She frowned in frustration. Why couldn't she stir men in the same way? What was she lacking? Was it some flaw in her makeup, some lack of chemical reaction? Was it due more to her lack of looks, or was her personality somehow at fault? Why did it seem that all men had a failure to appreciate her? Why couldn't Asher look at her in the way he looked at Clair?
Jane sighed in resignation. Truth, though beautiful in itself, could be quite ugly. Even if Asher suddenly became insane with desire for her, it wouldn't matter; she had her marching orders. She could still hear her father's parting words: "You will fight on the beaches, you will fight in the fields, you will fight in the cemeteries, you will fight at the Huntsleys'. You will not quit! As that treacherous dog Bonaparte once said, 'Victory belongs to the most persevering.' You will persevere this time, Jane! Yes, you will, or my name isn't Major Edward Abraham Van Helsing!"
The major's words haunting her, Jane grimaced. She must do her deadly duty in the dead of night. She would make sure that the walking dead were soon truly dead, both to the worlds of both daylight and darkness, even if she must deaden her conscience until it died a final death. Poor Asher, he would not be dead just until dark anymore; he would just be dead. He'd join the pool of vampires whom the Van Helsings had proudly caused to swim in the sea of the dead. Asher would never see another sunset, nor smile another smile full of wicked promises of dark pleasures late in the night. His attractive countenance would no longer grace balls or routs, and he would join the ranks of the eternally and permanently dead.
As Jane woefully drew her dreaded conclusions, guilt earing holes in her soul, she stopped walking and rested under the branches of an oak tree. The gnarled and aging trunk was so large that it cast her in shadow. Deep in thought, she did not hear the approach of the intruder until it was too late to flee.
Cool Hand Neil
Asher grinned. He had needed to expend barely any effort in his seduction of the beautiful Lady Daffney. The woman had given him heated encouragement, her gaze flicking from the top of his breeches to the terrace and then beyond, and now here she was not ten minutes later standing among the dark gray, monolithic stones of the Huntsley property. Tonight, it seemed, he would have his drink on the rocks.
Suddenly the thick cloud, which had half hidden the crescent moon, shifted, revealing not Lady Daffney but Jane Paine in her pale green silk gown. Asher's grin faded. Miss Paine seemed to appear wherever he did, again and again, rather like the ten plagues of Egypt.
He hated having his plans for a moonlight tryst with a skilled female interrupted, especially by a silly virgin.
And especially when he was so thirsty.
Cocking his head to one side, he studied the forlorn figure, noting how her abundant cleavage was visible in the pale glow of the moon. After a moment he shrugged philosophically; it appeared fate had different ideas for him than he'd had for himself on this dark night. His stomach was beginning to growl, and that meant it was time for dinner.
Jane didn't hear his approach. She was quoting to herself, " 'What in me is dark, yet from those flames, no light, but only darkness visible. The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.'"
Asher stepped forward. "Dante."
Startled, Jane gasped. She quickly glanced up at the tall, formidable figure, but immediately she knew it was the earl, which eased her fears. Somewhat. Foolish, yet she really wasn't afraid of being alone here with the Prince of Darkness. Partly it was because she knew Clair would exterminate Asher if he exsanguinated her. Of course, Clair might also scotch Jane if she slayed Asher.
"It's Milton," she corrected.
Asher looked stung. "I beg to differ. I believe that particular quote is Dante," he remarked curtly.
Jane squared her jaw. "Milton," she repeated quite firmly, annoyed. She was something of a scholar, and knew her quotes backward and forward. And the earl was just a little bit too smug.
"No, it's Dante. I know it's Dante. And I'm never wrong," he argued.
"Well, this time you are!"
"No, I'm not," he replied tersely. Who did this country-bred chit think she was, Plato?
"Yes, you are," Jane said waspishly. Who did the toplofty earl think he was, Socrates?
"It's Dante."
"It's Milton—and we sound like two nursery children arguing over who gets to play with which toys."
"I am never childish. And it's Dante."
Jane snorted in disbelief. Then, very quietly, she muttered, "Milton."
Asher's patience was fraying fast. He said, "I am extremely well-read, Jane. And I recognize that quote from Dante." He growled, losing his last modicum of civility.
"Then you recognize it incorrectly," Jane repeated stubbornly, her smile fixed. The man might be an earl and a vampire, but his knowledge of the classics was a comedy. A divine one. "It's from Paradise Lost."
Asher's brow furrowed. The little Philistine was standing up to him, telling him that he was in the wrong! What was wrong with her? "Don't you realize that you're arguing with an earl?" He took a posture of extreme arrogance, his feet braced apart and his broad shoulders squared.
"Earl, shmearl. I have many faults, but timidity isn't one of them. When you are wrong, you are wrong. You can battle with me over the quotation for a decade and will still be in the wrong. And I would argue with the king himself if he were silly enough to say Milton was Dante, when anyone with half an education can tell the difference."
Asher's heart stopped. As much as an undead heart could. This chit was unbelievable! Didn't she recognize his august personage, and always-correct nature? He didn't think she did, not by the way she was glaring at him. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds with silver fires inside. Miss Paine was a thorn in his side. No, make that a stake. Yet she was certainly pretty out here in the moonlight. There was much more to Miss Paine in the Neck than first met the eye, it seemed.
"My, my, a bluestocking—how intriguing."
Jane frowned. "I know it's not the thing to be: a woman with intelligence." She shrugged. "But I won't hide the fact."
"And well you shouldn't. Stupidity bores me greatly."
She smiled. "What an enlightened attitude."
"Of course. I'm an earl. What did you expect?" he asked, surprised that he had repeated his thought out loud.
She moved out of the shadows into the direct glow of the moon. "Pomposity does not become you."
He grimaced. "Bloody hell, did your mother teach you nothing of ladylike manners?"
"Did yours?" She returned, making a face at him.
He couldn't help it; he was so surprised that he laughed. "She tried," he admitted. "But…"
Jane smiled. "I take it you were an unwilling pupil."
"Very. I had my mind on other more… interesting subjects."
"Hmm. I see." And Jane did see. Neil Asher had been a rake from early in life. "Did you try and seduce your nurse from the cradle?"
He chuckled. "Only to get my rattle."
"Oh, you are incorrigible," she said. He reminded her of a peacock, what with his beautiful plumage and harem of ladybirds eagerly following him about.
"Can I help it if women find me irresistible?" he asked. "I would tell you about it, but you would think me vainer than I am."
Jane snorted. Asher had the face and fangs to suck in any woman. But he was as vain as they came. "How ever do you manage to get a hat on that swelled head of yours?" she asked.
This time, Asher snorted. Miss Paine was definitely a bird of a different feather. For a Plain Jane spinster, she had a wicked sense of humor and an honesty that amused him along with her antics. That was something he hadn't seen since Clair Frankenstein had haphazardly entered his life.