After Midnight

by Teresa Medeiros

  “But first, on earth as Vampire sent,

  Thy corpse shall fall from its tomb be rent:

  Then ghastly haunt thy native place,

  And suck the blood of all thy race:

  There from the daughter, sister, wife,

  At midnight drain the stream of life.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened as she recognized the words of Byron’s legendary Turkish tale, words she had heard Portia recite with an equal amount of drama only a few days before. She glanced at her baby sister. Portia’s hand had fallen from her throat to her heart as she gazed up at the young Adonis, an adoring light dawning in her eyes. Oh, dear, Caroline thought. It would hardly do for Portia to start nursing an unrequited infatuation for her sister’s suitor.

  With his sulky mouth and cleft chin, the young orator might have been mistaken for Byron himself. But everyone in London knew that the dashing poet was currently languishing in Italy in the arms of his new mistress, the Countess Guiccioli.

  As he launched into another verse of the poem, displaying his classical profile for everyone in the room to admire, Caroline had to cup a hand over her mouth to contain a hiccup of laughter. So this was the notorious viscount! No wonder he was offering Vivienne suggestions on how to style her hair. And no wonder society believed him to be a vampire. It was obviously a reputation as carefully cultivated as the en cascade folds of his cravat and the dazzling sheen on his Wellingtons. Such an affected dandy might steal her sister’s heart, but Vivienne’s soul appeared to be in no immediate peril.

  Giddy with both mirth and relief, Caroline was still trying to choke back her giggles when a clock somewhere in the house began to chime midnight.

  “Allow me.”

  Caroline started violently as a handkerchief appeared just beneath her nose.

  “I try to come prepared. It’s hardly the first time his performance has moved a woman to tears. The more sentimental ladies have even been known to swoon on occasion.”

  That droll masculine voice, pitched barely above a growl, seemed to resonate all the way through to her bones. How could she have been so foolish as to fret about vampires when a voice that full of smoke and brimstone could belong only to the devil himself?

  She gingerly took the handkerchief before stealing a glance at the man lounging against the wall next to her. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He must have slipped through the French window when she’d been distracted, no small feat for such a large man.

  Although she would have sworn she’d felt his gaze on her only a second before, he was staring fixedly at the hearth, where their host was launching into yet another stanza of Byron’s masterpiece.

  “Your chivalry is much appreciated, sir,” she said softly, dabbing at her overflowing eyes with the expensive linen. “But I can assure you that there’s no danger of my being overcome with emotion and swooning into your arms.”

  “A pity that,” he muttered, still gazing straight ahead.

  Taken aback, Caroline murmured, “Pardon?”

  “Pretty hat,” he said, nodding toward the pearl-and-feather concoction perched atop a matron’s silvery curls.

  Narrowing her eyes, Caroline took advantage of his purported indifference to study him. His thick hair was a warm honey shade threaded with brighter strands of gold and worn just long enough to brush the impressive shoulders of his russet tailcoat. Had he straightened instead of lounging against the wall with both ankles and arms crossed, he would have towered over her by nearly a foot. Yet he seemed utterly at home with his size, finding no need to use its power to intimidate or cajole.

  “What I meant to say, sir,” she whispered, unsure why it was so important that this stranger not mistake her for some maudlin ninny, “was that I wasn’t overcome by sentiment, but amusement.”

  He slanted her an unreadable look beneath his generous lashes. His long, crystalline eyes were neither blue nor green, but some bewitching shade in between. “I gather you’re not a fan of Byron?”

  “Oh, it’s not the poet who amuses me, but his interpreter. Have you ever seen such shameless posturing?”

  One of the women in front of them turned around to glare at Caroline. Touching a gloved finger to her lips, she hissed, “Shhhhh!”

  While Caroline struggled to dredge up a suitably contrite expression, her companion murmured, “You seem to be the only woman in the room immune to his charms.”

  There was no arguing with that. Portia was still gazing at the hearth as if she’d fallen into a trance. Several of the ladies had drawn out their own handkerchiefs to dab at their eyes. Even the gentlemen were watching the performance with slack mouths and glazed expressions.

  Caroline swallowed a smile. “Perhaps he’s bewitched them with his supernatural powers. Isn’t that one of the traits of his kind—the ability to hypnotize the weak-willed and make them do his bidding?”

  This time her companion turned to look her full in the face. His countenance might have been called boyish were it not for the furrowed brow, once-broken nose, and the teasing hint of a cleft in his broad chin. He had an oddly tender, expressive mouth for such a rugged visage. “And just what kind would that be?”

  It was hardly in character for her to indulge in a tasty morsel of gossip with a total stranger, but there was something about his direct gaze that invited confidences.

  Cupping a hand around her mouth, she leaned closer to him and whispered, “Don’t you know? Our host is rumored to be a vampire. Surely you must have heard the gossip about the mysterious and dangerous Adrian Kane. How he rises from his bed only after the sun has set. How he prowls the streets and alleys of the city by night searching for prey. How he lures innocent women into his lair and enslaves them with his dark powers of seduction.”

  She had succeeded in bringing a sparkle of amusement to his eyes. “Sounds like quite a dastardly fellow. So what prompted you to brave his lair on this dark night? Have you no care for your own innocence?”

  Caroline lifted her shoulders in an airy shrug. “As you can see, he’s no threat to me. I’m utterly impervious to brooding, Byron-spouting young gentlemen who spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror practicing their poses and curling their forelocks.”

  His gaze narrowed on her face. “I must confess that you have me intrigued. Just what sort of gentleman might pose a threat to you? What dark powers must a man possess to seduce such a level-headed creature as yourself? If a comely face and a nimble tongue won’t make you swoon into a man’s arms, then what will?”

  Caroline gazed up at him, a kaleidoscope of impossible images whirling through her head. What if this was her Season instead of Vivienne’s? What if she was a dewy-eyed nineteen instead of a sensible four-and-twenty? What if it wasn’t too late to believe a man like this might lure her into a moonlit garden to steal a private moment—or perhaps even a kiss? Wracked by a shiver of yearning, Caroline dragged her gaze away from that tantalizing mouth of his. She was a woman grown. She could hardly afford to succumb to a girl’s foolish fancies.

  She inclined her head with a dimpled smile, deciding it wisest to treat his words as the jest they undoubtedly were. “You should be ashamed of yourself, sir. If I confided such a thing, then you would have me at your mercy, would you not?”

  “Perhaps it is you,” he leaned down to murmur, his voice as deep and smoky as a forbidden swallow of scotch whisky, “who would have me at your mercy.”

  Caroline jerked up her head, mesmerized by the unexpected flash of longing in his eyes. It seemed a breathless eternity before she realized that the recitation had ended and the other occupants of the drawing room had burst into enthusiastic applause.

  Her companion pushed himself away from the wall, straightening to his full height. “If you’ll excuse me, miss…I’m afraid duty is a harsh and unforgiving mistress.”

  He had already presented his broad back to her when she called after him, “Sir! You forgot your handkerchief!”

  She didn’t realize she was waving the
scrap of linen like a flag of surrender until he turned and one corner of his mouth slanted upward into a lazy smile. “Keep it, won’t you? Perhaps you’ll find something else to amuse you before the night is done.”

  As she watched him weave his way through the guests, Caroline smoothed the handkerchief over her gloved fingers. She had an absurd desire to bring it to her cheek, to see if it bore the manly scents of sandalwood and bay rum that still hung in the air around her.

  Her fingertips blindly traced the initials stitched into the fabric as his deep, commanding voice carried over the crowd. “Bravo! Bravo, Julian! That was quite a performance. Dare we hope for an encore after supper?”

  The lean, elegant satyr still posing with negligent grace in front of the hearth grinned at him. “Only if my brother and host commands it.”

  Caroline’s fingers froze.

  She slowly lifted the handkerchief, but even before she saw the satyr clap a hearty hand on his shoulder, even before she watched the guests greet him as one of their own, even before she saw a beaming Vivienne take her place at his side as if she had always belonged there, Caroline knew what she would find stitched into the expensive linen.

  An elaborate A linked with a swirling K.

  “Caroline!” Vivienne called out. A radiant smile lit her face as she tucked one slender hand in the crook of her companion’s arm. “What are you doing cowering over there in the corner? You must come and meet our host.”

  Caroline felt all the blood drain from her face as she lifted her eyes to meet the equally stunned gaze of Adrian Kane, Viscount Trevelyan.

  Chapter Three

  “Would you care for some port, Miss Cabot?”

  Although the query was perfectly innocent, there was nothing innocent about the teasing sparkle in her host’s eyes. Or the way he swirled the bloodred liquor around the bottom of his glass before tilting it to his lips.

  The glass of port would have looked more at home dangling from his brother’s pale, aristocratic fingers. Oddly enough, Adrian Kane had a workman’s hands—broad, strong, and powerful. His teeth were straight and white, with nary a fang in sight. Since she had been seated in the place of honor at his right elbow at the long, damask-draped table, Caroline had ample opportunity to study them every time he flashed her one of his enigmatic smiles.

  It was hard to imagine anyone being foolish enough to believe this man embraced darkness and death. If anything, he seemed to be possessed of an almost unnatural vigor. Although according to rumor he shunned daylight, she would have sworn the gold threads in his hair had been spun by the sun. She even had the ridiculous notion that if she leaned closer, she might hear the steady thrum of the blood coursing through his mighty heart.

  Before Caroline could decline his offer, Portia, who was sitting directly opposite her at his left elbow, thrust out her glass and chirped, “Why, thank you, my lord! I’d love some port!”

  Caroline looked at her sister askance. Portia seemed to have momentarily forgotten her fear that Kane might lean over and nip her on the neck. She was too busy craning that neck to ogle Kane’s brother, who was sitting just down the table from her, on the other side of Vivienne. No matter what she thought of his posing and preening, even Caroline had to admit that it was a tragedy Julian Kane’s profile had never been minted on a Roman coin.

  Their host crooked a finger at the footman hovering near the walnut sideboard, but gave the man a warning shake of his head before he could pour more than a splash of the ruby port into Portia’s glass.

  Aunt Marietta had been exiled to the far end of the table, where she was regaling a squat baron with a shrill account of her latest triumph at the boodle table. Since he couldn’t very well slice open his wrists with a two-pronged fork, the poor man appeared to be steadily drinking himself into a stupor. He’d been sliding lower and lower in his chair for the past half hour. By the time dessert was served, he’d probably be under the table. Not that Aunt Marietta would notice. She’d probably just turn to the simpering marchioness on the other side of her and continue her recitation without bothering to pause for breath.

  Caroline wondered if her aunt had been banished deliberately. Perhaps Kane had as little tolerance for her incessant chattering as she did. Of course, after the nonsense she had spouted to him in the drawing room, he must think her twice as bird-witted as Aunt Marietta.

  Every time she remembered her careless words, she wanted to lean down and bang her forehead on the table. She didn’t know whether she should be more mortified for insulting the man’s brother or for repeating those ridiculous rumors about his nocturnal activities. She might have been able to forgive herself for both of those indiscretions had she not also indulged in a shameless flirtation with her sister’s suitor.

  “Miss?”

  Thankful for the distraction, Caroline turned her head to find a footman proffering a silver platter laden with slices of rare roast beef swimming in bloody juice. Feeling her already shaky stomach turn over, she swallowed hard and murmured, “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, I’ll have that.” Instead of waiting for the footman to bring the platter around, Julian reached across the table and stabbed a slice of meat with his own fork. He brought the beef directly to his mouth, chewing with sensual relish.

  He suddenly stopped and sniffed at the air, his perfectly aligned nose wrinkling in distaste. “You simply must tell Gaston to tone down the garlic, Adrian. It’s nearly overpowering tonight.”

  Caroline was the only one who saw Portia dip her napkin in her crystal finger bowl and use it to scrub surreptitiously at her throat.

  At least she thought she was the only one, until she glanced at their host and caught him watching not Portia, but her, with undisguised amusement. “You’ll have to pardon my cook,” he said. “He’s French, and you know how the French love their garlic.”

  Caroline could not let his smirk go unchallenged. “What about you, my lord? Are you fond of it as well?”

  “Quite. I find it adds an exciting element of surprise to even the most mundane of dishes.”

  She gave him an arch look. “Ah, but some people are not as fond of surprises as you seem to be. There are those who might even consider them a trial to be avoided.”

  Kane leaned back in his chair, the speculative gleam in his eyes deepening. “That would depend upon the nature of the surprise, now wouldn’t it?”

  “Indeed,” she replied, meeting his gaze squarely. “And whether the surprise had been initiated by a simple misunderstanding or deliberate subterfuge.”

  He took another sip of the port. “I must confess, Miss Cabot, that you yourself have been something of a revelation to me. Since Vivienne informed me that you had all but raised her and young Portia here, I was expecting someone far more…”

  “Old?” she offered.

  “Experienced,” he countered tactfully.

  “Then I regret disappointing you, my lord. Had I known you were expecting a doddering crone, I wouldn’t have bothered to wear my wooden teeth.”

  “Caroline was only sixteen when we lost Mama and Papa,” Vivienne explained, regarding her sister with open affection. “She’s been both mother and father to us ever since then. If not for her, Cousin Cecil might have shipped us off to an orphanage.”

  Caroline felt her color rise as Kane tilted his head to study her. “It couldn’t have been easy taking on the responsibility of two young girls when you were little more than a girl yourself.”

  Julian waved his fork in her direction. “I’d think it would be deadly dull to be tucked away in the country with two brats to raise. No offense, pet,” he added, leaning past Vivienne to offer Portia a teasing wink. She choked on a morsel of quail and pinkened to the roots of her hair.

  Caroline remembered countless days spent hunched over the household ledgers, her fingers cramped with cold and fatigue; sleepless nights haunted by visions of her sisters locked away in a workhouse or slaving away as governesses in some household with a lecherous master and cruel mistress.
Visions that might still come to pass if she couldn’t secure a suitable husband for one of them.

  But she simply said, “Contrary to what most of society believes, there are many rewards to be found in a quiet country life devoted to the pleasures of hearth and family.”

  Although she half expected their host to scoff at her words, his voice softened on a note that might have been longing. “I should imagine there would be.”

  “So tell me, my dear Miss Cabot,” Julian said, turning the full force of his charm on her, “is it true that in the country one is expected to both sleep and rise ‘with the chickens,’ as it were?”

  “Were we at Edgeleaf, I would have been abed hours ago,” she confessed.

  “Indeed,” Kane murmured.

  Caroline suddenly found herself unable to meet his gaze. How was it that the mere mention of bed in front of this man could make her blush like a green girl?

  His brother shuddered. “Then I fear I shan’t survive there for more than a fortnight.”

  Kane chuckled. “More than a night, I should say. You’ll have to forgive my little brother, Miss Cabot,” he said, the husky caress of his voice making her feel as if they were the only two in the room. “Poor Julian here is already dreading our return to the country next week. If I hadn’t promised a ball to keep him amused, I doubt I’d have been able to drag him away from his favorite gambling hell. I fear the pleasures of country living are not for him. He much prefers a choking cloud of cigar smoke or coal dust to a breath of fresh air. And he has long shunned the sun for fear it would ruin his fashionable pallor.”

  Julian leaned back in his chair, flashing a good-natured grin. “You know as well as I do, dear brother, that nothing interesting ever happened before midnight.”

  As if to prove his point, there was the sound of raised voices and a sudden scuffle just outside the dining room.

  Although the viscount didn’t so much as twitch a muscle, danger suddenly spiced the air around him, its unspoken threat strong enough to stir the invisible hairs on Caroline’s forearms.