The Black Lily (Tales of the Black Lily)

by Juliette Cross

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Lady Grace. And yours?” Not that she cared.

  “Sergeant Adrian Loman.”

  She gave a polite smile and focused on the floor, as if gauging the next turn.

  His hand on her waist tightened as he drew her closer. “You are quite lovely, Lady Grace.”

  “That she is,” came a familiar voice at her shoulder.

  The sergeant stopped their movement at once and swallowed hard at the sound of the prince, who gave the man a fearsome glare, though the prince’s posture remained polite and refined.

  “May I cut in?”

  “Of course, of course, Your Highness.” The sergeant backed away so quickly Arabelle nearly laughed, but then her gaze landed on the object of his fright.

  “May I?” The prince held out his hand.

  She stared at his hand a moment, broad and strong with long, tapered fingers. Swallowing the thought that he was the devil himself, she set her hand in his, thankful the gloves offered a small barrier between his skin and her own. She wasn’t sure she could bear to have him touch her directly, though she knew that would be inevitable to fulfill her mission.

  His hand engulfed hers while the other gripped her waist, drawing her within his personal space. If they were alone, she could easily do the deed right here and now.

  “You’re measuring me, Lady Grace.”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, you are. And you don’t like what you see.”

  How could he know that?

  “You are mistaken, Your Highness. I came to the ball specifically to meet you.” As did every other woman in the room. Except they came to fall into his bed. She came to put him in the ground.

  “And are you disappointed?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Lie. She was disappointed. She’d wished he were shorter and less formidable in stature. Most vampires were tall and elegant. He was both of those, but his frame was broader and thicker than she’d imagined. She didn’t doubt she could still kill him, but the odds had shifted slightly. She’d definitely need to be alone with him and employ serious distraction. All before he could sink those monstrous fangs into her neck.

  Her gaze flicked to his mouth where the tips were just visible between his parted lips. The fact they’d extended meant he was already thinking of drinking her blood. Good. She wanted him distracted. Best to keep his eyes on her throat and not on her hands when the time came. She knew their canines normally were receded in a rest state, though still visible, until they prepared to feed.

  A scintillating smile spread wide. His pale eyes flared with a supernatural pulse of light. Arabelle’s heartbeat tripped faster. Did he suspect what she was thinking?

  She glanced away on the next turn, pretending to focus on the dance, when she caught sight of Sergeant Loman whirling Lady Drusilla around the room. Arabelle silently willed the prince to move farther off.

  “Have you ever been bitten, Lady Grace?”

  “By mosquitoes? Yes. Often. Nasty things.”

  He chuckled. “No. You know that’s not what I meant. And why would you be out of doors at night to be bitten by mosquitoes?”

  Damn it! She always let her mouth move faster than her brain. “Oh, well, I love the gardens.” Not a lie. “I often walk them at night.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  He pulled her closer on the next turn, his hand at her waist sliding to the small of her back, holding her tighter within the frame of his arms. He dipped his mouth close to her ear. “Because you smell like wildflowers and honeysuckle. I believe you would taste sweeter.”

  Heavens, her stomach flipped at the sultry, smoky tone of his voice. She gulped air, for there was no saliva left in her mouth. Dangerous. This vampire was too dangerous.

  “Would you like to taste?” she asked, hating the sudden quiver of her voice. With all the bravado she could muster, she cleared her throat and met his gaze, all blue-fire and desire.

  “Have you ever been bitten before, my lady?” he asked again. He slowed their twirling gait till they were on the edge of the dance floor. Yet he didn’t let her out of his arms. “Are you a virgin bleeder?”

  Finding her strength of voice again, she said without wavering, “Yes. I am.”

  She may not be a virgin in the other regard, but her body was free and unsoiled of a vampire’s bite. That was for damn sure.

  “Thank the stars.”

  Arabelle was surprised at seeing relief and an oddly vulnerable expression flit across what part of his face she could see. She knew the royal blood concubines were required to be virgin bleeders. The Legionnaires often dabbled in the towns with noble daughters and even the peasant women who were willing. Those rejected here tonight by the prince would be wooed into dark corners by the Legionnaires and vampire nobility in attendance. But any woman the prince took must be unknown to the vampire bite.

  He believed her disguise as a lady of nobility, so he would assume she was still a maid. For some reason, that was impolite to ask of a lady, but asking if she’d given her blood and fed a monster from her own pumping heart was not.

  “Is something amusing, my lady?”

  “I was considering the tradition of the prince taking only virgin bleeders, Your Highness. And I was wondering how you could possibly know whether a lady was lying to you or not. Bite marks heal, so how could you really know?”

  “That is a good question.”

  “For example,” she continued with a slight smile. “How do you know I am not lying to you?”

  “There are certain tells a vampire can sense when someone is lying to them. But if you are a practiced liar, you could fool one of us.”

  “Even you?” Arabelle felt like she was poking the tiger with a stick, yet she couldn’t help herself.

  “Even me.” His voice dipped to a sweet dark place, traveling down her body like a caress. “So are you admitting that you lied to me?”

  “Me? No,” she snapped quickly, swallowing hard under his intense gaze. “I suppose if I had been bitten, though, you’d have to find another lady to dance with.”

  “On the contrary.” Something in his voice tugged at her, sensually. Possessively. “I’d simply want the names of those vampires so I could hunt them down and make sure they understood you were never to be touched again.”

  His voice remained low and soft, steady, and yet there was no disregarding the fact that he’d just staked his claim.

  “Oh,” was all she could manage.

  “Yes,” he declared, lowering his mouth to her ear, spreading his large hand around her hip, fingers curling in. His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “I want to be the only man allowed to taste your sweet skin.” He grazed his lips just below her ear, a swift flick of his tongue, then he swung her into the next turn and righted himself as if he’d done nothing wicked at all.

  Dazed with a wave of sudden desire she did not want to feel, a familiar high-pitched laugh drew her attention to the left, where Lady Drusilla flirted ridiculously with Sergeant Loman. This happily snapped her back to reality. One more turn and they’d be right beside them. Arabelle feared a direct glance from Drusilla would end her mission for good. And perhaps her life. Time to get things moving along. Her dagger felt heavy against her thigh, ready and waiting to be used.

  “Would it be possible to get a more private tour of the palace, Your Highness?” With a smile she knew turned men’s heads and a subtle brush of her bosom against his chest, she waited for him to catch the hint. His keen gaze studied her, sending her heart racing wildly.

  “This way, my lady.”

  He crooked his arm for her to take as they swept past his Blood Harem, who were present to see who would be joining their ranks. A pang of shame pierced her heart. The women wore masks of arrogance and superiority. Yet Arabelle pitied them. They were well-kept whores, ignorant to their chains of opulence and decadence. All at the price of their own souls.<
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  Guiding her toward a tall, rounded arch that led off into another part of the castle, Arabelle smiled in relief when that lieutenant with the steely gaze stepped in front of them, stopping their exit. With a deferential bow that she sensed was all for show, he stood back to his full height, a forced smile in place. “Your Highness, you seem to have found the loveliest maid in attendance. Might I have the pleasure of an introduction?”

  If Arabelle were a simpleton, she might think the lieutenant was being polite or perhaps even encroaching on the prince’s conquest, but she knew better. He was the only man in the room who wasn’t wearing a mask. He might fit the look of a gentleman enjoying the ball, but this vampire was all business.

  “Of course.” Prince Marius dropped her arm to offer a formal introduction. “Lieutenant Nikolai, may I present Lady Grace Merriweather, daughter of the Earl of Lakeland of the Bridgerton Province.”

  She dipped a proper curtsy to his bow.

  “It is a pleasure to meet such a fair lady from the…Bridgerton Province? And where might that be exactly?”

  A question and an accusation in one. Arabelle focused her breathing to remain steady. She knew they could sense fear.

  With poise and a genteel smile, she replied, “Bridgerton is in the south of Arkadia.”

  “Is it now?” asked the lieutenant, arching a brow at the prince, who frowned in return. “How interesting. I’ve never heard of it, and I’m quite well-traveled.”

  “It is rather small.”

  “And your father? He has never been to the Glass Tower, has he? I’ve not met him, either.”

  This was certainly an interrogation, not an introduction. If she thought the prince would kindly extricate her from the situation, she was wrong. He watched her every move in the same way the lieutenant did. She lowered her gaze and fluttered her lashes in embarrassment. Time to test her acting skills.

  “To be honest, my father never visited the Glass Tower.”

  “And why is that?” asked the prince, his perfect brow pinched at the center. It was required of the human aristocracy to pay homage to the Varis family by attending at least one royal ceremony annually.

  She clasped her hands tightly in front of her, a sign of her discomfort. Both of their gazes followed them, then lifted to her eyes again. Heavens above, they were both too sharp. But they were also seeing everything she wanted them to see.

  “Yes,” continued the lieutenant, the polite tenor of his voice replaced by a grave timbre that seemed more natural to him. “Please do tell us.”

  Clearing her throat in nervous agitation, she continued in a shameful whisper. “My father was not a fan of the royal family, you see. He…he did not support their, I mean your, rule.”

  Her heart truly was racing now. She’d just admitted to something not simply embarrassing but treasonous.

  “And did your father have a change of heart to let you come here now?” asked the lieutenant, still wary but less accusatory.

  She lifted her chin in proud defiance, channeling her darker emotions to pull off the next part. Tears welling, she said, “My father is not ill. He is dead. I am defying his dying wishes by coming here. But I”—she locked her gaze on the prince, his blue eyes sparking with intensity—“I wanted to meet Prince Marius for myself and…and make up my own mind about the royal family.”

  “What you speak of regarding your father is treason,” said the lieutenant. “You do know that.”

  “Of course, I do. Do you plan to arrest me?”

  “Nikolai.” The warning in the prince’s growling tone sent a chill down her spine.

  Arabelle caught the fleeting glare before the lieutenant cocked his head with a smile in an amiable posture.

  “That will not be necessary. You are a guest of the Glass Tower and we welcome Lady Grace of Bridgerton.”

  She dipped a curtsy at his bow, then he stalked away with his assessing scowl in place.

  “Shall we continue?” asked the prince, offering his arm once again.

  She placed her hand on the crook of his arm with a small smile, allowing him to lead her away from the raucous noise of the ball.

  “I apologize for that.” He led her down a long corridor hung with portraits of the royal family that were as tall as Arabelle.

  “No need,” she said, offering him a smile. They passed the portraits of the king and queen of Varis. “He’s only protecting you.” They sauntered past the portraits of Marius’s three brothers. Arabelle slowed at the first.

  “My eldest brother, King Dominik of Izeling.”

  The formidable figure sat on his black-iron throne, one large hand curled around the handle of his silver scepter in the shape of a shining skull. He had the coloring of Marius, black hair and piercing blue eyes, but every line of his face had a cruel bent. He would be a difficult opponent to defeat for the Black Lily.

  Arabelle stepped to the next one, breathing relief at the kindly face. He had chestnut hair and a look of merriment about the eyes. “Is this King Agnar of the west?”

  “Yes. Ruler of Pyros. How could you tell? You’ve never met him, I presume.”

  She pointed to the background. “The sea. My…” She paused, her heart lurching as she almost said mother. “My father told me of the beauty of the sea in the west.”

  “Ah. It is quite lovely.” He led her to the next. “You don’t have to be ashamed of your father, you know.”

  Arabelle frowned, certainly not ready to receive forgiveness regarding her fictitious father’s treasonous ways. She ignored the niggling thought that this prince might have a merciful heart, and steeled herself for what she must do.

  The third portrait fit the haughty description of the king of the eastern kingdom of Korinth atop a white mount whose mane looked as soft and pretty as the king’s. Not as handsome as Marius or even Dominik, despite his brutal expression, but certainly the look of a man who knew his right and power. The Black Lily had a long road to defeat them or sway them to reason.

  “The King of Korinth,” she said.

  “Yes. This is Stephanus.”

  She said nothing more, now eager to see how Marius was depicted. Surprisingly, he did not sit atop a throne or a fierce steed, but on a cliff’s edge with one foot propped on a boulder. The artist had captured him with a partial smile, but his eyes bore a touch of sorrow that she had not expected.

  “Why were you sad when he painted this?”

  He flinched and guided her on down the hall. “I wasn’t. Not exactly.”

  She stomped her impulse to discover more. She didn’t need to feel sympathy for the man she was preparing to assassinate in short order. Sure, he might have some worries of his own as the poor prince in the high tower. But he watched from on high and did nothing while his own subjects were slaughtered. Resolute, she let him lead her down an empty corridor that seemed to go on forever before he led her into a large parlor with dark mahogany floors.

  A plush sapphire-and-gray carpet stretched before a cozy fire. A silver brocade chaise lounge and two chairs sat to one side, a large black desk to the other, and double doors opened to a veranda.

  Arabelle stepped farther into the room, summoning the images of the palace schematic to mind. Their spies had done their job well. The layout of the rooms seemed to match their description perfectly. There would be a one-floor drop from the balcony of the prince’s private parlor. Easy enough.

  Running her gloved fingers along the spines of the books lining one wall, she did not miss the audible snick of the door, closing her in the room with the vampire prince.

  Finally, after months of planning and envisioning this moment when she would launch their cause with one harrowing act, they were alone.

  “Your dress is quite striking, my lady.”

  Arabelle ran her index finger along a neat row of books. “Thank you.”

  “Quite unusual, actually.”

  “Oh? How so?” She finally looked up to find him examining her from the bottom up.

  “I don’
t believe I’ve ever seen a lady attired in this hue for a Varis ball.”

  She feigned ignorance with a blank expression. “Why is that?”

  “Silver and blue are the royal colors. Most women don themselves in such as a tribute to the Varis family.”

  “I see.” She glanced down at her gown as if seeing it for the first time. “I suppose this does make me stand out.”

  The way his gaze roved her hungrily sent her pulse pounding faster. “It does. But gold suits you perfectly.”

  If he only knew. “You have a wonderful collection of books.”

  “You enjoy reading?”

  “Yes.”

  Also not a lie, though she couldn’t afford very many of her own. Her mother had taught her to read before she died. Arabelle stopped short at the title of one tome, then pulled it from the shelf and read aloud, “The Perils of Class Society by B.R. Snow.” She swiveled to find him standing on the rug before the fire, watching her like the predator he was. He’d removed his red mask and set it on the mantel.

  It took Arabelle a moment to gather her wits. She’d been told of the prince’s masculine beauty. She had fully expected to find her target to be a paragon of godlike perfection. Even so, her breath faltered at the first full sight of him. And he seemed to know everything she was thinking, for his sensual mouth ticked up on one side into a subtle smile.

  She lowered her gaze and tsked. “Now, Your Highness, your king banned this book ages ago.” She’d struggled to find a copy for herself on the black market. But when she had, she’d read it five times.

  “Aye. But being his son has certain privileges.”

  “I can only imagine,” she said, flipping through the pages, finding some dog-eared.

  She frowned as she walked closer to him. “Why would you care to read books like this? Do you not agree with the state of society?” She had somehow managed to keep the venom from her voice.

  “Of course, I agree,” he said. “I would never have met you had I not.”