“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.