He was frowning down at the snuffbox when behind him the door opened.
He didn’t bother trying to hide what he’d found. In a strange way, he welcomed this confrontation.
He turned to face Melisande. “My lady wife.”
She closed the door gently behind her and looked from his face to her treasure box. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to discover something,” he said.
“What?”
“Why you married me.”
VALE STOOD BEFORE Melisande with her most intimate secrets in his hand and asked her the stupidest question she’d ever heard.
She blinked and because she couldn’t quite credit him with such idiocy, said, “What?”
He prowled toward her, the snuffbox still in his long, bony fingers. His curling mahogany hair was pulled back in a queue that was coming undone; his face was lined and sad, pouches beneath his eyes testament to his sleepless nights. His wide shoulders were covered in a brown and red coat with a stain on the elbow, and his shoes were scuffed. She had never felt so angry at another person and at the same time been aware of how beautiful he was to her.
How perfect in all his imperfections.
“I want to know why you married me, my one and only heart,” he said, his complete attention on her.
“Are you stupid?”
He cocked his head at her tone and her words, as if his curiosity was aroused more than his anger. “No.”
“Perhaps you were dropped on your head as a child,” she said sweetly. “Or mayhap madness runs in your family.”
He shook his head slowly, still advancing toward her. “Not to my knowledge.”
“Then your stupidity is all your own.”
“I don’t think I’m any more dim-witted than other males.” He was right in front of her now, leaning into her face, too close, too personal.
“Oh, yes,” she said as she shoved against him violently, “you are.”
He didn’t budge an inch, damn him. He simply pocketed her—her!—snuffbox and tangled the fingers of one hand roughly in her hair. He pulled her head back and placed his mouth, open and wet, against her throat.
“Tell me,” he growled, and she felt the vibration of his voice against her skin.
“You are the most stupid, lack-witted”—she shoved again and when he still didn’t move, balled her fists and hit his chest and arms—“imbecilic man in the history of the world.”
“No doubt,” he sighed against her throat.
He didn’t seem to mind or even feel her blows. He tore away the bit of lace at her neckline and lowered his mouth to the upper slopes of her breasts. “Tell me why, my sweet wife.”
“I have watched you,” she panted, “for years. I’ve seen you look at women—vapid, pretty women. I’ve seen you choose which ones you wanted. I’ve seen you stalk them, woo them, and seduce them. And I’ve seen when you grew tired of them, when your eyes would start to wander again.”
He tore at the laces to her bodice, loosening and pulling aside the fabric of her dress and stays until he reached her bare nipple. He palmed one breast and drew the other into his mouth, sucking strongly.
She cried out.
He lifted his head. “Tell me.”
She looked at him and felt her mouth twist in a grimace of rage. Of pain. “I saw you. I saw you take them aside, saw you whisper in their ear. Saw when you left with a particular woman and knew that you were taking her away to bed her.”
Her whole face was contorted, tears streaming down, scalding her cheeks, and still he looked at her. His expression was intent, his hands gentle as he thumbed her nipples.
She didn’t want his gentleness. The dam had broke, and all the emotion she’d suppressed for years was pouring forth. She held his shoulders, used them as leverage to reach up and bite him on the ear. He jerked his head back and, in a swift movement, swept her off her feet. She screamed, long and loud, as he threw her over his shoulder and bore her to the bed. He let her fall there, the impact cutting off her scream. He was upon her before she could move, his legs over hers, her wrists caught in one strong hand.
A pounding came at the door.
“Go away!” he shouted, his eyes never leaving her face.
“My lord! My lady!”
“No one opens that door, do you hear?”
“My lord—”
“Goddamnit! Leave us alone!”
They both listened as the footman’s steps left. Then Jasper leaned down and licked her neck. “Tell me.”
She arched up, but his legs held her down, and she couldn’t get purchase. “All those years . . .”
He pulled off his neck clo›ff anth and tied her wrists to the bed rails over her head. “All those years, what? Tell me, Melisande.”
“I saw you,” she panted. She looked over her head and yanked on the neck cloth. It didn’t give. “I watched you.”
“Stop struggling,” he ordered. “You’ll hurt yourself, sweet lady.”
“Hurt!” She laughed and it had an hysterical edge.
He took a knife from his pocket and began cutting away her clothes, each rip a sensuous tug against her oversensitive skin. “Tell me.”
“You bedded them, woman after woman.” She remembered the jealousy, the deep, cutting pain. He pulled the bodice entirely off her. “So many I couldn’t even keep track. Could you?”
“No,” he said softly.
He wrenched off her skirts and threw them to the floor. Taking off her shoes, he tossed them away as well. “I don’t even remember their names.”
“Damn you.” She was naked now, save for her stockings and garters. Her hands were bound above her, but her legs were free. She kicked at him and hit his thigh.
He fell on her heavily, his hips across hers. His mouth was on her breast again, his hand combing through the curls at the top of her thighs. “Tell me.”
“I watched you for years,” she whispered. The tears were drying on her cheeks, and heat was building within her. If he would just touch her. Touch her there. “I watched you and you never saw me.”
“I see you now,” he said, licking around a nipple. He trailed his tongue across her breast and to the other breast, circling the nipple there. Delicately. Tenderly.
Damn him.
“You didn’t even know my name.”
“I know it now.” He tested her flesh with his teeth.
Pleasure mixed with pain shot through her, straight from her nipple to where his hand still played. She arched, silently begging, and he relented, sucking the nipple strongly into his mouth.