The Vampire Dimitri (4 page)

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.

D
imitri couldn't breathe.

The sudden surge of blood, pounding and insistent, filling his vision, stunned him.

The force of
need,
of a long-renounced instinct, suddenly burst free. His fingers trembled, his fangs threatened to shoot forth, bulging inside his swelling gums. He had to lower his eyelids to hide the hungry red glow lest Miss Woodmore see.

Foolish, damned, stupid, mad bastard.

What in Luce's hell had he been thinking, taking a woman like her away into a dark corner? Especially a woman who riled up his ire as easily as his frustration?

But he had no more thoughts; they scattered like a shattered goblet as her gloved hand rested against the ruby-colored glass pin adorning his neckcloth. Taller somehow, she lifted her face the fraction that she needed to, putting herself
there.
Right there. A breath away.

Saliva pooled in his mouth. His skin flushed beneath his mask. It had been so long since he'd wanted to kiss a
woman. He tried to fight it away, but the Mark on his back raged and burned hotter, reminding him of how he'd denied himself unnecessarily. Her lips beckoned, plump and pink, and he wanted to see if they tasted as sweet and lush as they looked. The searing heat blazed even stronger now that Lucifer felt him wavering, and it radiated down Dimitri's back and through his limbs.

Embattled by pain, overwhelmed by desire and long-denied need, he couldn't keep himself from bending to her, covering her lips.

She surrounded him: her spicy, sweet scent, her confident demeanor, her small hands, the pool of her sparkling gown. Her mouth…that entity that alternately exasperated and teased him, with its top lip that was just a bit fuller than the bottom…softened beneath his, fit to his lips, and gently brushed across his to one side. Her mouth was warm and lush, and she left a little wake of prickling, a dusting of pleasure on his sensitive mouth…and then she lifted away.

He went back for more, no longer fully master of himself. He found her lips again and took a longer, deeper drink from her taunting mouth. She made a soft, delicious moan that sent a new blaze of desire shuttling through his belly, her lips moving desperately against his. The world was red and hot, and the scent of her floral spice filled Dimitri's consciousness.

Perhaps it was this—the recognition of the tantalizing scent, its familiarity and corresponding forbiddance—that enabled him to grasp the last wisp of control and drag himself away.
God and the Fates, not
her.

Not anyone, but most of all,
not her.

Fingers tightening into each other, gouging through the gloves into his palms, he stepped back, his heart pounding in his ears, his breathing much too loud. His fangs were out
of control and fighting to be free, and he had to turn away, closing his eyes to hide the proof of the demon he was.

His ruthless control regained—albeit tenuously—he cleared his senses of the heat and sweetness he'd tasted, swallowed hard. Tried not to breathe too deeply, for fear that scenting her would make it begin all over.

And the crack that had begun to form in his ordered world he snapped viciously together.

Terrified by what she might see in his eyes when he opened them, Dimitri was weak with relief when he saw that she had turned slightly away. Looking down, he noticed her hand still somehow settled on his chest. She seemed to be wavering through her own battle for control.

Or, more likely, stability.

Dimitri wasn't certain whether he ought to curse the champagne punch that she'd indulged in, or to be grateful for its intoxicating properties.

“And so that makes five,” he said, relieved that his voice was cool and steady. Emotionless. He barely remembered to keep it low, to a mere murmur, to further obscure his identity.
Fate protect me from that at least.
“I wonder if, at the next masque, you might attempt to make it an even half dozen pairs of lips to taste?”

At that, she looked up at him and he nearly went for her again. Her lips were swollen and glistening, half-parted with surprise beneath the curve of her mask. He blinked, drew in a breath and focused on the roaring pain blazing over the back of his shoulder. A satisfying reminder that he was, despite it all, still in control.

And still in defiance of the devil's will.

Then in an instant her lips allowed a smile to flicker over them and she surprised him yet again when she replied, “No, my lord knave. I think it might be prudent to stop at five.”

“Indeed?” He had to offer her his arm in order to get her back to the dance, away from the temptation of this secluded alcove, and the mere thought of what had just transpired.

He had some blood whiskey in the coach. That would help steady him, dull the awakened need. Later, he could stir up some trouble in the depths of Vauxhall. He'd had a very satisfactory brawl in St. Giles the night after the Lundhames' ball, where he'd tossed five blackhearts into the River after they'd tried to stick him with a knife and relieve him of his purse. Never say he wasn't doing his part to clean up the thieves of London.

“Yes, I do believe I shall stop at five,” she replied as they walked along. She wasn't weaving like she had been earlier.

“'Tis a shame that my fi—my husband's kisses were never quite so…potent. Perhaps it's best if I keep this memory as my last random tasting.”

Dimitri kept his mind blank, refusing to allow himself to absorb her words and the variety of implications therein. He didn't even need the reminder that she was betrothed. That fact simply didn't enter into the equation of his base stupidity; his actions had nothing to do with Miss Maia Woodmore in particular.

It could be any woman who tempted him thus, for he rarely indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. And even then, it was brief and impersonal. No kissing was ever involved.

“Very well, then,” he replied, “Hatshepsut. And here we are, back to the party. I release you to your dances and your subjects, knowing that there is no longer a chance that you might be coerced into sampling the kiss of a highwayman or Romeo or some other character.”

And then, suddenly eager to be far away from the shimmery golden gown and its well-kissed occupant, Dimitri
released her arm and slipped into the edge of the crowd, already tasting the blood and alcohol to come, the energy bounding beneath his skin.

 

Maia watched the knave ease into the crowded ballroom, both relieved and disappointed by his flight. Her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand, and her lips felt as though they were twice their size.

They still tingled when she slipped the tip of her tongue over them, and she felt a shaft of tingling heat when she re-imagined the kiss.

How could I have been so foolish? What is wrong with me?

But she already knew the answer, and once again, Maia was blessedly grateful for the mask that obliterated most of her features, and the other aspects of her disguise. The drink, along with the heady knowledge that no one could know who she was, had turned her into the same sort of capricious young woman who'd nearly gotten herself ruined three years ago.

Thank God that He, or Fate, or
something,
had intervened and brought Corvindale onto the scene before she'd made a foolish mistake with Mr. William Virgil. Only, she wished even more fervently now that it had been anyone but her new guardian who'd saved her. The details of that night were so very vague and foggy, but one thing she did recall with absolute clarity was the earl's furious, dark eyes.

But that was three years ago…what was wrong with her tonight?

Hadn't she learned her lesson?

Yet, while she knew part of the reason for her capriciousness was due to perhaps too much champagne punch, there was the fact that she'd been so rigid, so perfectly proper and in control for these past years that it was no wonder it had
fizzled behind her cloak of anonymity tonight. If Angelica had any idea what really went on in her thoughts… She hoped that Angelica had had enough sense not to sample the fizzy punch, as well.

Wishing she could take off her mask to relieve the warmth, Maia strolled along the edge of the room in the opposite direction of the knave. She didn't want to dance again—she wasn't certain she trusted herself—and did her best to stay out of sight of anyone who might accost her for his partner.

The only person she should want to dance with right now was Alexander—and he was far away. And he'd been gone for so long. She ought to focus on his kisses, and where his warm hands had gone, slipping along the bodice of her gown during one of their late-afternoon rides.

And so that was what she did. Centered her thoughts on that. She would not worry about whether he'd forgotten her—and their interludes in the closed carriage. Or whether he'd changed his mind.

And she certainly would
not
remember the way the knave's simple kiss had made her whole body hot and alive. Weak and trembly.

The sight of Angelica with a man wearing a curious square-shaped hat was a welcome distraction, for her sisterly annoyance sprang back to the forefront. Unlike most every one else, the lower half of his face was masked and he looked like some sort of Far Eastern brigand, like one that might have attacked the Crusaders.

Angelica was waltzing, Maia noted, pressing her lips together and resisting the urge to stalk out there and drag her off the floor. That would just draw attention and recognition to both of them. Which, if Angelica was paying any atten
tion to her elder sister's eagle eye, she would know—and would use to her advantage.

Maia would have a word with her later. Just because Chas wasn't around to ride herd on them didn't mean her sister could be so careless. Wondering where Aunt Iliana was, Maia scanned the room and noticed an angel across the way.

The angel looked as if she was having difficulty with her celestial wings, and a quick glance showed still no sign of their chaperone, so Maia
tsked
and started over to help Mirabella.

“Oh, thank goodness,” the young girl said when she saw Maia. “I've lost one of my wings, and the back of my gown caught upon the staff of a shepherd I was dancing with, and I believe it's been torn.”

Maia only needed a quick glance to see that repair was definitely needed. Delighted with an excuse to leave the ball, as well as yet another distraction from all of her other worries, she took Mirabella's arm and led her toward the sweeping staircase that led to the third floor of the Sterlinghouse residence. Up there, they would find a tiring room, or at least a private place to set Mirabella to rights.

As they reached the first landing of the stairs, Maia noticed a group of four men, dressed all in black, properly masked, entering through the front door. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” announced the butler as the quartet moved into the foyer.

She paused for a moment, that uncomfortable prickle of intuition lifting the hair on her arms, and looked down at them. There was something about the four she didn't like. Something
off.

They walked into the foyer as if they knew where they were going—with purpose and speed, and without pausing to greet anyone. Suddenly nervous and not certain why—but
she never ignored her instincts—she gripped Mirabella's arm, silently directing her to climb the stairs more quickly. They were already mostly out of sight from below due to a curve in the staircase, but for some reason, Maia felt compelled to get away before one of them chanced to look up.

Once at the third floor, she felt marginally less unsettled and wondered at her odd reaction to the men. Perhaps it had simply been the fact that their costumes had seemed so men acing. Mirabella hadn't noticed her haste, and Maia wasn't about to mention it. Instead she peeked inside one of the rooms, knowing from her previous visits that the Sterlinghouses had several parlors and a library on this stretch of the corridor, and that the ladies' tiring room was near the end.

The room was empty and a full moon shone through French doors, casting silvery light over several chairs and a table with a decidedly masculine feel. Not one of the ladies' parlors, but it would do for a moment for her to see to Mirabella's gown.

Maia didn't expend much energy trying to find a lamp, for there was one on the desk, turned to a bare glow. She turned it up and was just kneeling behind the angel to see to the back of her gown when the door behind them burst open.

Muffling a shriek of surprise, she bolted to her feet, tangled in the frothy fabric of her gown, and went down in a heap.

When she opened her eyes, a dark figure in a white shirt loomed over her and for a moment she thought it was one of the eerie men who'd caught her attention. But at the same time as she recognized her new guardian's features, Mirabella exclaimed, “Corvindale!”

“You,”
Maia muttered as the earl literally yanked her to
her feet, disregarding the fragility of her gown. “What do you mean by—”

But she never finished, for the next thing she knew, strong arms swooped around her and he lifted her bodily from the ground.

Maia was so shocked and horrified that at first she couldn't speak. She struggled, trying to pull free, and heard Corvindale snap a command at his sister, “Outside. Now, Bella.”

“Put me—” she started, but her own direction was cut off along with her breath when he did just that, fairly tossing her onto one of the chairs. She drew in a furious gasp to lash into him, but suddenly a heavy, dark cloth wafted down over her.

Confused, incensed and more than a little frightened at this sudden, un-earlish wildness, Maia kicked and struggled as he wrapped the covering closely around her. It had the effect of muffling her shouts and dulling her kicking and hitting, and when he tucked it tightly around her,
tying
it with something she could only imagine was a curtain cord, she began to lose her breath under the thick cloth.