“Indeed,” Max replied, doing nothing to betray his surprise as the back of Lady Glennington’s hand slid slowly and deliberately along the outside of his thigh during her adjustments. The back of his neck was no longer merely eerily chilled, but getting very warm under its stifling collar due to the unaccountably odd situation in which Max found himself.
“After dinner, I have something very special planned,” said Lady Glennington, looking at him from under her sparse lashes. “It’s a game I made up for the servants… but tonight, we’ll all participate as well. It involves partnering off and searching through the house for hidden gifts. There are many corridors and alcoves and empty rooms where the presents might be hidden.” Her voice dropped suggestively. “Sometimes people are gone for hours.”
“Indeed,” Max said again just as he felt Savina shift on the other side of him.
“Where did you say you were from, Dr. Melke?” Her clear, throaty voice drew his attention.
“Amsterdam,” he replied quickly, once again giving her little more than a polite glance. “And yourself?” He busied himself with adjusting his own napkin and flatware, wondering how in the bloody hell he was going to extricate himself from this position.
If he were a woman, he could pretend to feel faint or have the megrims or something.
But unfortunately, such excuses weren’t available to a man.
“My father is from Rome and my mother from Egypt,” Savina told him—which was the truth. “And I grew up in Italy. In fact, that’s how I met Liam,” she added, beaming at her husband. “Isn’t it, darling? Although it took quite a long time before we found each other. Sometimes it takes a few false starts before one discovers true love, doesn’t it?”
Max kept his expression bland, though the blithe comment slipped into his belly like a stiletto knife. So Liam Stoker was her damned true love, was he? “I wouldn’t know,” he replied smoothly. “I was married only once, and that was to my first—and last—love.”
“How romantic,” Savina said, her expression soft and dreamy as she put a slender hand to her throat. “And you still pine for your wife, then, Dr. Melke? How long has she been gone, if I might ask?”
“What sort of dinner conversation is this?” demanded Aunt Cecilia in a voice that drew the attention of everyone around the table. “Lost loves and dead wives? I don’t want to talk about the past. I want to talk about now.” She thunked down her whiskey glass—which had somehow followed her into the dining room though everyone else had moved on to wine—hard enough to make the place settings clink. “I’m eight-nine bloody years old and this is going to be my last Christmas, and I want to know how you’re going to make it memorable, Justine.”
“She says that every year,” Lady Glennington muttered to Max, then projected across the table as she replied to her husband’s aunt, “It’s going to be very special this year, Aunt Cecilia, because we have Mrs. Stoker here. She’s going to be photographing all of our festivities, from the bringing in of the Yule Log to the flaming of the Christmas pudding, even to the hanging of the stockings—”
“Hanging of the stockings?” the elderly woman screeched. “What sort of nonsense is that? Now you have us doing laundry? What are the bloody servants going to do then if we’re washing stockings?” Aunt Cecilia was so incensed she nearly knocked the ladle from the footman’s hand as he leaned forward to pour consommé into her soup bowl. But that didn’t stop the old curmudgeon, for she continued her diatribe as the footman managed to evade her movements. “I’m not as old-fashioned as I used to be, Harold, but I’m not about to be taking on the chores of a laundry maid! You had best tell your wife she can wash out her own bloody stockings!”
Max could hardly keep a straight face, and to his horror, he felt Savina shaking next to him as she clearly tried to control her own giggles. He glanced over and saw her fingers white-knuckled around her soup spoon.
“Now, Aunt Cecilia,” Lord Glennington began, sounding very harassed. Max could hardly blame the man, for he too had anticipated a quiet, uneventful meal—which certainly seemed not to be in the cards tonight. “Justine is not asking you to do anything as base as washing out stockings… are you, darling?” His voice rose in a questioning manner as if he wasn’t altogether certain what his wife had planned.
“Don’t be ridiculous, my lord,” Lady Glennington replied, easing back as the footman ladled her soup. “No one is going to be washing stockings except for the servants. We are going to be hanging clean and empty woolen stockings at the fireplace to be filled by Father Christmas. It’s a new American tradition that’s just catching on, and—”
“American?” Aunt Cecilia looked as if she were about to have a stroke. Stoker half rose in his chair, obviously preparing to catch her if she went apoplectic, while deVos merely looked on with amusement. “An American tradition… here… at Knotwood Abbey? Harold! What on earth is your wife thinking? I demand you tell her you won’t have it!”
“So much for wedded bliss,” murmured Savina.
Max wasn’t certain if she meant for him to hear, or her husband across the table, but he couldn’t hold back a smile regardless. But when he saw the way Stoker was looking across at Savina with eyes filled with adoration and sparkling with shared laughter, his own humor evaporated sharply.
Good God. It was only the first course. How in the hell was he going to sit through an entire meal of this?
But when his own soup was served, Max realized he was quite hungry and decided it would be best to apply himself to the meal in the event something happened to delay—or even end it, at the way things were going. Though the consommé was hardly enough to take the edge off his appetite, it was flavorful, and the bread roll offered by a second footman helped alleviate his hunger pains.
Not to mention the fact that the wine flowed freely, and Max didn’t demur when his glass was filled for a second time. He also noticed Savina ate with relish—something he had always found both endearing and amusing. The woman was always hungry. She would stop in the middle of chasing a vampire if there was a pastry shop along the way. There had usually been crumbs in the bed, too.
His thoughts soured and he turned his attention to Lord Glennington, who trying in vain to change the subject from American Christmas customs and who should do the laundry.
By the time the second course was served, Aunt Cecilia had calmed down, having made her position about hanging Christmas stockings on the fireplace quite clear. Multiple times, in fact. Talk turned to the weather, which, according to Glennington’s elderly groom (who apparently felt such things in his bones), was going to be crisp and cold tomorrow, and likely a bit wet.
“Tomorrow night, on Christmas Eve, I shall be the one to light the Christmas pudding,” Aunt Cecilia announced suddenly, just as the third course was brought out.
Lord Glennington’s eyes popped wide, and Max felt Lady Glennington stiffen next to him. In fact, he could feel her muscles tense quite easily, for during the course of the meal, the lady had maneuvered her chair and foot even closer to his. There was even a moment when her hand “accidentally” settled onto his thigh as she leaned across him to speak to Savina about the sterling silver salt cellars that graced the table.
Max hoped the woman didn’t notice how strong and muscular his supposedly fifty-some-year-old leg was.
“Now, Aunt CeeCee,” Lord Glennington said, waving the footman over to refill his wine glass for at least the third time. “After what happened last year, are you certain it’s a good idea? It took the servants a month to get the smoke smell out of the dining room, and that was after we had to repaint and repaper the walls. Remember how the windows had to be open all day during the cold weather to air the place out?”
Savina was giggling next to Max again, and though he wanted to join her in the levity, he didn’t dare look at her. But when she moved suddenly and muttered, “Oh drat, there goes my napkin,” he had to turn back toward her.
“No, no, Mrs. Stoker,” Max said, enunciating her nam
e very carefully as he held up a hand to stop her from bending over. “Allow me.”
He worked his chair back from the table and angled his head and arm under the tablecloth to retrieve the lost napkin. Just as he grabbed it, he realized the reason she’d been giggling and smiling so slyly.
It wasn’t because she found the situation with Aunt Cecilia amusing. It was because she had slipped off her shoes and slid her foot up inside her husband’s trouser leg. She was teasing him from under the table, using both sets of her silk-clad toes to caress his calf—and who knew where else.
Max narrowly missed hitting his head as he withdrew holding the damned bloody napkin in his hand, and he realized one of the dots of glue at the corner of his eye was coming loose. His shirt collar was uncomfortably tight and warm—not to mention his padded corset—and that heat was fighting with the familiar eerie chill at the back of his neck. He was bloody damned finished with this table and the people at it.
He needed to find a damned vampire before he exploded.
“Here you are, Mrs. Stoker.” Max tossed Savina’s napkin in her general direction, barely looking at her. Then he folded his own napkin and placed his hands on the table, preparing to rise and make his final excuses. But before he could do so, the footman was there directly behind his chair with a large platter of roasted potatoes, parsnips, turnips and carrots—which, by the by, smelled divine—and a second footman was there to serve.
Max’s escape was thus aborted, and he resigned himself to sitting there between one woman who had her hand on his thigh, and another woman whose feet were making love to her husband beneath the blasted table.
“You look so cross, Dr. Melke,” Savina said as the vegetable-bearing footmen moved on. “Are you not enjoying the meal?”
“But of course,” he replied heartily. “The company is quite stimulating, and I find myself looking forward to seeing Aunt Cecilia light the plum pudding on the morrow. I think she’ll do a fine job, won’t you then, my lady?”
“Elton,” hissed Lady Glennington—who’d already insisted he call her Justine, forcing him to offer her the same courtesy, “don’t be a tease!” Then her voice dropped, “At least, not until later.”
Good God.
Max felt Savina look over at them with undisguised interest, and he wondered if she’d heard their hostess’s flirtatious admonishment. Not that it mattered—Savina didn’t know who he was, and why would it matter to her anyway if the lady of the manor and one of her guests were having a fling? It was almost expected of the husbands and wives of arranged marriages among the British gentry.
But his stomach lurched at the thought of imagining himself in an intimate situation with Lady Glennington—he would not think of her as Justine, for that implied an intimacy he in no way wanted to pursue.
But wait.
Perhaps he did want to pursue such an intimacy.
What a bloody damned fool he’d been.
The answer to his problem had been fairly in his lap—quite literally—all evening. If Lady Glennington (perhaps he would think of her as Justine after all) had Rasputin’s amulet in her possession, what better opportunity to look for it than to accept her blatant invitation?
Even if she didn’t invite him back to her bedchamber—though he’d do his best to make certain she did—he could always find an excuse to visit it later. He had few concerns Lord Glennington would be an impediment to either his wife’s plans or Max’s, for it was rare for the lord and lady to share a bedchamber, even in these times. God knew the house was large enough for them to have separate suites of rooms. And if Glennington hadn’t put a stop to his wife’s overt flirtations, then obviously he wasn’t the jealous type.
“But my lady,” Max murmured to his hostess, “you have no idea what sort of teasing of which I am capable.”
As Justine gaped in surprise, then smiled with barely contained delight, Max looked up and across the table at Liam Stoker. He spoke directly to him for the first time this evening. “Tell us, Mr. Stoker, how do you find it, having such a modern woman for a wife? I understand Mrs. Stoker is quite a celebrity in her own right. Do you accompany her on her photography travels, or do you have your own career to manage?”
Of course, Max knew exactly how Liam Stoker spent his time—in the Consilium, the secret hideaway belonging to the Venators in Rome, where he worked on gadgets and weapons and other machines. But despite the fact that they were distantly related, he hadn’t known Stoker very well and he was certain the man would hardly recognize him even if he weren’t in disguise.
“Most of the time, aye, I do travel with Sabrina. Although since we’ve been wed, she’s only been on one excursion,” replied the younger man.
“That’s right. It was Paris, in September. Very romantic,” explained Savina unnecessarily.
“Och, romantic, aye, but also wee a bit nerve-wracking for your husband. After all, I was the one who had to stay on the ground while you clambered all along the turrets of Notre-Dame in search of the most unique photographic angle.”
Savina lifted her wine glass, smiling over the rim at him as if the two of them were the only ones in the room. “And how I had to hear about it for hours afterward,” she said just before she drank. “But you were the one who’d rigged up the device that kept me propped just so, and I knew I’d be safe—thanks to you and your engineering technique.”
Where was the next course? Max’s frustration was back. The sooner this bloody, interminable meal was finished, the sooner he could do something enjoyable. Like find out where the bloody hell the vampires were in this house.
He really needed something to happen before he lost his patience.
He really needed to do something violent.
“Now enough about us and our honeymoon,” Savina said, and he felt her turn her large, dark eyes on him. “You aren’t really from Amsterdam, are you, Dr. Melke?”
Max’s world screeched to a halt. Fortunately, he was in the middle of cutting a piece of roast beef, so he was looking down. Hopefully that obliterated any shock that might have flared briefly in his eyes.
“I mean to say,” Savina continued as if she hadn’t just given him a heart attack, “that you aren’t originally from Amsterdam. If my ears serve me correctly, that’s not a Dutch accent I’m hearing.”
Max began to breathe again, and he glanced at Savina and then across the table at Stoker and deVos. “Your ears are correct, Mrs. Stoker. I am originally from Vienna, in fact, but I went to school in Rome—which is where I acquired my love for all things ancient. In fact, I met Jelle deVos at an antiquities auction in Amsterdam several months ago when we were bidding on the same objet d’art. It was a small pencil study by Rembrandt, and the bidding became quite heated.” A very neat redirection of the conversation if he did say so himself, and he was particularly pleased when deVos picked up the thread as if it had been scripted.
“Elton won the bidding, to my consternation, so when we found ourselves fighting over another piece—this one, an exquisite parure said to have been worn by Catherine the Great—I stepped up my game and managed to swipe that one from beneath his greedy nose.” DeVos told his story with relish and a jab of his fork. “And at that point, we decided it would be best to introduce ourselves and to discuss our future acquisitional intentions so as not to waste each other’s money or time.”
“I didn’t particularly care that Jelle beat me out for the parure,” Max said, spreading his hands in mock dismay. “I merely enjoyed making him pay through the nose for it.” He launched into a much louder and more boisterous laugh than he would ever have done before, knowing deVos would join him.
Once the levity died down and the conversation moved on to other antiquities they’d both admired, Max realized with relief that the dinner plates were being removed and dessert forks were being distributed.
He leaned slightly toward Lady Glennington and murmured, “How long will the men be in the study with cigars and brandy?”
As he’d hoped, she took
his innocent question precisely the way he meant it. “Not long at all, Elton. For tonight,” her voice lifted as she spoke to the table at large, “I decree there shall be no cigars and brandy in the study, and we shall all move as one into the conservatory for the beginning of our Christmas festivities.”
It was less than a quarter of an hour later, after ten o’clock, when the Glenningtons and their guests filed into the plant-filled conservatory, which was located off the music room. A large, high-ceilinged space, the room was defined by steel-gridded glass panels. The full moon beamed down through the peaked, transparent roof, and the space was warm and close due to the humidity.
A dozen pine trees had been outfitted with ornamental bulbs, garlands, glittering strands of silver, and bows. Candles and low lamps burned everywhere, and flowering tropical plants added color and fragrance. Somewhere in the depths of the room, a fountain tinkled, and several birds rustled in the leaves of full-grown trees.
Max had taken his time following behind his fellow diners, and as such, he was the last person to enter the conservatory. In fact, he found himself stopped inside the doorway as the others had clustered just beyond the threshold to select glasses of champagne from a waiting footman. Savina was directly in front of him, and if he took one more step, he’d bump into her. To his dismay, when he looked down, he couldn’t help but notice how nicely the loose, beaded frock shaped her hips and arse. Not to mention the tempting curve of her neck and shoulders.
Crumbs in the bed, he reminded himself. No more crumbs in the bed.
“Oh, dear, now look what’s happened.” Lady Glennington was looking over at Max with a combination of delight and distress in her voice.
“What is it now?” her husband demanded wearily, holding onto his great-aunt’s arm. He looked like a nanny gripping a mischievous toddler: determined and tense.
“But look at Dr. Melke!” Lady Glennington said, and everyone turned obligingly to stare at Max. “Do you not see where he is standing?” She pointed to the area over his head.
Alphas Unwrapped: 21 New Steamy Paranormal Tales of Shifters, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More Page 10
