The Vampire Dimitri

8 Of Ferocious Dogs, Hissing Kittens And Proper Syntax

Maia had so many questions she could hardly quiet her mind to select one for consideration.

But when she climbed into Corvindale’s landau—for he’d absolutely forbidden her to hire a hack to take her home from White’s, and she was simply too tired to argue about propriety—and settled into her seat across from him, suddenly her wild musings and whirling thoughts scattered, leaving her mind blank and focused on one thing: him.

The door closed, and as had happened little more than a week ago, they were alone in the vehicle. Corvindale seemed to take up the entire expanse of his seat, sprawling his long legs to one side and the flaps of his sable coat open wide like a bird fluffing its feathers to make it appear larger. Settled across the top of the squabs behind him were his arms, hands dangling casually. His dark hair, always a bit out of sorts, flipped up and around his ears and temples.

He looked none too pleased with the current situation; but that was nothing new. He’d never looked pleased with anything, ever since Maia had met him. But there was also something else about him that struck her. Something different.

A sort of wariness, like a large, ferocious dog who’d been cornered by a kitten.

Maia considered herself the kitten in this situation, and even through her weariness and confusion, she decided she rather liked the metaphor. And because she was the kitten, Maia thought she’d bare her claws—as small and insignificant as they might be.

“And so you are a vampir,” she said, primly arranging her skirt so that not even the tops of her slippers showed. She would not think right now about what sort of mess her hem and shoes were in. Or what her hair looked like. She was hissing and spitting in her own quiet way, all the while trying not to be completely overset by the fact that her brother had put her into the wardship of a vampir.

“The proper term is Dracule. Or, if you insist upon using the archaic word vampir, I would appreciate if you would use the Anglican pronunciation—‘vampire’—rather than attempting to speak Hungarian. Your accent isn’t quite spot-on.” He sounded supremely bored, and looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world but her diction and whatever was so fascinating out the half-curtained window of the carriage.

But despite his interest out on the streets, he was watching her. Particularly when she wasn’t looking directly at him. She felt the weight of his regard as if it were a thick blanket, shuttling down over her shoulders. Warm and heavy. And not altogether unwelcome.

“Very well,” she replied, clearly enunciating her words so that there would be no mistake. “You are a vampire, then, Lord Corvindale, and I have a variety of questions—”

“Only a variety? I was expecting a plethora of them. Or perhaps a score?”

It was all Maia could do to keep back the little gust of a chuckle at this unexpected, wholly uncharacteristic show of levity. Or, perhaps he wasn’t jesting and was being quite serious. She eyed him from the corner of her eyes and noticed his ungloved hand with its exposed wrist resting on the top of his seat. It vibrated and jounced a bit with the rumbling movement of the carriage.

As it happened, the moon or a streetlamp chose that moment to shine directly on it, and Maia found her attention attracted to the shape of that wide, dark appendage. Long, sturdy fingers, the ridges of slightly flexed tendons, the curve of a broad thumb and neat fingernails. It wasn’t often she’d seen a man’s hand uncovered—certainly Chas’s, and her father’s when she was young, and of course Alexander’s—but Lord Corvindale’s hand seemed particularly wide and well-shaped. Even there, settled, fingers bowed gently, a latent power seemed to emanate from it.

They reminded her…Maia caught her breath, her belly suddenly fluttering, and her mouth dry…they reminded her of the smooth, dark hands from her dreams. She could imagine them, sliding over her pale skin, large and strong—

“Well?”

Maia’s eyes bolted back to Corvindale and she swallowed, frantically trying to catch up to the conversation. Then she remembered. She had a variety of questions for him.

But she would start with the most pressing one. “Do you truly think that Lord Dewhurst will be able to save Angelica?” She wasn’t fully able to keep the pitch of concern from rising in her voice.

He seemed to relax a bit, his fingers shifting into a looser curve. “Voss—er, Dewhurst—isn’t one of my favorite people,” he said, clearly understating the facts, “but his arguments were sound and I believe that he’ll succeed, if only because the man is very manipulative and sneaky. And, one must confess it, intelligent and resourceful, too. If not burdened with a lack of responsibility. Aside of that, Moldavi has no reason to suspect Dewhurst of any threat, so if he doesn’t find them before they get to Paris, he certainly has the best chance of gaining access to Moldavi. And further, your brother is close on Dewhurst’s heels. In the event he fails, Chas wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it takes to retrieve Angelica.”

Maia blinked. She could hardly believe it, but not only had he given her information that she’d actually requested, he’d spoken in normal tones. “Your opinion means a good deal to me,” she managed to say.

He didn’t respond except to lift his brows and look down his straight nose at her.

So she continued. “Chas seems to think that Angelica isn’t in any danger of being hurt, at least until that vampire delivers her to Moldavi. Do you agree?”

“I do.”

Maia couldn’t hold back a smile, partly borne of relief. “I can scarcely believe we are having a normal conversation, my lord.” She realized that her own gloveless hands had ceased adjusting the folds of the cloak and gown in her lap.

“That,” he said, shifting in his seat, moving his long legs so that they brushed briefly against her skirt, “is because you are asking reasonable questions. In a reasonable tone. Although, I might point out that if you had stayed home like any reasonable woman would have done, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Civil or not.”

She bristled a bit, then recalled that she wanted more information from him—and now that she was as assured as she could be that Angelica would soon be safe, she thought it prudent not to annoy him. Although whatever she’d done to annoy him in the past, she couldn’t know, and therefore how could she keep from irritating him now?

“And so you are a vampire, and my brother is a vampire hunter? And you are friends? He works for you?”

“A rather irregular circumstance indeed, but true, nonetheless.”

“But how can that be? Aren’t you—well, mortal enemies?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled a bit, which Maia took to mean that he’d had a flash of humor. Astounding. Twice in one night; in less than one hour?

“Now who is sounding sensational, like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic novels, Miss Woodmore?” he asked, almost lazily.

Something fluttered inside her, for his voice had dropped low. She could barely hear it, mixing as it did with the constant rumble of carriage wheels. There were no other sounds outside, and she realized with a jolt that it must be very late. Near dawn.

“Well?” she prodded tartly. And then realized that, for all of her irritation with the situation, he was still an earl, a peer of the realm. And a vampiric—was that even a word? She dared not ask him, but he would certainly have an opinion—one at that. And her manner had become quite familiar with him.

He shifted, adjusting his coat lapels and running a hand briefly through his hair in a surprisingly endearing gesture. “I shall make a very complicated situation as simple as I can, Miss Woodmore,” he said.

“Oh, you need not condescend to me, Lord Corvindale.” The kitten had unsheathed her little claws again. “I’m quite capable of comprehending any situation you might describe. It was I who had to tutor Chas in geometry and Greek.” And what a task that had been, especially since Greek was just as difficult for her. But she would never have admitted that to Chas.

“Indeed? Very well, then,” the earl said. And his eyes crinkled a bit more, and perhaps even the corners of his lips shifted. “I have a variety of business interests throughout the Continent, the Far East and even some limited ones in the New World. As the wealthy and powerful often do, I have more than my share of enemies—”

“I can scarcely imagine that,” Maia murmured.

“—who would take any chance to see my investments fail, or to damage them, or any variety of things,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. But his eyes had sharpened a bit and she knew he’d heard her. “Many of those are members of the Draculia, and there are some who are mortals, as well. Your brother acts as my agent and, if necessary, will—er—remove any problematic individuals from—er—causing any further disruptions. He also assists me in managing some of my other associates, who are also of the Draculian race.”

“What you mean to say is that my brother is your paid assassin?” Maia said, her eyes wide. “He kills people?” She thought she might faint. Her heart was pounding in her chest in an ugly beat, thrumming through her stomach, which had suddenly become queasy.

Mama and Father…what would you think if you knew? Oh, Chas, what are you doing?

“Not people, Miss Woodmore. Your brother has never, to my knowledge, ended the life of a mortal person. But he has removed or otherwise dissuaded more than a few vampires—and he was doing so for quite some time before I met him. Which, by the way, was when he attempted to do the same to me.” Corvindale fixed her with his eyes, and Maia felt a little wavering tug deep inside her. “You see, Miss Woodmore, the simple way to look at it is that there are good vampires, and there are bad vampires. Your brother kills the bad vampires.”

“And presumably you don’t count yourself among the ‘bad’ vampires?”

Maia didn’t know how or why she had the courage to say such a thing—for once again, it dawned on her that not only was she in a carriage with an earl, one of the most powerful men of the ton and in England, but that he was a vampire. A bloodthirsty vampire.

And, ward or not, she was alone with him.

He made a deep sound that at first she didn’t recognize as laughter, but when the light fell on his face, outlining harsh cheekbones and the straight line of his nose, she saw that his lips were curved. His laughter was brief and as sharp as he was, and then it subsided. “As I highly doubt that Attila the Hun or Judas Iscariot or even Oliver Cromwell considered themselves ‘bad’ or ‘evil,’ I suggest that your question is moot.”

But then he fixed her with his eyes again. “Naturally, you could pose the question to your brother if you aren’t certain which side of the battle lines I’m on, Miss Woodmore. But I suspect you already know what his answer would be.”

Maia kept her lips compressed together. Indeed. Chas loved her and Angelica and Sonia, and he would never expose them to any danger if he could help it. And he was a good and moral man himself. “Indeed,” she replied. “And so I am to assume that Cezar Moldavi is on the other side of the good-versus-bad-vampire battle lines.”

“Your logic is astonishing.” His words were bored, but she swore she saw a bit of light in his eyes.

It occurred to her at that moment that perhaps he enjoyed the verbal sparring as much as she—well, she didn’t really like the exchanges of insults and banter between them, for Maia found it outside of infuriating. But perhaps he found it difficult being both vampire and an earl. After all, earls were intimidating all on their own, but to add the fact that he was a vampire into the composite…perhaps no one was willing to stand up to him.

Perhaps they were afraid he’d bite them—or worse—if they did.

Perhaps—now here was a fanciful thought—he didn’t mind being treated like a normal person. Occasionally.

“Do you truly drink blood?” she blurted out. “From people?”

He became very still. Even his eyes didn’t shift, nor his fingers. And the carriage all at once seemed to shrink, becoming very close and dark, and her heart began to pound again in that ugly way. She wished fiercely that she could take the question back.

“It’s the common means of survival and obtaining sustenance,” he replied after a moment. “But I do not.”

Maia opened her mouth to ask more, but something stopped her. She sensed that their tenuous connection might be strained, or even broken, if she did. Instead she said, “Is it true that vampires cannot go about in the sunlight?”

“Direct rays from the sun cause excruciating pain, so one must take care if one ventures out during the day. Surely you haven’t heard this information from your brother,” he said. “I was under the impression you and your sisters were blissfully ignorant of his…occupation. But you seem to have some…reasonable…knowledge.”

“We grew up listening to stories from our Granny Grapes, who was part-Gypsy. She had many tales about the vampires in Romania. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that not only were they true, but that I would actually meet some of them.”

“Granny Grapes?”

Maia felt her face soften into a fond smile. “She was our grandmother, and for some reason when I was very young, I got it all mixed up and thought she was our great-grandmother. So I got it into my head that her name was Grape-Grandmother. And so the name remained fixed.”

Silence settled between them then, causing Maia to silently muse that she couldn’t ever recall being alone with the earl and not fumbling or grasping for something to say. Or being skewered by his wit.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. In fact, with the rhythmic rumbling of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones and bricks, the moment was rather pleasant.

Without being obvious, she glanced at him sidewise. He was staring out the window, and it occurred to her with a start that he might be watching for another attack.

But, she reminded herself, that was unlikely, as the attack had already occurred. And so perhaps he was simply fascinated by a world that was beginning to brighten with dawn. A world that he must never experience fully illuminated, and warm.

What a terrible thing, never to bask in the sun or to walk through the rows of flowers when they were in full bloom. Not that she actually pictured the rigid earl walking through flower gardens, brushing his strong fingers lightly over rose blossoms…

He turned and the broad light of a streetlamp played over his mouth and jaw.

Maia looked at him, her gaze suddenly fully fastened on the lower half of his face. On his mouth. Her breath stopped.

A mouth utterly, horribly, impossibly recognizable to her. A mouth that she’d remarked on, a mouth that she’d scrutinized and thought about the fact that she was doing so because the upper half of his face had been masked. A chill washed over her, followed by a rush of heat. No. It was impossible.

She’d almost made the same mistake before.

But the image was eerily familiar: his eyes in shadow, his mouth and jaw exposed.

Maia must have gasped or otherwise indicated her shock, for he turned to look directly at her. Their eyes met, suddenly clashing and holding, and she could no longer deny it.

“Is something amiss, Miss Woodmore?” he asked coolly.

It was he. There was no question.

I do hope you aren’t about to cast up your accounts on my waistcoat, your majesty, the Knave of Diamonds had said that night.

While on this night, Lord Corvindale had said, I do hope you aren’t wiping your nose on my shirt, Miss Woodmore.

She’d been kissed by the Earl of Corvindale? She’d waltzed with him? Flirted with him?

Maia felt faint. And queasy.

And…warm. Suddenly very, very warm. She needed to swallow, to lick her dry lips. That kiss had been…well, she’d tried not to think about it. Because of Alexander.

Because if she was going to marry a man, she shouldn’t be thinking about the kisses of another one—especially a bad-tempered, vampiric earl. She shouldn’t even have been having kisses from another man.

Something awful churned inside her. Guilt and shame, and yet…the tug of memory, of need, overrode it.

She raised her eyes and looked at Corvindale directly. He must know it had been she, even if he hadn’t at the time—for after their interlude, when he’d accosted her and thrown her onto the balcony, he would have recognized her from her costume.

Never one to shirk responsibility, nor to ignore the elephant in the room, Maia said, “Did you know it was me, my lord knave of diamonds?”

His eyes widened just a bit, then quickly shuttered. There was a beat of silence, then, “I meant to prevent you from doing damage to your reputation by dancing twice with a man not your fiancé. I am, after all, your guardian.” Even though his words were flat, she sensed an underlying defensiveness there. She looked at him more closely.

Good heavens. Maia realized, suddenly, that she’d kissed a vampire.

Her lips parted in renewed shock, but at the same time, a rush of heat billowed up inside her, fluttering in her belly and disrupting her breath.

He turned his face away, suddenly and sharply, and she was reminded of him doing precisely the same thing as he ended their masked kiss that night.

Oh, yes. Every detail of that interlude had been burned upon her memory.

Corvindale’s fingers curled tightly now, and his wrists no longer rested loosely on the top of the seat. He’d pulled them closer to his body, as if to arm himself.

She became aware of the sound of roughened breathing, and noticed the way his lips had pressed flat and hard. And deep inside Maia, her heart pounded madly. Her hands were clammy. Something was churning inside her.

“My lord,” she said. She needed his attention, she needed him to look at her. But he didn’t move. “Corvindale,” she said more sharply.

At last he turned. She didn’t know what she’d expected—burning red eyes, bared fangs, hissing and furious—but he appeared the same as he always did. Ah, except for the eyes.

There was, still, a faint glow there, as if he hadn’t quite been able to subdue it.

And as their eyes met, she felt a little shimmy of warmth wriggling through, expanding and filling her.

“I have been thinking about the kiss,” she said, once again addressing the elephant in the room.

“The kiss?” Corvindale replied. “An interesting choice of article.” His voice had changed; the timbre was richer.

Deeper. And there was something in his eyes. Something…different.

“I can’t help but wonder,” she continued, “if it was so memorable simply because of the environment. The mysteriousness of anonymity.” Maia heard her voice, but her attention was focused on the man across from her. The tug, the connection between them was as real as if a string—no, a rope—bound them together. “A bit of freedom allowed due to the masks. One can only assume you felt the same way, my lord.”

“One could assume,” he replied mildly. But his eyes burned a bit brighter. He’d become so very still. This, even as his regard remained steady and strong.

“I suspect there is a way to find out.” She swallowed hard, and felt even warmer and more filled with expectancy.

Something twisting and fluttering moved in her. Her heart banged in her chest.

“Are you suggesting that you wish to be kissed?” His voice was emotionless.

Maia licked her lips, suddenly nervous. Yet, determined.

Surely the experience had been overblown in her mind and would turn out to be little more than an awkward experience. “Yes.”

“In order to determine whether the previous kiss was…memorable? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose it won’t matter on the morrow anyway,” he murmured, his eyes still on her. “And at least it will stop you from talking, Miss Woodmore.”

One moment she was sitting, hardly daring to breathe, on her side of the carriage…and the next, those strong hands that she’d admired closed over her arms. He loomed over her, his eyes glinting white and normal in the low light, his body settling on the seat next to her. Warm and solid against her side.

Maia turned toward him, lifting her face, her heart beating so strongly she thought she might faint. When their mouths met, it was as if a blaze of fire exploded in her, suddenly released from some pent-up place.

She heard a deep sigh that shifted the solid torso beneath her hands, a low groan vibrating from him as his fingers tightened on her arms. But Maia was hardly aware of the pressure, for his mouth was hot and hard and demanded her full attention.

His lips molded to hers, soft and warm, yet insistent, opening against hers as he moved to cup the back of her head. He held her as his tongue slipped along her parted lips, sleek and warm, then thrust inside in a sudden, strong sweep.

Maia closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the rush of pleasure bursting inside her. Their tongues tangled and slipped together, lips sucked and nibbled, his mouth crushing down on hers as if he couldn’t get enough. She bit back, slipped her tongue deeply into the warmth of his mouth and he gave a little shudder against her.

Her body had blossomed awake, now swollen and ready, hot and loose, and she found herself pressing wantonly against him, needing to feel all of his strength and heat. One of her knees somehow nudged against his leg, and the entire side of his torso and hip pressed into her curves. Beneath the smooth linen of his shirt, she felt the rise and fall of his chest. Its image, already burned in her memory, rose in her mind to match the swell of muscle that she felt beneath each palm. She wanted to feel the skin, the hair, the solid slabs of muscle she already knew were there.

Corvindale shifted away, and she opened her eyes to catch a glimpse of his face before he slid his arms around her, pulling her up against a solid chest. His wicked lips closed over the soft lobe of her ear, where hours earlier a ruby had hung, and Maia gasped at the shivery sensation of heat and slick, his breath warm against her skin, burning into her ear. She arched and shuddered, unable to keep a soft moan quiet as tickly pleasure rushed down to her belly, and lower.

When his hands moved, one to cup the side of her jaw as he buried his face into her neck, kissing, nuzzling, and the other to curl behind her hips and pull her close, Maia felt herself slide into a puddle of bonelessness. Pleasure made her weak and hot and she sagged to the side, leaning into the corner of the bench seat, dragging him with her.

Finding her lips again, he made her gasp into his breath when he roughed her mouth open with a demanding kiss. She took him, hot and long, sweeping deep and meeting him with her own nibbling teeth and molding lips. The heat of his body, the smell of him, close and male, she couldn’t remember how to breathe…

His body eased her down along the length of the seat, their legs mixed in with skirts, her head jammed against the side of the carriage and shoulder against the back of the seat. He lifted away just enough for her to see a faint red glow in his eyes, and the flash of too-long teeth—fangs—and to yank off his coat and thrust it sharply across the vehicle.

And then he was back, and she pulled him close, down on top of her, one of his legs sliding between hers, hooking into her skirts. When his thigh came up between hers, pressing into her, Maia found herself agonizingly aware of the heat and swelling there at that juncture. She felt as if she were going to explode, that she couldn’t catch her breath, and she shifted, moving closer, trying to find a way to ease the pressure there.

“My…oh…” she breathed, and then nearly arched up off the seat when he closed his hand over her breast, strong and sure. Through the layers of silk and her corset and shift, he located the sharp rise of nipple, giving a little sigh of discovery as he stroked over it with his thumb. The fabric shifted and sensitized her flesh, and Maia’s whole focus went to that place where all of the pleasure gathered and spread, radiating down and through her, hot and sharp.

He pulled at the neckline of her bodice, drawing it down to expose the top of her breast. The fabric cut into her flesh at the back as the swell was revealed, and Maia saw her skin shuddering and heaving from her uncontrolled breaths, her breast a lovely ivory dome highlighted in the moonlight just before he lowered his dark head.

She nearly shrieked when his lips molded over her up-thrust nipple. It was so hard and tight that the barest touch set her to gasping and trembling, but he gave no mercy. His mouth was hot and wet, and his tongue strong as it swirled around the peak of her breast. He drew her deeply into his mouth, sucking and licking in a hard, fast rhythm, then slowing and teasing as if he wanted to explore every little wrinkle. Maia’s world became dark and red and liquid, and she clutched at him, her hands curling into his hair and wide shoulders, pressing herself against his thigh.

The sharp rise of pleasure pulsed through her body, centering there between her legs, filling and throbbing as she tried to find the top, the end. Something.

His skin was so hot, his hair brushing her chin, his hands grasping her shoulders as if holding on for dear life. She felt a sharp edge, something on her skin, and then the flush of release roared through her. Maia lost control of her thoughts as she trembled and exploded inside, and then slid into the warm pleasure of after.

He lifted his face, and when their eyes met, Maia felt her whole world still. It was too dark to read his expression, but the heat there, and the dark need, made her mouth go dry. The tips of his fangs showed just beneath his upper lip, changing the shape of his mouth, making it full and soft and she wanted to kiss it. Again.

She became aware, as the pleasure sifted away and reality sneaked back in, that he hadn’t moved. That his hands gripped her with a death grip, and then he turned away, his eyes closing. His breathing was harsh and deep, as if he’d been running or struggling.

Maia reached up to touch his face, something she’d never thought to do before now. Touch the Earl of Corvindale?

Still harsh and dark and taut as stone, nevertheless his skin was warm and rough with stubble. He flinched when she brushed against him, her fingers light on his cheekbone.

His eyes opened and now they blazed fiery red, suddenly and openly, and the fangs seemed to show even longer. Maia swallowed, a zing of fear shooting through her, but she didn’t remove her hand right away. She let it slide into his hair and brushed it over an ear. Soft, warm, thick.

He looked down, his nostrils widening, his breathing changing and she felt his muscles stiffen suddenly. She realized he saw her bare breast, and suddenly aware of her dishabille, looked down to see what he did.

There was a dark streak, a slender line across the mound of white flesh. As if she’d been scraped. Blood.

Maia’s gaze jerked back up to him, and she saw the struggle in his face. His eyes, blank and focused somewhere distant, his mouth flat and compressed, his jaw so tight that his cheeks were hollow.

Blood.

She scarcely dared breathe, waiting. Would he bite her?

Would it be just as it was in her dreams…or would it be terrifying, as Angelica described?

Why wasn’t she frightened?

His face was a mask of darkness, of concentration and control. All at once, he shoved her away—or perhaps himself—and the next thing Maia knew, the heavy weight and heat of him was gone, and there she lay, sprawled in the carriage, one breast bare and her body still vibrating from…whatever had happened.

And she realized, too, that the rumbling of the carriage wheels below them had ceased.

The space was quiet and still, but for the distant sounds of voices calling and the low rasp of his breathing.

Maia jerked herself upright, shoving her breast back into place, tugging up her bodice, wondering precisely what this all meant, and why he’d pulled away and was looking at her as if…as if he loathed her.

“What is it, my lord?” she asked, hiding her trembling fingers in the vast wrinkles of her skirt. “Is something wrong?”

Oh, God, everything is wrong.

“My lord?” he gave a short, bitter laugh. “Always the proper miss. Or at least, nearly always.” The inflection in his tones made it sound like an insult.

She looked at him sharply. “Certainly you can’t blame me for this,” she said, gesturing to encompass the carriage and all that had occurred there that evening.

Instead of responding, he merely looked at her. Watched her. His eyes glowed faintly still, but there was no sign of the tips of his fangs. His mouth seemed more full than usual, lush and soft.

“Blast it,” he muttered, still looking at her. “Miss Woodmore.”

She glanced back up at his gaze and felt a little tug of connection between them, his eyes luring and compelling her. And then suddenly, she gasped, realized what was happening.

“Am I enthralled?” she demanded. “Have you enthralled me with your vampire gaze?”

A rush of anger followed by confusion came over her, and then ebbed, leaving her to realize that if that was the case then she’d had no control over anything that had occurred. It wasn’t her fault for kissing another man, and allowing him to…well, whatever. She closed her eyes and felt the memory tingle through her. Her lips curved softly as a little flutter of pleasure tickled the inside of her belly. It wasn’t so bad after all.

It was even better than her dreams.

When she opened her eyes, he was still staring at her. But now his mouth was flatter and his eyes darker and the tension emanated from him in heavy waves.

Maia looked away, surprised that the earl had nothing to say, and noticed again that the carriage had stopped. They were returned to Blackmont Hall, and the dawn had come.

She rose, tired of waiting, awash with confusion and attempting to appear as if nothing was amiss when everything was, in fact, a frightening vortex of problems. “Good morning, Lord Corvindale,” she said when he made no move to assist.

Instead he sat there, his flat gaze fixed on her, no longer burning, but now black with loathing. The white of his shirt blazed bright against the dark velvet seat and below the swarthy skin of his neck and jaw. His eyes like black jet beads.

She flung open the carriage door with no little finesse, her knees shaking, her own mouth compressed in a worried line and her face hot and flaming, and she helped herself down from the vehicle and stalked into the house.