Well, at least the worst harm Mr. Tillingsworth would do to Angelica would be to put her into a catatonic state as he talked about his cats, ad nauseam. That was the benefit to dancing a country dance instead of walking through the garden or park with an uninteresting gentleman. At least during the dance, one was separated from one’s partner often enough that it gave one a rest from an uninspiring conversation, whereas when one took a turn about the room or the patio, one could hardly hope for such a reprieve.
Angelica thus engaged, that left Maia exactly where she wished to be: unencumbered, and able to relax her vigilance long enough to enjoy a dance set herself. Despite the fact that Alexander wasn’t even in England, there was no reason she couldn’t participate in one of the box or line dances.
Casting a quick glance at Angelica, who was just setting up in the new set, Maia checked her dance card and noted that Ainsworth was her next partner. At least he wouldn’t stomp on her feet, like Mr. Flewellington had done earlier.
As Maia bowed to Lord Ainsworth, she happened to notice Corvindale. He was standing in a secluded corner—a rarity in such a crush, but somehow he’d managed it—and was glowering. She couldn’t tell at whom he was glaring; it was a general scowl, directed, it seemed, to the room at large.
There were women, she supposed, who would find the earl’s dark, arrogant looks attractive—and would suffer his less-than-charming personality. He had a fine nose, long and not too broad, and a wide, square jaw. His cheekbones were high and sharp, giving his entire face the look of a stone bust finished with a large chisel rather than the finesse of a rasper or sandpaper. And since he tended toward dark colors in his clothing, his large shoulders and height were even more pronounced.
Maia lifted her nose and smiled at Ainsworth and tried very hard to push away the uncomfortable prickling of the fine hairs on her arms. The very last thing, the last thing, she wanted was to be living in that man’s house—guardian or no.
The chit had no idea how much danger she and her sister were in. If she did, she wouldn’t be lifting her pert little nose at Dimitri from across the room after telling him she would “review your correspondence on the morrow.”
He willed the annoyance away, waiting for his fangs to retract into their sheaths. And the pounding to cease rushing through his veins.
The last time he’d been this discomfited by a woman had been the day Meg told him she was leaving. This was, of course, a completely different case. But the fact remained: Miss Woodmore made his blood boil and his veins bulge.
And not in a good way.
If the ever-proper miss had any concept how quickly he’d acted since he’d learned of Chas’s disappearance, how thorough he had been in ensuring that the youngest of her sisters would remain safe at St. Bridie’s (what a ridiculous name for a convent of nuns since none of them would ever become brides) in Scotland, and the fact that since three days ago and unbeknownst to them, she and her middle sister had been under his protection, her haughty look might be deflated into something more grateful.
But probably not. The more cornered and surprised she was, the more indignant she became. After all, he’d experienced her sharp tongue once before when she was cornered and surprised. She simply didn’t remember it.
And aside of that, he saw no reason to inform Miss Woodmore of the danger lurking in the background. Chas Woodmore’s secret life was just that—a secret, just as the existence of the Draculia was also undisclosed to the world at large.
Dimitri remained still, watchful for any sign that Moldavi had acted sooner than he had expected. His arms were folded across his middle as he scanned the room. Filled with colors too bright and bold, too many people, and, worst of all, a veritable mash of smells—most of them unpleasant or too strong—the ballroom represented everything he’d tried to avoid for…oh, the last century or more.
Emphasis on the more.
Most of his acquaintances assumed that Dimitri’s avoidance of all things unrelated to his studies had to do with the fire in Vienna when Lerina died, but they would be wrong. Certainly, the event was a contributing factor, but his distaste for the life of a Dracule went much deeper than the loss of an investment and an accidental death. His discontent had started with Meg, twenty-four years earlier when he’d saved her life and first become Dracule.
But the culmination of his journey to the life he lived now—the rigid, solitary, ironically Puritan one—had been That Day. That morning, when he’d awakened to find that even a year of denying himself had not released him from Lucifer. It had, in fact, bound him to the devil all the more tightly because of his murder of the old woman whose name he’d never known. An old woman who’d simply tried to help him.
He’d not made the same mistake since. He now consumed sustenance, never allowing himself to become so desperate as to maul a person to death—as most vampires were able to do.
He simply no longer took the blood from living bodies, thus denying himself the pleasure and satiation of the past. There was hope that, perhaps one day, the self-denial would be enough to grant him release from a demon who thrived on selfishness and self-centeredness. In the meantime, he studied every ancient document he could get his hands on, looking for another way.
Any way.
And the ever-present ache from his Mark, radiating down and behind his left shoulder, was a constant reminder of Lucifer’s fury with him. The rootlike black marking extended from beneath the hair at the left side of his neck down over his shoulder and halfway down his back. It was a visible sign of his cracked and damaged soul, and the more annoyed Lucifer became, the more it throbbed and filled, rising up like twisting black veins.
The Mark twinged now as Dimitri edged against the wall to allow a promenade of three to mince past. They’d circled by thrice since he’d come to stand here, and he eyed them darkly. One of the women—the one in the center—met his yes boldly as they brushed by in a wave of at least five different floral scents, along with powder and body heat, and Dimitri acknowledged her with a cold, uninterested look.
Women, especially mortal women, were the last thing on his mind.
Miss Woodmore was smiling as Ainsworth hooked her elbow and spun her in a neat circle before moving on to the next steps in the dance that separated them, and then brought them back, glove to glove. At least the dress she wore wasn’t pink or yellow, but an unassuming blue with discreet pink roses on the shoulders. It clung and slid along her hips and thighs like damp silk as she moved through the paces, and Dimitri wondered darkly if Chas had seen and approved of that frock.
A sudden waver in his vision and a heaviness in his chest had Dimitri removing his gaze from the dancers and focusing on a couple strolling past. The female half was wearing ruby earbobs and a matching necklet, which was the reason for his flash of light-headedness. But she was far enough away, and she didn’t pause, so the weakness passed almost immediately.
Yet another reason to avoid fetes and balls and dinner parties and Almack’s and court. And even, as often as he could manage, Parliament. How he hated sitting in the House of Lords and listening to those mortals natter on about postage laws or minting coins or other inconsequential things like tea taxes. It had been the worst during that mess with the Colonies and the stamp tax imposed on them.
Yes, one never knew when one might be accosted by a ruby, and since Dimitri had been unfortunate enough to acquire that particular gemstone as his Asthenia, he must always be on guard from that danger.
Each of the Dracule, along with gifts of immortality, speed and extraordinary strength, also had a specific weakness endowed upon him by their partner in the dark covenant: Lucifer. Since the ruby festooning Meg’s neck was the first thing Dimitri had seen when he woke from that fateful dream one hundred and thirty-eight years ago, his Asthenia was the bloodred gemstone.