The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing

by Minda Webber

  Taking another deep breath, she tried to calm herself, to recall her mother's lessons in deportment. If she were a true lady, she could pretend that nothing had happened. If she were a better Van Helsing she would go home and make good on her threats.

  "Smile," Clair warned, glancing around the theatre . and noting that the members of the ton were craning their necks for a better view. They looked from this box to Asher's and back again.

  Taking Clair's advice, Jane managed a passable smile. She couldn't let society know how hurt she was; they would rip her to shreds. She couldn't let her husband know how much his actions had done to wound her, either. She bravely faced Ian and Clair, whose eyes held a wealth of sympathy as well as anger.

  "I am fine," she stated firmly.

  Across the theatre, one of Lady Montcrief's followers, Sir Rowton, had joined Asher and Lady Montcrief in the box. "I say, Asher, isn't that your wife over there?—the Van Helsing chit?" he asked with his usual hint of ennui.

  Asher nodded curtly.

  Sir Rowton shook his head. "She isn't your usual style. Pity."

  If Asher hadn't spent the last two centuries being civilized, he would have snapped Sir Rowton's fat neck. Instead he gave the man a glare filled with fires of hell. No one insulted his wife. "She is Lady Wolverton to you!" he snarled.

  Turning toward the box where his wife sat, Asher regarded her closely. She was dressed in a gown of deep green. He knew that up close it would enhance the beauty of her eyes. The gown fit to perfection and displayed her great assets. He scowled. Her breasts were exposed to the view of other men of the ton. He made a mental note to himself to have some new gowns made up for her, with the neckline raised at least several more inches.

  His wife seemed oblivious to his scrutiny, looking around the rest of the theatre. He would have the dressmaker raise her neckline a good three inches. No, make that four.

  Seeing Ian Huntsley, Asher nodded in the man's direction. Briefly and stiffly the baron acknowledged the gesture, then quickly turned back to the two ladies he escorted. But Asher had seen disgust in the werewolf's eyes.

  Slightly chagrined, Asher admitted he deserved it. He had seen his wife the moment he sat down. He berated himself for not asking what her plans for tonight had been.

  Despite what Ian obviously thought, Asher would not have escorted Lady Montcrief here if he had known the Huntsleys and Jane were coming. He could easily have taken the scheming tart someplace else to work his seductive wiles upon her, to find out just who had released her months early from the silver-chained coffin into which he had forced her after her attack on Clair. He had to know who was brave enough, or foolish enough, to release Lady Montcrief from her just punishment. There were few vampires strong enough to break the spell placed upon the coffin, and none of them should be in London—not without letting him know that they were visiting his territory. It was a serious breach of etiquette, and a deadly one, that he'd only discovered last night upon spying Lady Montcrief out feeding.

  He feared he knew who the dark intruder was. It was his archenemy, Dracul.

  At that moment, Lady Montcrief broke into his dark thoughts by stroking his thigh, her long red fingernails tracing erotic patterns on his leg. Asher ached to remove her treacherous hand, but knew he must play the part of devoted lover to entice her into revealing the name of her rescuer. It was a delicate game of cat and catty mouse, one which Asher had played a hundred times before.

  "I really can't believe you married that creature," Lady Montcrief commented, pertly pursing her lips. "She is so common. And then there is her unfortunate heritage. But perhaps she is good enough in bed to compensate. I would not have thought it, but then Van Helsings would make strange bedfellows."

  Asher smiled, hiding the blow she'd dealt to his pride. "I find special delights in my wife that you might not understand."

  Lady Montcrief leaned closer, her breath whispering on his face. She smiled. "She could certainly not be better than me in the bedchamber, mon ami? Or perhaps you play those games with whips, stakes and silver chains. That would explain why you married one of those horrid Van Helsings. Strange, that type of bed-sport was not to your taste before."

  "You know I like pleasure more than pain," he agreed coolly, hiding his anger. How he hated this scheming jade!

  Unconsciously, he searched the other side of the theatre with his eyes, watching his wife become paler as Lady Montcrief caressed his arm. But he had no choice except to ignore the brief flash of hurt he saw—just as he ignored the slight pain in his stomach that felt like guilt. He was probably just hungry; he hadn't fed tonight. Why should he care what his wife felt or thought? She was a burden forced upon him.

  Yes, he should feel relieved and proud that he had humiliated his wife by not presenting her to society before being seen with his ex-paramour, he told himself. She would be on the tongues of all the gossips tonight, and tomorrow too the vicious tongues would be wagging, all making sport of the new Countess of Wolverton. Just as the few vampires he had encountered recently had spurned or made sport of him. One of those vampires was still at home recuperating, while the other two had fled to Paris, intending to wait until Asher's temper had cooled.

  Jane deserved this treatment, he argued silently. She, her dog and her big bird were albatrosses around his neck. Yet, he couldn't help but admire her fortitude. She was laughing with Clair and Ian now, ignoring him completely, and acting as if he were no more than a fly upon the wall. She was magnificent, not showing the ton any hint of vulnerability.

  Surprising himself, he leaned over and whispered something to Lady Montcrief. Angrily, her red lips clenched tight, and she got to her feet and followed him from the box, leaving a trail of whispers in their wake.

  "Well, I'll be damned," Ian said to Clair.

  "Never," Clair teased, watching her husband watch Asher exit. "Why?"

  Noting that Jane was also watching, Ian whispered, "I concede that you might be right about Asher's feelings toward Jane. He has left the theatre tonight before the play even started. I might also add, he had a slightly guilty expression on that arrogant face. Asher never feels guilt. I wasn't even aware he knew what the word meant."

  "Good!" Clair stated harshly. "I hope he drowns in guilt." Then, thinking on her words, she asked her husband curiously, "Can vampires drown?"

  Jane answered. "Only in their own blood," she said, clenching the highly polished wooden armrests of her chair like she would a Van Helsing model-three stake.

  If only she had a real one.

  Snow White, the Vampire

  Sleepy and grumpy were only two of the things Jane was feeling as she shut the seventh drawer of her large oak chest. Sneezing softly, she doctored her red nose with a handkerchief.

  Walking back over to her dressing table, she sat down, slowing unbraiding her long brown hair. She frowned, wondering if Asher was coming home, and if not, just whose coffin he was sharing. Her mind was poisoned by visions of her husband cuddled up with the beautiful Lady Montcrief, their snow-white bodies locked in carnal acts—acts Jane had only bashfully dreamed about, never experienced. Envisioning the two vampires entwined, Jane hoped the coffin lid came crashing down on their heads in the middle of whatever men and woman did in the privacy of their caskets.

  "I would kill him myself, if he weren't already dead," she muttered to herself.

  Briskly she began to brush her hair, staring into the oval gilt-framed mirror. She knew she wasn't pretty. She knew she could never match the sly, seductive vampiress. But she, not Lady Montcrief, was married to Asher. She should be the one receiving his soulful looks and scorching smiles, not his ex-paramour, who was now his paramour again and no longer an ex.

  Once again, someone was rejecting her. He was placing her in a preconceived box upon a shelf, without really coming to know her.

  Her childhood had been spent knowing she was not what her father wanted. Now she'd found herself a man who felt the same way. What Asher had done tonight cut deeply, ripp
ing open old wounds that had barely begun to heal.

  "I can't believe he's with that vamp," Jane muttered indignantly. Tonight Asher had not only rejected her; he had humiliated her as well. Tomorrow everyone in the ton would know that he preferred his ex-mistress to his wife. It was unfair and cruel. The only saving grace was that Asher had had the decency to leave the theatre before the play began. That was something for which to give her cad of a husband credit.

  Still, speculation in the theatre had run rampant, forcing Jane to wear an emotionless mask when all eyes turned upon her. Fortunately Ian and Clair had fended off the worst of the gossipmongers. Jane had made it home before she burst into tears in the privacy of her room.

  Staring at the ravages of her face, she could still see the results of her crying binge in her puffy eyes and red nose. No, she would never be a beauty.

  "'Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?'" Asher's voice echoed from the doorway into her bedchamber, startling Jane, who hadn't even heard him approach.

  He could tell that Jane had been crying. A stab of guilt pierced him. Scowling, he brushed a piece of lint from the cuff of his jacket. He hadn't felt guilt in at least a century. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and one he seemed doomed to experience since meeting and marrying this infernal Van Helsing chit.

  Staring at her husband's reflection in the mirror, her green-silver eyes hard, Jane retorted, "Fairest? Why, you of course. Or Lady Montcrief, if she were here." She turned. "Certainly not me. My looks could curdle milk to hear you tell."

  Her words hit Asher square in the heart, worse than a well-aimed stake. "Jane, I never said your looks would curdle milk. You… mistake my words."

  "I mistake nothing. How could you escort your former fling for all the ton to see? How could you so humiliate your wife in a public setting?"

  "Unwanted wife," he reminded her.

  "And now all society knows it," Jane spat. "I could box your ears—or box you in your box! How could you prefer that predatory, murderous creature? I thought you had better taste."

  "I have excellent taste," Asher retorted. He hated feeling guilty! He was a superior being, far above such petty emotions, being both vampire and one of the most highly titled men in the realm. And if he couldn't be married to Clair, he hadn't wanted to be married at all. He certainly hadn't wanted to be married to a Van Helsing. It made him cruel. "Except in wives. So, Lady Montcrief is none of your business."

  Her temper ignited, Jane stood abruptly, shoving her husband back with a strength that surprised him. "You find her interesting even after she tried to kill you and Clair. Tell me what she possesses that could make you find her attractive after such a betrayal? I want to emulate her, so that you might condescend to take me to the theatre. Perhaps I can dance a jig around the room naked, a rose in my teeth. No, it would have to be blood, wouldn't it? I shall kiss and nibble around your man thing like a goldfish. Or bite your thigh."

  Asher's eyes widened in stunned shock, the image of her dancing around the room naked making his blood heat. "You're being vulgar, Jane. And the word isn't 'man thing'—it's 'cock,' or 'rod,' or 'phallus.' Not 'man thing.' That's so demeaning."

  "So your cock is demeaned and that concerns you, but not your wife? How touching!"

  "Are you practicing to be a harridan?" Asher questioned tartly. "I must remind you that the Countess of Wolverton should be more careful."

  "Why, you bloodsucking bastard. Dare you criticize my conduct when you have made me a laughingstock by your insensitivity?"

  "Mind your manners, backstabber," he replied frostily. But he couldn't help staring at her heaving bosom, and at the pulse beating rapidly in her neck. Just a little sample, he thought as he stepped closer, in awe of her fire. She was so pretty when enraged.

  "Coldhearted corpse!" Jane glowered, and she raised her hand to slap him. Asher caught her palm and threw it aside.

  "Vicious vampire murderer!" he replied. And yanking her to him, he kissed her fiercely, savoring the hot spice of her lips, listening to the blood beating in her heart. His erection came to life. He wanted her—it was that simple and that complex.

  Infuriated beyond words, Jane jerked away from her husband, her fists clenched, wanting to pound on Asher's chest and at the same time to run her hands all over that smooth sweet skin. "I hope you cock up your toes," she gasped.

  Asher shuddered, trying to stem the tide of pure lust he felt. He was cocked up all right. "Thank you for your kind wishes," he said.

  "I hope you rot in your grave!" she seethed. "It's bad enough that you ignore me all the time, but now I can add humiliation to the myriad list of your faults. And not just private humiliation, which you supply daily, but public. In front of all society. You're nothing but a debauched fiend. And I deserve better than to be imprisoned with you for life."

  "What a charming sentiment. Now I know how you really feel. All those earlier words of wifely devotion and loyalty, they were merely words. Words without honesty. But then, why I should expect honesty from a Van Helsing is beyond me," Asher sneered. Surprisingly, Jane's venom hurt. He had thought his heart long frozen over.

  But as he glared at his wife, he knew he couldn't trust her. He just wouldn't give her that power or satisfaction, for she would betray him as surely as she was a Van Helsing.

  "Humbug! You wouldn't know honesty if it bit you on the neck." And with those words, Jane turned and fled the room, her long hair trailing loose behind her like a glorious brown-gold cloak.

  Asher yelled after her, "Or staked me in the ass! Oh, sorry, you already did that!" It was childish, but no Van Helsing alive was going to get the last word on him. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  Her husband's words made Jane even angrier then she already was—not an easy feat to accomplish. But her horrid hubby did it with such polished ease. So she had made a tiny mistake and poked him in the fanny; it wasn't the end of the world. Or even his own end,—at least, not the end of his life. It had been his hind end.

  Reaching the hallway, Jane furiously realized that she was leaving her own bedchamber. Slapping her hand against her forehead, she grumbled, "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

  Chagrined, she stormed back inside, pointing a finger at the door and saying, "Take your stubborn distrust and your rotten, rakish, vainglorious vampire ways out of here."

  "You're quite pretty when you're mad." He bowed curtly, a sardonic smile on his lips, his anger obviously simmering as he stalked from the room.

  As he closed the door behind him, Asher heard the sound of glass exploding against it. In spite of himself, he laughed. His feisty little wife had stood up to him in a fine fit of temper. She was a virago, but she was his virago. And somehow the sound of the word "his" began to feel right.

  Shaking his head in disgust at his momentary lapse, Asher went to find his valet. He had to impart the dangerous news he had discovered. The disappearance of so many prostitutes and Lady Veronique had him deeply concerned that vampires were the cause. Vampires with no moral concerns, no concern for the rest of the species. Vampires who drew attention to the nest in London. Asher could think of only one vampire despicable enough: Dracul. Yes, Asher's nemesis. He must be alive and well, and living in London. Where, Asher wasn't sure yet. But he would find out as if his life depended on it—because it very well could.

  Dracul was many things, and all of them were very, very bad. The Prince of Darkness was… well, just that. There wasn't even a flicker of light in his blackened soul. He inspired fear and terror. But most importantly, the count detested him with a burning intensity which did not bode well for any of Asher's close friends.

  Opening the library door, Asher found Renfield having his nightly brandy. Renfield glanced up worriedly at his long-time master.

  "You have news?"

  Asher nodded solemnly, seating himself before the fire. "It's not good. Although, I must say that the performance I put on tonight would have rivaled Keene's. Ferreting out information from Lady Montcrief was
rather an odious task, despising the tart and her heinous betrayal as I do, but I think she doesn't suspect my plot or her place in it."

  "Of course not, my lord. You are a master of hiding your emotions, and Lady Montcrief is vain enough to believe you just want her."

  "True, Renfield. I am a master of deception when needs be," Asher agreed.

  "My lord, the news about the Prince of Darkness?" Renfield probed.

  Asher sighed. "You know, Renfield, sometimes you are such an old fuddy duddy. No joy in you at all." But with those words, Asher began to explain what had occurred, and the information he had gleaned most brilliantly about his archenemy.

  Jane hid outside. Her husband was so aminated, the sound of his voice carried out into the corridor beyond the hall where she crouched in deep shadow, listening avidly to anything she could discern.

  It had not been her intent to eavesdrop. She had only meant to yell one or two more things she thought up immediately after he left—a development that made her even more enraged, having come up with such pithy and witty comebacks to his taunts after he left the room. This happened to Jane often with her father or cousins. With her cousins, she generally gave as good as she got; with her father, she remained mute. Not so with her husband. He was going to get his comeuppance tonight!

  But she'd quickly discovered that Asher was not in his bedchamber changing. Knowing of the valet's penchant for a late-night glass of brandy, she'd found him in the library with Renfield. Unfortunately the words were muffled, and all Jane heard was: "Dracul is my enemy… danger."

  Then came the useful words, which would help change Jane's life forever: "… the Birds of Paradise Club, two nights from now. I have other places… tomorrow."

  Smiling to herself, Jane crept furtively away. So, her husband did know Dracul, possibly even where Dracul was hiding. But more importantly, her husband wasn't on good terms with the fiendish, unprincipled Prince of Darkness. This eased her soul.