To Seduce a Sinner

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  He grinned. “Of course.”

  He lowered her slowly, relishing the feel of control. He knew it wouldn’t become an everyday occurrence with her. As soon as her toes touched the road, she stepped back and shook out her skirts.

  She gave him a repressive look from under her brows. “My aunt is rather hard of hearing, and she doesn’t like gentlemen much.”

  “Oh, good.” He held his arm for her. “This should be interesting.”

  “Humph.” She placed her fingertips on his sleeve, and again he felt that thrill. Perhaps he’d had too much tea at breakfast.

  They mounted the steps, and he let the tarnished brass knocker fall against the door. Then there was a rather extended wait.

  Jasper glanced at his bride. “You said she was deaf, but are her servants deaf as well?”

  She pursed her lips, which had the contrary effect of making him want to kiss her. “They’re not deaf, but they are rather old and—”

  The door creaked open, and a rheumy eye peered out at them. “Aye?”

  “Lord and Lady Vale to see Miss . . .” He turned to Melisande and whispered, “What was her name again?”

  “Miss Rockwell.” She shook her head and addressed the aged butler. “We’re here to see my aunt.”

  “Ah, Miss Fleming,” the old man wheezed. “Come in, come in.”

  “It’s Lady Vale,” Jasper said loudly.

  “Eh?” The butler cupped a hand behind his ear.

  “Lady Vale,” Jasper bawled. “My wife.”

  “Yes, sir, indeed, sir.” The man turned and tottered down the hall.

  “I don’t think he understood me,” Jasper said.

  “Oh, good Lord.” Melisande tugged at his sleeve, and they entered the house.

  Her aunt must either have a dislike of using candles or be able to see in the dark, for the hallway was very nearly black.

  Jasper squinted. “Where’d he go?”

  “This way.” Melisande marched forward as if she knew exactly where to go.

  And she did, for after a series of turns and a flight of stairs, they were presented with a door and a room with a light.

  “Who’s there?” a querulous voice asked from beyond the door.

  “Miss Fleming an’ a gentleman, mum,” the old butler replied.

  “Lady Vale,” Jasper shouted as they entered the room.

  “What?” A petite elderly lady sat upright in a daybed, surrounded by white lace and ribbons and bows. She held a long brass horn to her ear, which she swiveled in their direction. “What?”

  Jasper bent and spoke into the ear horn. “She’s Lady Vale now.”

  “Who?” Miss Rockwell lowered the ear horn in evident exasperation. “Melisande, dear, it’s so nice to see you, but who is this gentleman? He says he’s a lady. That can’t be right.”

  Jasper felt a tremble go through Melisande’s slight frame, and then she was still again. He had a violent urge to kiss her, but he suppressed it with effort.

  “This is my husband, Lord Vale,” Melisande said.

  “Is he indeed?” The lady didn’t look particularly pleased at the news. “Well, why’ve you brought him ’round here?”

  “I wanted to meet you,” Jasper said, tiring of being talked about as if he weren’t there.

  “What?”

  “I heard you had the best cakes,” he bawled.

  “Cheek!” The old lady’s head reared back, making the ribbons on her cap tremble. “Who told you that?”

  “Oh, everyone,” Jasper said. He sat in a settee and pulled his wife down to sit beside him. “Isn’t it true?”

  The old lady pursed her lips in a manner he’d grown to recognize from Melisande. “My cook does make rather good cakes.”

  She nodded at the butler, who looked somewhat surprised to be sent from the room.

  “Splendid!” Jasper crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. “Now, I’m hoping you know what kind of mischief my wife used to get up to as a child.”

  “Lord Vale!” Melisande exclaimed.

  He looked at her. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were wide in irritation. She was quite lovely, in fact.

  He tilted his head toward her. “Jasper.”

  She pursed her lips.

  His eyes dropped to her mouth and then rose again to meet her own. “Jasper.”

  Her mouth opened, vulnerable and a little tremulous, and he thanked God that the skirts of his coat covered his groin.

  “Jasper,” she whispered.

  And at that moment, he knew he was lost. Lost and blind and going down for the third time without any hope of salvation, and he didn’t give a damn. He would give anything to unravel this woman. He wanted to search out her innermost secrets and bare her soul. And when he knew her secrets, knew what she kept hidden away in her heart, he would guard it and her with his life.

  She was his, to protect and to hold.

  IT WAS WELL past midnight by the time Melisande heard Vale return home that night. She’d been dozing in her own room, but the muted voices in the hall brought her to full wakefulness. After all, she’d been waiting for his return. She sat up in excited anticipation, and Mouse stuck his black nose out from under the covers. He yawned, his pink tongue curling up.

  She tapped his nose. “Stay.”

  She rose and reached for the wrapper laid out in the chair beside her bed. It was a deep violet color, shaped almost like a man’s banyan and without the usual feminine frills and ribbons. Melisande pulled it on over her fine lawn chemise and shivered from the sensuous weight. It was of heavy satin, overembroidered in fine crimson thread. As she moved, the fabric subtly changed color from violet to crimson and back again. She crossed to her dresser and dabbed scent at her throat, trembling as the cold liquid slid between her breasts. The scent of bitter oranges rose in the air.

  Thus armored, she went to the connecting door and pulled it open. The rooms beyond were Vale’s, and she’d never ventured into his domain. She looked about curiously. The first thing she saw was the enormous black wood bed, draped in linens of such a dark red it was almost black. The second thing she noticed was Mr. Pynch. Vale’s man had straightened away from the banyan he’d laid on the bed and now stood, huge and immobile, in the middle of the room.

  Melisande had never actually spoken to the valet. She leveled her chin and looked him in the eye. “That will be all.”

  The valet didn’t move. “My lord will need me to undress him.”

  “No,” she said softly. “He won’t.”

  The valet’s eyes sparked with something that might’ve been amusement. Then he bowed and glided from the room.

  Melisande felt a knot between her shoulder blades loosen in relief. The first obstacle passed. Vale may’ve surprised her this morning, but tonight she planned to turn the tables on him.

  She glanced around the room, noting the fire blazing in the hearth and the abundance of lit candles. The room was almost as bright as day. Her brows rose a little at the expense, and she strolled the room, pinching out a few of the tapers until only a soft glow lit the room. The scent of candle wax and smoke drifted in the air, but under them was another, more exciting scent. Melisande closed her eyes and inhaled. Vale. Whether she imagined it or not, the scent of her husband was in the room: sandalwood and lemons, brandy and smoke.

  She was trying to calm her nerves when the door opened. Vale walked in, already shrugging out of his coat.

  “Have you sent for hot water?” he asked, throwing the coat into a chair.

  “Yes.”

  He whirled at the sound of her voice, his face oddly expressionless, his eyes narrowed. If she were not a very, very brave woman, she would’ve stepped back from him. He was so large and stood so still and grim, staring at her.

  But then he smiled. “My lady wife. Forgive me, but I didn’t expect you here.”

  She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice. A queer shivering excitement gripped her, and she knew she must control herself so that her emotions might not
burst forth.

  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 found 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.”

  “Hmm.” His reply gave a little relief to the burning jealousy in her breast. She concentrated on his chin. So many indentations just waiting to be nicked. She had a dislike of social events where one was expected to make small talk. To smile and flirt and always have a witty reply on the tip of one’s tongue. That kind of light discourse had never been her forte, and she was resigned to the fact that it never would be. When he’d mentioned the ball, she hadn’t even thought before making an excuse not to attend.

  “You could come with me at night,” he murmured. “Attend some of the social events.”

  She looked down at her hands. “Or you could stay here with me at home.”

  “No.” The corner of his mouth curved in a sad, self-mocking smile. “I fear I am too capricious a creature to be amused for long by evenings by the fire at home. I need chatter and people and loud laughter.”

  Everything she hated, in fact. She swished the razor in the hot water.

  He cleared his throat. “But I don’t see other women when I go out at night, sweet wife.”

  “No?” She met his eyes as she stroked the razor delicately down his cheek.

  “No.” He held her gaze. It was strong and steady.

  She swallowed and lifted the razor. His cheeks were perfectly smooth now. Only a thin line of soap lingered by the corner of his mouth. She carefully smudged it away with her thumb.

  “I’m glad,” she said, her voice husky. She leaned close, her lips hovering over his wide mouth. “Good night.”

&n
bsp; Her lips met his in a whispered kiss. She felt his arms rise to grasp her, but she’d already slipped away.

  Chapter Seven

  Now, the princess of this wonderful city was named Surcease, and while Princess Surcease was beautiful beyond a man’s dreams, with eyes as bright as stars and skin as smooth as silk, she was a haughty woman and had not found a man she would consent to marry. One man was too old, another too young. Some talked too loudly, and quite a few chewed with their mouths agape. As the princess neared her twenty-first birthday, the king, her father, lost patience. So he proclaimed that there would be a series of trials held in honor of the princess’s natal day and that the man who won them would also win her hand in marriage. . . .

  —from LAUGHING JACK

  After the scene the night before, Melisande had been rather disappointed this morning when she’d breakfasted alone. Vale had already left the house on some vague male business, and she’d resigned herself to go about her own affairs and not see him again until nightfall.

  And so she had. She’d conferred with both the housekeeper and Cook, had partaken of a light luncheon and done a little bit of shopping, and then she’d arrived at her mother-in-law’s garden party. Where all her expectations had been overthrown.

  “I don’t believe my son has ever attended one of my afternoon salons,” the dowager Viscountess of Vale mused now. “I can’t help but think that it is your influence that has drawn him here. Did you know he would attend this afternoon?”

  Melisande shook her head. Her mind was still assimilating the fact that her husband had come to a sedate and boring garden party. This simply couldn’t be one of his usual rounds, and that thought had her rather breathless with anticipation, though she was doing her best to keep a calm face.

  She and her mother-in-law sat in the dowager’s large town garden, which was in its full midsummer glory. The elder Lady Vale had had small tables and numerous chairs scattered about on her slate terrace so that her guests could enjoy the summer day. They sat or strolled in small groups, the majority of them well into their sixth decade or older.