He knocked on the roof and looked across at her, catching her frowning at his legs. “Anything wrong?”
“Not at all.”
She glanced out the window. It seemed strange to be confined with him in such a small space. Too intimate somehow. And that was an odd thought. She’d had sexual congress with this man, had danced with him only the night before, and had had the audacity to strip off his shirt and shave him. Yet those things had been done in the night, lit only by candlelight. Somehow she found it easier to be relaxed at night. The shadows made her brave. Perhaps she really was the mistress of the night, as he called her. And if so, did that make him master of the day?
She watched him, struck by the thought. He sought her out mainly during the daylight hours. Stalked her in the sunlight. He might like to go to balls and gaming hells at night, but it was during the day that he sought to discover her secrets. Was it because he sensed that she felt more weak exposed to sunlight? Or because he was stronger in the day?
Or maybe both?
“Do you take it everywhere?”
She glanced at him, her thoughts scattered. “What?”
“Your dog.” He pointed his chin at Mouse, curled on the seat beside her. “Does it go everywhere with you?”
“Sir Mouse is a him, not an it,” she said firmly. “And, yes, I do like taking him places that he might enjoy.”
Vale’s eyebrows shot up. “The dog enjoys shopping?”
“He likes carriage rides.” She stroked Mouse’s soft nose. “Haven’t you ever had any pets?”
“No. Well, there was a cat when I was a boy, but it never came when I called it and had a habit of scratching when displeased. It was often displeased, I’m afraid.”
“What was its name?”
“Cat.”
She l Ksizeigooked at him. His face was solemn, but there was a diabolical gleam in his blue eyes.
“And you?” he asked. “Did you have pets as a child, my fair wife?”
“No.” She looked out the window again, not wishing to revisit her lonely childhood.
He seemed to sense her aversion to talking about that time and for once did not press. He was silent a moment before saying softly, “Actually, the cat was Richard’s.”
She looked at him, curious.
His wide lips curved into a lopsided smile as if he mocked himself. “Mother doesn’t particularly like cats, but Richard was sickly as a child, and when he took a liking to a kitten in the stables”—he shrugged—“I suppose she made an exception.”
“How much older than you was your brother?” she asked softly.
“Two years.”
“And when he died?”
“Not yet thirty years.” He no longer smiled. “He’d always been weak—he was thin and often had trouble catching his breath—but he took the ague while I was in the Colonies and never quite recovered. Mother didn’t smile for a year after I came home.”
“I’m sorry.”
He turned his palm upward. “It was long ago.”
“And your father was already dead, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him, lounging so carelessly in the carriage as he talked about the premature death of his brother and father. “You must have found that hard.”
“I never thought I’d be the viscount even though Richard was always so ill. Somehow everyone in my family thought he would live to beget an heir.” He suddenly looked at her, the corner of his mouth cocked. “He might have been weak of body, but my brother had a strong spirit. He carried himself like a viscount. He could command men.”