Once again he moved with startling speed, but this time he reached out and closed his hand about the dog’s muzzle. Mouse must’ve been surprised as well, for he squeaked.
Melisande opened her mouth in instinctive protest, but Vale shot her a glance, and she closed it again. It was his house, and he was her husband, after all.
Still holding Mouse’s muzzle, Lord Vale leaned down and looked the dog in the eye. “No.”
Man and dog stared a moment more, and man gave the dog a firm shake. Then he released him. Mouse sat down against Melisande and licked his muzzle.
Lord Vale’s gaze returned to her. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she murmured.
And he left the room.
Mouse came and pressed his nose against her cheek.
She stroked his head. “Well, you really did deserve that, you know.”
Mouse exhaled gustily and then pawed the edge of the coverlet. She held it up so he could creep beneath and resume his place against her back.
Then she closed her eyes. Men. How was it possible that Vale had had a parade of paramours in the last several years and still didn’t seem to know what to do with his own wife? Even insulated as she was by society, she’d heard whispers each time he’d taken a new mistress or formed a liaison. Each time it was like a tiny bit of glass pressed into the softness of her heart, grinding, grinding, oh so silently, until she no longer noticed when she bled. And now she had him—finally had him—all to herself, and it turned out that he had the sensitivity of . . . an ox.
Melisande turned and thumped her pillow, causing Mouse to grumble as he resettled himself. Oh, this was a great cosmic joke! To have the man of her dreams and find he was made of lead. But he couldn’t be a universally bad lover and have the reputation he had with the ladies of the ton. Some of them had stayed with him for months, and most were sophisticated creatures, the type who could have their pick of paramours. The type who had dozens of men.
She stilled at the thought. Her husband was used to experienced lovers. Perhaps he simply did not know what to do with a wife. Or—terrible thought!—perhaps he intended to keep his passion for a mistress and use his wife merely to mother his children. In that case, he might feel that there was no need to expend extra energy in seeing that she enjoyed the marriage bed.
Melisande scowled into the darkness of her lonely room. If they continued on their present course, she would have a loveless and sexless marriage. The love she could do without—had to do without, if she were to maintain her sanity. She no more wanted Valen ae wante to find out her true feelings for him than she wanted to jump from the roof of a building. But that didn’t mean she had to do without passion as well. If she was very careful, she might seduce her husband into a satisfying marriage bed without him ever discovering her pathetic love for him.
EVERY TIME HE looked at Matthew Horn, he felt guilt, Jasper reflected the next afternoon. They were riding side by side in Hyde Park. Jasper thought of his thin pallet and wondered if Matthew had a secret badge of shame as well. They all seemed to, in one way or another, the ones who had survived. He patted Belle’s neck and pushed the thought aside. Those demons were for the night.
“I forgot to offer felicitations on your marriage the other morning,” Horn said. “I had thought not to see the day.”
“You and many others,” Jasper replied.
Melisande had still not risen when he’d left the house, and he supposed his wife might spend the day abed. He wasn’t very well versed in these feminine matters; he’d known many women, but the subject had not arisen when the ladies in question had been paramours. This marriage business took more work than it first appeared.
“Did you tie a blindfold around the poor lady’s eyes to get her to the altar?” Horn asked.
“She came most willingly, I’ll have you know.” Jasper glanced at the other man. “She wanted a small wedding; otherwise, you would’ve been invited.”
Horn grinned. “Quite all right. Weddings tend to be dull affairs for all but the principals. No offense meant.”
Jasper inclined his head. “None taken.”
They guided their horses around a stopped carriage. A scrawny fellow was sitting, scratching his head under his wig as his female companion leaned down to gossip with two lady pedestrians. He and Horn doffed their hats as they passed. The gentleman nodded absently; the ladies curtsied and then bent their heads together to whisper furiously.
“Have you any aspirations in that direction yourself?” Jasper asked.
Horn turned to look a question at him.
Jasper nodded to the various knots of vibrant colors that marked the presence of the female sex in the park. “Marriage?”
Horn grinned. “Thus it begins.”
“What?”
“Every newly married man must needs lure his fellows into the trap.”
Jasper arched an eyebrow repressively.
Not that it did any good. Horn shook his head. “Next you’ll be introducing me to a whey-faced creature with a squint and informing me how vastly improved my lot will be once I tie myself to her forever.”
“Actually,” Jasper murmured, “I do have a maiden cousin. She’s nearing her fourth decade, but her estate is quite large and of course her connections good.”
Horn turned a face full of mute horror.
Jasper grinned.
“Oh, mock me if you will, but I had a very similar offer just last month.” Horn shuddered.
“Is this unnatural aversion to the fairer sex your reason for spending so much time on the continent?”
“No, indeed.” Horn bowed to a carriage of elderly ladies. “I traveled Italy and Greece to view the ruins and collect statuary.”
Jasper raised his eyebrows. “I had not realized you were a connoisseur of art.”
Horn shrugged.
Jasper looked ahead. They’d nearly reached the far end of the park. “Did you find Nate Growe?”
“No.” Horn shook his head. “When I went to the coffeehouse I thought I’d seen him at, they had no knowledge of him. It may not even have been Growe in the first place. It was months ago now. I’m sorry, Vale.”
“Don’t be. You tried.”
“Who does that leave us with?”
“Not many. There were eight captured: You, me, Alistair Munroe, Maddock, Sergeant Coleman, John Cooper, and Growe.” Jasper frowned. “Who am I missing?”
“Captain St. Aubyn.”
Jasper swallowed, remembering Reynaud’s sharp black eyes and sudden wide grin. “Of course. Captain St. Aubyn. Cooper was killed on the march. Coleman died from what the Indians did to him when we made the camp, as did St. Aubyn, and Maddock died in the camp as well,from his battle wounds festering. Who does that leave alive?”