The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia 2)

And the crack that had begun to form in his ordered world he snapped viciously together.

Terrified by what she might see in his eyes when he opened them, Dimitri was weak with relief when he saw that she had turned slightly away. Looking down, he noticed her hand still somehow settled on his chest. She seemed to be wavering through her own battle for control.

Or, more likely, stability.

Dimitri wasn’t certain whether he ought to curse the champagne punch that she’d indulged in, or to be grateful for its intoxicating properties.

“And so that makes five,” he said, relieved that his voice was cool and steady. Emotionless. He barely remembered to keep it low, to a mere murmur, to further obscure his identity. Fate protect me from that at least. “I wonder if, at the next masque, you might attempt to make it an even half dozen pairs of lips to taste?”

At that, she looked up at him and he nearly went for her again. Her lips were swollen and glistening, half-parted with surprise beneath the curve of her mask. He blinked, drew in a breath and focused on the roaring pain blazing over the back of his shoulder. A satisfying reminder that he was, despite it all, still in control.

And still in defiance of the devil’s will.

Then in an instant her lips allowed a smile to flicker over them and she surprised him yet again when she replied, “No, my lord knave. I think it might be prudent to stop at five.”

“Indeed?” He had to offer her his arm in order to get her back to the dance, away from the temptation of this secluded alcove, and the mere thought of what had just transpired.

He had some blood whiskey in the coach. That would help steady him, dull the awakened need. Later, he could stir up some trouble in the depths of Vauxhall. He’d had a very satisfactory brawl in St. Giles the night after the Lundhames’ ball, where he’d tossed five blackhearts into the River after they’d tried to stick him with a knife and relieve him of his purse. Never say he wasn’t doing his part to clean up the thieves of London.

“Yes, I do believe I shall stop at five,” she replied as they walked along. She wasn’t weaving like she had been earlier.

“’Tis a shame that my fi—my husband’s kisses were never quite so…potent. Perhaps it’s best if I keep this memory as my last random tasting.”

Dimitri kept his mind blank, refusing to allow himself to absorb her words and the variety of implications therein. He didn’t even need the reminder that she was betrothed. That fact simply didn’t enter into the equation of his base stupidity; his actions had nothing to do with Miss Maia Woodmore in particular.

It could be any woman who tempted him thus, for he rarely indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. And even then, it was brief and impersonal. No kissing was ever involved.

“Very well, then,” he replied, “Hatshepsut. And here we are, back to the party. I release you to your dances and your subjects, knowing that there is no longer a chance that you might be coerced into sampling the kiss of a highwayman or Romeo or some other character.”

And then, suddenly eager to be far away from the shimmery golden gown and its well-kissed occupant, Dimitri released her arm and slipped into the edge of the crowd, already tasting the blood and alcohol to come, the energy bounding beneath his skin.

Maia watched the knave ease into the crowded ballroom, both relieved and disappointed by his flight. Her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand, and her lips felt as though they were twice their size.

They still tingled when she slipped the tip of her tongue over them, and she felt a shaft of tingling heat when she re-imagined the kiss.

How could I have been so foolish? What is wrong with me?

But she already knew the answer, and once again, Maia was blessedly grateful for the mask that obliterated most of her features, and the other aspects of her disguise. The drink, along with the heady knowledge that no one could know who she was, had turned her into the same sort of capricious young woman who’d nearly gotten herself ruined three years ago.

Thank God that He, or Fate, or something, had intervened and brought Corvindale onto the scene before she’d made a foolish mistake with Mr. William Virgil. Only, she wished even more fervently now that it had been anyone but her new guardian who’d saved her. The details of that night were so very vague and foggy, but one thing she did recall with absolute clarity was the earl’s furious, dark eyes.

But that was three years ago…what was wrong with her tonight?

Hadn’t she learned her lesson?

Yet, while she knew part of the reason for her capriciousness was due to perhaps too much champagne punch, there was the fact that she’d been so rigid, so perfectly proper and in control for these past years that it was no wonder it had fizzled behind her cloak of anonymity tonight. If Angelica had any idea what really went on in her thoughts… She hoped that Angelica had had enough sense not to sample the fizzy punch, as well.

Wishing she could take off her mask to relieve the warmth, Maia strolled along the edge of the room in the opposite direction of the knave. She didn’t want to dance again—she wasn’t certain she trusted herself—and did her best to stay out of sight of anyone who might accost her for his partner.

The only person she should want to dance with right now was Alexander—and he was far away. And he’d been gone for so long. She ought to focus on his kisses, and where his warm hands had gone, slipping along the bodice of her gown during one of their late-afternoon rides.

And so that was what she did. Centered her thoughts on that. She would not worry about whether he’d forgotten her—and their interludes in the closed carriage. Or whether he’d changed his mind.

And she certainly would not remember the way the knave’s simple kiss had made her whole body hot and alive. Weak and trembly.

The sight of Angelica with a man wearing a curious square-shaped hat was a welcome distraction, for her sisterly annoyance sprang back to the forefront. Unlike most every one else, the lower half of his face was masked and he looked like some sort of Far Eastern brigand, like one that might have attacked the Crusaders.

Angelica was waltzing, Maia noted, pressing her lips together and resisting the urge to stalk out there and drag her off the floor. That would just draw attention and recognition to both of them. Which, if Angelica was paying any attention to her elder sister’s eagle eye, she would know—and would use to her advantage.

Maia would have a word with her later. Just because Chas wasn’t around to ride herd on them didn’t mean her sister could be so careless. Wondering where Aunt Iliana was, Maia scanned the room and noticed an angel across the way.