The White Lily (Vampire Blood series)

by Juliette Cross

  “Would you like some punch?”

  She jumped in her skin, having forgotten Mr. Dawson. “That would be lovely.”

  Brenna sidled along the side.

  “Evening, Miss Snow.” The magistrate dipped his head in passing with a flicker of admiration at her décolletage.

  For a panicked moment, she wondered if she should’ve worn this gown, her only dress other than her regular simple frocks for teaching. But Helena had said it was more modest than what most women wore even about town. Brenna swallowed her anxiety even as she drew eyes from both smiling men and non-smiling women.

  Marianne, the one she’d spoke to in the Rose Courtyard, passed her by, wearing the loveliest pink satin gown with a matching reticule looped over her dainty wrist. She caught the young maid’s eye, who merely arched a brow at her, obviously still sulking that Brenna had been chosen that night and not her. The happenings of the Rose Courtyard were considered a place untouched by gossip. While many townspeople knew which ladies ventured there, it was known that no one shared who was chosen. For there were many maids who helped their families by serving as a bleeder to the duke. This rule of silence was instituted by the duke, apparently. Strange rule for a vampire. Why should he care? Still, after being caught in the Rose Courtyard herself, it was the one reason that kept her from sealing herself in her schoolhouse and hiding away.

  Here she was thinking about him again. Damn!

  “Brenna!” Sylvia waved from near the punch bowl standing with her man, Grant.

  She breathed a sigh of relief and pushed through the crowd. Sylvia gave her a laughing hug, her cheeks pink from either merriment or too much punch. Either way, she looked happy. The tall, hard-looking man at her side glanced her way then continued watching the swirling mass.

  “Look at you!” Sylvia winked with a bawdy glint in her eye.

  “Oh, dear. Is it that bad?”

  “That bad? Oh no, you cheeky wench. That good. Where have you been hiding this dress?”

  Brenna rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t have worn it. I knew it. Helena said it was pretty. And not too”—she glanced up at Grant, but his attention seemed elsewhere, so she whispered the last—“revealing.”

  Sylvia linked arms with her and tossed her pretty head back on a laugh. “Darling, you’re so serious. It’s very, very pretty. It’s just unusual to see you so very—”

  “Pretty,” finished Mr. Dawson, standing on her other side with two cups of punch in his hands. “Here you are, Miss Snow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”

  She ignored Sylvia’s girlish grin at Mr. Dawson’s attentiveness, but she could hardly pretend she didn’t notice Grant arch his brow at Mr. Dawson when he leaned close and placed a hand at her back to ask, “Would you like to dance?”

  “Oh. Thank you, Mr. Dawson. But I’d like to drink my punch first as you went to all the trouble to bring it for me.” She took a sip, which was tart but had a sweet aftertaste of orange liqueur.

  Brenna smiled sweetly then caught Grant rolling his eyes before he dipped close to Sylvia’s ear and whispered. What was he about? Her mouth formed a perfect O in surprise then her eyes flitted to her back where Mr. Dawson was persistently keeping a proprietary hand. Though Brenna wasn’t sure how to casually dislodge his partial embrace, she wasn’t sure what Sylvia’s man would have to say about it.

  She leaned over to Sylvia and asked low, “What did he say to you?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes. Why is he scowling at Mr. Dawson?”

  She covered her mouth to be sure only Brenna heard her hushed reply. “He said if the duke catches Mr. Dawson touching you like that, he’ll break his arm.”

  Brenna gasped and stared goggle-eyed up at Grant. He scanned the crowd continually but then his gaze dropped to Brenna and he raised a superior brow and gave her a tilted smile as if to say he warned her. But why would he look as if—

  The musicians ceased playing, and the dancers stilled for a moment. The crowd hushed as everyone turned to the door. Standing at the entrance to the hall looking too devastating for words was the Duke of Winter Hill. Flanking his sides were his captain of the guard and another she’d seen around the castle, both in more formal attire than their usual. Though the guards appeared to simply be attending the ball, Brenna knew better than that. They were clearly on duty from the way they scanned the room in short order.

  The town magistrate rushed forward to greet them, his flustered wife at his side. Other town officials hurried up to welcome the royal duke and present their wives as well as their unmarried daughters. Brennalyn stifled the envy clawing at her gut when the duke bent over the hand of an exceptionally beautiful brunette. While she batted her eyes coquettishly, he didn’t seem to notice, moving swiftly through the cordialities.

  “The duke showed? Well now, that’s a rare occasion,” commented Mr. Dawson.

  The music began again and the dancers slowly took the floor.

  Brenna couldn’t take her eyes from him. He had just bowed a polite greeting to a rather attractive blonde when his eyes cut across the room directly at her, as if he knew exactly where she stood the entire time. His dark look commanded her to stay put. She gulped down her punch, feeling a dizzy wave upon the last swallow. That orange liqueur was a bit strong, but she needed fortification.

  “Mr. Dawson? Could you please get me another glass? It’s very hot in here.”

  “Of course.” He took her glass hastily and rushed off toward the refreshments.

  “Very hot,” whispered Sylvia. “Well done.”

  A twinge of guilt twisted her insides. Until she caught the duke striding down the center of the room, cutting through the dancers, coming toward her with long strides. Then trepidation set in. She thanked the heavens they were in a crowded room, for she wasn’t quite sure how to handle his promise of next time they were alone.

  His gaze never wavered. When he finally stopped in front of her and gave her a slight bow, he didn’t hesitate to offer his hand. “I believe this is our waltz, Miss Snow.”

  “Is it?” She finally tuned into the melody, recognizing the slow drawl of bows over strings.

  “Yes.” He stepped into her space as he was wont to do. “Give me your hand.”

  She narrowed her gaze and said low for his ears only, while placing her gloved hand in his. “Only because I don’t want to cause a scene.”

  His pretty mouth ticked up on one side. “Whatever you want to believe.” He gripped her waist with his other hand and whirled her onto the dance floor. She was only vaguely aware that Mr. Dawson stood to the side holding two glasses of punch with a look of surprise and disappointment on his face. She winced.

  “And what is that look for?” he asked.

  “Poor Mr. Dawson. I suppose I’ll have to dance with him next.”

  “Why would you do that?” He pulled her tighter on the next turn.

  “Because he’d asked me first. And then you barreled in here and swept me onto the floor like you own me.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “Hmph. No, Your Grace. You do not. No one does.” She tilted her head to the side, watching the dancers as they spun, trying to pretend they weren’t all staring at her.

  “Oh, Miss Snow.” The barrel-deep timbre of his voice pulled her attention back to him. Unwillingly. “I love that you believe that is so. But you will be mine ere long. No doubt of it.” He smiled whimsically. “Best not to tease poor Mr. Dawson into thinking he has a chance.”

  “Tease? You’re the one who’s teasing. You speak of possession and ownership as if I were a prized mare. I am not.”

  “Indeed not, kitten. You are much more precious.” His large hand squeezed at her waist, the heat searing through the fabric of her gown, through her stays.

  Determined to not be thrown off balance, or to at least have the appearance of a woman still in her right mind, she asked, “Why do you continue to call me ‘kitten’? It’s an insulting endearment. And the duke shoul
dn’t be calling the schoolteacher endearments at all.”

  On the next turn, he pulled her close, till her breasts brushed his chest. The friction, as brief as it was, rasped her nipples. She gasped then quickly clamped her mouth shut, trying to put some distance between them. But he was in full control, his large frame engulfing her, his intimidating presence swallowing her with each turn.

  “Your dress is quite beautiful on you.” He ignored her question entirely. “So much more appealing than your gray frocks.”

  “What is wrong with my frocks?”

  “They’re hideous.”

  She gasped. “My frocks are entirely suitable to a woman of my role in society.”

  “And what role is that? An old crone?”

  She caught his mischievous smile. He was goading her. And it was working. “An unmarried woman. The town’s schoolteacher.”

  He scoffed, slowing their waltz. “You think yourself a spinster at three and twenty? I think not. I’m going to burn every one of them when I get the chance.”

  “Your Grace. You will do no such thing. You have no right to destroy any of my possessions.”

  He grinned and slowed their forward movement to a stop, drawing her even closer.

  She tried to step from his embrace, but he held her good. “Your Grace?”

  “I’m not quite sure you know what’s happening between us, Miss Snow. But let me be clear. Those hideous rags are not worthy of your luscious body. Not worthy of you. You may try to hide your beauty behind drab colors and formless frocks and tight buns. But I see what’s beneath. And I want—no, I will have you in all your glory. Therefore, prepare yourself to be draped in silk quite soon.”

  She saw the lion in the man, gazing down at her with steadfast calm and confidence. All of which was breathtaking and alluring. She spent the majority of her life trying to order and control her surroundings, only to find her world tilted at every turn. She wondered how the duke would feel to lose his control. “It must be very difficult,” she said.

  “What must be difficult?” He swept her away from clumsy Mr. Powell, who nearly barreled into them with his dance partner.

  “Believing that you own everyone you meet.”

  “You wound me. I don’t believe that at all.”

  “Really? You just stated as if it were a decree that I’d be draped in silk. What if I don’t like silk?”

  His smoldering smile made her knees buckle. “Come now, Miss Snow.” He leaned close to her ear, his lip brushing the shell as he whispered on the turn, “If not a silk dress, how about silk sheets?”

  She laughed, his naughty teasing bringing a heated flush to her face. “You’re most improper for a royal duke.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a smirk. “I do my best.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  “It most certainly was.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Well, whatever you may believe, I’d like to clarify that you do not own me, Your Grace.”

  “I don’t want to own you, kitten. I want to possess you.”

  “There is no difference.”

  “Indeed. There is.”

  Eyes darkening and hooded in shadow, she caught them drifting over her face before they landed on her mouth. His own parted slightly. “Your Grace,” she warned, “if you are making plans to kiss me on the dance floor, let me tell you that it will not be welcome.”

  “All right. Will it be welcome in my carriage on the way home?”

  She arched her brow. “Are you always so forward with ladies you’re trying to woo?”

  “No. Indeed not. I’m usually much more charming, but you seem to bring out the beast in me, Miss Snow. I’d rather skip all the games and get straight to the prize.”

  “You’re incorrigible—”

  A sudden snarl and clamor of noise came from behind them. Someone screamed.

  She was lifted bodily in his strong arms, moving lightning fast. Everything was a blur. When she was set on her feet, she was in the back of the room, standing before Grant, knees buckling.

  “Guard her with your life.” Then the duke blurred toward the animal-like sounds.

  The middle of the room had emptied, townspeople shoving back in a panic, running for the one exit. There, on the dance floor was a man Brenna didn’t recognize bent over the limp form of Marianne in his arms. He’d torn open her throat and was drinking her blood as it dripped and pooled on the wood floor, soaking into her pink satin purse.

  Chapter Eight

  Friedrich circled the feasting vampire. Mikhail and Dmitri took up opposite sides of him and they moved clockwise, drawing closer. The beast suckled wet and noisily, hunched on his knees with his prize clasped in his arms. Her blonde hair dangled, eyes wide and glassy with death.

  Blood dribbled onto the floor, spreading wider. Friedrich’s stomach roiled at the foul thing feasting on the innocent girl, horrifying the people of Terrington. And all the while, the creature didn’t even take notice of his own death drawing nearer.

  Friedrich caught Mikhail’s eye then Dmitri’s, giving them a terse nod to signal their attack. At once, the three of them fell upon him. Yanking him from the body, having to break the clawed fingers of both hands to unclench his hold, they pressed him flat on his back. Friedrich gripped his throat with a knee in his chest while Mikhail and Dmitri held his arms and body.

  “Who are you?” Friedrich grated out.

  His eyes were full black. The blood madness. The beast curled his thin lips, revealing a row of serrated teeth and four razor-sharp canines, top and bottom, blood smeared over mouth and chin. The animal couldn’t seem to recognize human words at all, growling and snarling, but the duke knew there was a man in there somewhere.

  “Who made you?” he commanded, though he was sure he already knew. He wasn’t one of the huntsmen his uncle had brought to his castle but he had the same unhinged look about his dark eyes.

  Then the crazed vampire did something he didn’t expect. Laughed. A low, chuckling chortle, blood gurgling in his throat, like a man on the brink of insanity. He most probably was.

  He leaned closer, seeking the dilated pupils within the vacant wells of black. Friedrich grated low, “If you think you’ll find a swift death, you fucking beast, you are wrong. You’ll be singing like a bloody lark before I’m done with you.”

  For a split second, the vampire’s expression flattened. A spark of fear flashed then was gone. The creature grinned, tilting its head toward a group of ladies cringing against the wall and weeping.

  “Blood,” it said in a rasping voice. “More blood.”

  The soft murmurings of men and sniffling cries of women still in the hall told him this could wait.

  “Oh. There will be blood,” Friedrich assured him, leaning back and lifting him to his feet by his throat.

  Mikhail and Dmitri still gripped his arms.

  “Captain, you and Dmitri put him in the dungeon, then bring the rest of the guard. Sweep the town then report back to me. I won’t leave until I have a full escort to get Miss Snow safely home.” He lifted off the man’s chest. “Get this thing out of here quickly.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And don’t delay in your return.”

  Without much effort, Mikhail and his brother lifted the creature by his arms and blurred in vampire speed from the hall. He turned to the victim, wincing at her savaged throat, burning with the urge to follow his men and slaughter the vampire who did this. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and willed away the memories of his grandfather. He was not that man. With a gentle hand, he closed her eyes.

  “I’ll take care of her, Your Grace.”

  The coroner, a short, bent man with strong arms stood above him. A middle-aged woman cried into her handkerchief nearby, a man most probably her husband holding and patting her.

  “Does the girl have family?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. The milliner and his wife here are her uncle and aunt.”

  With a stiff nod, Friedrich
stood, but something caught his eye. There in the pool of her blood soaking into her satin purse was a corner of parchment sticking out of the satchel. He recognized the color of the paper. Leaning down, he opened the satchel and pulled the leaflet from inside, recognizing it without reading a word. The treatise by the White Lily. Folding it, he tucked it inside his jacket.

  “Magistrate Figgs,” he called.

  The gray-bearded man who was watching in horror, stumbled forward, a handkerchief to his mouth and nose.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Be sure that no one else leaves until my men sweep the area. Just to be sure all is safe in the town. This appears to be a rogue vampire, but I want to be sure.”

  “Yes. Of course!” He bustled off to the other officials huddled in a corner to spread the word.

  Friedrich strode back toward Brennalyn, needing to touch her, make sure she was safe. She stood next to Grant and Sylvia, her eyes wide but not with the shaking fear he expected. She was frightened to be sure, but her balled fists and alert posture told him she was a fighter. As if he expected any less. He admired his small warrior. While most women in the room had cowered into corners and under tables, even some men, she observed the room with shoulders back, eyes alert, ready to take on danger.

  He’d already reached out with his senses, not smelling or hearing another vampire in the vicinity, except for Mikhail and Dmitri. He’d not let any harm come to his little warrior. If that creature had even looked in her direction, he would’ve dismembered the beast on the spot, no matter what information he kept hidden in his mad brain.

  Finally making it to her side, he gripped her upper arms gently but firmly. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Of course.” Her eyes drifted to the body being wrapped in a linen and removed. “Who was that…man?”

  “I don’t know. Not from Terrington, that is certain.” He glanced at Grant, who held Sylvia close to his chest. “The guard will return and escort you back to the palace after they do a sweep of the town.”