Jane giggled. "Well, the dress is lovely, even with its high neckline."
Clair shook her head. "If Ian had his way, I would be running around with material up to my chin." She smiled a secret smile, clearly thinking about her husband. The couple were clearly in love.
"Let me return the compliment, Jane," she said. "You too look lovely."
"And you were always a bad liar, but the thought is well meant," Jane replied.
"Jane, Jane—what shall I do with you? You are in fine looks tonight. Come, let's meet our guests. Tell me whom you don't know."
As Clair introduced Jane to various members of the party, Jane kept her eyes open and her senses alert. Where was the earl?
"Jane, you must meet one of Ian's cronies—Mr. Warner," Clair said as she tapped a man on his rather stout arm and subsequently introduced Jane to both him and the woman next to him. "And this is his fair wife, Mrs. Warner."
Jane noted Mr. Warner, a tall but portly man, whose clothes, though fashionable, seemed to be in need of considerable attention. She couldn't help but wonder if his valet had indulged in one glass too many of the claret.
His wife, his bride of only a few weeks, was a stout woman with raven black hair, and she was her husband's direct opposite in manner and dress. Still, she clearly adored her porcine spouse.
Before the introductions, Clair had confided happily that she'd gotten the lucky couple together. What she hadn't confided was that Mr. Warner was a wereboar. But, then, Clair didn't need to tell Jane what Jane could figure out for herself. Shape-shifters gave off a heat energy that Jane could usually pick up. Despite her father's views against the mixing of species by marriage, most Van Helsings could spot a were creature a foot away. It was due to shape-shifter blood. Although the major pretended the family line was pure, their small amount of werelioness blood sensitized Van Helsings to the supernatural creatures around them.
Jane was next reintroduced to Lord Graystroke and his bosom companion, a Mr. George, whose diminutive appearance and curiosity were legendary among the ton. In Jane's opinion, Lord Graystroke remained the most interesting person she'd ever met. His dark brown hair had been lightened by his many years in the sun to the color of wet sand. And his massive shoulders were impressive. Jane decided they were probably due to all that swinging around in trees he reputedly did.
She suddenly wondered if Lord Graystroke was a wereape, and if that was why he'd lived among the primates of Africa for two decades. It certainly would explain all that monkey business. Yet, she didn't get the tingly, heated feeling she usually experienced around a shape-shifter. At last she decided Lord Graystroke was not one of the members of the supernatural world—at least, not by birth.
Lord Graystroke was polite to Jane; yet his eyes were distant and there was restlessness about his person, as if he would rather be hanging around in the jungle than standing stoically, sipping bourbon here, Jane decided. He was the epitome of the well dressed and polite English gentleman, and had slipped only once in the introductions. He had almost said, "I am Tars."
Jane had gently interrupted, saying, "I am Miss Jane."
Before further introductions were made, Clair confided to Jane that Lord Graystroke was going through a difficult time. Tonight he had a chip of respectability and familial duty on his shoulder, rather than his orange chimp, Cheetah. It was an adjustment.
Jane understood only too well. As she'd noted before, Lord Graystroke was having to pretend to be something he was not.
Suddenly Clair grabbed Jane's arm and turned her toward the door. Neil Asher, Earl of Wolverton, had just entered the room. "See there, Jane?" Clair asked, tilting her head in the man's direction. "The earl has arrived."
Jane's breathing deepened. "He's very handsome," she admitted softly. Tonight the earl was wearing a deep blue velvet coat with a pale blue waistcoat. The color brought out the vampire's marvelous eyes, which appeared to glow with an icy blue fire as he made his way toward her.
Staring at Clair Huntsley, Asher twitched his lip up in a semblance of a smile. As always, she was breathtaking. His cold, dead heart beat warmer. He wanted to share the moonlight with her and hear her pulse pounding like a drum as it pumped rich blood throughout her marvelously decadent body—which Ian Huntsley, lucky wolf that he was, owned lock, stock and smoking hot barrel.
As he made his way toward her, the highlight of this provincial house party, Asher thought back over the centuries. When he'd been a hundred and seventeen, it had been a very good year—for female fledgling vampires. They had hunted together in the soft summer nights, and hidden in fine mausoleums in the daylight.
When he was a mere two hundred and twenty-one, it had been another good year—for Parisian courtesans with their perfumed hair and their white flesh bare.
When he was two hundred and eighty-nine, it had been a very good year—for blue-blooded aristocrats with their elaborate wigs and their carriages so fine.
So many good years he had spent a-roving, walking alone. He had lived decades upon decades, traveling a hundred roadways, never quite finding a true home. Then he had met Clair, and he had believed the world would be a different place, an exciting world filled with laughter and love for him once again. Alas, he had been most foully mistaken. As the Earl of Wolverton seldom was.
Still, he thought wryly as he approached Clair, he would survive this heartbreak, just as he had survived having his heart stopped when he'd become a vampire. Yes, he thought smugly, he had once been a human, a vampire, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king. But each time he had found himself flat in his coffin, he had picked himself up and Renfield had dusted off his jacket.
Yes, the world would keep spinning 'round, the nights would still be lovely and long, and Asher would continue to try and live the vampire creed, forgetting that tomorrow ever comes. And he would survive this thwarted love affair and survive it in the grand style his rank demanded.
"Ah, the remarkable Clair Frankenstein," he said, his eyes drinking her in as he took her hand in his. Swiftly he lifted it to his lips, and with his usual savoir faire, he curbed the primal instinct to bite down. He smiled at her with a hint of devilment in his eyes, hoping Huntsley was watching and eating his heart out. Werewolves were known to literally do that.
As usual whenever Clair was near, Asher found himself ignoring everyone else. He barely noticed the lady next to the new Airs. Huntsley.
"How is your room? All is satisfactory?" Clair asked.
Asher nodded haughtily, knowing what she was asking. Although her guest list included quite a number of shape-shifters and two vampires, many of the guests were mortals. The coffin she had prepared for him in a hidden chamber in the cellar was perfect. She had even lined the coffin with lavender. "Most appropriate. My thanks to my considerate host." Placing a second lingering kiss upon her hand, he regretfully released it. "The way you look tonight… Well, where do I begin? You are enchanting."
Blushing, Clair drew away and asked, "Asher, have you met my dear friend Miss Paine?"
Jane watched her friend interact with the earl, and her heart beat a furious pit-pat in her chest as Asher turned his fabulous blue eyes in her direction. Would he recognize her? she wondered. Please, anything but that.
She blushed furiously, making her freckles stand out. Silently she begged fate to not let the Earl of Wolverton know that she was the one who'd splashed him with brandy.
For a second, Asher froze; then he politely bowed, and Jane curtsied gracefully in spite of her knees knocking together.