And would he leave, now that his hopes had been disappointed?
Mr. Macane’s brow smoothed, and his chiseled features relaxed into a mask of perfect ennui. He inclined his head and favored her with a close-lipped smile.
Miss Breckenridge would no doubt assume he did so to hide unsightly fangs. Ellie knew better. Close-lipped smiles were what one did when one was only pretending. Her mastery of the art enabled her to mask her own humiliation at not being worthy of a true smile.
His unexpected interest had been nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. More than understandable, given the crowd and the distance they’d had between them. Now that the dancing shadows thrown by the glass chandeliers no longer masked her features, he could finally see her for who she really was: no one.
Never had she felt her lack of status so keenly.
He gazed at her a moment longer than was proper, undoubtedly determining the best way to extricate himself from an undesirable situation.
To Ellie’s surprise, he extended his hand. “Shall we?”
She blinked at him until her addled brain deciphered his meaning, then she croaked, “Dance?”
“Certainly.” The edge of his mouth lifted as if he found her amusing.
Ellie was not amused. She was mortified. And determined not to let it show.
“Go,” her client hissed, sotto voce. “I shan’t blink.”
This dance would secure her place in infamy. After this, she’d no longer be able to cavort unnoticed amongst the ton. How was she to earn a living without her anonymity?
Head held high, she allowed him to lead her onto the parquet. Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she thrilled to be noticed by him. Ellie would be different. She would be... immune.
And if not, well, at least she would act like she was.
As he led her about the dance floor, keeping time with the music, she was delighted to discover her feet did in fact know the right steps, even if her head didn’t. Unfortunately, that meant she needed something else to concentrate on.
Macane.
The dark-haired Scotsman perfectly embodied London fashion—except for one detail. Ellie’s gaze settled upon his bare neck. Strong, pale, and all the more striking due to an inexplicably absent cravat.
Miss Breckenridge had mentioned that was one of his affectations. Whilst the dandies peeked above clouds of starched linen, Mr. Macane was shockingly unique. He did as he wished. He danced with whomever he wished.
And, if Miss Breckenridge was to be believed, he drank from whomever he wished.
Ellie’s eyes widened as she realized the thought of his lips at her throat quickened her pulse more from excitement than fear. What was wrong with her? Why did her blood thrum faster, as if calling out to him?
She focused on the curve of muscle between his neck and his shoulder, attempting to shame herself into behaving properly by proving his heartbeat was steadier than hers.
Except... she couldn’t find a pulse point.
Frowning, she tilted her head and listened for the sound of his breathing. She couldn’t hear that, either. Strange, for her senses tended toward the extraordinary. She could see the individual fibers in the fine linen stretched across the expanse of his chest, but could not detect the pulse at the base of his neck. She could discern the fine leather of his shoes and the worn satin of her own, but could not detect the merest breath exhaling from his nose.
She leaned into him a bit more than she ought. But even with her face close enough for her breath to send a stray curl brushing against his powerful chest, all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, and all she could see was herself acting like a proper ninny.
Ellie pulled back and glanced up at him in embarrassment.
His eyes were not on hers. His gaze was locked on the base of her neck, where her own pulse point fluttered like a butterfly struggling to break free from its cocoon.
A slow smile curved his lips, gapping just long enough to flash a sliver of white teeth. Not fangs, Ellie told herself. Just teeth. As normal as hers. She took a deep breath and shivered as she inhaled the scent of cologne and clean linen.
Everything had an explanation. Macane was an accomplished rake, not a vampire. He happened to be brilliant at the art of illusion. With his absent cravat and his close-lipped smiles, he lent just the right touch of mystery and illicit adventure to woo the golden flock. Genius, actually. If she’d thought of it first, perhaps she’d be the celebrated Original of the ton, rather than the spinster who investigated frivolous claims for the rich.
She glanced up at him again. His mouth was no longer curved in a smile, but it was still wide and firm. The swooning ladies could keep their macabre fantasies. She’d much rather have that sensual mouth kissing her than biting her. If there weren’t such a crush of people...
As if they shared one mind, his next artful spin took them from the sparkling dance floor to a spot behind the hand-painted folding screens that hid the entrance to the gardens.
