by Колин Глисон
Perhaps not the most intelligent decision he’d ever made, but this entire farce had commenced with a foolish decision six years ago, when he agreed to act as guardian to Chas Woodmore’s sisters. That had been before he’d ever seen or met any of them.
Not that he supposed he could have denied Chas’s request anyway. Especially if he had seen them. For Dimitri always did what was right. He did what honor demanded, despite the searing reminder of the devil’s Mark on his back.
Miss Woodmore’s skin was warm.
He didn’t exactly touch it, not directly, but he could feel it through the thin fabric. And perhaps a fingertip brushed over its smooth silkiness when he buttoned the first button at her nape. A finger might also have brushed the curve that swept down to her shoulder. Nothing like his own, roped with the rootlike Lucifer’s Mark, scarred and dusted with erratic hair.
He was quick, his fingers nimble, his fangs thrust out so far his gums hurt, filling his mouth. Her scent, the light brush from the hair swept over the back of her neck, the heat from her skin and the confirmation that she wore no corset made his gaze tinge red.
He didn’t need to remind himself who she was: his ward, whom he was bound to protect. A mortal. A chit who infuriated him for any number of reasons. A young woman preparing for her wedding to a fine gentleman. The sister of one of his friends.
No, it wasn’t who she was, or who she wasn’t, for if Dimitri wanted her—wanted anyone—he’d have her. He’d lull her and coax her and ease her in. Simple as that, and damn whoever or whatever got in his way.
But he didn’t. Want. Anyone.
He’d given it all up decades ago. He was an island.
And he’d remain that way until he discovered a way to put himself back the way he was, or until he died.
As soon as Dimitri finished, he removed his hands and tucked himself into the deepest corner of his seat, cursing Voss anew for everything he could think of: for taking Angelica, for whatever he’d done to her in the interim and for choosing a place to hide so far from Blackmont Hall that the ride was interminable.
“Are you going to tell me what’s happening?” Miss Woodmore demanded. Apparently, in her eyes, fully clothed was fully armed.
“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.” Dimitri sounded bored even to himself, and was rewarded when his companion sat bolt upright in her seat and fairly quivered with indignation and fury. How her eyes snapped and snarled, and she wasn’t even Dracule.
“You certainly do, my lord. You aren’t a bit obtuse. Were those really vampirs at the masquerade ball last night?”
Damn and blast and Lucifer’s head on a pike. Had the staff been talking? Of course they knew all about their master and his lifestyle, but they were well-paid to keep their mouths shut—particularly around Mirabella, who had no idea about her own history with the Dracule. She’d been too young to remember anything when Dimitri took her in. Or could Iliana have slipped some information?
Dimitri waved an impatient hand. “If you must know, yes.
I suppose I’d best answer your question or you’ll never leave me be.”
Miss Woodmore’s breath caught audibly and she sagged back against her seat. Apparently she hadn’t expected such immediate confirmation. “Vampirs? They’re real? They truly do exist? Why are we in danger from them?”
He wavered for a moment, then chose the path of least resistance—in this case, meaning the path of fewer questions. “Cezar Moldavi is a vampire and because he is angry with your brother, he’s looking for you and your sisters.” He used the English term for the Dracule despite the fact that Miss Woodmore was somehow aware of the Hungarian pronunciation of vampir.
“Sonia, too?” Maia gasped, eyes growing wide. She looked as if she were about to erupt from her seat and charge off to Scotland.
“Be still, Miss Woodmore. I’ve already ascertained that your youngest sister is safe, and I’ve made the necessary arrangements so that she will remain so. A convent school is an excellent sanctuary for one who wishes to hide from vampires. They can’t cross such a holy threshold.” He eyed her narrowly, forcing himself to ignore that increased pulsing on his shoulder. “Perhaps you might consider joining her.”
“Indeed not!” she replied, her shocked, fearful expression dissolving. “I know you don’t wish for Angelica and me to burden you any further—and you are not alone in this opinion, for it’s my fondest wish as well—but I am not about to be shipped off to St. Bridie’s. Alexander—Mr. Bradington—will be arriving within a week, for I just received a letter today and—”
“Ah, yes, the erstwhile groom is at last returning to our little island here.” A flash of distaste soured his belly. The man was welcome to the termagant sitting across from him. “I suppose you’ll be bringing dressmakers in and speaking to flower-sellers and cake-makers, and there will be all sorts of activity disrupting my household, now that you’ve continued to rearrange my library.” He glared out the window, ignoring the way the moonlight seemed to turn her rich chestnut-bronze hair to silver.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Dimitri dared not let her. “We’re nearly there,” he said, shifting in his seat and turning his scowl on her. “You’ll stay in the carriage, Miss Woodmore. Black Maude’s is no place for a proper young lady.”
Her pointed chin lifted as if pulled on a string, and her eyes narrowed. “My sister—”
“Miss Woodmore,” he said, allowing his voice to go low and silky, “you of all people know what can happen to a woman if she is seen where she should not be seen.” He fixed her with his gaze. “Do you not?”
Even in the faulty light he could see the range of emotions that flashed across her face: shock, first—the bald, blanching of widening eyes and parted lips. Then mortification and chagrin as she struggled to keep her chin up and her eyes from skittering away, and at last, fury.
“So you do remember,” she said through a stiff jaw. Ah, the woman put on a good face, especially when she was backed into a corner. He had to give her credit for that.
“How kind of you to remind me of my unfortunate near-mishap. What was it, three years past?”
Dimitri spread his hands and fingers in a blasé motion. “I don’t quite recall the details,” he said. “Other than the fact that you were dressed in boy breeches with your hair tucked up under a cap, and were attempting to enter a very disreputable area of Haymarket.”
And that the man who’d taken her there, the bollocks-sucking William Virgil, would have compromised her if they’d been seen—or worse if they hadn’t. Much worse.
“I was never certain whether you had recognized me or not,” Miss Woodmore was saying in a surprisingly cowed voice. “I had rather hoped that no one had.”
But Dimitri had indeed recognized Miss Woodmore—by her scent when he passed by, which, he supposed, was why it was burned into the insides of his nostrils so that he couldn’t dismiss it, devil take it. Especially when they were in such close quarters as this blasted carriage.
Miss Woodmore didn’t recall much of that evening; Dimitri had made certain of it afterward by utilizing his thrall. She couldn’t remember that she’d actually walked into an establishment not very different than Black Maude’s. One that catered to the particular tastes of men who craved young, virginal women. Reluctant, young, virginal women.
The more reluctant, the better.
It was a residence that she would never have been able to leave if Dimitri hadn’t intervened.
And Miss Woodmore certainly didn’t remember how three men and the madam of the place had attempted to keep Dimitri from removing her from the premises. And how he’d scooped up Miss Woodmore whilst baring his fangs and blazing his eyes and applying his brute force to pummel those repugnant people.
And how he’d very nearly used his fangs, for the first time in a century. Not to feed, but to destroy. To tear them into shreds.
No, Miss Woodmore couldn’t remember him carrying her breeches-clad body back safely with him, ignoring what
would be a scandalous display of curves and a torn shirt if anyone were to see her. The only thing she would remember was him helping her into a hackney and escorting her back to Woodmore.
That journey was the first time he’d been subjected to Miss Woodmore’s tart, insistent tongue.
As a result of his forethought and expediency, the entirety of her scandal was that she’d been seen in breeches and out at night without a chaperone, in the company of a disreputable male—and that, only by the Earl of Corvindale. And, naturally, he didn’t lower himself to spread gossip.
Dimitri considered it a favor to Chas that he’d handled it thus, and a favor to Miss Woodmore that he’d never divulged the details to her brother. It was too bad that she wasn’t aware of all he’d done, for perhaps she would be a bit more appreciative if she were, he thought as he examined her balefully.
No, on the other hand, he sincerely doubted that she would.
“I’ve always wondered what possessed you to do such a foolish thing, Miss Woodmore,” he said in the tone of a schoolmaster speaking to a student. “You, who are known for your extreme adherence to Society’s standards, and who wouldn’t even consider dancing two dances with the same partner on a night. Or who would never be seen without her gloves, even if they were spotted due to an unfortunate accident with an inkwell. And wasn’t there an occasion when you refused—albeit with extreme courtesy—to speak to Mr. Gilbertson because you hadn’t been properly introduced?”
And then it all went to hell, because she looked at him suddenly. Sharply. Her eyelids at half-mast, and with an unpleasant gleam in them. “My goodness, Lord Corvindale. I had no idea how closely you followed my reputation.”
He was saved from having to respond as the carriage stopped in the filthy alley behind Black Maude’s. Dimitri wasted no time in making his exit.
Maia took no trouble to muffle her annoyed footsteps as she approached Corvindale’s bedchamber door. It would serve him right if he heard them pounding along the corridor.
It was well past noon the morning after they’d retrieved Angelica from the horrible, dirty, scandalous place called Black Maude’s, and Maia was tired of waiting for the earl to drag himself from slumber. She needed to talk to someone about her sister, about what had happened.
She could hardly fathom it. It was simply inconceivable that Angelica had not only been bitten by one of those vampirs…but that it was Lord Dewhurst. How could that be? How could a member of the ton be a vampir?
There were these creatures—who, impossibly, actually existed—and they were after her and her sister, no one would tell her anything of substance, and her brother was missing and Alexander was coming home, but his letter hadn’t really said anything to make her feel certain that he still loved her…and she felt so lonely.
So alone.
Maia swallowed as the prickle of a frustrated tear burned the corner of her eye. She didn’t want to be in charge any more. She didn’t want to have to handle this—whatever this was—on her own. She didn’t know how. She didn’t understand it.
And she was more than a bit frightened. Vampirs attacking and killing people at a masquerade, and one of them a member of the peerage. And then one of them abducting her sister! According to Angelica, Dewhurst—or Voss, as she’d called the viscount (which was a warning sign in itself)—wasn’t one of the angry, evil vampirs who’d killed three people at the Sterlinghouses’ ball. Through this, Maia realized that Angelica had come to care for the man, only to learn that he was not only a rake, but a vampir, as well.
Definitely not someone she ever wanted Angelica to encounter again.
Maia shook her head and swallowed again, blinking hard. She’d had to deal with the death of their parents when she and her sisters were still in short skirts, and to help them get on without Mama and Papa. Chas was so absent that it all fell to her, all the time.
All the time. All of the problems. She’d been in charge for as long as she could remember, and normally she liked it. Liked managing things, solving problems, taking care of people. It made her feel as if she had some sort of control over her life.
But this…this was simply too confusing for her to handle alone. Too confusing, and too dangerous.
For the first time she could remember, Maia was frightened.
And there was no one else for her to turn to except Corvindale. Much as she hated the thought.
She was not going to show the earl weakness, but she was going to get some answers. Could he know that Dewhurst was a vampir? Was that why he’d been so coldly furious about Angelica’s disappearance with the viscount?
Incensed at the thought that he’d kept that information from her, she held on to that emotion and drew in a deep breath. “Corvindale!” she called, knocking firmly on his chamber door.
She waited, and heard nothing from within. But she knew he was there—Greevely, the earl’s valet, had told her. But only after she’d stared him down. That expression of determination and haughtiness was a learned one that she’d had to adopt in order to handle their affairs while Chas was gone. It worked without fail.
Except, it seemed, with the earl.
“Corvindale! I must speak with you!” she said, knocking harder and more vehemently. She’d been more than patient, waiting for him to drag his lazy bones from his chamber.
“Corvindale!” Her sister’s well-being was at stake, not to mention Maia’s own concerns.
“Go away.” His bellow nearly shook the rafters, but Maia was not to be thwarted. She’d sat up all night, holding her sister so that Angelica could sleep without fear. And twice, the poor thing had awakened from nightmares.
Maia drew in a deep breath and turned the doorknob, cracking the door. She wasn’t quite brave enough to look inside, although she could see that the room was swathed in darkness. “Corvindale, I must speak with you. It’s nearly two o’clock and I’ve been waiting all morning—”
“Go away, Miss Woodmore. If you must speak with me, you can wait until this evening.”
Maia gritted her teeth. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had to roust her brother once or twice or several times in the past.
It was one thing to sleep until noon after a late night at the theater or his club, but when he hadn’t stirred by midafternoon, and there were pressing problems to be solved…
She opened the door a bit wider, and the bright spill of light from the day made a long, narrow wedge on the floor and over the foot of a heavy wooden bed. The chamber smelled a bit like tobacco, along with lemon or bergamot and something clean and spicy—possibly from his soap or hair pomade, although she couldn’t be certain if Corvindale even used pomade. His hair never seemed to be shiny or stiff from such an application and it certainly didn’t stay in place for very long and instead seemed to curl up and around at the edges and his ears.
“Corvindale! It’s imperative that I speak with you. This is a matter that cannot wait, and if you do not come out then I will come in.”
There. That ought to bring him forth. If Maia knew one thing about men, she knew that they didn’t like to have their bedchambers invaded by the fairer sex.
Except for their wives and mistresses, she supposed. And for some reason, her face flushed hot. What if he had a woman in there with him? A mental image of tangled sheets and a bare-chested man next to an equally bare woman made her cheeks even hotter.
Did unmarried earls actually bring those sorts of women into their homes? Or did they visit them at outside establishments? Or did he have a regular mistress?
How could a woman even stand to spend any length of time with his rude, controlling self? She supposed that while they were engaging in such activities, perhaps he wasn’t talking quite so much. Her cheeks burned hotter.
“I am abed, Miss Woodmore, and have no intention of leaving it. If you insist upon speaking with me at this time, then don’t let something as ridiculous as propriety keep you out.”
Well, that made it sound as if he was alone. She drew in a deep breath and inche
d the door open farther, curling her fingers around the edge as much to keep it in position as to force herself to move forward. “My lord, I must speak with you regarding Angelica.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come in. I can’t hear what you are saying.”
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door. She could just picture the contrary smile on his arrogant face—at least, she would if she could even fathom the man smiling. Which seemed an impossibility. He was playing with her, pushing her. Hoping to run her off.
Vile man. I’ll show you who’s not afraid of you and your bedchamber.
Still holding the edge of the door, she stepped fully onto the threshold, the door opening into a wide angle. She glanced at him once, then swiftly looked away, and her cheeks burst into flame. He was naked, and the image that she’d seen for only the briefest moment was burned into her brain.
And it was much more fascinating—no, no, intimidating—than her previous, mental one.
Try as she might, closing her eyes, blinking, looking into the depths of the shadowy room, she couldn’t banish the image of him sitting up, lounging against the head of the bed. The sheets were low, down to his waist, and a broad, very hairy chest and muscular arms showed dark against the white sheets. Maia tried to swallow, and her throat made an odd creaking sound because it was so dry. She felt all sorts of fluttering, hot feelings inside.
At last she found her voice. “This is exceedingly untoward.”
“What is it, Miss Woodmore?” He was taunting her. Definitely taunting her. “Surely the sight of a man’s torso isn’t all that upsetting to a woman who is due to be married in short order.”
“You could cover yourself,” she said from between unmoving jaws.
“I see no reason to do so. Now what is it you must speak with me about?”
He really is the vilest man. She refused to look at him. Absolutely refused to allow her peripheral vision to scan over the impossibly square angle of his shoulders, outlined so well by the pale bedcoverings.
Maia continued, turning her attention to the matter at hand. “It’s Angelica. She’s been bitten by a…by one of those creatures that came to the masquerade ball. Vampirs. And she had horrible nightmares last night, my lord. I held her all night long, and she cried and thrashed.” Her voice turned rough and she had to swallow hard to keep it steady. Despite her own dream of being bitten—a dream, a memory, that hadn’t fully left her and still wrapped itself slyly around her consciousness—she knew that Angelica’s experience had not been the hot, sensual one of her dream. “She won’t tell me precisely what happened, but I fear that the worst has been done.” If Dewhurst had ravished and ruined her sister, Maia would go after him herself, vampir or no. If Aunt Iliana could do it somehow, carrying a stake and presumably using it, so could Maia. “Not to mention…”
