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.
Above her, his voice rumbled. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
With the last button unfastened, he bowed and she pulled the shirt over his shoulders and head. He straightened and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. He was a tall man—even at her height, her head came only to his chin—and his chest and shoulders were in proportion to his height. Broad and almost bony. With his shirt on, one might think him skinny. With it off, it was impossible to make that mistake. Long, lean muscle corded his arms and shoulders. She knew he rode almost every day, and she must approve of the exercise, if this was the result. He had a light sprinkling of body hair on his upper chest that broke over his abdomen and started again low on his belly. That thin line of hair leading from his navel was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen. She had a desperate urge to touch it, to trail her fingers down that line until it disappeared into his breeches.
She pulled her gaze away and glanced up. He was watching her, his cheeks lined and hollowed. So often his face seemed almost comical, but right now there was no trace of laughter. His lips had a cruel edge.
She inhaled and gestured to the chair behind him. “Please. Sit.”
His eyebrows shot up, and he looked from the pitcher of hot water to her as he sat. “Do you mean to play barber as well?”
She soaked a cloth in the hot water. “Do you trust me?”
He eyed her, and she had to master the twitch of her lips as she laid the cloth against his jaw. She’d found out from Sprat that Vale liked to shave and bathe in the evenings. It was perhaps too soon to help him with his bath, but shaving she could do. When her father had been bedridden in his final illness, she was the only one he’d let near with the razor. Odd, since he’d never been particularly affectionate with her.
She went to the chest of drawers where Pynch had laid out the shaving implements and picked up the razor. She tested the edge with her thumb. “You seemed quite entertained by my aunt’s stories about me this afternoon.”
She watched him as she strolled back to his chair, the razor held casually in her fingers. His eyes glinted with amusement over the white cloth.
He peeled the cloth from his face and tossed it to the table. “I particularly enjoyed the story of how you cut off all your hair at the age of four.”
“Did you?” She set the razor on the table and picked up a small cloth. She dipped it in a pot of soft soap and began rubbing it on his face, working up a lather. The scent of lemons and sandalwood filled the room.
“Mmm.” He closed his eyes and tilted back his head like a great cat being stroked. “And the one about the ink.”
<">She’d drawn pictures on her arms with ink and had looked tattooed for a month.
“I’m so glad to have provided a source of amusement,” she said sweetly.
One bright blue eye opened warily.
She smiled and laid the razor against his neck. She raised her eyes to meet his.“I’ve often wondered where you go in the evenings.”
He opened his lips. “I—”
She touched his lips with her finger, feeling his breath against her skin. “Ah. Ah. You don’t want me to cut you, do you?”
He closed his mouth, his eyes narrowed.
She made the first careful stroke. The rasp was loud in the room. She flicked the lather from the blade with a practiced movement and reapplied the razor. “I’ve wondered if you see females when you go out.”
He started to answer, but she gently tilted his head back and stroked along his jaw. She could see him swallow, his Adam’s apple dipping in his strong neck, but the look in his eyes told her he wasn’t afraid. Far from it.
“I don’t go anywhere special,” he drawled as she wiped the blade. “Balls, soirees, various events. You could accompany me, you know. I believe I asked to escort you to Lady Graham’s masked ball tomorrow night.”