The Vampire Dimitri

5 In Which Our Hero Makes A Revelation

Maia awoke with a start.

She hadn’t realized she’d finally fallen asleep, worried as she was about Angelica and Chas, but she must have done, for the world had become dark and silvered blue with moonlight.

Her heart was racing, and her skin warm and damp. Sitting bolt upright, she reached to touch her shoulder, the side of her neck, her throat. Her pulse pounded furiously as she looked at her reflection in the mirror across the room.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

Her shoulder and neck reflected back at her, pale and almost ghostly, shadowed where her clavicle rose, but unblemished. The long braid of her hair hung over one side, making a darker stripe down over her pale pink night rail.

Maia’s eyes looked like wide dark circles and her mouth a paler one.

It had seemed so real. The burn of his mouth, sliding over her lips, tasting and sucking on them…the heat had been intense, undulating through her so that the nightgown clung to her damp skin. His lips moved to her jaw, to her ear, down to the soft, hidden curve of her neck…and then the flash of pleasure-pain when his fangs penetrated her skin and released the blood pulsing in its channel. She remembered the dream, remembered arching, sighing, feeling the shimmering warmth draining from her veins as his hot mouth closed over her skin, and sipped. Licked. Nuzzled.

She touched the side of her neck again, and pulled away, looking at her hand for the blood that wasn’t there. Her fingers brushed over her lips in an echo of the kiss. Her heart still pounded and her chest felt flushed and full. And down low, an insistent throbbing, a hot reminder of the intensity of her dream.

It put her in mind of that shocking interlude with the Knave of Diamonds…so warm and liquid like. Intense.

Maia didn’t need to throw back her covers; she must have kicked them off during the dream. She dropped her feet to the floor, relieved to feel the relative cool of polished wood beneath them. During the summer, she had no need of a rug to warm the floor. Her night rail fell in a light cloud to just over her feet, loosening and allowing a bit of air to relieve her heated skin.

She couldn’t banish the dream; and in fact, Maia realized she clung to the memories that were now sliding into mere wisps. She’d never seen his face, the shadowy man who came to her, whose weight she’d sworn had been pressing her into the mattress only moments before. She still felt his imprint on her body. Heavy. Hot.

But she was clearly alone. Clearly the victim…or perhaps recipient was a better term…of a mere dream. A most realistic one, but a dream nevertheless.

And why she was dreaming about phantom vampires visiting in her chamber when she’d received such happy news today, Maia couldn’t understand. At last she’d gotten word that Alexander was coming home and should arrive within a week. Perhaps sooner.

Before she opened the letter from him, she’d been over come by apprehension. She’d nearly put it aside to open later, at night, when, if the news was bad—if he’d changed his mind or wasn’t coming back—she’d be able to stay in her chamber alone with it for a bit. The last thing she wanted was for Corvindale to see her humiliation or grief.

She’d held it, looked at the crinkled envelope, folded and a bit dusty and stained from its long journey, and considered how she would react if it wasn’t good news. What she would do to hide her pain. And then Maia had to wonder why she was so worried about it. Alexander had never given her any indication that he didn’t hold her in high esteem. Certainly there’d been the faintest whiff of scandal attached to her after the Incident with Mr. Virgil, but she’d been so careful and had acted the epitome of propriety since. Alexander had come on the scene more than a year later and if he’d heard whisperings about it, the incident hadn’t seemed to bother him.

But if he were to call off the engagement…Maia’s stomach twisted. She’d lost her parents, too, and although this would be nothing like the pain she’d experienced then, it would be devastating. The announcement had already been made. It would be a scandal if her engagement was broken, for what ever reason. A terrible scandal.

When she opened the letter and read his brief note, her fears had ebbed. I shall be home within the week. At long last.

That made it sound as if he’d missed her, didn’t it?

Just then, she heard a new sound on the moonlit street below. It sounded like a carriage door opening, and Maia rushed to the open window when she heard voices. Had Angelica returned?

She looked down and saw a hooded and cloaked female figure climbing up the front steps as the carriage rumbled off. Please let her be Angelica!

Maia didn’t hesitate. She slipped quietly out of her chamber, heedless of her bare feet and flowing nightgown, hurrying silently down the corridor to the stairs. But by the time she got halfway down the angular staircase, pausing on the landing at the second floor, she recognized the voices below.

Not Angelica.

A door closed on the lower level, and she heard the businesslike tread of solid footsteps coming from the corridor where the earl’s study was located. The last person she wanted to encounter was Corvindale, so Maia turned and started to climb back up. Worry and disappointment replaced the momentary surge of hope, but then she heard something that made her pause.

“—from Dewhurst,” wafted up an unfamiliar feminine voice.

“What is the message?” Corvindale replied, his words rising clearly.

Maia crept back across the landing and started down the next flight, aware that her feet would be in view of whomever was in the foyer should they look up. Don’t look up.

“He bids you come retrieve the girl,” said the woman, who was obviously the messenger. “From Black Maude’s.”

Corvindale’s curse was sharp and vulgar. “She’s at Black Maude’s?”

Maia saw the top of his head as he whirled and started off, presumably back down the corridor in preparation for leaving.

“Wait!” Maia said, surging faster down the steps.

He turned up his face and their eyes caught as she hurried down, and for a moment, Maia felt the breath knocked out of her. Him.

No, impossible. She forced herself to breathe, to pull her attention from his glittering dark eyes. He was dressed in a white shirt that sagged and a loose neckcloth, as usual.

“Miss Woodmore,” he said, but his voice wasn’t nearly as cold as it usually was. “I presume you heard the conversation.”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“No,” he began, but she interrupted.

“Yes. She’s my sister. She might need me. Who knows…”

Her voice threatened to break, a combination of desperation and fear weakening it. “Who knows what he’s done to her.”

Corvindale held her gaze for much too long and then snapped, “You have three minutes to dress yourself appropriately.” He turned away and stalked off.

Maia looked down, having momentarily forgotten her state of dishabille, and realized that the moonlight streaming over her had highlighted the flimsy fabric of her summer gown and her bare feet.

Three minutes wasn’t nearly enough time, but she would manage it. She had no doubt that Corvindale would leave without her.

Dimitri hadn’t expected the ever-proper Miss Woodmore to meet his deadline, so he was surprised and annoyed when, precisely three minutes later, she came tearing down the stairs. That was the thing about her. She was constantly surprising him with her stubbornness, and, much as he hated to admit it, her wit. Even when he became his most earlish, she didn’t back down.

A quick glance told him that she actually carried her shoes, and that some loose cloaklike garment was draped over a frock that he suspected wasn’t completely done up, for Luce’s sake, and he had a moment of serious regret.

If he’d given her a bit more time, she might not have presented herself partially clothed. Although whatever she’d donned would be an improvement over the transparent pink thing she’d been wearing earlier.

Without a word, he gestured for her to precede him out the side door where his footman was waiting with the landau. He’d chosen to be driven in the closed carriage rather than to drive himself for a variety of reasons—the least of which was the benefit of having another set of male hands if assistance was needed to procure Angelica—but now as he climbed into the very small, close space with Miss Woodmore and they started off, he regretted that decision. He should have had Iliana join them, for she was nearly as welcome a set of hands as a man. As well, she wielded a stake rather well for a mortal woman.

His companion, a very different sort of mortal woman than Iliana, but no less stubborn or intent, was busy putting her shoes on. The cloak had slipped from her shoulders confirming that, yes indeed, her dress sagged because it wasn’t properly done up in the back. From what he knew of current fashion, it was unlikely that she’d had the time or ability to even pull on a corset and that was not a comforting thought.

Dimitri settled into his seat across from her and focused his eyes anywhere but there.

The aversion of his gaze didn’t help matters much, for in such an enclosed space the blasted woman’s presence was not to be ignored. The essence of a spice like cardamom or perhaps something even more exotic mingled with some sweet floral like lily of the valley, along with female musk and the crisp clean cotton of her frock, creating that potency he found impossible to dismiss. How in the bloody hell could a woman smell like a damned spice cabinet and a garden and still be so enticing?

Either slumber or her hurried dressing had mussed up her hair so that flyaway strands sprung from the braid that hung over one shoulder.

One ivory-blue shoulder, bared and pristine.

Elegantly curved. Brushed with a swath of moon, and then shadow, and then streetlight with the motion of the carriage.

Dimitri jerked his gaze away. He swallowed hard, felt the throbbing of his gums as he tried to keep his fangs sheathed and the rest of him from stirring. Satan’s black bones, he was as bad as a green boy with his first whore. Even with Meg he hadn’t experienced such a lack of control.

Pressing himself back against the seat squab, he angled his left shoulder so that the hard edge of the cushion frame dug into the throbbing, painful Mark on his skin, adding to the constant agony with which he lived. The deep, sharp response was a welcome distraction.

Yet…his thoughts would not be suppressed so easily. It would be nothing to reach across and close his hands over smooth, fine skin. Lower his face to hers again, taste her lips again, fill his hands with soft, silky flesh. Heaven. His nostrils flared automatically as she moved, sending a renewed waft of her scent into him and her gown shifting tauntingly.

With great effort, he kept his eyes from burning red and hungry. His fangs were extended, but still hidden. It’s been too long.

A hundred and thirteen years. Three months. Five days.

His Mark twinged sharp and hot.

It should have gotten easier. It shouldn’t be this impossible to keep from needing something he hadn’t had for so long—especially since he no longer made the mistake of starving himself. But the saliva pooled in his mouth and his heart thudded in his chest. His skin prickled and his muscles leaped beneath, as if coiling up and ready to spring.

It was her proximity. The fact that they were so close and intimate in this small vehicle. The fact that only last night he’d allowed her to taunt him into kissing those damned full, top-heavy lips.

His unease was also due to the fact that moments before Voss’s messenger had arrived tonight, Dimitri had been dreaming. Slumped in a chair, in his study, dreaming that he was arching over a slender, ivory body, filling his hands with feminine curves, tasting the warmth of her mouth…sinking into a virginal white neck, drinking the rich lifeblood as she moaned and writhed, pressing herself against—

“Where are we going?”

Miss Woodmore’s question yanked Dimitri from the dark vortex of his thoughts. He swallowed hard, grateful for the redirection. Angelica. At Black Maude’s. “Billingsgate.”

Pulling the cloak back up to her shoulders, she commenced with some odd contortions that he realized were her attempts to do up her dress.

Dimitri made a sharp disgusted sound. “Turn around, Miss Woodmore,” he said. “Allow me.”

Her gaze flew to his, her eyes rising in a lowered face that made her look even more shocked. “I don’t think—”

“It would be best if you didn’t. Think,” he added for clarification as much for himself as for her. Because when she huffed and turned around to present him with her back, his newly ungloved hands trembled.

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 inched 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…”

He shuffled under the bedcoverings, and she heard the crisp shift of the starched sheets. “I’m aware of all that you’ve told me, Miss Woodmore. And if you find it reassuring, your sister has assured me that…er…there is no reason to demand satisfaction or that Dewhurst come up to snuff. She is intact.”

“Up to snuff? I should hope not!” Maia exclaimed, forgetting herself and glancing at him. His face didn’t seem to have the same arrogance she was used to. Was the man softening, or was it merely the result of being awakened? “Even if he did—well…I would never…Chas would never…allow him to come near her again.” Angelica compromised and wed to a vampir? Never.

“You seem to have forgotten that I am Angelica’s guardian at this time,” Corvindale said. The arrogance was back.

And so was her fury with him. God rot Chas for sticking her and Angelica with this impossible man as a temporary guardian. “As I said, my lord, I would not allow it.”

He shifted and the sheet slipped farther. Maia tore her gaze away, but not before she saw…oh, God, a hip? A flat, ridged belly…and the shadow of something lower? She’d felt Alexander’s chest before, of course, through his shirt…and, once, under it…but she hadn’t really seen it. And even if she had, she didn’t think it looked quite so…dark. And imposing. And—

Maia swallowed hard, and focused on the heavy curtains obscuring his window. She needed some answers, and she was going to get them—even if the man strode naked from his bed to come over and close the door himself. “What is my brother doing? How long has he been involved with these creatures? And what is your involvement, my lord? Do you associate with them, as well? Did you know that Dewhurst was one of them?”

“Do not concern yourself with me, or the other details, Miss Woodmore. All you need know is that you and your sisters are safe under my care, here at Blackmont Hall and at St. Bridie’s, too. As for your brother…when he returns, I’m certain that he will answer at least some of your questions. And I am hopeful that he will do so in short order. Now, is there anything else, Miss Woodmore? This conversation hardly seems worth interrupting my sleep and threatening your reputation. Or is your reputation no longer a concern for you, now that you are off the marriage mart?”

She snapped upright and once again turned to look at him, meeting his eyes head-on. “You are beyond vile, Lord Corvindale,” she whispered in a purely heartfelt tone.

And the man actually had the nerve to grin at her. A cool, arrogant smirk.

Very well, then, my lord. You might be the gentleman, but I have my own ways of smirking right back at you.

“Corvindale, I insisted on speaking with you because I felt you should know all of the information. I had hoped you’d do the courtesy of telling me what is happening and why. But apparently you cannot be bothered to do even that.”

She drew her shoulders back, and settled her hand on a hip, digging her fingers into her flesh in an effort to keep from curling them around his neck.

If he wasn’t going to give her the information she wanted, she was going to make his life as difficult as she could, including opening the curtains in every window in the house. And putting vases with flowers on every table. And reordering all of the books in his library. And… “I also wanted to speak with you because it will be of the utmost importance that Angelica is seen out and in Society. This must happen as soon as possible so as to combat any rumors or on dits that might have begun since she disappeared after the masquerade. That is the only way to preserve her reputation.”

“And this concerns me, how?” He sounded deeply bored.

Maia gave him her own version of an arrogant smile. “Because you must be seen out and about with us. Quite a lot. In the next few days. In order to ensure that Angelica’s reputation isn’t besmirched, we will need the presence of an earl.” Not that she was going to enjoy being in his company that much, but if she’d learned one thing about the earl, it was that he hated being bothered by people.

Any people, for any reason.

Going out in Society for the next several nights, due to his duty—which he’d also demonstrated was something he would not shirk—was going to be a most unpleasant experience for him.

Thus, she would enjoy every minute of it.

She turned to go, and then paused to look over her shoulder. “I shall determine which invitations we will accept, my lord, and then advise your valet so that he can see you are properly dressed for the occasions.”

And she would make certain that she would pick the most crowded, flamboyant events to attend. Just because she could.

With that, she walked out of his chamber and closed the door with finality.