Rises The Night (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 2)

“Oh, no, I had forgotten.” Sara turned to Max, gripping his arm, and looked up at him with an ingenuous smile. “Silvio, il malfattore”—she giggled at this point, taking any sting out of the insult for her cousin— “has decided to change the name of my rose to call it after Emmaline, and so she suggested that you might be willing to grow one of your own for me. And I told her I was certain that you would concur.” Victoria watched in fascination as she actually batted her eyelashes.

Max raised his eyebrows and looked at Victoria. “Is that so?”

“Well, actually, that was not exactly how it occurred, but” —she tipped her head to one side as though considering his fitness— “I do see that being surrounded by flowers and digging in the dirt might suit you very well.”

It was so quick Victoria wasn’t certain she’d seen it, but she would have sworn there was a flash of humor or admiration, or something that relieved the harshness there, something of the old Max…but then it was so brief she might have been mistaken, for that awful arrogant and cold look was back. “I see. Well, adorate mio, for you, I shall consider it.”

At that moment the box door opened again and in walked Sebastian. “I am terribly sorry for being late,” he said, his gaze scanning the small room.

He looked delicious—his thick lion’s-mane hair combed neatly off his forehead and curling about the nape of his neck and his ears. His jacket was rich topaz and his breeches were dark rust, his cravat a masculine design of carrot, persimmon, and gold. The entire ensemble, as always, was cut and tailored perfectly. And his smile, the way his upper lip shadowed his lower one and the hint of a quirk at one corner…

Victoria felt the heat rush from her bosom up over her throat and to her cheeks in one great wave. She hadn’t seen him, nor heard from him, since their erotic interlude the night of the party. And all she could think of was where his hands had been and what his fingers had done.

And what still remained unfinished between them.

“Mrs. Withers, are you feeling ill? You appear to be rather…flushed.” Somehow Max had come up behind her, and when he spoke in her ear she nearly jumped. Again. “It is rather disconcerting when people show up where they shouldn’t be, and are not welcome, is it not?”

Victoria swallowed and turned her head enough to see how close his silky blue-and-gray neck cloth was. It was nearly brushing her shoulder. “I have no idea what you mean,” was all she could think of to say.

Just at that moment she turned back and found the man in question in front of her. “Mrs. Withers, how delightful to see you again.” There were so many nuances in Sebastian’s tone, Victoria was not sure whether to blush or to slap him.

“It is indeed,” she replied with a curtsy, and allowed him to kiss her gloved hand. But when he released it and pulled his hand away, her glove came with it, dangling like an unstarched cravat.

“Oh, dear,” Sebastian said, looking at it. “You do have a penchant for losing your gloves, do you not?”

Of course he was reminding her of the time he’d taken another of her gloves, in nearly the same manner. The one she’d never gotten back. “I already have one pair of unmatched gloves,” she replied lightly. “I do hope you won’t cause me to have another.”

“But then you can put your single glove together with this one, and you will have a complete pair. And then…well, perhaps I will find a mate for this one too.” And he stuffed it in his pocket. “Good evening to you, Signore Pesaro.”

“Vioget.” Max’s nod was cool and sparse, and he drifted away.

Victoria could say nothing else about her glove without drawing attention, so she had to be content with directing a glare at Sebastian and removing her other glove, which, fortunately, wasn’t as much of a crime as it would have been in London. Italians were a bit less rigid about such proprieties than the English.

Sebastian looked at her with an amused expression, then turned to speak to the Tarruscelli twins, who had been thrilled—as evidenced by their clapping hands and genteel squeals—with his arrival.

It did occur to her to wonder, just for a moment, if Sebastian had followed through on his threat to call upon Portiera and Placidia after their unsatisfactory tête-à-tête in the parlor.

As Victoria cast a covert look at him, flanked by the two dark-haired beauties and their beside-the-mouth moles, she realized she didn’t like that idea at all. In fact, it made her rather queasy.

And annoyed.

In fact, she was annoyed enough to consider the age-old female retaliation of using her nails to scratch their pretty eyes out. Of course, being a Venator, she would probably gouge more than scratch, and it would be a bit messier than normal…

“Mrs. Twitters, are you quite certain you are feeling all right? Perhaps you ought to return home. You’ve not recovered from your illness, I see. That sort of discomfort often happens to people when they thrust themselves into a situation they should not.” Max had returned. He was looking down at her with that bland expression, and she realized the others were preparing to take their seats.

She was saved from the indignity of having no quick retort—things had just been going so upside down that her wit had disappeared—by Conte Regalado’s approach. “Mrs. Withers, may I seat you?” he asked, slipping her arm into the fold of his elbow.

“I would be delighted,” she cast over her shoulder as they walked away. Not her best rejoinder, but at least she’d had the last word.

But when Conte Regalado seated her in the front row of the box and took a seat beside her, she felt Max and Sara sit down behind them, and she heard Max’s innocent question: “And when is your friend returning to London, my dear? I am sure it cannot be too soon.”

Galliani took a seat next to Victoria with a little bow, and had one of the Tarruscelli twins on his arm—Portiera, she could tell by the cornflower blue gown. She always wore the darker colors. And behind them sat Sebastian with Placidia, in sky blue.

Thus Victoria was, in effect, surrounded by an array of men: an insufferably rude one, a father who painted his daughter’s breasts in detail and who cultivated the company of vampires, a barone who grew roses, and a man who’d made her shiver and tremble with passion only days before and now sat flirting with another woman.

Conte Regalado claimed her attention, reminding her of her plan to flirt with him in hopes of learning more about the Tutela. “The opera is ready to start,” he said. H

e smelled like wine and sandalwood. “I hope you enjoy it.”