The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia 2)

“That is one thing on which we are in agreement, Miss Woodmore.”

By that point, her fingers had clutched her gown so tightly it would be horribly crumpled by the time she loosened it. “And so I wanted to make you aware of our plans to repair to Shropshire as soon as arrangements can be made for the house there to be opened. My fiancé will be arriving from the Continent in short order and once we’re wed, you’ll no longer be responsible for me, of course. My sisters, including the youngest, will come to live with me and—”

“An odd time to be planning a wedding, with your brother missing, Miss Woodmore. Or are you in such a hurry to marry that you intend to get the deed done before you even learn what has happened to him?”

The memory of those words even now sent anger flashing hotly through her. She’d been trying very hard not to worry constantly about Chas’s mysterious absence—not to mention Alexander’s continued nonappearance (for her claim that he was arriving shortly had been a bald-faced lie)—and the earl’s implication that not only did she not care about her brother’s disappearance, but that there might be a reason for rushed nuptials, infuriated her. Pie-faced worm.

Maia realized she was worrying and fuming again, and she happened to look up as the court jester handed her a cup of sparkling wine punch. It was remarkably cold and quite delicious, with its effervescent bubbles, and she drank it rather more quickly than she should have.

“Perhaps I should procure you another one, my lovely Cleopatra?” asked the jester. “Or would you prefer to get some air?”

Maia declined to correct him about her costume and at the same time, decided she wasn’t about to fall into his little trap and go out into the dark garden. She’d noticed the way the jester had been eyeing her jouncing bosom as they moved through the enthusiastic steps of the reel. He was just the sort to pretend to bump against her and slide his hand around to cup a breast. At least she wasn’t wearing a gown with a lowcut bodice, but instead, a heavy Egyptian collar covered her shoulders and the front of her chest.

“Another cup of punch would be lovely,” she replied, adjusting her mask.

At least she knew she had no chance of meeting up with Corvindale tonight, for when she’d mentioned the masquerade ball, he’d snorted his contempt for the whole concept and dismissed her from his study.

And she’d been more than happy to leave his arrogant presence, too, Maia thought as she drank a second…or perhaps it was a third…cup of sparkling wine punch. To her mortification, she had to muffle a tiny little burp from the bubbles.

“Madame?”

The jester had moved in rather close to her person, and she realized he’d asked her a question.

“Another dance?” she repeated. That would be the second in a row, which wasn’t quite the thing if one wasn’t dancing with one’s fiancé, unless one wanted to be all over the Times’s on dits…but then, she was in a mask. And no one would need to know it was the proper Miss Maia Woodmore dancing two sets in a row—

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.