And it took Maia only one good look to know the Viscount Dewhurst was precisely the sort of man she had warned her sister about. A tawny-haired, golden god of a man with an insouciant smile, melting eyes, and a neckcloth that had probably taken a dozen tries to fold properly, he was a rogue of the first order, no doubt about it. The way he was eyeing Angelica as if he couldn’t tear his gaze away was enough to make Maia herself feel all warm and tingly deep inside.
If Alexander ever looked at her like that, Maia would probably melt into a pool of skin and bones at once. She already felt warm and heart-rushed when he kissed her and slid his hand around the neckline of her bodice.
But, interestingly enough, Angelica wasn’t speaking to Dewhurst. She seemed to be engaged in conversation with the red-nosed Lord Brickbank, who was staring at her in confusion.
“Angelica,” Maia snapped, moving toward her sister. It was beyond unseemly for her to be talking with two men neither of them formally knew, and it was up to Maia to put a stop to it without causing an even greater scene. If she hadn’t been distracted by the earl, this wouldn’t even be a problem.
But before she could do so, Angelica gave a short little curtsy and took her leave of the gentlemen. Seeing Maia, the younger woman smiled saucily at her sister, then slipped off to dance with Mr. Tillingsworth for the new quadrille.
Well, at least the worst harm Mr. Tillingsworth would do to Angelica would be to put her into a catatonic state as he talked about his cats, ad nauseam. That was the benefit to dancing a country dance instead of walking through the garden or park with an uninteresting gentleman. At least during the dance, one was separated from one’s partner often enough that it gave one a rest from an uninspiring conversation, whereas when one took a turn about the room or the patio, one could hardly hope for such a reprieve.
Angelica thus engaged, that left Maia exactly where she wished to be: unencumbered, and able to relax her vigilance long enough to enjoy a dance set herself. Though Alexander wasn’t even in England, there was no reason she couldn’t participate in one of the box or line dances.
Casting a quick glance at Angelica, who was just setting up in the new set, Maia checked her dance card and noted Ainsworth was her next partner. At least he wouldn’t stomp on her feet, like Mr. Flewellington had done earlier.
As Maia bowed to Lord Ainsworth, she happened to notice Corvindale. He was standing in a secluded corner—a rarity in such a crush, but somehow he’d managed it—and was glowering. She couldn’t tell at whom he was glaring; it was a general scowl, directed, it seemed, to the room at large.
There were women, she supposed, who would find the earl’s dark, arrogant looks attractive—and would suffer his less-than-charming personality. He had a fine nose, long and not too broad, and a wide, square jaw. His cheekbones were high and sharp, giving his entire face the look of a stone bust finished with a large chisel rather than the finesse of a rasper or sandpaper.And since he tended toward dark colors in his clothing, his large shoulders and height were even more pronounced.
Maia lifted her nose and smiled at Ainsworth and tried very hard to push away the uncomfortable prickling of the fine hairs on her arms. The very last thing, thelastthing, she wanted was to be living in that man’s house—guardian or no.
The chit hadno idea how much danger she and her sister were in. If she did, she wouldn’t be lifting her pert little nose at Dimitri from across the room after telling him she would “review your correspondence on the morrow.”
He willed the annoyance away, waiting for his fangs to retract into their sheaths. And the pounding to cease rushing through his veins.
The last time he’d been this discomfited by a woman had been the day Meg told him she was leaving. This was, of course, a completely different case. But the fact remained: Miss Woodmore made his blood boil and his veins bulge.
And not in a good way.
If the ever-proper miss had any concept how quickly he’d acted since he’d learned of Chas’s disappearance, how thorough he had been in ensuring the youngest of her sisters would remain safe at St. Bridie’s (what a ridiculous name for a convent of nuns since none of them would ever become brides) in Scotland, and the fact that since three days ago and unbeknownst to them, she and her middle sister had been under his protection, her haughty look might be deflated into something more grateful.
But probably not. The more cornered and surprised she was, the more indignant she became. After all, he’d experienced hersharp tongue once before when she was cornered and surprised. She simply didn’t remember it.
And aside from that, he saw no reason to inform Miss Woodmore of the danger lurking in the background. Chas Woodmore’s secret life was just that—a secret, just as the existence of the Draculia was also undisclosed to the world at large.
Dimitri remained still, watchful for any sign Moldavi had acted sooner than he had expected. His arms were folded across his middle as he scanned the room. Filled with colors too bright and bold, too many people, and, worst of all, a veritable mash of smells—most of them unpleasant or too strong—the ballroom represented everything he’d tried to avoid for…oh, the last century or more.
Emphasis on themore.
Most of his acquaintances assumed Dimitri’s avoidance of all things unrelated to his studies had to do with the fire in Vienna when Lerina died, but they would be wrong. Certainly, the event was a contributing factor, but his distaste for the life of a Dracule went much deeper than the loss of an investment and an accidental death. His discontent had started with Meg, twenty-four years earlier, when he’d saved her life and first become Dracule.
But the culmination of his journey to the life he lived now—the rigid, solitary, ironically Puritan one—had been That Day.
That morning, when he’d awakened to find that even a year of denying himself had not released him from Lucifer. It had, in fact, bound him to the devil all the more tightly because of his murder of the old woman whose name he’d never known.
An old woman who’d simply tried to help him.
He’d not made the same mistake since. He now consumed sustenance, never allowing himself to become so desperate as to maul a person to death.
He simply no longer took the blood from living bodies, thus denying himself the pleasure and satiation of the past. There was hope that, perhaps one day, the self-denial would be enough to grant him release from a demon who thrived on selfishness and self-centeredness. In the meantime, he studied every ancient document he could get his hands on, looking for another way.
Any way.
And the ever-present pain from his Mark, radiating down and behind his left shoulder, was a constant reminder of Lucifer’s fury with him. The rootlike black marking extended from beneath the hair at the left side of his neck down over his shoulder and halfway down his back. It was a visible sign of his cracked and damaged soul, and the more annoyed Lucifer became, the more it throbbed and filled, rising up like twisting black veins.
The Mark twinged now as Dimitri edged against the wall to allow a promenade of three to mince past. They’d circled by thrice since he’d come to stand here, and he eyed them darkly. One of the women—the one in the center—met his eyes boldly as they brushed by in a wave of at least five different floral scents, along with powder and body heat, and Dimitri acknowledged her with a cold, uninterested look.
Women, especially mortal women, were the last thing on his mind.
