“You look lovely, Miss Woodmore. Maia,” Alexander said, smiling.
She had her fingers curled lightly around his arm and they were, as planned, strolling through the gardens at Blackmont Hall. The roses still bloomed, but the spring flowers that cast such heady scents—lilac, lily of the valley, tulip—were all gone.
Pink coneflower and Russian sage marked the paths, along with thick green moss and neatly clipped boxwood. Lovely gardens. It was too bad that their owner couldn’t enjoy them…at least, in full sunlight.
“Thank you, Mr. Bradington,” she replied.
They were alone. Her heart should be light. It was light. It was, and she was happy and calm, and—dare she think it?—relieved.
“I do believe you should use my Christian name as you have done in the past,” he said, looking over at her. “After all, we are to be wed. Sooner, rather than later, I hope.”
Maia smiled back and ignored the odd sinking feeling in her middle. “I hope so, as well, Alexander.”
I could not hypnotize you.
You were never enthralled.
Maia blocked the words from her mind, along with the horrible feeling of mortification. It couldn’t be true.
“I’m so glad you’ve returned,” she told Alexander.
She spied an ivy-covered pergola and changed direction so that they walked toward it. Maia wasn’t certain what she had in mind, but the fact that it was shaded and out of sight from the back windows of the house could be a benefit.
“When shall we?”
Angelica. She couldn’t even think of a wedding until Angelica was safely home. And Chas had to walk her down the aisle. And Sonia must come from Scotland. “As soon as you can file for the license,” she replied.
She hadn’t told Alexander about her sister’s abduction, and certainly not about Chas’s occupation. How could she explain something like that? If she could stall for a bit until they got word about Angelica, at least…
“Will it be enough time for you? I can obtain the license easily within a fortnight. Will you be ready in two weeks? I know there is a dress to be made, but also flowers and invitations and announcements, and the food…and where would you like to have the ceremony?”
Maia’s insides warred between delight and misery. Here was a man who cared what she thought, who listened to her, who understood what she had to do. But she certainly could do nothing until her family was back in place. And safe.
And she couldn’t tell him. At least, not yet.
They’d reached the pergola. The shade from the clematis-entwined ivy covered a small area on the footpath, and, as if reading her mind, Alexander paused there, turning her to face him.
“As soon as possible,” she said, knowing that she would delay it if she had to. But perhaps something else to focus on now would be good. There were so many other things she didn’t want to be thinking about. “And I was hoping we could wed at St. Dunstan’s. It’s such a lovely little church.” Her heart was ramming in her chest as she looked up at her fiancé.
He was watching her with his gray-blue eyes. They always seemed so warm and affectionate, unlike those dark, flashing ones belonging to…other people. And he wasn’t quite so tall, nor as stiff and forbidding. He never spoke rudely. He never seemed as if her mere conversation was keeping him from something more important.
“St. Dunstan’s would be the perfect place. I shall make a generous donation and speak with the rector tomorrow. If that is what you wish, Maia.”
She swallowed, noticing the way his eyes changed. His hands closed around her arms and he drew her closer. Her heart was in her throat now, pounding. Her knees were shaky and her insides fluttered nervously. He was going to kiss her.
She was afraid of what it would tell her.
11
In Which Our Hero Faces Impossible Questions
Two weeks later, Dimitri stared at the door of his study, rancid bitterness burning through him. His fingers curled into two fists that he ground into the desk in front of him—it was either that, or put them through the wall. Or window.
Or somewhere equally painful.
Impossible.
Impossible!
Voss had just left, and was about to walk out of Blackmont Hall. Into the blazing sunshine with no protection.
It was impossible.
Voss had broken the covenant with Lucifer.
Voss.
The most self-centered, selfish, manipulative person Dimitri had ever known aside of Cezar Moldavi had somehow released himself from the unholy contract with the devil. A man who’d lived a life of debauchery and hedonism with out a hint of remorse, without a care for anyone other than himself—even before he’d been turned Dracule.
While Dimitri still bore Lucifer’s Mark. And it burned and writhed and seared him daily as he denied himself, studied and contemplated…and nothing. Nothing.
He glared at the stack of books, the curling, browned manuscripts and crinkling scrolls. His notes. His drawings. His hopes.
From somewhere deep in the house he heard the sounds of feminine squeals. Giggles, and a soft shriek. He knew what it was, and the sound infuriated him even more. He snatched up his heaviest cloak and stalked out of his den, calling for a groom and his carriage.
Damn the sunshine, he must get away from them.
Angelica had returned safely two weeks ago. Voss had rescued her from Moldavi as planned. But Chas, refusing to allow a demonic vampire—particularly such a rapacious one—near his sister, had intercepted them in Paris and brought Angelica back to London, where wedding plans for her elder sister had commenced with great alacrity.
Now, as of his meeting with Voss, Dimitri knew he would be subjected to twice the excitement, for Voss had announced his intention to wed the younger Woodmore sister. Now that he was no longer bound to Lucifer, there was no real reason Chas could deny such a marriage. The viscount was wealthy and a peer. And he was a mortal.
Voss had actually removed his shirt whilst in Dimitri’s study in order to show him that the Mark was gone from the back of his shoulder.
When asked how he’d done it—how he’d shorn himself of the devil’s Mark—Voss had said simply that he’d changed.
Changed.
Dimitri climbed quickly into the carriage, taking little care to protect himself from the sun’s rays despite the cloak he carried. The flash of a burn skimmed his face and ungloved hand and wrist, and he fairly welcomed the pain.
The antiquarian bookshop seemed even less noticeable than usual, with the alcove entrance of Lenning’s Tannery next door fairly dwarfing the small, dark entryway.
Once inside, Dimitri paused and waited for the strains of serenity to slide over him. When he’d drawn in a steadying breath of old books and worn leather, he stepped into the dark shadows of the rows of shelves and waited.
It didn’t take long for Wayren to appear. This time, she wasn’t holding a book, although she had her spectacles on.
“Dimitri of Corvindale. I was suspecting you might return.” She looked at him closely, and all at once, he wondered what madness had brought him here. She knew nothing that could help him.
He found himself momentarily at a loss for words, anger and confusion churning like sludge in his gut.
Wayren cocked her head, watching him like an interested sparrow. “I’ve acquired something I think you might find interesting, and I’ve been saving it for you.” She turned toward a shelf next to her and plucked out a bound pamphlet from between two other much thicker books and handed it to him.
Dimitri took the slender packet, which could be no more than a hundred pages, and didn’t attempt to hide his distaste. “La Belle et la Bête? What is this—a fairy tale?”