The Vampire Dimitri

2 Of Egyptian Queens

“We’re nearly there now.” Maia smiled at Corvindale’s sister, who sat across from her and Angelica in the closed carriage. She glanced at their other companion and chaper one, Aunt Iliana, and included her in the smile. “The Mid summer Night’s Masquerade Ball is one of the most exciting events of the Season.”

Mirabella looked as if she were about to explode with anticipation for her first Society event, and Maia couldn’t blame her a bit. The poor thing had been left in the country for the past seven years with hardly a visit or communiqué from her elder brother. At seventeen, she’d never been presented at court, and her wardrobe was horribly outdated.

It was really quite irresponsible of the earl—not to mention inconsiderate. How was the girl ever to make a match?

She couldn’t move about in Society until she was introduced at court, and until that happened, she couldn’t even think of meeting a potential husband.

Maia was still seething over the way Corvindale had fairly yanked the proverbial rug out from under her and Angelica’s feet to get them moved to his London residence, with nary a thought to their preference or opinions. It had happened two days ago, so quickly and efficiently that she would have been in awe if she hadn’t been so infuriated.

Certainly Maia was used to being the one in charge. And there had been times when she’d wished for a reprieve. But not this way, and not because of an ill-tempered earl.

The morning after the Lundhames’ ball, as promised, Corvindale’s note had arrived. It simply stated that they would remove to Blackmont Hall after receiving their normal afternoon callers, and they would stay under the earl’s guardianship until Chas returned. Before Maia could fly to her study and snatch up stationery to respond in the negative, the earl’s staff had arrived to pack their things, and the next thing she knew, the earl was there, as well.

Just as immovable and emotionless as a brick wall, he was, and nothing she said had any effect on him except to prompt that arrogant lifting of the eyebrow.

He’d arrived just in time to catch Viscount Dewhurst—who’d surprised them all by calling that afternoon—as he attempted to woo Angelica in a private corner of their library. Maia had to admit gratitude toward Corvindale for interfering in that matter, for Angelica had seemed more than a little starry-eyed when the viscount had arrived. And the more she saw of Dewhurst, the more certain Maia was that the man was of no good character—a rake and a rogue and the last sort of man with whom her beautiful sister should become enamoured. Someone like Lord Harrington would be a much better choice for Angelica.

Not only had Corvindale sent Dewhurst on his way, but Maia had also heard him say that the viscount had to leave immediately for Romania.

As for tonight, since Corvindale had considerately supplied them with a chaperone in the form of Aunt Iliana—who turned out to be a delightful matron, although no one was certain whose aunt she was—Maia really only needed to be concerned with herself. Aunt Iliana seemed like just the sort to watch them all like a hawk, but to have an enjoyable time herself.

Maia fully intended to do so, as well. The urge to relax a bit, to be anonymous and be not quite so on her guard for propriety’s sake, stirred inside her. When was the last time she’d actually allowed herself to have fun?

Nevertheless… “Do try to behave with some decorum tonight, Angelica,” she lectured her sister as they prepared to disembark from the long line of carriages. They’d arrived at the Sterlinghouse residence. “Put on a good example for Mirabella.”

Angelica blasted her with a dark look as she gathered up her flowing Greek-style black gown. She was dressed as one of the Fates, complete with shears and a skein of thread.

“I don’t believe you have cause for worry tonight,” Angelica whispered back with an arch look. “No one will recognize me until we remove our masks, and so until then, all of my behaviors will be anonymous.” She held up the black velvet mask trimmed with a gold and silver lace fall that would offer only teasing glimpses of her cheeks and mouth. “You shall have no scandal by association.”

Hmmph. Maia barely held back a roll of the eyes. At least she didn’t need to worry that Angelica would be coaxed into a dark corner by Dewhurst, as he was presumably long gone to Romania.

“Even you could do something scandalous, Cleopatra,” Angelica murmured, “and no one would know!”

Maia drew herself up and the royal staff nearly rolled off her lap. If Angelica only knew how difficult it was to act stiff and proper all of the time. And why she seemed so unfailingly prim. “I certainly would not,” she hissed back, her heart pounding. Having once nearly gone into the abyss of scandal, she would take care never to venture near its edge again. There was that lurking fear that if she relaxed even a trifle, she’d slide back into that black hole of impropriety…and this time, there would be no escape. “And how many times do I have to tell you, I’m Hatshepsut, not Cleopatra.”

“Who cares about Hatshep-whoever? No one could tell the difference anyway,” Angelica said dismissively.

“There’s no asp on my staff,” Maia pointed out.

“We’re to don our masks before entering?” asked Mirabella, finally able to get a word in.

“Yes. We’ll be announced as we arrive, but not with our real identities,” Maia explained before Aunt Iliana could speak. “Only by our character or costumes.”

She gestured with the gold mask in her hand and caught their chaperone’s indulgent eye. At least the elder lady didn’t seem to mind Maia’s managing ways—which was more than she could say for her own sister. “Everyone is to be unmasked at midnight. Although last year, the unmasking was much later,” she continued. “No one was ready until nearly one o’clock.”

“It’s our turn,” Angelica said as the voices of the driver and footman reached them. She was out of the carriage before Maia could respond, followed by Aunt Iliana and Mira bella.

Taking a bit longer, ensuring that her long, whisper-thin glittery-gold gown didn’t expose anything scandalous—like an ankle or a knee—Maia allowed the footman to help her alight.

When she stood still, the hem of her gown pooled on the ground in soft waves over her feet, which were encased in sandals with soles so thick that they made Maia as tall as her sister. Instead of hanging in one single-paneled skirt, the gown was actually six panels that overlapped, but that were only sewn together to just below the waist. This meant that there was ample opportunity for the long slits to show the sheer, lace shift she wore beneath it.

Not for the first time, Maia wondered if she’d made a mistake in selecting such a potentially scandalous costume. But she’d loved it the moment the dressmaker showed her the design, and that was the whole purpose of masquerade balls—anonymously walking the line of propriety. And, frankly, she’d hoped that Alexander would be back from Europe to accompany her to this ball so that it wouldn’t have mattered whether it was on the line of scandalous or not.

Deep inside, worry gnawed at her. Would he ever return? Had he changed his mind? She pushed the unpleasant thoughts away. Despite his occasional letter, the doubts had been coming more often than not lately. For all of her exterior confidence, Maia felt the fear of rejection, of scandal, of humiliation looming in her future.

And unlike most other problems in her life, this was one she couldn’t manage or control. She simply had to wait.

But here she was, without an escort, dressed in a column of cloudlike gold, with an underskirt as sheer and silver as a moonbeam…and completely anonymous. Between the several inches of added height, and the mask, along with the fact that dark horsehair curls had been interwoven with her chestnut hair, it was impossible that she would be recognized; especially since no one would expect prim Maia Woodmore to wear such a thing.

So she allowed herself to relax a bit more than she normally would.

The butler announced, “Her Majesty, Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile.” Maia tried to correct him, but there was an angel and a Queen Elizabeth behind her, and the latter’s farthingale skirts bumped Maia out of the way as she moved forward, so she gave up. She’d practiced walking in them, but there was no sense in getting herself unbalanced while on these high shoes.

Maia caught a glimpse of Angelica as she disappeared into the crowd. Aunt Iliana was on her heels, with Mirabella clinging to her arm, and Maia, for once, found herself not needing to be vigilant.

She’d hardly taken two more steps when she came face-to-face with a knight. She couldn’t see his face, of course, but behind the mask, his eyes seemed familiar.

“Your majesty,” he said with a little bow. “I see that you’ve been neglected by your swains. Would you care for a glass of sparkling champagne punch—or perhaps the effervescent lemonade?”

“A glass of the punch would be divine,” Maia replied. She loved champagne, but very rarely had the opportunity to taste it.

“And when I return, perhaps you would care for a dance?” he added with another bow.

“But of course.”

And thus the evening began, and soon slipped into a whirlwind of dancing and revelry. Once, as she spun carefully through the steps of a reel, Maia caught sight of a tall figure in a dark mask with a red and black waistcoat making its way quickly through the crowd. He seemed to move with great speed, despite the crush, and for some reason it put her in mind of Corvindale.

That had the effect of souring the evening, and Maia shouted to her current partner—a lanky court jester—a request for a cup of punch. The jester agreed, and led her away from the fracas that was the dance floor.

But her mood had been spoiled, for the very thought of the earl reminded her of their exchange in his study yesterday afternoon. It was the first chance she’d had to actually speak to him when he wasn’t ordering her and Angelica about, and he’d been abominably rude, ensconced in his gloomy office with fascinating-looking books stacked hither and yon. He’d practically shouted at her when she tried to open the curtains to give him some light.

Even now, she flushed at the memory of his clipped voice as he looked up from his desk, clearly loath to be interrupted. “What. Do. You. Want. Miss Woodmore.” The periods between each word were clearly enunciated, along with the telling absence of a question mark.

She’d had to swallow a retort at his overt rudeness, and instead marshaled her manners. One really couldn’t shout at an earl, especially when one was a guest in his home. She’d said placating things like, “My sister and I are very appreciative that you’ve agreed to our brother’s request to take on our guardianship.” And she’d actually managed to sound sincere, and to subdue the urge to lecture him on working in such dim light. “As I mentioned in my letter, I didn’t realize he’d made such arrangements with you until he went missing. We’ve always had Mrs. Fernfeather and her husband when Chas has been gone. Regardless…I do not wish to impose upon you—your household any longer than is strictly necessary.”

“That is one thing on which we are in agreement, Miss Woodmore.”

By that point, her fingers had clutched her gown so tightly it would be horribly crumpled by the time she loosened it. “And so I wanted to make you aware of our plans to repair to Shropshire as soon as arrangements can be made for the house there to be opened. My fiancé will be arriving from the Continent in short order and once we’re wed, you’ll no longer be responsible for me, of course. My sisters, including the youngest, will come to live with me and—”

“An odd time to be planning a wedding, with your brother missing, Miss Woodmore. Or are you in such a hurry to marry that you intend to get the deed done before you even learn what has happened to him?”

The memory of those words even now sent anger flashing hotly through her. She’d been trying very hard not to worry constantly about Chas’s mysterious absence—not to mention Alexander’s continued nonappearance (for her claim that he was arriving shortly had been a bald-faced lie)—and the earl’s implication that not only did she not care about her brother’s disappearance, but that there might be a reason for rushed nuptials, infuriated her. Pie-faced worm.

Maia realized she was worrying and fuming again, and she happened to look up as the court jester handed her a cup of sparkling wine punch. It was remarkably cold and quite delicious, with its effervescent bubbles, and she drank it rather more quickly than she should have.

“Perhaps I should procure you another one, my lovely Cleopatra?” asked the jester. “Or would you prefer to get some air?”

Maia declined to correct him about her costume and at the same time, decided she wasn’t about to fall into his little trap and go out into the dark garden. She’d noticed the way the jester had been eyeing her jouncing bosom as they moved through the enthusiastic steps of the reel. He was just the sort to pretend to bump against her and slide his hand around to cup a breast. At least she wasn’t wearing a gown with a lowcut bodice, but instead, a heavy Egyptian collar covered her shoulders and the front of her chest.

“Another cup of punch would be lovely,” she replied, adjusting her mask.

At least she knew she had no chance of meeting up with Corvindale tonight, for when she’d mentioned the masquerade ball, he’d snorted his contempt for the whole concept and dismissed her from his study.

And she’d been more than happy to leave his arrogant presence, too, Maia thought as she drank a second…or perhaps it was a third…cup of sparkling wine punch. To her mortification, she had to muffle a tiny little burp from the bubbles.

“Madame?”

The jester had moved in rather close to her person, and she realized he’d asked her a question.

“Another dance?” she repeated. That would be the second in a row, which wasn’t quite the thing if one wasn’t dancing with one’s fiancé, unless one wanted to be all over the Times’s on dits…but then, she was in a mask. And no one would need to know it was the proper Miss Maia Woodmore dancing two sets in a row—

And then she realized it was a waltz.

A thrill of excitement slipped through her. What a dangerous thought. To perform the waltz, the scandalous dance from Vienna that had caused the matrons at Almack’s to lift their noses and tighten their jowls at the very thought of the debutantes participating…!

Chas hadn’t even officially allowed Maia to waltz with Alexander…although she had managed to do so one time, briefly, in a secluded corridor, without her brother’s knowledge until it was too late. And she’d loved it.

Loved being spun through the space in his strong arms, their bodies close together, their thighs brushing, the scent of his clothes and hair pomade close and fresh—

Maia realized the jester was waiting for a response, and also, at the same time, that her face was quite a bit warmer beneath her mask. And she was feeling quite a bit more relaxed and happier than previously…

“I should love to waltz, sir jester,” she said boldly. And offered him her arm.

They’d taken two steps toward the floor when a large figure garbed in black and ruby appeared, blocking their path.

“How kind of you to fetch my partner for me,” he said, speaking directly to the jester. “I was just about to collect her for our dance.”

Maia was so surprised that she couldn’t speak, and apparently the jester was similarly afflicted, for he merely stared at the man for a moment. She blinked hard, for it almost seemed as if the man’s eyes had glowed red for an instant…but then the impression was gone. Then, without another word, the jester bowed, turned and walked away—almost as if he’d been hypnotized.

“Your majesty,” said the new arrival, offering her an arm. “Shall we?”

She looked up at him, trying to see behind the mask and to read his eyes, to determine whether she recognized him. There was an aura of familiarity about the man, and for the flash of a moment when she took his arm and felt a little jolt of awareness, she wondered if it might be Alexander. It would be just like him to surprise her thus.

But she quickly revised that thought, tucking it away as wishful thinking. She’d forgotten for a moment her added height; this man was too tall to be her fiancé. His eyes were shadowed by the holes in his mask, which was unrelieved black and left only the very bottom of his face exposed. He wore a dark cloak, and beneath it a waistcoat of bloodred and black, with a brilliant red neckcloth that all but obscured his white shirt. A thumbnail-size ruby in the shape of a diamond studded the center of his neckcloth. She realized he was the tall figure who’d attracted her attention when she was dancing.

“Who are you?” she asked, looping up the extra length of the panels of her skirt into her hand.

He steadied her as they reached the floor and instead of turning her to face him, he shifted to come around to the front of her. “The Knave of Diamonds,” he said, lifting her right hand in his gloved one and settling his other one lightly on her waist.

Although the country dances often required a touch at the hip or waist, and arms linking with arms, the position of the waltz was so different, so intimate, because it wasn’t a passing position. And as she rested her gloved fingers on his shoulder, felt his fingers close around hers, and the burning weight of his hand at her waist, Maia felt warm, and a little dizzy.

He hesitated a moment before stepping into the dance, and she allowed him to direct her as they moved forward. The first few steps were stilted, as if he had to discover or learn the rhythm, and even then, they didn’t spin and whirl with the same smooth alacrity as some of the other dancers. For some reason, she liked the fact that he wasn’t so very practiced at the waltz.

Nevertheless, Maia felt as if she floated on a cloud, held steady by the firm grip on her hand and waist. Even with the tall shoes and the unfamiliar three-beat step, she hardly stumbled at all.

She glanced up at him to find her partner looking out over her shoulder, as if scanning the room. This gave her the chance to examine what little of his countenance was exposed by the mask; namely, the shape of his chin and the formation of his mouth. Even his ears and hair were covered by a black tricorn, and the collar of his cloak came up to shadow his neck and the edge of his jaw.

“Hatshepsut, I presume,” he said, glancing down at her as they began their second turn about the floor, still relatively slowly and carefully. “An exceedingly original choice of costume, despite the fact that she dressed as a man on many occasions.” His voice was low, hardly more than discernible to her over the sounds of conversation and music.

“Baring my lower appendages would not have been appropriate, even in the spirit of accurate costuming. But you are correct,” she said, keeping her own tones pitched low in hopes of disguising her identity. Although her partner definitely wasn’t Alexander, she also sensed that he was someone she knew. “I am Hatshepsut. Everyone else thinks that I’m Cleopatra.”

“Fools, all of them. Where is the asp if you are meant to be Cleopatra?”

His comment surprised a little laugh from her, and she saw his lips move, relaxing into fullness from their hard, serious line from a moment ago.

“But of course, no one truly knows what Hatshepsut looks like,” she admitted. “Or if she was anything more than a queen regent.”

“Indeed. But we expect to learn more if the stele from Rosetta is ever translated.”

“One can only hope! Until we can read hieroglyphs, there will be holes and blank spots in our knowledge.”

“I find it remarkable that you are even aware of Hatshepsut’s existence, let alone such details about her questionable reign,” he said after negotiating a particularly tight turn that made her a bit dizzy. “As well as the importance of the Rosetta Stone.”

Emboldened by her continued anonymity…and perhaps by the champagne punch…Maia launched into a candid speech that she would never have imposed on a gentleman under different circumstances. They preferred to talk on their own topics, not that of their partners. “I’ve indulged my fascination with Egyptian history for many years now. It started when I read my brother’s copy of Biblioteca Historica in order to help him with his Greek. Ask me about the Babylonians or the Indians, and I know little about them. But if one reads Herodotus or Diodorus, for example, there is much to be learned about the Egyptians. And now that more antiquities are being shipped back from Egypt, I can actually see them in the Museum. That makes it all the more real.”

“You assisted your brother with his Greek?” Was there a note of humor in the knave’s voice?

“I didn’t like it any better than he did, but I was determined…” Maia’s voice trailed off as she realized how she’d been babbling. She bit her lower lip and swallowed. One of the things that had put off some of her early suitors had been her tendency to lecture and overexplain. Not that the knave was a suitor, of course, but she well knew that gentlemen did not like women who talked. Alexander was an exception, and he had indulged her interest in Egyptology by taking her to the British Museum on two different occasions.

Of course, he didn’t have the foggiest idea who Hatshepsut or even Rameses III were, but that didn’t bother Maia.

“Very interesting.” The knave seemed to stop whatever else was about to come out of his mouth and clamped his lips together.

As she looked up at him, Maia realized suddenly that when one was confronted by a masked individual, one’s attention tended to focus on the parts that were exposed—in this case, his mouth. And she found those lips to be more fascinating than they really should be, tracing their shape with her eyes, memorizing them. Wondering what it would be like to kiss them, for they seemed soft and full and very mobile.

“Careful,” he said suddenly, his hands tightening on her, and Maia realized she’d become somewhat dizzy. The room had a bit more spin than the dance steps warranted, and she clutched the top of his arm, her face warm beneath her own mask, her heart suddenly slamming in her chest.

Oh. Maia blinked and focused on something over his shoulder—anything to turn her mind from the sudden, unexpected thoughts about his mouth. She couldn’t remember feeling this odd before.

“How many glasses of champagne punch, Hatshepsut?”

Her attention flew back to him and his gaze fixed on hers, shadowed and dark behind small round eyeholes. His intense regard knocked the breath out of her as if she’d been punched. Or perhaps it was the champagne punch that made her feel breathless and warm and loose.

“I’m not tipsy,” she retorted, forgetting to keep her voice low.

Those lips quirked into something that might have been an almost-smile, and he replied, “Naturally. Perhaps some air would be in order?”

She suspected that he didn’t believe her; and in all fairness, she wasn’t certain whether to believe herself. She was feeling rather odd, in a pleasant, tingly sort of way. “Perhaps it would be best, though I am loath to cut short my rare opportunity to waltz.”

Without another word, he drew her from the dance floor, managing them through the other swirling partners. Oddly enough, once removed from the smooth rhythm of the waltz, Maia felt even warmer and lighter in the head, and she actually bumped against him in mortifying clumsiness. He tightened his arm and led her away from the crowd, where she was able to draw in cooler, cleaner air devoid of attar of roses—which seemed to once again be this Season’s favored scent, as well as every other of the last years since she’d been out.

Maia’s heart hadn’t ceased its heavy pounding, and in fact seemed to increase as the Knave of Diamonds directed them away from the loud, close ballroom. Toward an alcove down one of the corridors, near which an open window offered a waft of breeze.

Perhaps it was because there was no other competition for her attention, for she was away from the music filling her ears, the mishmash of the smells associated with such a crush, and the need to concentrate on the unfamiliar dance steps…that Maia found herself overly aware of the strong arm to which she found herself clinging.

Literally clinging.

How many glasses of champagne punch had she had? There’d been one before the court jester…or perhaps two? And then another—

“I do hope you aren’t about to cast up your accounts on my waistcoat, your majesty,” he said, easing her away from him a bit, even as he steadied her step. Those high-soled shoes were rather an inconvenience.

“I beg your pardon?” she demanded, suddenly indignant. “Of course I shouldn’t do such a thing.”

No, indeed not. She simply would not allow it to happen, no matter how odd she felt. And she did feel a bit odd.

She blinked hard, realizing that she, the very proper Miss Maia Woodmore, was using the Knave of Diamonds to keep the floor from tilting and, quite possibly, her knees from buckling.

Pulling away from the knave, she found that she was able to stand on her own, even on the platformlike shoes that put her face just…a bit…below…his.

Maia looked up from the brocade waistcoat and the ruby-studded, bloodred neckcloth that was much too close to her face, willing herself to focus on the matter at hand—which was…well, she wasn’t certain. They hadn’t been conversing, exactly, had they?

Her eyes traveled over a stiff black collar that brushed his jaw, hiding the full shape of his face, then beyond a square chin…and to that same mouth that had fascinated her as they spun gently, if not smoothly, around the dance floor.

It was a mouth that, when relaxed, boasted a full lower lip and a slanted upper one—soft and smooth without being the least bit feminine when it wasn’t flattened grimly.

“Hatshepsut?” Those lips moved, firming in something like exasperation. “Do you need to lie down?”

“Of course not,” she retorted, annoyed again. “I am perfectly capable of holding my cups. I merely got a bit dizzy from the dancing. It was so very close in there.”

“Very well. As long as you don’t—”

“You might be much too tall, sir knave, and a bit overbearing—” she heard herself commenting, the words simply pouring from her “—but, despite what nonsense comes from it, you have been blessed with a well-formed mouth.”

There was a pause for a moment, and then he replied, “Ah.” The syllable sounded a bit strangled.

“I’m not an expert on mouths, you know,” she continued, vaguely wondering why she was so fascinated by his lips. “One doesn’t normally examine them quite as closely as one might think, unless the rest of the face is masked, and excepting if one is intending to kiss said mouth…and even then, one might not even have the chance to do so before the kiss commences.”

“Ah,” he said again after she paused.

“Of course, I’ve only been kissed by a limited number of pairs of lips,” she said. Purely for clarification.

“And how many pairs would that be?” His voice rumbled deeply. Those lips were rather flat again.

She paused, pressing her own lips together in thought. Her mask shifted as she did so, and Maia was grateful for the reminder that she was still blissfully anonymous. “Perhaps three. No, four. Hmm. Perhaps…no, four.” She wouldn’t count Mr. Virgil. He didn’t deserve to be counted, and the very thought of him made her feel ill. She looked up at her companion. “Four, my lord knave.”

Their eyes locked, his so dark and shadowed behind those small holes that she could hardly fathom that they could have such a hold on her. But they did. Her stomach felt as if the bottom dropped out, leaving her warm and nervous in a very pleasant way.

Thanking God and all the angels in heaven for the fact that she was masked and completely anonymous, she whispered boldly, “But perhaps there might be a fifth.”

And Maia held her breath.