Maia opened her mouth to ask the obvious, then closed it. Of course Corvindale would know everything that occurred in his house. “No, indeed,” she replied. “I’m certain that Alexander and I won’t confine our visit to the parlor. A walk in the garden would be most lovely, don’t you agree, my lord?”
“It would certainly be my preference.” He looked back down at his work, and Maia was struck by how heartfelt his response was. She felt momentarily ashamed for her sly comment. But then he continued, thus absolving her from any guilt. “That way I won’t be obligated to listen to your giggles and his waxing poetic over your beauty, and whatever other inane conversation you must be compelled to have.”
Maia gritted her teeth but didn’t reply. She supposed she had rather asked for it, at least this time. She considered whether she wanted to raise his ire further by opening the last set of curtains, and, unaccountably annoyed by the businesslike scratch of his pen over paper, she was nearly ready to do so when he looked up.
“Still here, Miss Woodmore?”
It was, she realized later, the studiously blank, emotionless expression on his face that did it. There was not a hint of shame, nor sympathy, nor consideration therein. Only boredom showed there, and barely that at all. The man was less emotional than a brick walkway.
And that was what set her off.
“Yes, Lord Corvindale, I am still here, although heaven knows why I remain in the presence of such a vile beast of a man. You took advantage of me—of our situation last night—and I demand an apology. You might be a vampire, but that doesn’t give you the freedom to enthrall women to—to get them to…” Here she couldn’t help but trail off, because the last thing Maia wanted to do was to put into words what had actually happened. And if she did that, she’d be forced to recall all of the details.
Which wasn’t a prudent thing.
“I might have been ruined, Lord Corvindale,” she finished.
His brows drove together and his mouth became a hard line. “Miss Woodmore, you overstep. I’ve allowed you to flaunt your regard for my hospitality and my wishes by leaving your vases of flowers in every corner of my house—including this room—and the curtains wide in the parlors, your gloves and wraps and shoes on tables, and listening to you and your sister and my sister giggling at all hours of the day. I’ve even disregarded your invasion of my private chambers and this study. But you will receive no apology from me for the events of early this morning.”
“My brother has always spoken so well of you, my lord,” Maia said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “He made me believe you were a man of honor and that was why he entrusted us to you. And I’ve been willing to overlook your rudeness and arrogance, and, now, even the fact that you are a vampire. But your violation of my trust last night is in no way acceptable.”
His laugh was short and sharp and bitter. “On the contrary, Miss Woodmore. It is with deep regret that I inform you that, despite my endeavors to remove your knowledge of my Draculian afflication from your mind, all effort on my part to do so failed. In short, Miss Woodmore, you appear to somehow have become immune to Draculian thrall.”
“What—” Maia froze, staring at him. “That’s nonsense.”
He lifted a brow. “In fact, I wish it were, Miss Woodmore. Indeed, despite three attempts last evening, as I have done hundreds of times to others in the past, I could not hypnotize you. You were never enthralled. Which means that you were fully aware of and participatory in everything that occurred in the carriage.”
10
OF WEDDINGS AND KISSES
Narcise heard a noise.
Her first reaction was relief: Had Chas forgotten something and returned?
He’d only been gone a few hours—perhaps he’d been in London, still putting things in order and making preparations, and had come back. Or realized that he didn’t need to go after all. Perhaps they’d already rescued Angelica.
But that was a brief, initial reaction that soon fled.
She listened intently, the hair prickling at the base of her neck. Likely it had been a mouse or squirrel, knocking a little bit of rubble across the concrete floor. Or maybe it was the guard that Chas had arranged, or even Dimitri bringing her—
The slight scuff of a foot, so faint a mortal would never hear it, had Narcise slipping off the bed and reaching for her sabre. That was one good thing Cezar had done: taught her to fight with a blade. He’d allowed her to learn, likely as much for his own entertainment purposes—watching her duel with men who wanted to f**k her—as to give her a false sense of hope that it might be a useful skill in gaining her freedom someday.
In the end, it hadn’t. It had been Chas who’d freed her, not her own abilities—a fact which made her alternately furious and grateful.
Slipping the sword from its leather sheath, she turned on light feet and moved into the shadows.
The slender but lethal blade comforting in her hand, Narcise stood in a corner behind the doorway and wondered if she would be better served waiting for whoever it was to come in, or if she should rush through the door and meet them on her own terms. But she didn’t have the chance to make such a decision.
Just as the door opened, she scented him and whipped out from behind it.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, shoving the point of her blade up against Giordan’s chest. Just below the hollow of his throat.
“I have no bloody idea,” he replied. Eyes flashing, he grabbed the blade with his bare hand, yanking it away from his skin. It sliced along the inside of his palm and fingers, and immediately, his bloodscent permeated the air.
Narcise stepped back, allowing the sword to fall away, her heart pounding. Rich and warm and familiar, the essence of him filled her nose. Despite the loathing that settled like a stone in her belly, she couldn’t dismiss her body’s instant reaction: the blood in her own veins surged, her gums swelled, threatening to eject her incisors, and her mouth watered. Awareness prickled her. She swallowed hard.
“You did that purposely,” Narcise snapped, backing away.
Giordan’s expression was no less hostile. “As did you, my dear.”
She used a cloth to wipe his blood from her blade and shoved it back into its sheath. “I ask yet again—what are you doing here?” Then she shook her head. “Forget that. Just leave.”
“Nothing would please me more,” he replied. His eyes raked over her, making Narcise feel, for the first time in a long time, as if she were dirty and used. “But Woodmore sent me. He indicated there was something I was to retrieve. Now that I’ve arrived, I can only presume he meant you.”