She glanced up from stirring cream into her tea. "Well, of course, Baron Huntsley."
Ian waited with bated breath. This was one of the main reasons he had dropped by the Frankenstein house on Pelham Square, aside from getting another chance to view the delectable Miss Frankenstein.
Clair took a sip of her tea, then spoke. "My investigations revealed that you were known to be seen only at night. You have an allergy to silver, you only wear gold jewelry on your person, and you…" She hesitated, seeming embarrassed.
"Yes?" he prodded.
"You… umm. You are reported to be a remarkable lover. In fact, a few of the women say they… umm." Clair paused, her cheeks pink. Ian thought the color became her immensely. "You are a lothario of the first order. Women say that they swoon from pleasure when you make love to them. These interviews, I felt, supported my hypothesis."
"And your hypothesis would be… ?" he prodded, enjoying her discomfiture. He was a man for all seasons—well read, well fed, well bred and well bedded. He was a virile man who exuded confidence and sexuality, the latter ensuring legions of willing women gracing his bed. He was a man whom other men looked up to and whom women found irresistible.
"That you were draining their blood as you made love to them. That they fainted from loss of blood, not your great talent at inspiring all-consuming passion."
She is an open book, Ian thought as he viewed the expressions passing rapidly across Clair's fair face. He was amused to note that they ranged from thoughtful to studious to awestruck to embarrassed—then to thoughtful interest.
"So that was your hypothesis. Now what do you think, now that you see me here this morning—in the flesh, so to speak?" He couldn't resist the tiny jab.
Clair glanced at the floor, not wanting to meet his eyes. "Well, I guess it is possible that your lovemaking is so wild and abandoned that these women do lose consciousness. Although without scientific proof…" She trailed off, apparently lost in some conundrum of scientific bent, her mind clearly in a state of perpetual motion.
Unwittingly she spoke her thoughts out loud. "I wonder if a scientific study would be possible? Although one would most likely have to be a master on the subject to judge it accurately."
Ian choked on his tea. "I would be happy to apply as your lab rat," he said, grinning wolfishly. His nostrils twitched slightly as he breathed in her scent. Clair Frankenstein made him hunger in a fundamental way. She made him want to snatch her up and carry her off like a primitive man would, to teach her the meaning of the passion that was buried beneath her logical mind. Yes, he concluded, still waters did run deep. And with Clair Frankenstein, you might just drown if you didn't watch your step.
Clair's eyes grew round at the thought of the baron as her specimen. Oh, the charts and angles she would have to inspect, and the body of scientific evidence—the very large, very manly body of Baron Huntsley…! The techniques she could use would be invigorating and insightful and… She shifted in her chair, feeling an uncomfortable heat between her legs.
The research would not only be highly informative, she feared, but highly enflaming as well. Too enflaming, she mused, remembering the kiss of the previous night. She was treading in dangerous waters. She was becoming wild, uninhibited, wicked, wanton. Not a scientist. Who knew what she might do next? She might end up reading that scandalous Henry Fielding novel or dancing naked around her bedroom. She might start saying "legs" in public instead of "limbs."
Although Lady Delia had often remarked that Clair didn't have a romantic bone in her body, Clair knew herself better. Sometimes, late at night, she would dream of that one man who was made specially for her, like a gift for her birthday. He would love her mind, her body, and her pilgrim soul. He was a man who would cherish her and yet let her be her true self. He was a man to inspire her curiosity and enflame her senses. And when she went into his arms, it would be like coming home.
Licking her lips slightly, she faced facts. She was a closet romantic in an era when well-bred young ladies had two options: they either waited on the shelf for Prince Charming to ride up and take them down—even if they were almost twenty-five years of age—or they leapt off the shelf and made their own life. Of course, Clair's great-aunt Abby in her more lucid moments was fond of saying that the leapfrog ladies ended up getting warts and too many little tadpoles, since they weren't often content to sit on one lily pad but had to hop around the whole pond.
"I thank you for your sincere application, but I fear I am studying supernatural creatures, not super-sexual escapades."
This time, the laugh did escape Ian. Here was a sad romp. "So again I ask, why me? I would have thought that it would be next to impossible to be a vampire and the holder of an ancestral title. It would be too dashed difficult to remain undetected."
"Balderdash. Years ago, perhaps. But no longer," Clair argued. "My uncle Tieck actually wrote the very first vampire novel ever published in England. He was fortunate in finding a real, live vampire. Some years later he befriended the vampire of whom he wrote. They became cronies, until the vampire's death five years ago in a raging fire."
Ian nodded. Yes, that would do it. Fire worked as well on a vampire as a stake through the heart.
Noting Ian's nod, Clair continued with her explanation. "The vampire was a French count and a melancholy fellow, for every quarter century he would have to leave his estates and travel to far-off lands for another quarter century. He would leave so that people wouldn't notice that he didn't age. He stayed away so people would forget how he looked. After a few decades or more, he would come back, pretending to be a son or a cousin, and that would explain the family resemblance."
"Yes, that is precisely what I meant when I spoke about vampires and titles," Ian remarked. "And I certainly have not done this twenty-five-year thing. I have been in and out of London since I was in my early twenties."
Clair held up a hand. "Precisely. You've come and gone. Also, most of the aristocracy goes to schools like Eton. You stayed at your estate in Wales, unseen. Then, like Athena, you sprang forth as an adult."
"Easily explained. My ancestry is Welsh and English. My mother wished me to stay home to go to school. My father obliged her," Ian said. Yet a bleak look came into his eyes. "My father died when I was fourteen, leaving me to grow up extremely fast. I had a barony to run. Unlike other young bucks, I had my duty to my estates and my heritage as well as my mother and my sister to take care of. Didn't your research reveal these things?"
Ian schooled his expression. He had wandered lost in a vast world, struggling at a young age to understand who he was, what he was, and what he was to become, to preserve his heritage. Although his youth had been lost, a bitter cup to drink, the burdens he suffered had made him who he was today. And that was something he wouldn't trade for all the tea in China.
Observing the way his face tightened, Clair knew there was much more to Ian Huntsley than met the eye. He reminded her of a great fortress, invulnerable and extremely well guarded.
"My findings revealed that until five years ago, you had a townhouse here in London which was so rarely used that it was considered a ghost house. Prior to these past five years, your forays into town were almost nonexistent."
"Yes. And now you know why. My father's death kept me tied up for many years."
Clair winced inwardly. "I thought you were your father. I thought the so-called son, Ian Huntsley, was actually a paid servant, while you were in reality Blaidd Huntsley. Then you, Blaidd, 'died,' and you sent the servant away to America so you could assume the role of Ian Huntsley."
Ian snorted, both amused and indignant at such elaborate imaginings. "What a ruse that would be. But your timing is off, and though I bear a strong family resemblance to my father, we are not the same. His nose was much longer than mine and his cheekbones much more pronounced. Anyone knowing either of us would never take us as the same person. Your theory falls flat on its face."