Cris would never accuse the assembly of being cheerful or even pleasant. Finbar still waffled on about poetry, and Kirby still frowned at everything and everyone, and Justice and Gantry still made limpid eyes at each other and waxed purple in prose. But it was certainly more tolerable than it had been initially, and really, what more could you ask of a vampire hive than tolerable?
Budgy Hall was spectacular (at least its receiving rooms). Dimity not only embraced color – it turned out she had excellent taste and a good eye to go with it. While her own personal preferences in attire could best be described as ostentatious, she’d managed elegance with the hive house. It was still showy, but she stuck to deep jewel tones and metallics throughout, with cream as a unifying counter-color. In the end this resulted in a harmonious series of rooms that might grace any grand house in London, even that of Lord Akeldama himself (although with fewer naked cherubs). Cris had never visited Lord Akeldama, but everyone knew about the cherubs.
Cris was extremely impressed with Dimity’s results and he told her so.
“Why, didn’t you know, darling? I’m very, very good at my job.”
She was getting more daring with him too. And he was having a rather difficult time holding out against her at bedtime. He was also beginning to forget why he kept trying.
For one thing, she took it as settled that he would brush out her hair every night. He’d taken it on as a sacred duty and mild torture. Nothing could be more sensual than sliding the bristles through and touching the soft mass of her honey curls, the scent of lemon wafting up. The sensation in his fingertips as they caressed the smooth skin of her cheeks and neck was almost euphoric.
Despite the hair brushing, he’d been doing well at resisting, and then she switched tactics and began asking him questions while they prepared for bed. Rather explicit questions.
“I was talking with Justice earlier.”
“Were you indeed? Is there a shawl in a new shade of blue that needs acquiring?”
“Don’t be mean. Justice in blue has changed everything! Gantry is properly courting her now.”
“Yes, indeed. So, no shawls, then?”
“No. Sex. We were talking about sex.”
Cris stopped brushing her hair in shock. What a very crude word. “We were? I thought we were talking about shawls.”
Her shoulders were tense. “Not us. Justice and I were discussing carnal relations. You see, I was trying to inquire after doing it properly, since you obviously won’t start the thing up and therefore I must, but I’m not sure quite how to go about it. So then I thought, what ho! I’ve a new vampire friend to call upon. After all, Justice has decades of experience and seems inclined to play various possible roles in the bedroom and therefore she should know all about what’s what.”
“Uh,” said Cris, lost, feeling hot about the ears and aroused by interest and embarrassment. He resumed brushing.
She turned and took the brush away from him, putting it on a chair next to her side of the bed. She was crimson-faced, but she also had that glint in her eyes that suggested this was a matter as serious as the right color brocade cushion, and she would not be gainsaid.
She took a deep breath and then spoke fast and all at once, practically without pause. “Here’s what I don’t know. How should you like to be touched, you know, down there? Hard or soft? Is it like a cooked sausage or an uncooked one? Do I hold firm like a cricket bat, or am I gentle, like a cat’s tail? Do I tug, or swirl about? Is it up and down or side to side or sort of squeezing? I suspect what I need is some kind of primary instruction manual or guidebook – you know, like we get before a mission in a foreign city. Would you write one up for me? Would that work? I want you to be comfortable.”
Cris couldn’t help it, she was so earnest, and so eager, and so sweet.
“Oh, Sparkles, you’ve been giving this a not inconsiderable amount of thought, haven’t you?”
“For a very, very long time. One only really learns by doing, of course, but you’ve taken ages to come around to me, Sir Crispin. I don’t want to mess it all up now that I’ve finally caught your interest.”
“Silly Sparkles, you’ve always had my interest.”
“You frown because you love me?”
“Exactly.”
“So?”
“Cooked sausage, up and down, halfway between cat’s tail and cricket bat. With something to make it smooth, like oil or face cream.”
“Face cream? Really? No one has ever mentioned face cream. If I were very good and went slowly, would you let me touch?”
Cris officially gave up at that juncture. Raised the white flag of surrender and everything. Well, raised something, that’s certain. He was trying to protect his own virtue when clearly, he hadn’t any. How was he expected to hold out, and why was he bothering to keep doing so?
He was going to marry this woman anyway – she’d already pronounced it. And, as far as he was concerned, it would happen as soon as he could rustle up the necessary paperwork. All those contacts he’d cultivated over his years in the War Office were about to come in very handy indeed.
He might as well let her have at.
So he stripped down entirely, not embarrassed at all, because he’d been cavorting about in bathing costumes for a fortnight anyway, so she knew all. In fact, practically all of Nottingham had seen practically all of Sir Crispin, so who was he to mind full nudity?
Dimity’s eyes were wide and awed and covetous. “Ooooh, you have hair in strange places.”
He lay back, put his hands behind his head on the pillow, and looked up at her. He took a moment to be pleased the chimneys were now clean and they had a cheerful fire in the grate. He did want to put on a good showing.
“You know,” said Dimity, as if she were realizing it and saying it at the same time, which was rarely a safe tactic, “the only time you’re ever still is like this, alone with me.”
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to stop moving for.”
“Oh. Goodness. Look at you.” Her gaze was hungry and running all over him. He’d never had anyone look at him like this before – as if he were entirely worthy and wanted, as if he were needed and necessary.
He thought he would simply lie there and she would be shy and retiring and cautiously tentative and they’d see where things went. Her touch would likely be too light and do no more than tickle. She probably would not even think to use her mouth and she’d have to be gently coaxed into everything.
He was entirely wrong about all of it.
Afterwards, when they lay hot and sticky and panting, he realized his Sparkles had magic hands and he hoped she’d surmised that her tuppenny knight had a magic tongue.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Her body was supine, gracefully curved by relaxation. Her eyes were big and bright and glorious.
“Mmm,” he replied, feeling weighted into bonelessness and heavy-lidded.
She rolled over him and drew lazy patterns in the spend lying white and sticky on his abdomen. Not at all squeamish, it turned out, his lady love. He was incredibly grateful to discover that blood was the only bodily fluid that made her faint.
“I want to try all of it,” she said, sucking a finger and making an interested face.
“Mmm,” he said, only dozing off a little.
“Don’t fall asleep yet. This is serious.”
The sun was up and the new curtains kept most of it out, but he could still see the rose flush on her skin. She was smooth all over, it turned out, and perfectly shaped, all softly curved, exactly as he’d always imagined. Honey-colored curls. Honey-flavored skin. Honey-flavored everything.
He licked his lips and felt himself stir again. “I’m listening.”
“It’ll be us now, I’ve decided. This is us now. We’re not going back to the way it was before, when you thought you should resist me. And Justice can have all my nightgowns, even the new ones.”
“Marvelous idea.”
> “And even when we’re done here, sometimes you’ll wear a dancing costume only for me.”
“Just for you.” His sleep contentment turned to utter pleasure, to be so completely wanted. What more could he possibly need?
“Even the striped one, because I know you don’t like it, but it’s very tight and the white stripes are sort of see-through in places and—”
“Yes, Sparkles, even the stripy one.”
“And we can do more of this tomorrow? I want to try licking you all over until you spend in my mouth. And I want to, you know, go riding... the fun way.”
“Both in one night?” he squeaked, opening his eyes in surprise.
“Is that not possible? You see, I have much to learn.”
He grumbled at her something about his needing to learn things too, since she made the best noises he’d ever heard while in the throes of pleasure and he wanted to collect them all, over and over again.
“Promise?” she said, a whisper of longing tickling his chest hair.
“Promise,” he replied.
And he wasn’t sure what it was he’d just promised her, but it didn’t really matter, because he would give it to her anyway, whatever she wanted.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Vampires Are Convinced to Throw a Party, Despite Themselves
Dimity was beginning to feel guilty.
She was hiding from Cris the fact that she had taken to escorting Betsy down to her trysts with the hive queen. She didn’t think she was in any danger. She never spent any time with the bally red-headed fang-toothed snoot. Dimity was rarely even in danger of fainting, as Betsy often emerged with no punctures at all and only love bites to show for her encounter. This was a sign of great improvement in the baroness’s mental state. For it meant that she was eating only when she needed sustenance, and not to prove some kind of medieval point.
But Dimity knew Sir Crispin, as her safety, wouldn’t like that she went down into the cave essentially unprotected. And now he, as her lover, wouldn’t like it that she was placing herself in a position to be corrupted. Because everyone knew it was nigh on impossible to resist the lure of a vampire queen. On the bright side, wasn’t lover a delightful word? Dimity wanted to write missives to all her friends immediately: Sidheag in the North, Sophronia gallivanting about the Continent, and Agatha who was... well, who knew where Agatha was? But Dimity wanted to write to them all anyway, simply to crow: “Guess what has happened to me? I have taken a lover!” Then she would add something on how very peculiar was the way that men functioned physically, in matters carnal – enthusiastic and vulnerable and messy. Who knew? Certainly not Dimity. Now, of course, she was delighted by her discovery, and she was bound and determined to see if she could completely master one specific part of Sir Crispin’s anatomy. With the expectation, of course, that said anatomy could obey her over him and his legendary control, for always. It was a point of pride.
But of course, one didn’t write those sorts of letters. Not even to one’s true friends.
Still, other things were coming along enthusiastically too (not just Sir Crispin’s nether regions).
She’d been working on Lord Finbar, for example, with excellent results. The library was now being expanded – Lord Kirby’s carpenter friend was back. Lord Finbar expressed profound admiration of the Catullus translation Dimity had given him, and continued interest in the works of the transcendentalists. This could only be considered progress.
It might be going too well, in fact, because he asked her one night, with dour timidity, if he might practice an oratory endeavor upon her.
“Practice, Lord Finbar?”
“Well, I have been giving considerable thought to your idea of an intellectual salon, Mrs Carefull, perhaps a small gathering of high-minded, respectably grave individuals.”
“My suggestion? Surely that was your idea, dear Lord Finbar?”
“Was it? How perspicacious of me. Well then, it should most certainly happen.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Shall I send out invitations?” Dimity had, of course, already prepared them all.
“Oh, would you? That would be very kind, indeed. I’m sure you know who best to invite.” As if Dimity had lived in Nottingham all her life instead of merely two weeks.
She stood to leave.
“No, no, my dear Mrs Carefull, please remain a moment longer. If I could simply practice with you? Of course one should not be so nervous, but...”
“Oh, but wouldn’t Rosie be a better choice of audience?”
“Rosie is a lovely girl, but not particularly cerebral. I believe that you are better equipped to understand the somber quality and melancholic nuances of my work.”
Dimity, after a moment’s consideration, decided it would be better to have this over and done with sooner rather than later. “Very well, sir. I’m all ears.”
Lord Finbar began, and Dimity realized he was not so far along as she had hoped. He clearly needed a great deal more work. And it was, perhaps, beyond the purview of even her not inconsiderable talents to eliminate Byron when he had taken root so firmly.
I stand alone at the edge of the abyss.
Remembering.
Oh, remembering.
That you are only beautiful when you cry.
No, oh no.
Do not take your love away, in deathly song.
All is winter in my heart.
I pray you murder me, like eggs falling over the cliff of forever.
For now, all I see is darkness and destruction.
The angels are dead.
I need nothing. I am nothing.
Sadness rains.
Dimity began to clap.
“Oh, but that is only the first verse, Mrs Carefull.”
“Oh, dear me! I was overwhelmed by the profound nature and depth of feeling in your beautiful words.”
“Shall I go on, then?”
“Oh, dear sir, but I don’t think I could bear it. Too powerful, too moving.” She squeezed out a few tears. Dimity had always excelled at crying on cue.
Lord Finbar watched the perfect crystalline drops trickle down her cheek in awe. Dimity did not wipe them away – why should she? They weren’t that easy to produce!
“Oh, you poor, delicate, sentimental young jewel. I’ve done you in, haven’t I?”
“Oh, sir, it is a tremendous talent you possess. How did it survive your metamorphosis? One would think you still human, with such depth of meaning in your stanzas. How could you not present to a broader audience? An intellectual salon is exactly the thing. We simply must invite others to listen to your greatness and be similarly moved by it.”
“You don’t think I would be showing up the other speakers, do you? One wishes to be welcoming to all levels and abilities. It’s not putting myself too far forward – a poem of such grave magnitude?”
“Well, perhaps only one verse at a time? Over a series of assemblies? All at once might be a touch overwhelming for weaker human constitutions. Lives might be lost.”
“My dear Mrs Carefull, how thoughtful you are. I shall take this under advisement. Of course, my melancholy might detrimentally affect others. It’s quite deep, you see? One does not wish to drag any poor, unsuspecting humans into the depressive depths that hold a man such as myself in their yearning maw.”
Dimity patted his hand. “I understand perfectly. You merely wish us to experience your pain, share it a little, but not dwell in the darkness with you.”
“Exactly so.”
“Then indeed, I urge all caution in your oratory pursuits, dear Lord Finbar. The damage you could do with any more than a single verse could be profound and have wide-ranging repercussions.”
He nodded gravely. “I understand. Poetry can be too powerful.”
“And thus others must be eased into it. Your library idea is a wonderful prospect. After all, these days most young ones are taught to read, so eventually they too may enjoy poetry. And your oratio
n will most certainly inspire them.”
“You are too kind, Mrs Carefull. Too kind.”
“Now, Lord Finbar. Have you considered, for this debut of your salon, a new jacket perhaps? Something emerald green? I do so think you need a signature color. All the great poets had a signature color. And black is so over-worn in poetry circles, don’t you feel?”
“Green, you think, Mrs Carefull?”
“Emerald green, Lord Finbar. It will bring out your eyes.” Which was a belter of a lie, as his eyes were so sunken she had no idea what color they were.
“Do you think little Miss Rosie would like me in emerald green, Mrs Carefull?”
“Most assuredly, Lord Finbar. Most assuredly.” With which she beat a hasty retreat, as he looked inclined to begin another verse.
Accordingly, invitations to an Intellectual Salon at Budgy Hall were delivered and the replies came back with alacrity. It seemed Nottingham wanted nothing more than a new cerebral gathering of pedants in its midst. The fact that it was being hosted by a vampire hive was, of course, left off the invitations. But eccentric aristocrats reciting poetry were deemed, even in the very best of drawing rooms, to be almost as worthy.
If the Ogdon-Loppeses knew the truth behind Budgy Hall or connected the salon to their youngest son’s inappropriate love affair, they made no objection. For they were the first to accept.
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