Her earlier hurt had turned into chagrin at Ian's utter lack of compliments on her attire. He should at the least have been stunned by her appearance. She knew she was in good looks. She had to be. She had spent three cursed hours getting ready for this cursed ball only to have the cursed baron insult her ballgown, when she could have been plodding ahead with her investigative work. She had another vampire suspect to study; perhaps she should be off studying him.
Ian eyed Clair's gown, his gaze lingering on her abundant charms. A spark of anger filled his eyes. "There is not enough of that gown to insult."
"Really, my lord, you go too far! Madame Le Fronge said it was the latest in Parisian fashion."
Ian knew that Madame Le Fronge was one of the foremost dressmakers in London. But obviously the woman was an idiot.
"Clair, don't get yourself in a tiff. The gown is lovely on you. What there is of it. I can't take my eyes off you—and neither can the other so-called gentlemen of the ton. And I use the word 'gentlemen' lightly."
"I would accuse you of having a screw loose, if my uncle Victor had created you." Clair glanced around. "No one is paying attention to me."
"In that case…" Ian trailed off as he danced her out the open balcony doors. The terrace was awash in soft moonlight that gilded Clair's face and hair.
Releasing his grip on her arm, he moved a step back, staring down at her. "You're wrong, Clair. Men do look at you, and often. If you would just get your head out of your books, you'd see that."
"Balderdash," she replied. He was embarrassing her.
"You need to quit reading so much about life and live it," he advised gently as he led her over to a corner on the terrace deep in shadow. "Take time out from your studies and endeavors and just live."
"I would expect that kind of rakish comment from a rogue."
"I'll show you rakish," he said. Giving a wolfish grin, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly against his heated body. Ignoring her gasp of surprise, he kissed her. Clair returned the kiss shyly at first and then with a vigor that was startling. The friction of his mouth working against hers was delicious. His tongue entering her mouth was incendiary. She could feel his body heat envelop her, and she could feel something pressing against her stomach.
His arms were strong against her back, his hands questing. She felt the pull of his gravity thoroughly. A long, drawn-out moan escaped her.
With that soft sound from Clair, Ian's kiss took on a will of its own. White hot heat flooded him as he explored the depths of her mouth. All Ian could think was how he wanted to devour the honeyed sweetness of Clair.
Their kisses quickly heated his blood to the boiling point. He pushed his tongue inside her mouth again. She was like an electrical storm flashing through his system, jolting him back to life. His member was hard and throbbing, heavy with need. She arched back, the movement pressing her ample breasts against his chest. He could feel the nipples pebbling.
Growling, he trailed kisses down her neck to her daring décolletage. His tongue flicked out, causing Clair to gasp and grab his hair. He nipped her nipple and she shivered. It was almost more than Ian could bear. His hunger for her was sharp-set. He wanted to throw her to the ground and bury himself so deep it would take a week to pull himself free. Somewhere deep inside Clair, she knew that she should stop Ian. Ladies did not do this. Ladies did not feel passion, they only read about it. Ladies did not go out on balconies and then go up in flames. To hell with ladies! She grabbed his hair and pulled him closer.
Unexpectedly, they heard the sound of footsteps in the garden directly below. Ian broke apart from Clair, his nostrils flaring. Looking down at her, he arrogantly noted Clair's dazed expression and red lips, bruised by passion.
"I-I…" she stammered. She tried again, her breathing almost back to normal. "I should apologize to you." My God, she fretted. It was worse than she'd thought. She had become a salivating strumpet. She was losing her dedication to duty along with her moral fibre. She hadn't thought about the vampire nest since Ian arrived in the ballroom. What would Uncle Victor think?
Ian shook his head. Once again Clair had shocked him. "I should be the one offering an apology," he said. His voice was husky with unfulfilled lust.
"No, I acted very unlike myself—more like I imagine a woman of the street would act in a similar circumstance." Ian tried to interrupt, but Clair waved him off. "I know a lady should not act the wanton, and I am after all a lady by birth and degree, but I am also a Frankenstein. And Frankensteins have a fierce passion for scientific inquiry."
Ian smiled. "Yes, I know."
"Then you do understand."
"Understand what?" Ian was at a complete loss.
"My response to your kiss was inevitable. You see, we seem to have some kind of electrical current, a spark, so to speak. This spark intrigues me. I feel it must be quite similar to Oersted's theory on magnetism, where two opposing poles attract one another. I had so wondered what caused poets to write such passionate sonnets as I have read. Now I know," she remarked. She turned and began walking away.
Suddenly she stopped and looked back over her creamy white shoulder. "After experiencing passion myself, this centripetal force, I wonder that there is not more poetry in the world. A veritable deluge of it."
Ian sighed, frustrated. He was giving her his best kiss and she was thinking of magnets? Still, he couldn't keep his eyes off her as she strolled away, her shimmering green gown a beacon of light. She had done it again: stunned him. Clair Frankenstein was like the unfettered ocean rushing off in ceaseless journey toward distant shores. And how could he resist her pull? She stopped once and looked back, smiling at him, a smile for him alone.
Grimacing, he studied her. So she thought him an experiment. He had been many things to many people in his life; however, an instrument of scientific inquiry was not one of them.
Then all at once he smiled wickedly. Just wait until the next time he kissed her. He would give her a charge that would knock her garters off!
And just what in the bloody hell was centripetal force?
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
The first thing Ian noticed as Brooks led him into the Frankensteins' Blue Salon was that there was not a speck of blue to be seen. The second thing he noted was that the walls appeared decorated in a fur-and-feathers motif. The theme continued through every space available, including the four floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, which were filled with stuffed animals and birds.
A colorful macaw was perched on a tall gold stand in one corner of the room. In another corner, a magnificent tiger of gold and brown lay in repose. An owl was suspended from the ceiling in midflight. Crouched on all fours atop a gilt end table was a fat tabby cat with two lime green lizards frozen at his feet. One wall was completely covered with every kind of head imaginable, from a twelve-point buck to a grinning ferret. It was a virtual den of taxidermy, and it gave new meaning to the phrase, The night has a thousand eyes.
Ian raised an eyebrow, centuries of aristocratic breeding explicit in the motion.
The much put-upon but very proper Brooks explained stoically, "Lady Mary is quite proud of her hobby. In fact, it is rather a sideline of hers."
Ian raised both eyebrows. "Taxidermy?"
"Many people, rather than bury their pets, prefer to have them stuffed. That way, they have their loved ones with them forever." With a straight face, Brooks turned to the group of people standing at the fireplace and announced loudly, "The Baron Huntsley."
The small group turned toward Ian. He took in their faces, though some of them were hidden by shadow. He felt a crackling, creative energy which seemed to roll through the room. It gave him a queer start.