Bloodlust Denied (11 page)

“Come in.” Her voice sounded reedy, as though she hadn’t used it in decades.

A young maid entered holding a silver tray, followed by an elderly servant who looked to be the other’s grandmother, her arms weighed down with towels and lengths of linen.

“My lady.” The maid lowered the tray onto her lap. She gave the impression that bringing food to naked women her master had ensconced was nothing out of the ordinary. Did the duke do this often? She banished the thought, because what did it matter?

Except it did matter, and she didn’t want to answer the
why
.

“When you’ve eaten, I’ll have a bath drawn for you.” The older woman smiled at her, as if she was genuinely pleased to see her, which didn’t make much sense. Why would servants go out of their way to make her feel welcome when in their eyes she could be nothing more than a cheap whore?

The woman laid out her burdens at the foot of the bed. “The duke hopes you approve of the gown he chose.”

Morana glanced at the fine muslin gown in disbelief. It wasn’t hers, but it was the height of fashion, a beautiful, delicate piece of artistry meant for an evening of aristocratic entertainment.

She swallowed around the constriction in her throat. She wasn’t used to being waited on, at least not so intimately. The servants she and Thanatos used were faceless, nameless drudges, who undertook their menial tasks without any unnecessary glance or word.

“Where is the duke?”

“Tending to his estate.” The maid stepped back from the bed and bobbed a curtsey.

Heat bathed her cheeks. What had the duke told them about her? Surely not the truth. Perhaps they assumed she was his most recently acquired courtesan?

She glanced around the room. Trepidation crawled through her belly at how low the candles had burned. “What time is it?”

“Almost three, my lady,” the woman said, lifting the silver lid on her tray. “The duke bade us to allow you to sleep before intruding.”

How thoughtful of him. Probably because he wanted her full attention when he next deigned to visit her. When, no doubt, he would throw her capitulation in her face.

Morana stared at her reflection in the mirror as the young maid finished arranging her hair in elaborate loops and curls, threaded with tiny, glittering diamonds. Gods, was the duke throwing a ball this eve?

Her heart thumped against her ribs, against the fine material of the low-cut gown that caressed her skin as sensuously as a lover’s lips. Diamonds sparkled around her wrists and at her earlobes, but no necklace had been offered for her throat.

No gloves, either.
Odd
.

The maid stepped back, a satisfied smile on her face.

“The duke will be here shortly,” she said as she began to pack away her numerous items of beautification. “Is there anything else you need in the meantime my lady?”

Nothing this servant could answer. “No, thank you.” She waited until the girl left before rising and pacing the Persian rug. Where was she? Somewhere in London she was certain. Had the distance between her and Thanatos been too great, surely she would be already feeling more ill effects?

Candlelight danced, distracting her from the memory of her dwindling strength, and with a muttered curse, she went to the windows and grasped the leaf print damask curtains.

Impenetrable timber shutters concealed the outside world. Not even a glimmer of light penetrated. For all she knew she could be in a cave.

A coffin.

A shiver slid along her spine. Were all the windows boarded? She stared at the other floor-length curtains but made no move toward them, although she wasn’t sure why.

Her hands fisted against the fragile muslin. Just because the duke had turned this room into a sunless cavern didn’t mean it was because he couldn’t tolerate sunlight.

He was an egotistical, arrogant bastard. But he most certainly wasn’t a vampire. She had tested him three years ago, had offered her neck and blood to him without hindrance or restraint. She’d felt his lips upon her throat, his tongue against her skin, but no teeth had scraped her flesh or attempted penetration.

No bloodsucker possessed such self-control. With the lure of the violin and the scent of her blood, it was inconceivable a vampire could resist.

And what of last night? The opportunities had been endless. And she had been helpless and Thanatos was who knew where. Had she truly been captured by a vampire, she wouldn’t be standing here now, wondering about the possibility.

She’d be lying in a gutter. Or, had he discovered her true identity and purpose, dead. Decapitated most likely, and ripped limb from limb.

A ragged breath escaped and she rolled back her shoulders. She wouldn’t think of her task now. This was a precious interlude in her existence and even though she’d lost the wager, perhaps the duke would still extend her the courtesy of respect. Certainly, he didn’t expect her to remain naked and reduced to wrapping bed sheets about herself, a horrific scenario she had envisioned after he’d stormed from the room earlier.

Neither had he demanded she remain in this room. Why shouldn’t she leave? She wanted to see where he had taken her. And so she pulled open the heavy oak door and left her prison.

His home was splendid. She could think of no other word to describe the richness of the décor and the elegance of the antique furnishings that perfectly suited the Elizabethan residence. But this was no fashionable townhouse. Unease wove through her mind at the implication. How far from London had he taken her? How long before Thanatos found her?

The grand staircase curved to the ground floor and she lightly trailed her fingers over the gleaming timber of the banister. Glittering chandeliers cascaded from the exquisitely painted ceilings and numerous portraits of long-dead ancestors adorned the walls. At the foot, she paused, her glance snagging on a full-length frame along the hall, the subject of whom she couldn’t quite make out.

Slowly she walked toward it, glancing at the stern gentlemen and unsmiling ladies who peered down at her from within their ornate frames, as if displeased by her presence in their ancestral home.

And then she froze. The life-size portrait of the young woman was so unlike any of the others she had passed, it was as though the sun had suddenly risen on a dark horizon, splintering the ever-present threat of death and shadows and filling the world with laughter and light.

A soundless laugh puffed between her lips at her folly. It was just a painting. But what a painting. The beautiful woman, with hair the color of gold, that rippled in an invisible breeze, and eyes as blue as the warmest ocean, radiated joy and her enchanting smile captivated.

She leaned against a cream Corinthian column, and her pale-blue gown clung to her curves in silken seduction. A chill shivered through Morana’s soul as the details clicked into place.

This woman’s gown was fashioned along the most exquisite of Grecian lines. A breathtaking recreation of a couture that had faded more than two thousand years ago. She looked so alive, so vibrant, so in love.

The food Morana had eaten that afternoon churned as distaste plowed through her. Was this the duke’s bride? How could she be anyone else? There were no similarities in features to suggest she was his sister, and her place of honor here where none could miss her pointed to only one thing.

She was the current Duchess of Havenshire.

Morana took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Had she truly imagined the duke to be unmarried? Men of his class thought nothing of being unfaithful to their wives. And she knew he was proud, knew he was arrogant. He was the perfect example of a man of his time.

The knowledge sickened her. Where had he sequestered this golden vision while he entertained
her
at his ancestral estate?

Silence echoed. She scrutinized the portrait, unwillingly admiring the elegant tilt of jaw and expressive hands.

And then she saw the artist’s signature. Ice drilled through her heart and she leaned forward, unable to believe the evidence of her eyes but it was there, no mistake.

Van Dyck.

The portrait had been painted more than one hundred and eighty years ago. So why was this heavenly creature, dressed as a Greek goddess, displayed in the midst of her Georgian descendants? Why wasn’t she with her seventeenth-century Stuart contemporaries?

“Good evening, Morana.”

The duke’s dark whiskey voice penetrated her thoughts and she spun about, disoriented by his sudden appearance, by the fact she hadn’t been aware of his approach.

Her heart continued to spin as she surreptitiously drank in his height, his breadth and the strangely endearing way his hair fell across his brow.

His smoky gaze captivated her as surely as the silken bonds had earlier.

“Thank you for the gown.” Her voice was breathless. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice. “It’s a perfect fit.”

For a brief moment, surprise flared in his emerald eyes. It was clear her thanks were the last things he had expected.

“Your own gown is ruined. It’s the least I could do.”

She held out one arm. “And the diamonds?” She twisted her wrist and mystical rainbows sparkled in the light from the chandeliers.

He took her hand. His grip was firm, confident and sent tremors of need racing through her blood. “I had a notion to see you wearing them.”

She imagined wearing them and nothing else. His eyes darkened, as if his thoughts ran along similar lines. And then he glanced beyond her, to the portrait of the seventeenth-century golden goddess and an extraordinary flicker of emotions flashed across his autocratic features.

Yearning. Defiance.
Guilt
?

A fist tightened around her heart. Was he in love with a painting? With the image of his long dead ancestor?

Was
that
the reason her portrait held pride of place?

He led her into a sumptuous dining room and pulled out her chair to the smothered consternation of the liveried footman. He behaved like a true gentleman and accorded her the courtesy of addressing her as a gently bred noblewoman. Even if this was only a game, only a fleeting interlude, it didn’t matter because she would treasure every moment, secretly savoring that he had chosen to show her the respect she craved.

Morana sat at the foot of his table, looking as if she had been born to the position. He tried not to stare, but found it increasingly difficult because the longer she remained under his roof the more intriguing he found her.

He’d expected her to be sulky or perhaps haughty, but instead she was behaving like the perfect guest.

Somehow he didn’t think the diamonds had a lot to do with her attitude, although he’d offered them as a token of atonement. Not that he’d ever admit that. Or even admit he had anything to atone for.

“You have a beautiful home.” She sounded genuine. He wondered if she would still think it beautiful if she knew of the secrets it kept.

“And where is your home, Morana?” He doubted she was related to Lady Harriet but her bearing suggested she was used to the trappings of wealth. Yet if she was a member of the aristocracy, he would know of her, no matter how secluded her upbringing.

Unless she was the product of an illicit liaison between the classes and her father had decided to secretly acknowledge her. That would account for both her refined education and the fact he’d never before come across her in Society.

It didn’t, of course, explain that night in the alley. Unless she truly was a spy for England and willing to do anything for the love of her country?

She looked him full in the face. “My home is with Thanatos.”

Thanatos. The name she had murmured as she’d woken from her slumber.

“The fiddler?” He kept his voice languid, as if the answer didn’t matter, and it shouldn’t matter because why should he care? And yet a jagged edge raked through his gut at the thought of Morana sharing her body with that shadowy musician.

A fleeting frown marred her brow. He lounged back in the chair, maintaining eye contact and daring her to contradict him.

“Thanatos is a virtuoso.” Her tone suggested she thought his intelligence lacking for not recognizing the man as such.

“And you live with him.”

She inclined her head as the footmen served the soup. “I do.”

He picked up the heavy silver spoon, dipped it into the steaming liquid. Prepared to once again go through the illusion of eating and drinking so none would guess he needed neither to survive.

“Who is Thanatos to you, Morana?”

“My beloved.” A soft smile touched her lips before she took another sip of soup.

Well, fuck. He hadn’t expected her to be so direct. But what had he expected? He’d kidnapped her. He’d stripped her and tied her to his bed. Why should she coat her words in honey simply to save his feelings?

He had no feelings.

“How long has he been your lover?” And how many other times had he stood by and watched Morana fuck another man?

“Thanatos isn’t my lover.” The diamonds that had been a part of the Havenshire treasury for more than a century sparkled on her wrist as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with the linen napkin. “He’s my adopted brother.”