And there was always the possibility that he would lose Dimity because of the Honey Bee’s responsibilities.
Dimity didn’t know that sex could become both comfort and reassurance. She certainly had never thought she’d be the one doing the comforting. She’d assumed, when they entered this new state of carnal bliss, that Cris would remain her safety. She was beginning to realize that sometimes she would need to be his.
There was something lost about him, after they quarreled. She was desperate to find him again. It wasn’t that she hadn’t trusted him, only that she’d known he wouldn’t like her visiting the queen alone, and she’d been trying to protect him, in her way.
They both knew she was right. They both knew it was her job.
But like finding her with a pistol pointed at Mr Theris, the danger inherent in a vampire queen scared him. Cris was afraid for her, and that was a hundred times worse than being afraid for himself. So Dimity tried to show him she was well, she was whole, and she was his in any way she could be.
Not that he remained passive under her. He always let her explore, always let her do whatever she wished to him and his body at the start, but he never lasted all that long without paying her back.
Her Cris, her man, was never truly still, and he was like that in bed as well. Always having to do and to please, looking after her, making certain she was happy, several times, before he allowed himself his own release. Before he allowed her to win. Because it was winning, so far as Dimity was concerned.
She’d already learned so many things in so few nights. She’d learned what she enjoyed, and what else she maybe wanted to try, not to mention a few things that probably wouldn’t be her favorites.
Honestly, even though she suspected the position was considered rather banal, she liked him over her best. The weight of him. She liked to wrap her arms and legs around his hard, lean body, squeezing as tight as she could. She liked the way her limbs looked coiled around him. For he was tan all over, so it wasn’t only his outdoor activities that turned him brown. (Unless, of course, he was prone to doing those activities naked.)
She liked rubbing against him, her nipples in his chest hair, and she liked the gradual way he sank into her, always slow and always careful and always, always kind. And she liked the way, if she held him close enough and tight enough for long enough, he sometimes forgot to be careful, but he never forgot to be kind.
CHAPTER NINE
On the Transcendent Nature of Interpretive Dance
“Oh, Lord Finbar? Lord Finbar? Oh, there you are!”
The vampire was in the library putting the finishing touches to his arrangements.
The library was near twice the size as previous. As its collection was not yet sufficient to fill all the shelves, it was currently characterized by a certain sparseness, but it would be marvelous, Dimity knew, in only a few years.
It was a true library, however, for only in this one room had Dimity permitted the Gothic aesthetic to survive. All the furniture was dark and heavy, but also plush and welcoming. She’d chosen gold brocades and brown leather, not black. It had the general feel of a gentleman’s club or a very nice cigar box, and it was easy to see why Lord Finbar loved it so very much. Dimity had replaced the old worn carpet with a subdued affair of maple-leaf paisley, and added a large bay window seat to the back – with thick, heavy wine-red curtains to keep the sun out, seeing as both vampires and books need protection.
In front of those curtains, Lord Finbar had arranged a little stage upon which rested one ornately fabulous gilt chair – for the featured orators. Facing this stage, he’d brought in and set up the dining chairs, with all the other settees and wing-back chairs of the library turned about to face the stage from their various nooks.
“My, but it looks very fine, Lord Finbar. Perfectly melancholy, yet attentive.”
“You’re too kind, Mrs Carefull. Ah, are these the first of our guests?”
“No indeed, Lord Finbar, these are two of our presenters. Please allow me to introduce my dearest brother to you. You have read his excellent translation of Catullus, I believe.”
“Your brother? The noted Latin translator? Here? In my hive! What an honor. Welcome, sir, welcome indeed.” If it were possible for Lord Finbar to look pleased, then he no doubt would.
Dimity’s brother, Pillover, was an Oxford don who did very little in life but mutter about things in Latin and overindulge in the pudding course. Dimity considered him, of course, an utterly useless codswallop, always had, but for some reason the intellectual set absolutely adored him. He was also, she hated to admit, the better looking of the two of them. Dimity knew herself to be passing pretty, and she’d been trained to make the most of her assets, but Pillover was a sulky, pouty slob who looked like some dark fallen angel with transcendent thoughts and secret passions.
He was no such thing, of course, but tell that to the young ladies always setting their caps at him.
“Oh, please do calm yourself, Lord Finbar. He’s not a drone candidate, you understand? Yes, I told him what you are and that this is a hive house. You may depend upon his discretion – he doesn’t gossip. In fact, he has very little to do with the modern world.”
“I prefer the past,” intoned Pillover, “and the supernatural set is of little consequence to me.” He nodded at the vampire and looked around the library with interest.
Dimity continued her explanation-meets-character-assassination-of-her-brother with glee. “As you can see, he is impossibly glum and dour, so I believe you two will get along famously. And this is his friend and colleague, Professor Fausse-Maigre. And now, I really must leave you. I have to make certain Cook is ready in the kitchen. She should open the port now, I think, to let it breathe. And I was thinking perhaps whiskey as well? Isn’t whiskey a terribly important thing for authors?”
“It is in my circles,” said Pillover with a grunt of approval.
Dimity rolled her eyes at him and dashed off.
“Your sister is—” She heard Professor Fausse-Maigre start to say.
Pillover interrupted before his friend could finish the thought. “Yes, I know.”
Cris drifted through the house and the party preparations and tried to be of use wherever he might. He ran into Dimity only once, as she bustled enthusiastically about. Her hazel eyes were practically incandescent with delight. She was clearly having a fantastic time of it – ordering everyone around.
She asked if he might consider an interpretive dance as part of the evening’s entertainment. In the background? During Professor Fausse-Maigre’s presentation on higher common sense?
Cris said he wasn’t sure they had the space, and really, how did one balletically represent higher common sense?
Dimity merely hustled him into the library to talk to said professor on the matter and then trotted off again, leaving him surrounded by lilting academics who’d apparently started in on the whiskey early. Cris was reminded of one of Bertie’s sayings: Never leave an open bottle near a clergyman, a writer, or an academic. Not if you want it back again.
Professor Fausse-Maigre explained he usually had a slate board and chalk for this speech, but lacking a visual assist, a man in a bathing costume cavorting on a small stage behind him could only add to the greater intellectual acumen of the assembly.
This sounded nonsensical to Cris, but since he wished to make the evening as much a success as possible, he allowed himself to be convinced to change into his dancing attire. He put on the gray costume, not the striped one, because he remembered what Dimity had said about half the stripes being see-through. And really, no one needed that much common sense thrust upon them.
Lord Finbar was puttering about, morose yet happy, Rosie at his elbow, helping to fetch and carry and generally making herself useful. Dimity’s brother appeared from some corner of the library where he’d been distracted by obscure Latin of interest. He didn’t introduce himself, simply gave Cris the raised eyebrow. Still, Dimity had said h
e was coming and despite differences in coloration, he resembled his sister enough for recognition and was almost as pretty. He was something important down at Oxford and had been responsible for bringing along the professor and his common sense. Cris understood that Pillover himself was also going to perform a reading of Catullus. Cris hoped it was one of the less scandalous poems. But since Pillover looked to be a dour, retiring fellow, Cris figured it would be something banal.
He decided he would leave the matter of his own interest in Dimity and any formal introduction as a prospective husband for another time.
However, Professor Pillover Plumleigh-Teignmott had more mettle than expected. For Dimity’s brother tracked Cris down, a little later, when Cris was stretching alone in the drawing room before the ravenous brain-hordes arrived.
“See here, you’re actually Sir Crispin, are you not?”
“Hush up. I’m Mr Carefull at the moment. We’re still keeping up appearances. Otherwise, why would I be practicing for a bloody ballet?”
“Fair jigs. It’s only that my sister talks about you all the time. I mean to say, all the time.” The young man slouched into a small chair as if exhausted by Dimity’s enthusiasm.
“That’s nice to know.”
“Is it? Nice for you, maybe. Put yourself in my position. All the time, sir, all the time!”
“Yes, it must be very trying. Now, may I help you with something, or will you leave me to do my développés in peace?”
Pillover stood and mooched about for a bit, picking up knick-knacks and putting them down again. Cris resumed warming up.
“You’re very muscled, aren’t you?” the professor said eventually.
“I try.” Cris did not stop what he was doing.
“You’re successful, no trying needed. She’s very fond of your muscles, my sister is. As I have learned, at length.” He mooched some more.
Cris kept up his steps, shifting from slower, measured movements to something a little faster, getting the blood pulsing.
“I say, would you pause for just a moment? That’s awfully distracting.”
Cris stopped and stood, staring down at the man, hands on hips. “So you’ve figured it out, have you?”
“What?” Pillover looked genuinely confused.
“Whatever it is you need to say to me?” Cris rose on the balls of his feet, then down again.
“Would you please be still?”
Cris sighed and relaxed, forcing himself into perfect posture and activated stillness, as if he were holding a pose.
“It’s only...” Pillover got a particular glint in his eye. It was disconcertingly similar to his sister’s take-no-prisoners glint. “Look here, don’t break her heart, all right? I know your kind from school – nothing but cricket and hunting and such. No finer feelings at all.”
“I was rather afraid she might break mine.”
“Good. Much better that way.”
Cris laughed. “She wants to marry me.”
Pillover looked glum. “I know. I heard about it, at length, remember?”
“And I want to marry her.”
“You don’t say? Bally odd, that. Still, I suppose that’s all right then. Peculiar of you, of course. I mean to say, she’s my sister and she’s absolutely ghastly. All that chattering, and the fluffy-fluffy hair, and the bright clothing, and that garish jewelry all the time, and then more chatter. And bustling about and always trying to tidy a chap and – oh dear God! – please don’t let me put you off!”
Cris laughed and clapped the young man on one shoulder. He did it a bit too hard, because of the dig about the cricket. Pillover stumbled slightly and then straightened and shoved his spectacles up his nose.
“A large part of the appeal, I assure you. Especially the hair.”
“Oh, go on with you! Really? I suppose it takes all sorts.”
“So I have your permission?” He was Dimity’s brother, after all.
“Oh, is that the sort of thing you need? For goodness sake, what have I got to do with it? My opinion has never mattered to Dimity before. Please don’t let it start now.”
“True, but I should still like it.”
“I don’t know you at all, Sir Crispin, but your physique is nothing to complain about, and you seem a decent enough chap, for an athletic sportsman type. I’m not sure about your choice of attire.”
“Dimity’s choice, I assure you.”
“Oh, well then, that explains that. Got you dancing to her tune already, has she?”
“Literally.” Cris did a small spin for emphasis.
Pillover nodded. “Proceed, then.”
“I shall.”
Dimity could not have been more in her element. All the guests arrived. Better still, all of them were dressed appropriately. The port had been served. Small cut-glass bowls of ice cream were taken around, because Dimity didn’t do anything by halves and a good impression was mandatory.
Lord Maccon was looming in a nook, pretending interest in the history of plumbing as chronicled in six volumes. He sipped a glass of whiskey and spoke to no one. Lord Finbar and Lord Kirby both gave him a wide berth, noses wrinkled in disgust, but otherwise the werewolf was treated with every courtesy. In fact, if anything, he seemed uncomfortable with the banality of it all. Dimity didn’t know what he’d expected, but a pleasant assembly in beautiful accommodations clearly wasn’t it. She saw him interview a few of the staff, and watch all vampire interactions with evident surprise. They seemed to be making a good impression. She made sure to attend to him regularly herself, as well.
Beyond Lord Maccon, the conversation flowed as freely as the port. Gantry and his parents mingled happily. In his evening attire, Gantry gave a remarkably good impression of a stuffed goose. His father looked exactly as Gantry would in a few years’ time, only less outdoorsy. Mrs Ogdon-Loppes seemed recalcitrant at first, but was quickly won over by Budgy Hall, its library, and the comestibles.
Lord Finbar was having a depressingly fantastic time, discussing the various books of poetry on prominent display in the library with an editor from London. Lord Kirby was also doing well, playing the gallant host and ushering the guests to their seats. Trudge was faithfully by his side, greeting all new arrivals with a big, friendly doggie smile. At least someone in the hive knew how to smile.
Eventually, Justice made her grand entrance in a frilly pink gown with maximum ruffles that floated about her as she descended the stairs. Lord Maccon’s expression became one of confused awe.
Gantry went to her and swept her up in his manly arms, but their embrace was blessedly chaste and the purple prose kept to a minimum. He escorted her over to meet his parents, who were wearing expressions of mixed confusion, shock, and delight. Pillover looked relaxed and prepared, Professor Fausse-Maigre equally so. They were both comfortable with the academic lecture circuit or she wouldn’t have invited them, but it no doubt helped that they were also deep into the whiskey. Cris was skulking behind the curtains, inside the bay window, keeping limber for his part of the evening’s entertainment. Occasionally, he would peek out at Dimity, giving her very arch looks.
Then, just as Lord Finbar took the stage to begin introducing the evening’s presenters, Rosie sidled up to Dimity, her face a picture of distress and her cap askew.
Dimity quickly ushered her from the library and away from the guests into the sitting room.
“What is it, my dear?”
“It’s Betsy, Mrs Carefull. She was meant to be down feeding the baroness over an hour ago. Mr Theris was going to take her, you being so busy with the event and all.”
“Oh bother, I forgot!” She hadn’t, of course. This was part of the plan.
“Well, they must never have gone, because the baroness is screaming loud enough to wake the dead and I can’t find either of them anywhere. It’s all coming up from the scullery and into the kitchen. It’s scaring the staff, it is.”
Dimity hid a smile – excellent. The baroness
was likely annoyed that her routine had been disrupted, but also, hopefully, curious as to why. And if Dimity went in, all full of excitement for the party, what woman could resist the temptation to see what she was on about? Especially since it was, technically, the baroness’s own party.
Lord Finbar would be starting his oration soon. Dimity had no intention of stopping him now – he’d lose faith in everything, and all her efforts would crumble into ruin. Which sounded like a line from one of his poems, but was perfectly true.
“I shall have to do it myself,” she said for Rosie’s benefit. “Good thing I’m wearing this particular dress.” Dimity was in one of her more mature evening gowns. It was a lovely ruby red, with a low square neckline, and she’d paired it with one of her more powerful ruby necklaces. The really big one, with the washed gold plating. A kind of battle armor.
“Rosie, go up to my room, please, and fetch the teal brocade that’s hanging at the back of my wardrobe. It has all the foundation garments with it, including a funny cage thing that looks like it’s meant for birds. Bring it all.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rosie scuttled off.
Dimity peeked into the library.
“I stand alone at the edge of the abyss,” intoned Lord Finbar. Good, he’d started.
She caught Crispin’s eye. She nodded at him to let him know she had everything under control. Then, because she’d promised to trust him and was trying to be more honest about life, she pointed at her neck.
He looked confused.
She made two fingers curl at it with one hand and made a stabby-stabby motion with them.
Cris blanched.
“All is winter in my heart.” Lord Finbar clasped a fist to the breast of his emerald satin smoking jacket and cast his eyes to the heavens.
Dimity put a quick finger to her lips and shook her head at Crispin.
Then she mouthed, The show must go on!
Cris shook his head at her violently. This momentarily distracted from Lord Finbar’s performance in front of the curtains.
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