did you sleep well?” Jasper asked as he strolled to the side table.
“Yes,” she replied from behind him. “And you?”
He stared blindly at the plate of fish staring blindly back at him and thought of his rude little pallet on the floor of his dressing room. “Like the dead.”
Which was correct, assuming the dead slept with a knife under their pillow and tossed all night long. He stabbed a fish and transferred it to the dish in his hand.
He smiled at Melisande as he neared the table. “Do you have plans for the day?”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Yes, but none that would interest you.”
This statement had the natural effect of piquing his interest. He sat opposite her. “Oh, indeed?”
She nodded as she poured him a cup of tea. “Some shopping with my maid.”
“Splendid!”
She peered at him skeptically. Perhaps his enthusiasm was overdone.
“You don’t mean to accompany me.” It was a statement, her lips pressed together primly.
What would she say if she knew her censorious face only aroused him? She’d be appalled, surely. But then Jasper recalled the seductive woman from the night before, the one who’d whispered a bold challenge with unflinching eyes, and he wondered. Which was his true wife? The prim lady of the day or the adventuress of the night?
But she waited for his reply. He grinned. “I can think of nothing more enjoyable than a morning of shopping.”
“I can’t think of any other man who would say the same.”
“Then you’re K">“y o lucky to be married to me, are you not?”
She didn’t answer that but merely poured herself another cup of chocolate.
He broke open a bun and buttered a piece. “It was a delight to see you at the ball last night.”
She stiffened almost imperceptibly. Was he not supposed to mention her nocturnal actions?
“I had not met your friend Matthew Horn until yesterday,” she said. “Are you close?”
Ah, then this was how it would be played. She would try to ignore her own nightly mechanisms. Interesting.
“I knew Horn when I was in the army,” he said. “He was a good friend back then. We’ve grown apart since.”
“You never speak of your time in the army.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How long were you commissioned?”
“Seven years.”
“And you held the rank of captain?”
“Indeed.”
“You saw action.”
It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t know if he should bother to answer. Action. Such a small word for the blood and sweat and screaming. The thundering of the cannons, the smoke and ashes, the corpses littering the field afterward. Action. Oh, yes, he’d seen action.
He sipped his tea to wash the taste of acid from his mouth. “I was at Quebec when we took the city. A tale I hope to someday tell our grandchildren.”
She looked away. “But that’s not where Lord St. Aubyn died.”
“No.” He smiled grimly. “Think you this is a pleasant conversation for the breakfast table?”
She didn’t back down from him. “Should not a wife know about her husband?”
“My time in the army is not everything I am.”
“No, but I think it is a fair part of you.”
And what could he say to that? She was right. Somehow she knew, though he didn’t think he’d given any sign. She knew he was changed, forever scarred and diminished, by what had happened in the north woods of America. Did he wear it like a badge of the devil? Could she see what he was? Did she know somehow of his deepest shame?
No, she must not. If she knew, her face would hold contempt. He looked down as he broke apart the rest of his bun.
“Perhaps you no longer want to accompany me this morning?” his wife asked softly.
He looked up at that. Sly creature. “I don’t scare that easily.”
Her eyes widened a bit. Perhaps his smile had shown too much teeth. Perhaps she’d seen Kps ighthe thing that lurked beneath. But she was brave, his wife.
“Then tell me,” she said, “about the army.”
“There’s not much to tell,” he lied. “I was a captain in the 28th.”
“That was Lord St. Aubyn’s rank as well,” Melisande said. “You bought your commissions together?”
“Yes.” So young, so thickheaded. He’d been mostly interested in the dashing uniform.