Angelica,
I am very grateful for the information you provided me, and because of that, I plan to fulfill my end of the bargain and leave London. I bid you farewell, then, and offer you a warning: do not wear the rubies in the presence of Corvindale, or even at all while you are under his care. I intended the earbobs to be a jest that only he would comprehend, but in retrospect, I’ve reconsidered. Wearing them could only cause you hurt and, whether or not you believe it, that is the last thing I should ever wish upon you.
Your servant, Voss.
Dewhurst. She’d known it. Maia stared down at the message. A variety of emotions rushed through her, ranging from anger to shock to confusion.
Where did one begin to make sense of this?
Not to mention all of the other things she had to make sense of.
What to do with the letter?
Corvindale.
The very thought of facing him after last night made her knees weak and her belly flutter. No. She absolutely could not. Her cheeks flamed.
But he should see the letter. At the very least, he should read the reference to the earbobs—which had to be the rubies that had suddenly appeared in Angelica’s chamber.
She’d told Maia a ridiculous story that they’d been part of Granny Grapes’s collection, but Maia was no fool.
She hadn’t believed that story any more than she believed Angelica when she denied wearing Maia’s crocheted pink gloves on a picnic. They’d been stained with blueberry juice and had never come clean.
According to the letter, Dewhurst—Voss—had intended to leave London. Apparently he’d changed his mind; perhaps because he learned that the vampire Belial meant to attack Angelica.
Maia shook her head, bit her lower lip and drew in a deep breath. It had to be done.
Blast it.
Slowly Maia replaced the writing implements in her sister’s drawer and then her gaze fell on the note from Alexander. She’d forgotten about it, and that someone was waiting below for her response.
Dashing off a quick reply that she would of course be pleased to see him anytime he wished to call, she started out of Angelica’s room. But then she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and paused.
Her eyes went immediately to the simple lace edging of her bodice…and the thin red scratch peeking up from behind it. Such a tiny wound; no worse than if she’d scraped herself with the edge of her fingernail. The bleeding had stopped last night and it was hardly noticeable, except when one was looking for it.
Maia bit her lip again and tried to pull up the neckline to further hide it. It wasn’t so much that it was ugly, but what it represented.
Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, she looked away and took in the rest of her image.
Her brown hair was smooth, pulled back in a simple twist for morning. Neat, if unexceptional. The hollows under her hazel eyes were darker than usual. Her cheeks were still pink from the mortifying thoughts of moments ago. And her mouth, with its fuller upper lip. She tried to press it flatter, so that both lips seemed to match…but she couldn’t keep the top one from appearing swollen and off balance. Messy.
With a snort of disgust—for usually it was Angelica who spent time fawning in front of the mirror—Maia stalked out of the chamber. She was neat and well-groomed this morning, if a little plain in her simple coiffure and muslin day-dress. She didn’t look any different than she did any other day—which was to say, well. Rather pretty, in fact.
But it didn’t matter one whit how she looked. She simply didn’t want to appear that she was overset by what had happened last night…or, alternatively, that she was trying to—what was the word?—appeal to him.
Of course not.
Corvindale was no more than an arrogant, rude, stormy earl who thought he controlled everyone. Glowering at her from across the seat in the carriage, he’d looked at her as if it were her fault that they were in there together. But then…he’d moved.
Maia’s throat went dry as she remembered him, looming over her, gathering her up and crushing her to him. His hands, his mouth, the strength of his body against hers. Her knees felt weak, and she actually had to grip the railing of the staircase.
It was his enthralling of me. His hypnotism.
He made me want to touch him.
Maia couldn’t banish the stark image of his head bent over her bared bodice, the dark splay of his fingers against the pale color of her gown and lighter skin. And with it, even now, came the jolts of hot pleasure, panging in her belly and lower. Definitely lower.
Biting her lip, Maia shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind and to dislodge the memories. She felt no guilt.
Why should she?
She remembered when he looked at her so intently, catching her eyes and holding her gaze. He’d lured her in, just like Galtier the vampir had done to countless women in Granny Grapes’s stories. Although…Maia frowned. In the stories, the women never realized what had happened to them. They didn’t remember.
Then another thought struck her. Had he done it previously, at the masquerade ball? Was that why she’d been so bold?
The last vestige of guilt that might have lingered fled, leaving her much relieved. Certainly one little kiss after a few champagne drinks when her fiancé had been gone for eighteen months wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but Maia had had no little pang of remorse for it.
Especially since she hadn’t been able to completely forget it. But now it had all become clear to her. She wasn’t complicit in anything. It hadn’t really been her fault.
Lifting her head high, she squared her shoulders and continued down the stairs to the foyer. The butler, Crewston, was still waiting patiently and she handed him the note for Alexander.
“Where is the earl?” she asked.
“In his study, of course, miss,” he replied.
Relief flooded her. At least he wasn’t in his bedchamber. Her face heated again at the thought…which was now accompanied by a tactile memory from when her hands had settled against his linen-covered chest last night…and she shoved the accompanying images away.
Thus, her knock on the door to his study was bold and loud. If she had a squiggle of nervousness, Maia quickly squashed it and drew in a deep breath.
When he bade her enter, in the same annoyed voice as he always had, she opened the door with confidence and strode inside. Immediately she smelled the age and must of old paper and worn leather, and a hint of pine mingling with woodsmoke and cedar. Masculine smells that reminded her of her father’s library…and yet, not precisely.
As always, the curtains were drawn nearly completely together over each of the three windows that studded the exterior wall. And as before, she felt compelled to walk to the other end of the long chamber to open them. But this time she resisted the urge, understanding now why he blocked the sun. Nevertheless, the room was well-lit with lamps and candles so that it was as bright as day. And there was the barest crack of sunlight triangling through one set of drapes at the far end.
Books lined the walls, many of the shelves appearing to be two and three rows deep. Piles of other tomes, messy and awkward, littered the floor, his desk, the table, even the cupboard where he kept whiskey and brandy. Papers joined them, scrolls, sheafs of parchment bound together, along with pens and ink. Maia had noticed on previous occasions that the majority of the works he studied weren’t written in English, but in a variety of languages—from Greek to Latin to Aramaic to others she didn’t recognize.
He was writing when she came in, and even from her stance, she could see the splotches of ink on the paper. His penmanship was dark and bold, and rushed. He wrote with his left hand, and when he lifted it to dip the pen to refill its ink, she caught a glimpse of the smudge along the side of his palm. One of the perils of being left-handed, which was why she used blotting paper.