She doubted he would take kindly to the suggestion.
“What—” He looked up from beneath ferocious black brows. “Miss Woodmore.” He sounded exceedingly displeased.
She tried not to look at him, but it was difficult not to notice the strong, bare forearms resting on the desk. The color of well-tanned leather, they were covered with dark hair and surprisingly muscular. His wrists were solid and his square hands capable and ink-stained, dusted with more hair on the backs of them. His coat was nowhere to be seen; nor was a waistcoat or neckcloth. Although, perhaps that rumpled pile in the corner chair was the coat. The white shirt he wore fit over broad shoulders and the string that tied it at the neck was loose, and it sagged, showing the hollow of his throat. And—Maia’s knees went weak again—a little bit of dark hair springing up from beneath.
“I have something I believe you should see,” she said, ignoring the squirming in her gut and the flush rising once again in her cheeks. Stepping closer, she offered him the letter from Dewhurst.
Corvindale hesitated, then, muttering something under his breath, fairly snatched the missive from her hand. He barely glanced at her, and Maia found that no small relief. He seemed even more ill-tempered than usual.
Unable to stand still while he read the note, she walked to the far window and pulled the curtains open. Wide. With a good, hard, sweep of the heavy fabric.
Corvindale flinched, but she wasn’t certain if it was from the letter or from her bold disregard for his preferences.
It occurred to her, then, that she should be furious with the man for luring her into such improper situations. Why wasn’t she?
Why, instead of being angry, or feeling violated—which she should feel—was she merely overwhelmed by the sensations…the eroticism…of the interludes? Recalling them with the same sort of wonder as she did those hot, red dreams?
Why—
“Where did you get this?” he said, breaking the silence.
Maia turned. “It doesn’t matter. It’s obviously to Angelica from Lord Dewhurst. She hadn’t read it.”
He glanced down at the letter, his lips twisting, then back up at her. “So you count lifting seals as another of your talents, Miss Woodmore?”
“Another of my talents?”
The lips she’d kissed last night flattened into a mere line. “There are too many to enumerate, but I would count your aptitude for arguing excessively about the most minor of details and your uncanny sense for disrupting the most pleasant of days as two of your most well-honed abilities.”
Maia lifted her chin and walked over to the middle window, which sat at the halfway point of the chamber. Casting him an arch glance, she grasped each curtain panel, one of which overlapped the other, and yanked them apart with a flourish. A blast of sunlight cascaded into the room, bringing a soft, yellow glow to the piles of books and papers…and just brushing the edge of his desk. Still, the part of the room where his desk and the doorway were located was still swathed in shadow.
“Do go on, my lord,” she said. “You flatter me so.”
His scowl grew darker. “Miss Woodmore, you are impossible.”
“More flattery, Lord Corvindale? Incidentally,” she continued, “the most important part of lifting a seal is not the lifting itself, but how one replaces it. It’s important to ensure that the edges of the wax line up perfectly to its original outline.”
“Thank you, Miss Woodmore. I shall sleep much better this afternoon, knowing that trick.” Was it her imagination, or did his lips move slightly up at the corners?
No. Absurd.
“I suppose you will expect Mrs. Hunburgh to prepare something special for your tea with Mr. Bradington today,” Corvindale said, looking back down at his curling paper as he dipped his pen into the inkwell.
Maia opened her mouth to ask the obvious, then closed it. Of course Corvindale would know everything that occurred in his house. “No, indeed,” she replied. “I’m certain that Alexander and I won’t confine our visit to the parlor. A walk in the garden would be most lovely, don’t you agree, my lord?”
“It would certainly be my preference.” He looked back down at his work, and Maia was struck by how heartfelt his response was. She felt momentarily ashamed for her sly comment. But then he continued, thus absolving her from any guilt. “That way I won’t be obligated to listen to your giggles and his waxing poetic over your beauty, and whatever other inane conversation you must be compelled to have.”
Maia gritted her teeth but didn’t reply. She supposed she had rather asked for it, at least this time. She considered whether she wanted to raise his ire further by opening the last set of curtains, and, unaccountably annoyed by the businesslike scratch of his pen over paper, she was nearly ready to do so when he looked up.
“Still here, Miss Woodmore?”
It was, she realized later, the studiously blank, emotionless expression on his face that did it. There was not a hint of shame, nor sympathy, nor consideration therein. Only boredom showed there, and barely that at all. The man was less emotional than a brick walkway.
And that was what set her off.
“Yes, Lord Corvindale, I am still here, although heaven knows why I remain in the presence of such a vile beast of a man. You took advantage of me—of our situation last night—and I demand an apology. You might be a vampire, but that doesn’t give you the freedom to enthrall women to—to get them to…” Here she couldn’t help but trail off, because the last thing Maia wanted to do was to put into words what had actually happened. And if she did that, she’d be forced to recall all of the details.
Which wasn’t a prudent thing.
“I might have been ruined, Lord Corvindale,” she finished.
His brows drove together and his mouth became a hard line. “Miss Woodmore, you overstep. I’ve allowed you to flaunt your regard for my hospitality and my wishes by leaving your vases of flowers in every corner of my house—including this room—and the curtains wide in the parlors, your gloves and wraps and shoes on tables, and listening to you and your sister and my sister giggling at all hours of the day. I’ve even disregarded your invasion of my private chambers and this study. But you will receive no apology from me for the events of early this morning.”
“My brother has always spoken so well of you, my lord,” Maia said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “He made me believe you were a man of honor and that was why he entrusted us to you. And I’ve been willing to overlook your rudeness and arrogance, and, now, even the fact that you are a vampire. But your violation of my trust last night is in no way acceptable.”
His laugh was short and sharp and bitter. “On the contrary, Miss Woodmore. It is with deep regret that I inform you that, despite my endeavors to remove your knowledge of my Draculian afflication from your mind, all effort on my part to do so failed. In short, Miss Woodmore, you appear to somehow have become immune to Draculian thrall.”
“What—” Maia froze, staring at him. “That’s nonsense.”
He lifted a brow. “In fact, I wish it were, Miss Woodmore. Indeed, despite three attempts last evening, as I have done hundreds of times to others in the past, I could not hypnotize you. You were never enthralled. Which means that you were fully aware of and participatory in everything that occurred in the carriage.”
10
Of Weddings And Kisses
Narcise heard a noise.
Her first reaction was relief: Had Chas forgotten something and returned?
He’d only been gone a few hours—perhaps he’d been in London, still putting things in order and making preparations, and had come back. Or realized that he didn’t need to go after all. Perhaps they’d already rescued Angelica.