“Very good, Victoria.” He nodded gravely, but there was reluctant humor in his eyes. And she swore she saw his lips twitch. “But I suggest you might keep a closer eye on the man. He recognized you rather quickly and easily tonight, without knowing that you are, indeed, a huntress. Unless, of course, he does know who you are.”
“I rather think it was the hand of my mother that assisted him in his recognition of me.” She lifted her chin, but looked over his shoulder. James Lacy was standing near the edge of the dance floor, where they’d left him. “He knows no one else here, and acts otherwise indifferent to me.”
“Are you trolling for compliments? There’s not a man in this room who’s indifferent to you, Victoria. Particularly in that gown.”
She looked up at him, startled by his tone. “Then you must include yourself in that group.”
He gave a little laugh, rare humor lighting his eyes again. “If you consider the fact that I’ve wanted to wrap my hands around your elegant little neck since that moment two years ago when you mistook me for a vampire then, yes, I am most definitely not indifferent to you.”
“But you’ve kissed me.”
“That I have.” His eyes were very dark.
“And you rather enjoyed it.”
“Did I?” he sounded amused. “I seem to have forgotten the details.”
Victoria felt a rise of annoyance, and she tightened her grip on his shoulder. But she made her smile sweet and knowing. “Are you trolling for a reminder?”
She imagined that, behind the mask, his eyebrows rose in that sardonic manner. “What would be the point? Sebastian, Zavier, Beauregard, James Lacy . . . I have no desire to be one of many, Victoria.” And now all humor vanished from his expression. “No man does. So, if you would like my advice—”
“No, I don’t—”
“—then I suggest,” he continued smoothly, “if you wish to keep Vioget, that you keep your kisses, and suggestions of them, confined to him. And most definitely away from the Marquess of Rockley.”
Eleven
Dinner Is Announced
After their waltz, Max deposited Victoria at the edge of the dance floor where Vioget and Rockley waited. It was a bloody relief to let her go and step away. He bowed curtly and took himself off to investigate whatever the hell he could find to investigate.
She’d be too damned busy to do so herself for awhile, if the expectant expressions on the faces of her two panting suitors were any indication. It looked as though Vioget might have a bit of a fight on his hands, although Max had no concerns that Victoria would make the same mistake with this Rockley as she had with the previous one.
Max’s scalp was hot under his hat, and his mask felt stifling. His fingers still remembered the warm, delicate feel of her spine through that scandalously thin gown—if one could call it a gown. Hadn’t she been wearing a damned corset?
Some years ago, he’d been witness to Parisian women dampening their thin muslin gowns so that they clung to the very outline of their entire body—a Madame Gorhomme and her luxurious form sprang immediately to mind, prompting his tight mouth into a smile. But a glance at the dance floor stopped it. Christ, the fabric of Victoria’s long toga was just as thin and revealing as Madame Gorhomme’s—without benefit of water.
Hard to believe, he thought as he sidled his way through the warm crush of guests, that the lithe, light body he’d just handled was the possessor of such power and skill. A man could hardly fathom it . . . yet he’d experienced it firsthand: the strength and grace of her slender arms, the whirl of a powerful leg slamming into a vampire twice her size, the fire in her eyes and the flush of battle reddening her cheeks . . . all of which simply made her more fascinating to men like Vioget and Zavier. And even ones who had no idea who she was, and what she was capable of—like her husband and the new American marquess.
Even creatures like Beauregard, whom she was bound to slay.
All thanks to the two vis bullae, hidden somewhere under that gown. And one of them was his.
While he wore only one, even though it was useless to him.
Max had an urge for whiskey to cleanse the bitterness in his mouth. He gestured for a sequined footman to pour him one, and turned back to watch the dancers.
God damn Lilith for taking away his only passion, the single purpose in the life he’d salvaged after Papa and Giulia were gone. When he was done here in London, he was going after the vampire queen. He’d send her to Hell and, God willing, would die himself in the process. And at last he’d find out if he’d paid enough penance for destroying his family.
He took a healthy swallow of whiskey.
“Good evening, Maximilian.”
Damn.
“Sara.” Bloody hell. He’d been so damned distracted he nearly walked into the chit.
“I knew that had to be you,” she said, her full lips curving under her rose-colored mask. She spoke smoothly, in their native Italian. “I haven’t forgotten how beautifully you waltz. Shall we, for old time’s sake?”
“No.”
Sara’s lips formed a generous pout. “Whoever she was, not only did she get you to dance, but you were completely captivated. I shall have to be jealous, Maximilian. Or . . . perhaps it is Lilith who will be jealous.” The pout had disappeared, along with the manufactured teasing in her voice.
Max’s body drained of heat. Sara and Lilith? Good God. “So you have allied yourself with Lilith the Dark. A dangerous proposition. She’s not known for constancy to her minions.”
“Are you concerned for my well-being, then, Maximilian?” She leaned into him, confident and bold. Her fingers wrapped around his arm and her leg brushed against his.
“Not in the least.” He grasped her wrist and set her away. “Have you turned undead?”
She smiled, looking up at him from under her lashes. “Would you like me to drink from you, Max?”
The whiskey in his belly churned. Lilith’s bites on his neck had finally disappeared, but the memories assailed him: red, hot, pain, pleasure.
His mouth dried; his head suddenly felt light. He was weaker now; he had little power and only mortal strength. To be trapped by her fangs and her thrall would be so much worse. He felt for the silver ring that bulked out his gloved finger, and the feel of it steadied him. He’d die before he would submit to her.
“I see that the idea excites you,” Sara murmured, and he felt her close to him again. “Perhaps I can arrange—”