Blood Fire (6 page)
Guilt had followed quickly, trampling over lust.
“I do not think you are listening to me, Sutcliffe,” Lord Brookshire said.
“Sorry.” He had been thinking about Lady O—she was the daughter of an earl, and he had no right to touch her again. “What did you say?”
“The library is yours to explore, Sutcliffe.” Brookshire pointed to towering shelves that framed the large fireplace. “Those are the volumes on vampires. The lower three shelves deal with vampires of the Carpathian Mountains.”
Matthew groaned. “Now I understand why your brother laughed when I insisted I could gain sufficient information on vampires in a few days.”
The earl smiled. “You need to know your quarry to hunt it, as you are well aware. Now, if you will excuse me, it’s almost dawn. I’ve been up all night, and it’s time for me to retire to bed.”
His host bowed; Matthew returned the gesture, then Brookshire left.
Matthew studied the shelves. Brookshire and his brother, Sebastien De Wynter, were organizing the trip to hunt the demon he had unleashed. They had two weeks before they would be ready to sail, and he was to learn everything he could in that time. With so many books to read, he should get started.
But Matthew leaned against the fireplace mantel and ran his fingers through his hair. The curt, cruel things he had said to Lady Octavia rang in his head.
The moment he’d seen her on the Dark Walk, he’d wanted her, like he had never hungered for any woman before. His heart had thundered, and his blood had raced so quickly to his cock that he had almost fallen over with dizziness.
He’d never had that kind of intense reaction. Certainly not for a woman he should not lust after. What had happened between them at the orgy had been a mistake. He knew she hadn’t lied to him about her illness. Discreet questions of his servants had revealed the truth. Servants gossiped, and Lady Octavia’s mysterious and devastating illness had been much discussed by maids.
So she hadn’t lied, and somehow she had made a miraculous recovery.
He knew what that meant.
He owed her marriage. That’s what had made him so damned hard and cold with her. Even so, it was not her fault. He had walked into the parson’s legshackles himself. He didn’t have to fuck her. He could have backed out. He’d had no right to be so damnably rude to a girl who had been deathly ill and frightened.
And what if she was with child?
Her surprising and unexpected recovery changed everything. He couldn’t just walk away from this.
So what should he do? In two weeks, he was going to travel to Europe to hunt vampires. He could marry her and give her his name—it would be the gentlemanly thing to do. But he remembered how she had stalked away from him. She might be stubborn enough to reject him.
She had asked for one night. He had been honest about what he was offering. He’d told her he wouldn’t give her marriage. Why was he supposed to insist on marriage now so that he could act the gentleman?
After all, he’d let his brother die. . . .
That was the reason he could not just walk away from Lady Octavia now. But he didn’t want to marry a woman who hated him.
First he had to ease away her anger. If he was going to take a bride he didn’t want, he at least wanted her not to be spitting venom at him.
That meant courting her.
Hothouse orchids. These were exquisite, with silk-soft petals and lush green stems. There were twelve of them, gathered in a crystal vase. The footman presented them to her and handed her a small card of smooth linen.
Octavia flicked open the card. The signature drew her eye first. In sprawling letters, the name
Sutcliffe
filled one half of the card. On the other half it said,
Apologies for my rudeness. I was happy to see you well.
Sutcliffe
filled one half of the card. On the other half it said,
Apologies for my rudeness. I was happy to see you well.
Father glanced up from his breakfast, surprised but pleased. “A suitor, then, Tavie? A besotted one by the looks of it. Who is it?”
Sutcliffe’s apology was nice, but she wished he hadn’t been so flamboyant. How did she explain this? Father was leaning toward her, waiting to find out who had sent such an expensive token.
She couldn’t tell him it was Sutcliffe. But if she lied, she might end up accidentally exposing herself. She struggled to think of a harmless reason the earl would send flowers. The instant one sprang to mind, she admitted, “It is from Lord Sutcliffe.”
“Sutcliffe?” Papa’s fork bounced off his plate and flew to the floor. A footman came forward to retrieve it; another brought a clean one.
“We had an argument recently. He is apologizing for behaving in such an ungentlemanly manner.”
“An argument?”
Father and Sutcliffe had almost come to blows in the Royal Society’s lecture theater yesterday. For a moment, she’d feared her father had found out what she and Sutcliffe had done together. But it hadn’t been that at all. Father had admitted it was about something Sutcliffe had called “natural selection.” Sutcliffe was proposing that animals changed—that they adapted to their environments, and transformed over many, many generations. Sutcliffe insisted there had been species of animals on earth for thousands of years, and they had evolved over that time. He said the earth was much older than was believed.
Father, she knew, had been proposing these ideas himself, but in secret. He had insisted the Royal Geographical Society was not ready to hear such ideas. Since they shared essentially the same opinion, she’d feared the fight must be about her. But it could not have been.
She would have known. Father would have been heartbroken and shocked by what she’d done, and she doubted he could hide such emotions.
“We argued about your latest book,” she lied, though she hated telling fibs to her father, “on your explorations along the coast of Africa.”
“Ah.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I can see why the irritating earl would drive you to sharp words. I’m relieved to hear it was not a lovers’ quarrel. There is no risk I might be addressing him as my son-in-law.”
She had blanched, startled at the word
lovers,
and she was sure a telltale blush had swept over her face. “No, no risk at all, I assure you. I despise the man.”
lovers,
and she was sure a telltale blush had swept over her face. “No, no risk at all, I assure you. I despise the man.”
“Good, good.” Father nodded his approval. He had absentmindedly stroked his ear, and now a blob of jam resided there. “He infuriates me to no end, so if you have not developed a tendresse for him, it means all is well with the world. Today”—Father gave a happy smile—“would you accompany me to the museum?”
“Yes, of course.” But when she stood, her legs felt as if they were draining away beneath her. She almost fell, but slapped her hands to the table to catch herself. Father swiftly rose to his feet, and one of the footmen lurched away from the wall to help, but she waved them away. “I am fine. I must have just stood too quickly.”
“We will not go to the museum today, Tavie. You must rest. I will stay here and work in my study. There were items I had wanted you to sketch for me, but it can wait.”
She tried to urge Father to go alone. She didn’t want to go back to bed. After spending weeks in it, she wanted to be free.
Father insisted, and she ended up in her room. But instead of putting on her nightgown and getting into bed, Octavia dismissed her maid and paced the floor. A few days ago, at Vauxhall, she had been filled with strength. Now, her limbs felt weak and shaky.
She must be growing ill again. But why? And why had she gotten better so miraculously after no medicine, or bleeding, or prayers had worked?
She had felt healthier almost immediately after she had made love with Sutcliffe.
She’d overheard maids, in their furtive, naughty discussions, refer to things like kisses and touches as “magical.” Were Sutcliffe’s kisses magical enough to cure illness?
Octavia paused by her bed. No. That would be madness. It couldn’t be possible.
But she couldn’t explain her feelings toward him. After his cold, cutting words on the Dark Walk, she should have pushed him from her mind. But she couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn’t stop thinking about him. She even dreamed about him, wild, erotic dreams that plagued her all night long. She would wake up so aroused and needy that she had to pleasure herself. So aroused that she only had to lightly stroke between her legs and she exploded in an orgasm.
After her orgasms, she also felt stronger. But it was only a temporary effect and would ebb away.
Did lovemaking have healing properties? She couldn’t ask Father, obviously, even though he was a great scholar of human nature and existence.
So was Sutcliffe.
Perhaps the Earl of Sutcliffe knew why pleasure—and thoughts of him—made her feel better. Perhaps he could explain it to her.
If she knew the secret, then she wouldn’t need Sutcliffe.
Octavia sat in the very back row of the lecture hall of the Royal Society, while Sutcliffe spoke in front of the packed room of ardent young scholars and middle-aged men.
She had no idea exactly how to ask the questions she must ask of him.
Can you actually make magic when you make love?
I feel better after I have erotic dreams about you. Do you know why?
She certainly couldn’t do it in front of a crowded room. She had to get him alone.
From beneath the veil attached to her bonnet, Octavia watched Sutcliffe describe astonishing sights he had seen on his last voyage to Africa. His words painted pictures in her head. He really was . . . magnetic when he spoke.
She was not the only woman in the hall—there were six, and all the rest looked very much like bluestockings. She was the only one wearing a thick lace veil to hide her face. She had wondered if Sutcliffe would notice her and stare at her. But he let his gaze flit over the crowd as he spoke of the remarkable species he had found in Africa, and how most of the creatures had developed methods to blend into their environment, thus helping with their survival.
She didn’t blend in here. In her disguise, she stuck out. But he had not looked at her even once. He appeared to be carefully avoiding her. Whenever he faced her side of the room, he kept his gaze on the first rows. Then he would abruptly turn on his heel and pace the other way.
Sutcliffe came to a stop behind his lectern, rested his hands on it, and gave the crowd a handsome smile. “Are there more questions?”
Octavia’s heart pumped hard. He would be finished soon, and she intended to approach him. And . . . well, she also had to proposition him.
She had to get better again. She had to see if sex with him could make her well again.
But a dozen hands went up, and she almost wept. It would be a long time before he was finished and she could get him alone.
Would he even acknowledge her if she did? He had apologized, which did not mean he wanted to see her again, but the lovely flowers were more of a gift than he had needed to send.
Now he was ignoring her.
There were hundreds of reasons. It was a public place. He was giving a lecture and certainly couldn’t suddenly jump over the chairs to reach her and sweep her into a kiss. Not without causing a scandal—
In front of the crowd, he bowed. “I thank you all for coming today, and I hope you enjoyed my talk on ‘Survival of Certain Species of the African Plains and Jungles.’ ”
All the young men stood and applauded.
Octavia waited at the back of the crowd. People streamed past her, and when the last one had left, she looked toward the lecture area.
It was empty.
Sutcliffe had left through a different door. Avoiding her.
“Miss, there’s not supposed to be anyone in here.”
She turned to see a youthful footman in the doorway. “I wished to speak to Lord Sutcliffe,” she said, as imperiously as she could.
The servant’s brows shot up. She was a woman alone, after all, and that usually meant scandalous and sordid things. In truth, she had to do shocking things with Sutcliffe. To see if they made her well.
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