“Ah,” she said with a teasing smile. “And here I thought it was the mustache that transformed you.”
“That as well.” He leaned closer to the mirror and rubbed his bare upper lip. “But I think I’m getting used to its loss.” Turning, he reached to steal a cube of cheese off her tray.
“I thought you had breakfast downstairs.”
“That was an hour ago.” He filched another cube and chewed thoughtfully. “Do you like me better with or without?”
“Without. Both the mustache and the wig.” She set the tray aside. “Supposing I like you at all, that is.”
“Supposing.” An inscrutable look came over his face. He turned his back and moved to the other bed, then lifted the velvet surcoat and shook out the creases. “Your new clothing is waiting behind the screen, Emerald.”
“Is it?” Suppressing a twinge of annoyance, she climbed from the bed and went to have a look.
She blinked and looked again.
“By all the saints,” she breathed. “It’s worse than the red dress.”
Draped across a chair lay a bright turquoise brocade gown trimmed with a gaudy wide edging of embroidered silver ribbon. A purple underskirt and stomacher were tossed on top. Even without trying it on, she could tell the dress’s scooped neckline would reveal a lot more skin than she was comfortable displaying.
After she’d made such a fuss over the red dress, she couldn’t believe he’d brought her this. She stepped out into the room to give him a piece of her mind—
“Crivvens! You’re in the scud!” she exclaimed, dashing back behind the screen.
“Translate?” he called.
“You…you’re half-naked!”
“One does have to undress to change clothes,” he said reasonably. “Are you putting on the gown?”
Touching her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them, she dragged her mind from its vivid picture of Jason’s bare chest. “You expect me to wear this?”
“You’d better. It wasn’t cheap.”
“Just who am I supposed to be posing as in this monstrosity?” She grabbed the gown and held it up to her body, gazing down at herself in horror. “Queen Catharine?” She kicked at the hem.
“No.” He laughed. “My wife.”
The gown slipped from her fingers. “Your what?”
“My wife. A nobleman’s wife. Are you undressed?”
His wife.
“Nay. Not yet.” Self-conscious, she fluffed Mrs. Twentyman’s night rail. “Are you?”
“Not anymore. Come out and have a look.”
Cautiously she stepped from behind the screen—and burst out laughing.
He glanced in the mirror critically, then back to her. “What’s so funny?”
“You—as an aristocrat.” Tears ran from the corners of her eyes. “Y-you expect people to f-fall for that disguise?”
A small smile quirked at his lips. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Just because one innkeeper called you my lord yesterday—”
“And don’t forget the Gypsy.”
She laughed even harder. “O-oh, aye. The Gypsy called you milord as well!”
He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the screen, giving her a little push in that direction. She yelped, looking back over her shoulder to giggle at him again.
“Go get changed,” he said with mock sternness.
“Very well.” She hiccuped and went behind the screen.
She was thankful the long puffed sleeves didn’t rub her injured arm, but the gown hugged her upper body like a second skin. The neckline was low and scooped. The stomacher was stiff and uncomfortable.
No surprise there.
“Don’t forget the shoes,” Jason called.
The shoes. Embroidered silver brocade with pointed toes. And high heels. The only positive thing she could find to say about them was that they fit.
A pity. She would have liked an excuse not to wear them.
“Very practical for riding around the countryside,” she said sarcastically. She took a deep breath. “I’m coming out.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
His smile died and a low whistle sounded as she stepped from behind the screen. His eyes widened. “Whoa.”
She teetered to the mirror and pulled her plait forward to unravel it, stilling when he came up behind her. He stared at her in the mirror, standing close enough that she could smell his spicy scent and feel the heat given off by his body.
Something about the way he watched her niggled at Cait. She swallowed hard. “Could I be cast as your servant instead?”
“Hmm? Oh. No, I think not.”
She took the Gypsy-lace handkerchief and started stuffing it into her neckline.
“Uh-uh.” Reaching over her shoulder, he plucked it out of her hands. “My wife wouldn’t wear that.”
Her exposed skin broke out in goose bumps. “Maybe I could pose as your little sister, then?”
“Wouldn’t help. Kendra dresses much like this, sweet.”
Sweet. Her gaze met his in the looking glass.
“And you don’t look like my little sister,” he added softly.
“I don’t feel like your little sister, either.”
He flexed his hands. “No, you most certainly do not.”
Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon on her plait. Clumsily untying it, she watched his reflection back away to sit on one of the beds.
He didn’t take his gaze off her.
She’d never before had difficulty unraveling her nighttime plait. It might help if her hands would stop shaking. She grabbed her ivory comb and reached to part her hair in the back.
“No.” Jason’s voice came from behind her. Confused, she met his eyes in the mirror. “Leave it loose. My wife doesn’t wear plaits.”
Slowly she ran the comb through her hair. Slightly crimped from the plaiting, it hung in soft, shimmering waves. “Wouldn’t a nobleman’s wife wear her hair in curls?” Her stomach fluttered. “And pulled up on the sides, with a bun at the back, like I’ve seen—”
“Not my wife.” He got up and began stuffing clothes into the portmanteau.
She turned from the mirror and walked over to pull a shirt back out and fold it properly. “Clearly you’re used to having someone look after you,” she said softly. “Do you have a wife, my lord?”
Beneath the blue velvet, his shoulders tensed. “I do now.”
For a long minute, neither of them said anything. He looked away first.
It meant nothing, she decided. A nobleman and his lady. A game—just a game.
“I’ll need a wedding band,” she suddenly realized. “And so will you.”
He thought for a moment, then went
