The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia 2)

So childish. But she’d long grown past that, realizing that her role was to protect and care for her more vulnerable sisters, particularly after the death of their parents. And she excelled at that, just as she did everything else. Except translating Greek, which she found a necessary evil, but the effort worthwhile.

And, she supposed, that sort of intuitive, prickling knowing when something was wrong, or odd, was perhaps her own version of the Sight.

“Very well, my lord,” Maia said, making her voice sound rather like a queen agreeing to an audience with her subject. “I shall review your correspondence on the morrow.”

She turned before he could respond, and immediately spotted Angelica in an intense, probably improper, conversation with Lord Dewhurst and his companion Lord Brickbank. Her sister was fresh and lovely in an Empire-waisted, butter-yellow gown, with her dark, almond eyes and gypsyish coloring. Not the usual peaches-and-cream coloring of every other female Londoner, like Maia herself.

And it took Maia only one good look to know that the Viscount Dewhurst was precisely the sort of man she had warned her sister about. A tawny-haired, golden god of a man with an insouciant smile, melting eyes and a neckcloth that had probably taken a dozen tries to fold properly, he was a rake of the first order, no doubt about it. The way he was eyeing Angelica as if he couldn’t tear his gaze away was enough to make Maia herself feel all warm and tingly deep inside.

If Alexander ever looked at her like that, Maia would probably melt into a pool of skin and bones at once. She already felt warm and heart-rushed when he kissed her and slid his hand around the neckline of her bodice.

But, interestingly enough, Angelica wasn’t speaking to Dewhurst. She seemed to be engaged in conversation with the red-nosed Lord Brickbank, who was staring at her in confusion.

“Angelica,” Maia snapped, moving toward her sister. It was beyond unseemly for her to be talking with two men that neither of them formally knew, and it was up to Maia to put a stop to it without causing an even greater scene. If she hadn’t been distracted by the earl, this wouldn’t even be a problem.

But before she could do so, Angelica gave a short little curtsy and took her leave of the gentlemen. Seeing Maia, the younger woman smiled saucily at her sister, then slipped off to dance with Mr. Tillingsworth for the new quadrille.

Well, at least the worst harm Mr. Tillingsworth would do to Angelica would be to put her into a catatonic state as he talked about his cats, ad nauseam. That was the benefit to dancing a country dance instead of walking through the garden or park with an uninteresting gentleman. At least during the dance, one was separated from one’s partner often enough that it gave one a rest from an uninspiring conversation, whereas when one took a turn about the room or the patio, one could hardly hope for such a reprieve.

Angelica thus engaged, that left Maia exactly where she wished to be: unencumbered, and able to relax her vigilance long enough to enjoy a dance set herself. Despite the fact that Alexander wasn’t even in England, there was no reason she couldn’t participate in one of the box or line dances.

Casting a quick glance at Angelica, who was just setting up in the new set, Maia checked her dance card and noted that Ainsworth was her next partner. At least he wouldn’t stomp on her feet, like Mr. Flewellington had done earlier.

As Maia bowed to Lord Ainsworth, she happened to notice Corvindale. He was standing in a secluded corner—a rarity in such a crush, but somehow he’d managed it—and was glowering. She couldn’t tell at whom he was glaring; it was a general scowl, directed, it seemed, to the room at large.

There were women, she supposed, who would find the earl’s dark, arrogant looks attractive—and would suffer his less-than-charming personality. He had a fine nose, long and not too broad, and a wide, square jaw. His cheekbones were high and sharp, giving his entire face the look of a stone bust finished with a large chisel rather than the finesse of a rasper or sandpaper. And since he tended toward dark colors in his clothing, his large shoulders and height were even more pronounced.

Maia lifted her nose and smiled at Ainsworth and tried very hard to push away the uncomfortable prickling of the fine hairs on her arms. The very last thing, the last thing, she wanted was to be living in that man’s house—guardian or no.

The chit had no idea how much danger she and her sister were in. If she did, she wouldn’t be lifting her pert little nose at Dimitri from across the room after telling him she would “review your correspondence on the morrow.”

He willed the annoyance away, waiting for his fangs to retract into their sheaths. And the pounding to cease rushing through his veins.

The last time he’d been this discomfited by a woman had been the day Meg told him she was leaving. This was, of course, a completely different case. But the fact remained: Miss Woodmore made his blood boil and his veins bulge.

And not in a good way.

If the ever-proper miss had any concept how quickly he’d acted since he’d learned of Chas’s disappearance, how thorough he had been in ensuring that the youngest of her sisters would remain safe at St. Bridie’s (what a ridiculous name for a convent of nuns since none of them would ever become brides) in Scotland, and the fact that since three days ago and unbeknownst to them, she and her middle sister had been under his protection, her haughty look might be deflated into something more grateful.

But probably not. The more cornered and surprised she was, the more indignant she became. After all, he’d experienced her sharp tongue once before when she was cornered and surprised. She simply didn’t remember it.

And aside of that, he saw no reason to inform Miss Woodmore of the danger lurking in the background. Chas Woodmore’s secret life was just that—a secret, just as the existence of the Draculia was also undisclosed to the world at large.

Dimitri remained still, watchful for any sign that Moldavi had acted sooner than he had expected. His arms were folded across his middle as he scanned the room. Filled with colors too bright and bold, too many people, and, worst of all, a veritable mash of smells—most of them unpleasant or too strong—the ballroom represented everything he’d tried to avoid for…oh, the last century or more.

Emphasis on the more.

Most of his acquaintances assumed that Dimitri’s avoidance of all things unrelated to his studies had to do with the fire in Vienna when Lerina died, but they would be wrong. Certainly, the event was a contributing factor, but his distaste for the life of a Dracule went much deeper than the loss of an investment and an accidental death. His discontent had started with Meg, twenty-four years earlier when he’d saved her life and first become Dracule.