by Renee Peters
His turn away from the cot was almost too smooth.
“Non,” she managed after a moment. Her family was not unwelcome. They had just shown little interest in disturbing her peace. “Only, since the music started growing louder, I am melting into the cracks of the floorboards at the slightest provocation.”
She tilted her head and managed a smaller smile that faded too quickly. “I was going to throw a book at you. The door would have opened either way.”
“I am grateful you resisted the impulse.” Dorian said, and crossed the space toward her writing desk. He passed a thumb over the feather of her quill before casting her a look over his shoulder. “It is… uncomfortable, the music?”
“I do not have fond memories for the music as you do, mon Seigneur,” Joanna murmured, distracted by his touch on the feather and the satin rise of her song in answer. Her fingers shifted to cup her cheek, before traveling higher to push a curl behind her ear.
“Of course not.” The Lord's gaze followed her movements, and he cleared his throat as if the act could relieve the sudden heaviness in the air that had settled between them.
“So, this is the place?” He swept a look around the chamber. “The place that inspires the words that leave the ton breathless.” His lips quirked again, and she found herself watching them. “If only they knew.”
“That… I am an Immortal or that I am a woman? I fear poor Mathias has been mistaken for me for all the errands I send him on. He has been… entirely kind to humor me. Most are.”
Dorian’s expression darkened slightly. “You are fond of Mathias.”
“Are… you not?” She asked and knew innately the reason for the darker sound of his violins. She had known enough men in her time to understand the tone Dorian took; even if she could not understand why. Her smile softened as she continued. “He has treated me as a younger sibling in a house with many.”
Dorian relaxed somewhat, and he crossed his arms to lean against a wall. “I count him a friend and brother. I am pleased he has shown you kindness.”
“Oui. More than he should, perhaps, for the trouble I cause him.”
The High Lord’s attention flickered to the desk, and his expression lightened briefly with amusement. “And the letters, they are from your admirers?”
“Most,” she offered with a sheepish laugh.
There was one letter in the stack that still haunted her for its request. Her wince was internal and evidenced by a brief sharpness of her music as a note leapt off key.
Dorian watched her.
Her thumb fidgeted across her ribbon. “I… have only written by memory. It speaks… a little poorly of their experience if a ghost can move them to fondness. I would lie to say I am not… pleased by it, though.”
“You should be,” he said with a smile. “You are fortunate to have known a love with the power to shake the hearts of mortals. Imagine how it might move Eternity.”
Joanna wet her lip and let her eyes trace over the symmetry of his features, away from his eyes.
A curl fell from the unruly tumble of his raven-dark hair. It was almost too long to be fashionable for the period — despite the meticulousness of his style otherwise — and rested on the high crest of his cheek. A long, straight nose and then, his eyes, a deep brown, almost as dark as her inkwells, and bottomless. It was only their intensity that kept her from falling through.
“I may not have the fortitude to consider my words lasting for eternity, Dorian,” she admitted finally. “I sometimes forget enough that I will.” She tilted her head, and her gaze strayed from him to the shoulder that had supported her. “But you pay a beautiful compliment. I am appreciative for it.”
“I was not talking about your poems.” His smile ticked again, wry.
He had been speaking of love.
“Prettier still, then,” she managed and afforded him a weak smile through the heat of her flush.
For a moment, only the sound of their music fell between them; a quiet refrain that was tense as if the strings of his violin had been pulled too taut and her flutist running low on breath.
“I….” Her hand rubbed her arm. “Do not wish for you to leave. But I fear if I inquire the reason for the visit, you might. Did you come only to speak of my writing?”
He shifted against the wall. “If I am honest, I do not know why I came — perhaps to be certain we have not buried you beyond recovery.” His gaze touched over her features again, searching.
“I think we have not.” He pushed himself upright. “We owe you a debt, Joanna LeClaire Holt. One I am not quite certain we can ever repay. But I intend to try.”
The words were cryptic enough to settle her music into a thin, low melody. Her brows stitched, and she closed her eyes briefly as if she might find their meaning in his own song. For as close as his violins felt to her own, she could not place it.
“I was not a burden that was wanted, Dorian. I am… not unaware of that.”
“And yet, that you believe yourself a burden at all is the only proof I need of our failure as a family,” he answered grimly. “Eternity is too long an existence to know anything but the fullness of the bonds that are our gift.”
Gift.
She had never considered the bonds a gift. Not for being stolen and not for the threads that had played an elegy through her blood for years.
But her experience could not be that of the family’s.
Not for how they loved.
Joanna knew that, as much as she knew that she had been taken into their House too soon to be anything but a burden. Even if it was less true now. She closed her hand around her wrist and lifted her shoulders.
“I would not wish to be owed for the suffering,” she murmured. “I am… pleased enough not to be the cause of it this time. Even if I did want for it, I do not think it should fall to you to pay such a debt.”
The Lord moved off the wall and closed the distance between them. Without considering asking her permission, his fingers reached out to claim her own, and he lifted her knuckles to his lips for a kiss that lingered just past the boundaries of politeness.
“Ah, Cherie. It is fortunate you are not the one making the decision then.” He breathed the words over her skin, before lowering her hand. “The sun is up. I have disturbed your rest.” He avoided looking toward her unmade bed. “We shall meet again, soon.”
Dorian stepped around her to the door, and she felt the draw of his music for moments more before the growing distance between them seemed to force a release.
Still, she did not move beyond bringing her hand to her chest to hold it against a thundering heartbeat.
Rest did not come.
Chapter 7
The Vaughn Estate, Easthaven
The month of May blew in with a flurry of spring storms; a reflection of the mood that had dogged Dorian Vaughn for nearly a fortnight. From behind the gray clouds, the sun did little to warm the cooler temperatures and even less to dry the mud and flooded puddles left over from the days of the downpour.
Easthaven’s eastern countryside suffered worse for storms — its packed dirt pathways blurring into mud and pits at the slightest rainfall. The estates of the wealthy, far from the cobblestone paths that made travel easier, often fared better.
The High Lord’s estate housed one of the town’s oldest manors. A relic of a time when Gothic architecture had begun its revival, it boasted red brickwork and elegant crown moldings that decorated the arched windows and door frames. He had recently had its pocked brick scrubbed and the moldings repainted, but the restoration efforts only served to accentuate the historic charm and age of the manor. Creeping ivy, with vines reaching as high as the steep gables, had already reclaimed the facade. For that fact alone, the manor nearly blended with the wildness of the garden in its front.
Of late, Dorian had found himself wondering if it might be too wild for more delicate sensibilities.
It was the kind of thought that had only added to the volatility of his temperament.
<
br /> Upstairs in the manor, the Conde stood before the largest window of his master suite watching a lone horseman make an approach up the paved pathway that lead to his residence. A look of thoughtful study shadowed his features as he recognized the familiar figure of his Austrian brother.
Mathias.
A flicker of concern tempered by curiosity plucked over his strings.
Mathias was not a man to make social calls. On the occasions that he left the castle it was usually to move and mingle among the lower classes of the mortal world to hunt — or to work. The man had felt little need to change his nature or habits for a rebirth into Immortal life; a reason perhaps, apart from the fact that he was one of the High Lord’s few surviving brothers, that they were fast friends.
The Conde folded the page of poetry he had been perusing and tucked it into the pocket that sat on the inner lining of his sateen vest. A faint waft of orange blossom and vanilla tickled his senses, and hesitating, he retrieved the paper and turned away from the window to cross the room to his dresser. With the poetry hidden safely within, the Conde lifted his head. He stared into the dark eyes that looked back at him from the mirror and his lips twisted sharply with self-deprecation.
It would take more than a drawer to hide his secrets from Mathias — if he was inclined to keep them. It would not have gone unnoticed that he had become almost a fixture at the castle again for as often as he’d been making appearances. Nor that his visits inevitably seemed to end with time spent in the French queen’s company.
He found himself as much at a loss for the reason as he expected his family did.
Really, Carino?
The laughing whisper of his Spanish sister’s ghost tapped a reprimand over his conscience as loudly as if she were sitting by his side to wield her fan as a weapon.
Mercy.
Gods, but he missed her.
A breath reoriented him in the present.
Perhaps an objective ear and advice from a clear head was exactly what he needed to help him make a final decision on the matter he was considering.
Dorian straightened and turned his head toward the open door of his suite. A low murmur of voices below stairs indicated his guest had come inside.
Without another thought for the betraying evidence in his dresser, Dorian headed for the door, summoning the familiar security of a lighthearted mask to guard his deepest places. That his eldest siblings rarely failed to see through it was not something he let himself think about as he descended the stairs. He paused at the bottom, framed in the open doorway of his study.
“I see I have begun a trend….” Dorian offered with a smirk. He might as well take the bull by the horns. “But I would not have thought you could be so easily persuaded to take up social calls, Matty.”
“The queens are wild-eyed,” his brother grunted.
“Are they?” Dorian couldn’t help the sharpness that entered his tone, and he willed himself to wait a few heartbeats before crossing into the room to lower himself into a seat facing his brother.
The Austrian was not particularly tall. He stood at an average height to most men, but he was barrel chested with roughly carved features that had been smoothed somewhat by the gift of eternity. Dorian extended a hand in silent invitation for him to sit.
Mathias settled into one of the chairs and stretched his legs out before him as he set about tamping tobacco into his pipe.
“Another hour and my sanity would be at risk.”
“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Dorian said, “with the songs flowing again.” His brow furrowed slightly. “And no word yet from Lian as to the cause. I’m of a mind to pry an answer from him sooner than later. Our sisters' uncertainty is no doubt as much to blame as the music itself, for any ill winds.”
“Aye.” Mathias’ hand slipped into his front breast pocket to draw a spill of straw free. With an idle lean toward the gaslights he caught the spill in a bloom of fire that he brought to the pipe.
“Your attention to Joanna has not gone unnoticed, either; though you’d be more to blame for a lightning strike than the full storm.”
Dorian winced. “I thought to be careful enough,” he admitted. He had taken time to pay attention to those of his sisters most inclined to selfishness where his company was concerned.
Not enough, evidently.
“No doubt,” the Austrian Lord murmured through the first billow of smoke. “But they can be petty enough when they’re of a mind to notice any attention over none. She’s not had to suffer claws.”
He did not name names — there was no need.
Angelica especially had targeted Joanna for harassment since the day their youngest sister had been turned.
Dorian flicked a look his brother’s way. “They do not look favorably on my decision to lure our sister from her dungeon? You know as well as any of us what she is owed.”
Mathias’s teeth clicked idly against the wood as he watched Dorian thoughtfully. But the nod that eventually came was one of acknowledgement.
“You feel indebted enough to pay her back alone?”
Dorian grunted. Bloody hell but Mathias always cut to the chase.
“I feel it within my power, perhaps, to ensure that she need not suffer discomfort for our awakening or for the darker inclinations of some of our kin.”
Dorian took a breath and leaned back in his seat. “The child is pleasant enough company, and capable of learning the ways of society. I find the Conde de Castile in need of a wife, and I believe that Joanna will serve.”
He leveled an almost challenging look on Mathias’s hazel eyes. His brother was the one, after all, currently supervising the queens at the castle in the absence of the older Lords.
Mathias studied him in silence.
The Conde continued, undeterred. “I am considering removing her from Anowen to my residence and presenting her to society as my bride.”
The silence stretched on between the lords after the declaration, long enough that Mathias had blown three smoke rings without breaking his focus on the Castilian.
“Aye,” he offered finally. “I suppose she would serve the purpose as well as any of the queens if you’re of a mind to call her child and wife in the same breath.”
Dorian controlled his expression this time, though his violins slurred an octave deeper between them. “She is an infant yet, is she not? The manor will be in shrouds again for half a century for the course.”
He was almost defensive with the argument. The French queen was a child, even if the memory of the scent and feel of Joanna’s closeness never left him.
“She is,” Mathias agreed.
“The mortals take brides as young as she — or younger, in their years.” Dorian hedged. “She will not be remarked upon, save perhaps for being French.”
With Napoleon over the channel.
Mathias breathed a sound that was very close to a laugh. “You forget how young your own face is, brother. She doesn’t look nearly the child. They’ll think you took a French spinster to wed at worst.”
Dorian’s strings slurred, and he could do nothing to hide the sound.
His brother leaned back, puffing at his pipe. “You’ll want to have that conversation with Lian. Though I might word it a little less….” His hand waved through the cloud of smoke, “like you’d practiced for a hand of poker. Your music is giving you away.”
Dorian controlled his expression this time, though his violins slurred an octave deeper between them. “She is an infant yet, is she not? The manor will be in shrouds again for half a century for the course.” He was almost defensive with the argument. The French queen was child, even if the memory of the scent and feel of Joanna’s closeness never left him. “The mortals take brides as young as she — or younger, in their years. She will not be remarked upon, save perhaps for being French.” With Napoleon over the channel.
Dorian narrowed a look on the lord. It was perhaps, the singular annoyance of their shared gift that true privacy of thought was all but imp
ossible — especially when one sat heartbeats apart.
Lies were meaningless and only distance might serve for the illusion of refuge when the music was alive.
All the more reason to establish his distance.
“I do not profess to be unaware of Joanna’s —” Dorian did not finish the statement. There was no hiding his attraction to the French queen. He tried again. “I am not an animal incapable of self-control, or of realizing that to take advantage of our sister’s trust — if she will have me — would only increase our debt.”
“Aye,” Mathias said mildly.
“She has lived two lifetimes in a bloody catacomb. Is it unseemly that I should wish to show her a brighter side of life?”
“You hardly have to convince me to trust you with her,” Mathias murmured, and flicked a thoughtful look over the Castilian’s face. “Only, if you intended to present the idea to Lian, it would likely suit you better to start with that over ‘she’ll serve.’” The Austrian snorted softly. “Likely for convincing the girl too.”
Dorian exhaled a laugh that became something of a groan and he leaned forward onto his knees to drag his fingers through his hair.
“You’d think I could manage better for a speech after centuries. She thought to hurl a book at my head once. I’ll be fortunate to avoid a wound at this rate.” He lowered his hands.
Mathias breathed another laugh.
“There’s something —” Dorian broke off again. “Perhaps the distraction of the ton will serve for a cure. It will please me to see her success.”
He did not doubt that Joanna would find her place in society’s roost. Few would dare to slight a Condesa — even a French one.
“Most of us will be pleased for her for it.” Mathias leaned his head back again, his pipe cupped in his palm. “She deserves it. And you might need a wife of a mind to chuck books at your head on occasion. Ayla hasn’t attended her duties of the last few lifetimes.”
Dorian’s lips twitched. “Indeed. I will be fortunate if she does not take Joanna into her confidence for instruction,” he said dryly. “But come, enough talk of our sisters. I will hear my brother’s secrets.”