“Nobody knows,” the man says with a shrug. “But he hasn’t painted since he was turned into a vampire.”
“Regardless,” the woman says, still gazing up at the painting with adoration that almost seems fake, like she’s posing for some reason. “I think it’s his best work.”
I snort a laugh, unable to help myself. “Really?” They all turn to look at me, wearing a unified expression ofwho the hell are you to comment?My face heats, but I’m too deep to back out now. “I mean… it’s pretty, sure. But it’s so… I don’t know. Empty,compared to the rest. All of the others had something to say. And this one is just…” I gesture vaguely with one hand, and then stop, realizing that the valentines are still staring—but no longer at me.
Instead they’re all looking somewhere behind me. I turn, and startle as I realize someone is standing just a few feet away, where I’m sure there was no one a few seconds ago.
Only a vampire could move so quickly and quietly.
This man has a face that looks like it belongs in marble, all hard angles and hollow cheeks, lush lips, and long eyelashes. Devastatingly pretty, with sad eyes of the palest blue. He’s very tall, even with the lazy slouch of his shoulders. A disarray of brown curls lay over his ears and forehead. His fine white shirt is wrinkled and half-untucked from his tailored trousers, his sleeves pushed haphazardly up his forearms.
I have an urge to push back his hair and fix his shirt, but I’m not sure if it’s because the lack of care annoys me or because I want an excuse to touch him.
Either way, it’s an inappropriate thought, especially because he is currently looking at me as though I just walked over and yanked out one of his perfect, messy curls.
“You don’t like it?” he asks. There’s the slightest hint of a French accent in his voice, which would be sultry if he didn’t sound so wounded.
I follow his assessing gaze to the painting behind me. But before I can answer, the valentines on either side of me immediately dip into bows and curtsies, one of them letting out a choked, panicky sound.
“It’s an honor,” says one.
“Such a surprise to see you,” another says, “Lord Claude.”
Chapter Six
My eyes dart to the painting we were discussing, and I dip into a belated curtsy, dropping my eyes away from that damning signature:Claude de Vulpe.
“It’s the last thing I ever painted,” the vampire says, pulling my eyes back to him. He wears no indication of his court, which is an oddity, but it’s not surprising to learn he’s a Vulpe vampire. An artist through and through, from his sad eyes to his slender fingers to his obvious sensitivity. He’s staring at me with his perfect face creased. “Perhaps the last thing I will ever paint. Most people like it the best. But you do not?”
“I… I meant no disrespect,” I stammer, not sure what else to say. It’s not like I can lie now when he so obviously overheard me speaking about it. I never would have said anything if I had an inkling the artist washere, especially when I’m well-acquainted with how sensitive those types can be about their work, but now I feel backed into a corner.
“What don’t you like about it?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest and continuing to stare at me.
I slowly rise again, my eyes still on the floor. “I didn’t mean… That is… it’s very pretty, I just have no eye for these sorts of things.”
When I glance up at the vampire, he waves a hand as if physically brushing away my excuses. Rings glitter on his long, pale fingers.
“I don’t care about that. I care about why you don’t like it.”
“I…” I stare at him, my heart thumping in my ears, trying to think of something to say. But there is nothing that comes to mind that isn’t horribly rude. I bob in another, more awkward curtsy. “I prefer not to say. Thank you. Goodnight!”
I rush away as fast as I can in these heels, my face aflame with embarrassment.
Benjamin is thankfully nearby, talking quietly with another vampire while remaining within my sightline. He startles as I slip my arm into his and press close to his side.
“Nora,” he says, surprised. “Are you—”
“Is he following me?” I hiss, clinging tighter to his arm.
He glances behind me, brow furrowed, and then straightens up in abrupt shock. “Lord de Vulpe,” he says, with a small bow.
I slowly turn, unable to keep the grimace off my face as I see that the painter I insulted has indeed followed me here.
“Good evening,” he says. “You are her chaperone, then?”
“Indeed. Lord Benjamin Acharya.”
Claude inclines his head. “I would like to request a slot on her blood card, if I may.”
