She could hear her husband talking in the hallway with the butler and footmen. Not for the first time that evening, she wondered if he’d entirely forgotten that he had a wife. Oaks seemed like a capable man. Perhaps he’d remind his master of her existence.
The ugly clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, the tones tinny and flat. Melisande frowned and placed another stitch. The smaller yellow and white sitting room at the back of the house was much prettier. The only reason she’d chosen this sitting room was because of its proximity to the front hall. Vale would have to walk past to go to his rooms.
The sitting room door opened, startling Mouse, who jumped back and then, as if realizing he’d been caught in retreat, leapt forward to bark at Lord Vale’s ankles. Lord Vale gazed down at Mouse. Melisande had the distinct impression that he wouldn’t mind kicking her dog.
“Sir Mouse,” she called to prevent any tragedy.
Mouse gave one last bark, trotted over to her, and jumped up on the settee beside her.
Lord Vale closed the door and advanced into the room, making a bow to her. “Good evening, madam wife. I apologize for my absence at dinner.”
Humph. Melisande inclined her head and gestured to the chair opposite her. “I am sure the business that detained you was most important, my lord.”
Lord Vale leaned back in his chair and laid one ankle over the opposite knee. “Pressing, yes, but whether important or not, I don’t know. It seemed so at the time.” He flicked a finger against the skirts of his coat.
She set another stitch. He seemed somehow downcast this evening, as if his usual joie de vivre had deserted him. Her outrage deflated as she wondered what had made him somber.
Lord Vale frowned at her and Mouse. “That settee is covered in satin.”
Mouse laid his head on her lap. Melisande stroked his nose. “Yes. I know.”
Lord Vale opened his mouth and then closed it. His gaze roamed the room, and she could almost feel his need to jump up and pace. Instead, he drummed his long fingers against the arm of his chair. He looked tired and, with the humor in his eyes gone, older.
She hated to see him down. It made her heart ache. “Would you care for a brandy? Or something from the kitchen? I’m sure Cook has some kidney pie left over from dinner.”
He shook his head.
She watched him a moment, perplexed. She’d loved this man for years, but in many ways, she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what to do for him when he was weary and sad. She looked down, her brows knit, and snipped off the end of her thread. From her basket, she selected a silk the exact shade of ripe raspberries.
Lord Vale stopped drumming. “Your design looks like a lion.”
“That’s because it is a lion,” she murmured as she placed the first stitch in the lion’s lolling tongue.
“Isn’t that unusual?”
She glanced at him beneath lowered brows.
A small amount of amusement crept into his face. “Not that it’s not a fine piece of embroidery. Very, ah, pretty.”
“Thank you.”
He drummed some more.
She outlined the lion’s tongue and began to fill it in with smooth satin stitches. It was nice to sit here together even if they both didn’t know quite what to do. She silently sighed. Perhaps that wisdom would come with time.
Lord Vale stopped drumming. “Almost forgot. Got you something whilst I was out.” He fished in his coat pocket.
Melisande laid aside her embroidery hoop to accept aks p to ac small box.
“A token apology for shouting at you this morning,” Lord Vale said. “I was a cad and a blackguard and the worst of husbands.”
A corner of her mouth tilted up. “You weren’t quite that bad.”
He shook his head. “It’s not the thing, to yell like a madman at one’s lady wife, and I won’t do it as a rule, I assure you. At least not after I’ve had my morning tea, in any case.”
She opened the box to find small garnet-drop earrings. “How lovely.”
“You like them?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Across from her, he nodded and leapt to his feet. “Excellent. I’ll bid you a good night, then.”
She felt the brush of his lips against her hair, and then he was at the door. He touched the doorknob and then half turned toward her. “I say, no need to wait up for me tonight.”
She arched an eyebrow.
He grimaced. “That is, I shan’t be coming to your rooms. Too soon after our wedding night, what? I just thought you should know so you wouldn’t be worried. Sleep well, my heart.”
She inclined her head, biting her lip to keep back the tears, but he was already out the door.
Melisande blinked rapidly, then looked back to the little box with the garnet earrings. They were quite lovely, but she never wore earrings. Her ears weren’t pierced. She touched one of the garnets with a fingertip and wondered if he’d ever looked—really looked—at her at all.
She closed the box gently and put it in her embroidery bag. Then she gathered her things and left the room, Mouse trailing behind.
Chapter Five
The second beggar stood, and all his rags fell away, revealing a horrible thing, half beast, half man, and entirely covered with black and rotting scales.
“Damn me, will you?” rasped the demon, for such it obviously was. “I will see you damned in my stead!”
Jack began to shrink, his legs and arms growing shorter, until he stood only the height of a child. At the same time, his nose grew and hooked down until it nearly met his chin, which had elongated and curved up.
The demon roared with laughter and vanished in a sulfurous cloud of smoke. And then Jack stood all alone in the road, the sleeves of his soldier’s uniform trailing in the dust. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
“Ah, lovely,” Jasper said over dinner three days later. “Beef and gravy with Yorkshire pudding, the v"9%„ery epitome of an English supper.” Could he sound any more of an ass if he tried?
He sipped from his wineglass and watched over the rim to see if his new wife would agree with his self- assessment of assedness, but as usual, the dratted woman wore a polite mask.
“Cook does make a pleasant Yorkshire pudding,” she murmured.
He’d hardly seen her in the last few days, and this was the first supper they’d shared together. Yet she didn’t scold or fret or indeed show any emotion at all. He set his wineglass down and tried to pinpoint the source of his discontent. This was what he’d wanted, surely? To have a complacent wife, one who didn’t make scenes or cause a fuss? He’d thought—when he’d thought ahead at all—that he’d see her now and again, escort her to the odd ball, and when she’d become safely pregnant, discreetly take a mistress. He was well on the way to achieving that goal.