He must ignore her as she walked past him toward the door, taking with her that thick, sweet-smelling hair, those delicate feet and slender wrists, those full, erotic lips.
“La Belle et la Bête?” she asked, pausing at his desk.
Leave. By all that is holy, by all that is damned, please leave.
“It’s a French fairy tale,” he said, forcing boredom into his voice.
“I’m familiar with it. This version, in fact.” She glanced at him. “How do you find it?”
“I haven’t finished it yet,” he growled. “Which I might perhaps be able to do if you’d leave me be.”
She looked up at him, quite close now as she skirted the desk, and he could hardly meet her eyes. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, to keep the pounding of his heart inaudible as it reverberated his torso. His fangs threatened and he pressed his lips together because all he could think of was how close she was. How much he wanted to touch her.
And of course, how he could not. Ever. Again.
To slide his hands over that ivory skin, to gather her against him and bury his face in her hair, to cover that impudent mouth that alternately argued and smiled and lectured and challenged.
He turned his attention to the ever-present throbbing on his shoulder, focusing on the pain there. It didn’t seem to be as harsh as it used to be…or perhaps he was becoming even more inured to it.
“Is everything all right, Corvindale?” she asked. Her night rail billowed out enough that it nearly brushed the tops of his boots. Her essence filled his nose.
“Other than the fact that you’re disturbing my studies, yes, of course,” he replied and managed to step back without appearing to retreat.
“Very well, then,” she said. “Good night.”
She left.
Maia fled to her chamber.
Her stomach was in an upheaval, swirling and pitching like a ship in a storm.
She’d thought for a moment that he was going to…do something. Reach for her. Touch her. Ask her to stay.
Tell her not to marry Alexander.
But he’d been the same cold, harsh Corvindale.
She sat on her bed. Perhaps not quite the same. There had been those moments of softness. She hadn’t imagined them.
Had she?
Flopping back onto her bed, she looked up into the darkness, misery welling up inside her. Emptiness filled her chest, making it hollow and cold.
She closed her eyes at the sting of tears. Foolish, addled woman.
That was she. Foolish. Addled. In love with a cold, hard man. The wrong man.
Foolish…
Maia must have slept, for she dreamed.
He was there in her dreams again, but this time she recognized him. The wide, strong hands, the dark hair, the smooth sensual brush of lips, the flash of fangs as they slid easily into her shoulder.
For the second time that night, she woke suddenly, heart pounding, breathless.
Her dreams were so real. Her body was damp and alive, throbbing and tight…but she was alone.
Maia sat up. All at once she remembered the dream she’d had when Corvindale was gone, the dark, frightening one. The dream that must have been…could it have been…what he was experiencing? At the hands of Mrs. Throckmullins?
Did that mean that…
She swallowed hard, heat rushing through her. Could that mean that, just now, he was dreaming the same thing that she had been?
Heart thumping madly, hardly realizing what she was doing, Maia slid off the high bed to the floor. She glanced at the window to see a faint glow in the distance, out over the rooftops. Dawn was near. Her feet made no noise on the wood planks as she went to the door and opened it.
If he were dreaming what she was dreaming…
Her fingers closed around the doorknob and she hesitated. Her knees trembled. She knew what she wanted to do. What she was about to do…but would it make any difference? Would it not only cause deeper problems?
But as she stood there in the shadows, half in the corridor, half in her chamber, she realized that she stood on a different threshold.
If she went back to bed, she would remain Maia Woodmore, soon to be Mrs. Bradington, peer of the ton, the epitome of propriety and gentility. She’d marry Alexander and they would be happy together, they would have children, God willing, and she would have a very even, calm, proper life. And she would never forget the Earl of Corvindale.
And if she didn’t go back to bed… Her insides filled with butterflies, and for a moment she almost swooned with fear and apprehension…and hope.
If she didn’t go back to bed…anything could happen.
Good or bad.
Loving or hurtful.
Maia closed her eyes, struggled and made her decision, closing the door softly.
18
WHEREIN ALL IS LAID BARE
Dimitri woke to find himself hard, hot, damp and tangled in the bedcovers. His fangs were fully extended, his body swollen with need. The Mark on his shoulder shuttled pain through his limbs, but even that deep agony wasn’t enough to chase the potent dreams from his thoughts.
All at once, he realized his chamber door was ajar. Opening. That was what had awakened him from the dream.
He smelled her.
Satan’s stones. Dimitri froze, holding his breath, pulling himself out of the sleek, hot dream with great effort.
He dared not move. He could hardly think as she slipped into the chamber and closed the door behind her. His heart pounded, filling his ears, and in his mind he kept thinking, no, no, no, no.
Yet his body raged and beckoned.
If it had been anyone else disturbing him, he could have bellowed and ordered them out. Or even leaped from the bed to show them the door.
But he was paralyzed.
She stopped next to the bed, and he looked up at her in the dark, able to see the details of her face, even the curl of a lock of hair over the white night rail.
“Maia,” he managed to say. “What are you doing here?” Get out.
Her eyes found his in the dim light. He saw her draw in a deep breath and bite her lower lip. “I’m not certain,” she replied.
“Then leave. Now.” His breathing had become unsteady and he gripped the bedcoverings, curling his fingers into them, forcing his body to remain still. Like stone.
“I’m going to call off the wedding.” She was close enough that her gown brushed the side of his bed. His hand, wrapped in a sheet, rested on the edge right next to it.
He forced himself to remain rigid. Tight.
“That would be outside of foolish,” he said, his voice harsh and grating even to his own ears. “Maia. What are you doing?”
“I’m here,” she said, shifting. The warm cotton gown brushed the back of his wrist and Dimitri’s fingers released the crumpled bedcoverings all on their own.