To Seduce a Sinner (Legend of the Four Soldiers #2)(36)

“Lady wife and lady mother, good afternoon.” He bowed with a flourish and addressed his mother. “Might I steal my wife for a stroll about your lovely gardens? I had a mind to show her the irises.”

“I don’t know why since the irises have stopped blooming,” his mother replied tartly. She inclined her head. “But go. I think I’ll ask Lord Kensington what he knows about the palace scandal.”

“You are kindness personified, ma’am.” Vale proffered his elbow to Melisande.

She rose as her mother-in-law muttered, “Oh, pish” behind them.

Melisande’s lips curved as Vale guided them toward a pea-gravel path. “Your mother thinks I’ve saved you from a terrible fate in a marriage to Miss Templeton.”

“I bow to my mater’s wonderful common sense,” Vale said cheerfully. “Can’t think what I saw in Miss Templeton in the first C in“I place.”

“Your mother says it may’ve been the lady’s bosom.”

“Ah.” She felt him look at her, though she kept her gaze on the path ahead. “We men are pitiful creatures made of clay, I’m afraid, easily distracted and led astray. A lush bosom may have indeed fogged my innate intelligence.”

“Hmm.” She remembered the parade of women who had been his lovers. Had they all had lush bosoms as well?

He leaned toward her, his breath brushing her ear, making her shiver. “I would not be the first to mistake quantity for quality and reach for a large, sugary cake, when a neat, small bun was in reality more to my taste.”

She tilted her head to glance at him. His eyes were sparkling, and a smile played around his mobile lips. She had trouble maintaining a stern expression. “Did you just compare my form to a baked good?”

“A neat and delectable baked good,” he reminded her. “You should take it as a compliment.”

She turned her face away to hide her smile. “I’ll consider it.”

They turned a corner, and he abruptly pulled her to a stop in front of a clump of greenery. “Behold. My mother’s irises, no longer in bloom.”

She looked at the plant’s lobed leaves. “That’s a peony. Those”—she pointed to some plants with sword-shaped leaves farther down the path—“are irises.”

“Really? Are you sure? How can you tell without the flowers?”

“By the shape of the leaves.”

“Amazing. It’s almost like divination.” He stared first at the peony and then the irises. “Don’t look like much without the flowers, do they?”

“Your mother did say they weren’t in bloom.”

“True,” he murmured, and turned them down a new path. “What other talents have you hidden from me? Do you sing like a lark? I’ve always wanted to marry a girl who could sing.”

“Then you should’ve asked about it before we wed,” she said practically. “My voice is only fair.”

“A disappointment I shall have to bear with fortitude.”

She glanced at him and wondered what he was about. He sought her out, almost as if he were courting her. The thought was disconcerting. Why court a wife? Perhaps she was seeing more than was there, and the possibility frightened her. If she hoped, if she let herself believe he actually might want her, then the fall when he turned away again would be even more terrible.

“Perhaps you can dance,” he was saying. “Can you dance?”

“Naturally.”

“I am reassured. What about the pianoforte? Can you play?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid.”

“My dreams of evening musicales by the fireplace are crushed. I’ Cre heive seen your embroidery, and that’s quite fine. Do you draw?”

“A little.”

“And paint?”

“Yes.”

They’d come to a bench at a turn in the path, and he carefully dusted the seat with a cloth from his pocket before gesturing for her to sit.

She sat slowly, marshalling her defenses. A rose arbor shielded the seat, and she watched as he broke off a blossom.

“Ouch.” He’d pricked himself on a thorn and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

She looked away from the sight of his lips around the digit and swallowed. “Serves you right for mangling your mother’s roses.”

“It’s worth it,” he said, too close. He’d braced a hand on the seat and leaned down to her. She caught the scent of sandalwood. “The prick of the thorns only makes attaining the rose that much more gratifying.”

She turned and his face was only inches from hers, his eyes a strange tropical color that never occurred naturally in England. She thought she saw sadness lurking in their depths. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?” he asked idly. He brushed the rose against her cheek, the softness of the petals sending a shudder down her spine.

She caught his hand, hard and warm beneath her fingertips. “This. You act as if you’re wooing me.”

“Do I?” He was very still, his lips only inches from hers.

“I’m already your wife. There’s no need to woo me,” she whispered, and couldn’t keep the plea from her voice.

He moved his hand easily, though she still had her fingers wrapped about his. The rose drifted across her parted lips.