Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1)

by Jeanine Croft

  “An ass is still an ass even in a ballgown, Miss Rose.”

  “I hope you are not implying I am an ass.”

  He shot her a look of impatience. “A rose is no less beautiful for keeping her petals tucked behind her thorns. There is beauty and mystery in restraint.” He stopped mid stride. “I assure you, if you were dressed in nothing at all—”

  “Lord Winterly!” She all but choked on his name. “I am quite sure I do not need to hear the rest of that remark. Besides, there are many who would disagree with your notion of beauty.”

  He glanced down at her, one brow winging. “What do I care for the opinions of troglodytes, they do not understand what beauty is.”

  “And how, pray, do you define beauty?”

  “It is experienced, not defined, Miss Rose. Beauty reveals herself by degrees and one must remain patient and use more than the eyes if one is to become truly aware of beauty.” He tucked her hand into his elbow and lead her out of the ballroom. The hallway was, for the most part, largely empty now, save for the odd footman or steward rushing about.

  She was beginning to relax now that he appeared inclined to behave himself. “I confess, I have always understood it as merely a sort of harmony or symmetry of form and feature.”

  “You speak of cold beauty—seasonal at best; in the end, the maiden becomes the crone.” He stopped and turned to her suddenly. “The devil himself is said to be beautiful.”

  “Yes, I know.” She followed him into the drawing room. It never occurred to her that, in a suite of rooms wherein there were over a hundred people at any given moment, she would find herself there alone with him. But that was exactly how she suddenly found herself—alone with him yet again.

  “Evil,” he was saying, “likes best to conceal itself behind a mask of beauty, Miss Rose.”

  “Evil and beauty are not synonymous, Lord Winterly. Not all that is beautiful is evil.” She ran her teeth over her lip and said, “You are not evil.”

  “So,” he said with a chuckle, “you think me beautiful?”

  With heat high in her cheeks, she wandered over to the harp sitting beside the pianoforte and plucked delicately at the strings.

  “You play.” He sounded surprised.

  “Not beautifully.” She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips quirking with humor. “Is music allowed to be beautiful?”

  “Not if it only touches the ear—it must affect the heart as well.” He came up behind her and she stilled as his wake, peppered with salt and wind and earth, brushed her nape. He seated himself at the piano, his fingers flying deftly over the ivories, lending his harmony to the harp’s wispy notes.

  The music kindled a powerful thrill in her breast as they locked eyes, their fingers easily stroking the notes to life and fueling the rhythm that seemed to rush in her veins. Was it the same for him? She laughed as he increased the tempo, her fingers beginning to ache. At last the music crescendoed and rushed over her, into her, and she all but collapsed onto her harp, euphoric. The last notes hung in the air like aftershocks, and it was a long moment before they disappeared altogether.

  “That,” he said, “is beauty; infinite beauty.” His breathing was strangely unaffected by the effort. “Beauty is that which transcends mortal flesh, Miss Rose. Never forget that.”

  She was beginning to understand his notion of beauty. Now that their instruments were still and their music had faded from her blood, she felt shy of a sudden. Some heartfelt ineffability had passed between them and in its wake had left her trembling as though a part of him had glimpsed the indwelling shadows that even she dared not plumb.

  He left the piano and held his arm out to her. “Shall we find you some sustenance? I could hear your stomach growling all through your performance.”

  She hadn’t even realized she was hungry. As if to support his remark, her stomach suddenly gave a lusty cry. All that philosophizing had doubtless aroused her appetite.

  The refreshments, she was to find, were rather a let down. It seemed her choices were limited to dry biscuits, plain bread, and stale cakes. She screwed her nose at the fare and noticed that Winterly was watching her again. Indeed, when was he not?

  “These fashionable haunts,” he said, “are not known for their appetizing comestibles. I’m afraid if you’ve come here for the food, such as it is, you shall be sorely displeased.” He then plucked a glass of orgeat from a nearby salver and handed it to her.

  She thanked him, sipped it, and set it down directly, for it was unpalatable and weak. “Will you not have something?” she asked him.

  He glared at the glass as though it were filled with vinegar. “My tastes are…singular, and by no means catered to here.”

  She nodded, understanding him to mean he possessed a fastidious palate accustomed only to the finest wines. Mr. Black’s wines, no doubt. Accordingly, he partook of neither food nor drink.

  “What do you prefer to drink, Lord Winterly?”

  “Call me Markus,” he said suddenly.

  She was blindsided at first, but quickly gathered her wits and looked about her. When she was satisfied no one had heard him, she said, “I cannot.” It was something a betrothed couple might do, or siblings, but they were neither of those things. It was unseemly that he should even suggest it of her—no, command it. He had a curious and clever way of disguising his commands to make them seem like suggestions; to make one almost desperate to comply, if only because it would please him. “I cannot,” she said again.

  “But you can.”

  “Then let me rephrase: I will not.” It was too intimate.

  He only smiled, having no doubt expected her answer. “As to your question, I prefer my libations from the source.”

  Oh, they were back to the previous subject again? Lord, he was hard to keep up with. “From the source?” Wine did not flow from the vine like some veinous wellspring. “So you’ll drink champagne in Champagne and Burgundy in Bourgogne?”

  “Directly from the source,” he said again. His mephistophelian eyes seemed to dilate like a billowing black cloud. The effect held her transfixed. He was devouring her with a look, his movements imperceptible, invisible, as he reached for her. His palm slid over hers. Without knowing how it was done, she found herself surreptitiously maneuvered behind a pillar so that they were hidden from the glare of candlelight. “En garde, Miss Rose.”

  Before she could even form a gasp of shock, his lips were pressed to hers. Then, just as swiftly as he had descended, he pulled away—the kiss brief yet infinite. Her lips pulsed with heat as she gaped up at him. She could still feel the weight of those beautiful lips—the very same lips now curled with devilry.

  “Have I shocked you again?” When she failed to answer—she could not have answered for all the champagne in France—he said, “I see that I have.” He bowed over her hand, still grinning. “And that even after I gave warning.”

  “Why?” It was all she could manage.

  “Why ever not?”

  “You…you mustn’t do that again.”

  “I have no intention of repeating that again.”

  She felt her lips tremble with sudden disappointment. “Oh, well, that is good.”

  “Things must progress, you know.” His smile became infinitely darker. “And I promise you, Miss Rose, the next kiss shall not be so chaste.” Then he slipped away, leaving her to pick her jaw up off the floor.

  She stood a long while behind that pillar, still flushed with the heat from that brief kiss. When she finally gathered her wits, she could not recall if he’d slipped away on silent feet or simply vanished like smoke—like some devil. All she knew was that she was alone (despite the crowded room), and all that remained of him was the warm imprint of his lips upon hers.

  Slowly, she brought her fingers up to trace the kiss he’d left her. Good God, if that was his notion of chasteness, she might well not survive the next kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Family Ghosts

  “Miss Rose?” The g
entle tap on Emma’s shoulder startled her from thoughts of illicit kisses. “Are you all right?”

  She whirled around to see that Ana De Grigori was gazing at her with smiling solicitude. “Oh, Mademoiselle De Grigori, I…I beg your pardon, I must have been wool-gathering.”

  “Please, you must call me Ana.” She linked their arms and guided Emma out of the shadows. “There will be no formality between us, for I am quite determined that we shall be the best of friends.”

  “Well, if you insist…” Emma glanced back over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wayward viscount. But it seemed he had indeed dematerialized into smoke.

  “I do, Miss Rose.” An expectant pause followed, but it took a few long moments before Ana had Emma’s full attention.

  “Oh,” she said, blushing, “forgive me! Please, call me Emma.”

  Ana nodded, also glancing back, ostensibly to see what could be distracting Emma. “Was that Lord Winterly I noticed you dancing with earlier? Handsome devil, isn’t he?”

  Flustered, Emma replied in the affirmative on both accounts. “I understand the Winterlys are distant relatives of yours.”

  Ana stopped, a thoughtful furrow between her brows. “I suppose we are.”

  The sudden change in Ana’s countenance intrigued Emma, but she forbore the urge to pry and at length they began walking again.

  “But we seldom venture into the same circles.” Confusion must have been plainly writ across Emma’s brow, for Ana then added, “Perhaps you noticed my sisters and I at Vauxhall with Miss Winterly and Mr. Valko?”

  “I confess I did.”

  “I regret we were not able to speak then, but perhaps we may remedy that tonight.”

  “I should like that.” And Emma meant it too, for in Ana she believed, from the brief conversation they’d shared in the palatial De Grigori library, she’d found a kindred, a fellow littérateur with a love of the strange.

  “As to my family’s association with the Winterlys, you are to understand that the De Grigori bloodline is as old and distinguished as theirs and, by and by, certain familial affairs do require settling—disputes over ownership of property and suchlike. But I shan’t bore you with familial politics.” Ana gave a dismissive flick of her wrist as they stopped to watch the dancers. “Now do let’s talk of something else. I hope you enjoyed your time in our humble little library and that your search for knowledge was successful? I was sorry to have missed your departure, and I know my sister, Mina, can be rather…impolite to strangers; even my sister Tanith has a sweeter disposition than our youngest sister. My brother and I had hoped to conclude our business earlier and see you off ourselves. But tell me, how did you like the collection?”

  “Very much. I should have liked to have stayed hidden amidst your books forever, but the more I read the more questions I seemed to have.” It was on the tip of her tongue to confess to the theft, so easy and natural was Ana’s society, but she restrained her tongue and, instead, promised herself she would return the book before she departed for Winterthurse.

  “It is the curse of every good scholar, I’m afraid,” said Ana. “We never stop learning or questioning.”

  From the tail of her eye, Emma studied the lady and wondered if she might give voice to some of her questions without sounding like a lunatic. She glanced around to make sure there was no one standing close enough to overhear their conversation, even above the music. “And what if one begins to question, or rather accept, the existence of supernatural forces?”

  Ana had been watching the dancers, but she turned to gaze intently at Emma. “Then one has begun to truly open one’s eyes.”

  “Then you believe?”

  “I do,” she said, becoming grave. “And you, my dear Emma, would not have come in search of us if you did not hold with the same belief.”

  “The belief that we walk among…monsters?” It was what Mina had said right before the door had shut between them.

  Ana’s brow pinched momentarily. “Yes, I suppose that is one way of considering these supernatural entities.” Then she shook her head, gesturing to the crowded room. “But this is a conversation for another time, don’t you think?”

  Disappointed though she was, and impatient to know more, Emma nonetheless agreed.

  “Oh, look,” said Ana suddenly, pointing towards a group of dancers waltzing at the far side of the ballroom, “isn’t that your sister dancing with my brother?”

  Emma followed Ana’s finger towards a beautiful, tall man with a long mane of silver hair tied at his neck like the gallants of old. And pressed to his side was her sister, laughing up at him like the coquette she was. Had her uncle borne witness to this illicit waltz, he’d have been apoplectic. “My sister, Milli,” said Emma.

  “My brother appears quite taken with her.”

  “And she with him.” Emma’s lips compressed. “First it was Mr. Valko and now, in his absence, it seems her attention has been transferred to your brother.”

  “Ah, the mysterious Mr. Valko. Yes, I can understand her fascination.”

  “No doubt a fascination short-lived.”

  Ana took Emma’s hand suddenly. “Will you take tea with me next week, I think we have a great deal to discuss.”

  “I desperately wish I could,” said Emma, “but Milli and I are expected at Winterthurse next week.”

  “Oh?” Ana slowly dropped her hand, her face becoming like stone as she looked towards her brother and Milli. “That is…unexpected.”

  “Perhaps when I come back…?”

  “Yes, perhaps then.” After a moment the tension seemed to leave her. “I wonder if I might offer some well-meaning counsel?”

  “Please.”

  “I feel it incumbent upon me to warn you about the Winterlys.” She paused as though to consider her next words carefully.

  “Watch and be on your guard, they are not what they seem.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that a dream isn’t always just a dream and the devil doesn’t always breath brimstone or wear his crown of horns.”

  The latter was surprisingly similar to what Winterly himself had said, that the devil often wore a mask of beauty.

  “The history of Winterthurse,” Ana continued, “is a very dark one and its inmates are the legacy of an ancient and bloody race.”

  “I suppose every family has its ghosts and evil antecedents, but it would be wrong of us to hold the sins of the forebears against their sons and daughters.”

  “It is more than that, Emma, the place is cursed.”

  “So is London.” Emma glanced towards her sister who, still laughing, was being lead towards them by Monsieur De Grigori.

  Ana sighed. “All I ask is that you keep your eyes open, especially at night. The family ghosts, as you call them, are bloodthirsty still.”

  Milli and M. De Grigori were drawing close now, and it was for their benefit only that Emma still smiled; it was, however, a brittle affectation—the sort imposed by sudden disconcertion. “Do you mean to scare me, Ana?”

  “It is necessary,” Ana whispered. “Fear makes the mind keener. It is how we watchers have survived millennia after millennia.”

  “Watchers?” Emma whispered back.

  “The De Grigoris are a race of scribes and watchers, Emma. Our eyes have ever been open.”

  Emma opened her mouth to ask more, but the brother had by now moved within hearing distance.

  “Ah, Miss Rose,” said M. De Grigori, his silver hair brushing over his shoulder as he bowed, “what a pleasure.” Some fell shadow must have fallen over Emma’s features, for he was glancing between his sister and Emma with a knowing look.

  The conversation, however, waxed amiably as Milli, none the wiser to her sister’s inattention, lauded M. De Grigori’s as an excellent and skilled dancing partner. And then the eldest sister, Tanith, joined them. Emma was obliged to school her face and engage her mind to the present, a mind still reeling over Ana’s queer divulgences, such as they were. It
was not as if anything substantial or clear had been revealed to her, only a vague warning to sleep with her eyes open because devils and ghosts might be lurking in her dreams, waiting to suck her blood? It was all too bloody laughable. And yet Ana’s words and expressions had been so heartfelt, so candid.

  “And have you sustained any lasting injuries from your meeting with my sister, Miss De Grigori?” Though Milli was speaking to Tanith, she gave her sister a playful jab in the ribs.

  “None whatever,” was the reply.

  “I believe you are still owed a new reticule.” Milli’s elbow came out once more.

  Tanith glanced at Emma. “It is none the worse for wear.”

  Emma jabbed her sister back, her smile tight.

  “Our Tanith is quite the apothecary,” said Monsieur De Grigori. “No ache or sprain too great for her special embrocations and tonics. Even mud stained reticules are easily rescued from ruin.”

  “An apothecary? How…” Milli glanced at her sister, as though the ink-smudged word she sought might be found on Emma’s face. “How industrious.” Her face lit suddenly with mischief. “I wonder if, perhaps, Miss De Grigori, you might recommend some antidotal elixir for somnambulists? My sister happens to—” She clenched her teeth as Emma pinched her to silence.

  “I think,” said Emma, “my aunt and uncle will be wondering at our lateness, we were expected home at midnight.”

  M. De Grigori exchanged a look with Tanith, his hair only slightly lighter than her platinum locks. Their eyes differed by only a slight gradation of russet shades. As compliments and adieus were exchanged, Emma considered the uncanny resemblance and was almost certain that Tanith and the brother must be twins.

  Later, as the carriage rambled home, Milli seemed disinclined to discuss anything but the De Grigoris. “I knew Madame Strange must be a gypsy mystic or a pythoness of some sort. Did not I say so that first day?”

  “Milli, brewing homemade remedies hardly makes her a pythoness.”

  “Well, at least the brother seems quite normal.” Milli sank back against the seat. “So amiable and far handsomer than Mr. Valko.” Then, under her breath, she said, “Mr. Valko who was too beastly busy to attend the ball of the season.”