“Jane?”
He merely held out her cloak, which she had tossed upon a chair on entering the room. She grabbed it and threw it around her shoulders, hearing, from the tinkle of breaking glass, that she had managed to dislodge her wineglass from the mantelpiece. She hoped William had not noticed the broken glass, but he was in conversation with someone outside the door.
“This is Raphael, my steward. He will see you safely home,” William said.
Jane nodded at the steward—she had a vague impression of a strong profile, black hair streaked with silver—and walked ahead of him out of the room and toward the front door. The steward stepped beside her to open the door and an intoxicating scent arose from him—healthy male sweat and his blood, oh heavens, she could smell his blood, and hear the sound of his pulse.
“Steady there, ma’am!” He grasped her elbow.
She must have lost her footing. His touch melted his thoughts to her . . . one of them? A handsome lady despite her anger . . .
Snarling, she shook his arm away and marched ahead of him down the drive. Now she was apart from William, and unnerved by her violent reaction to the man who followed her, she wondered if she had made the right decision. She had no part in the quarrel between the Damned and les Sales; she had seen the contemptuous attitude of many of the Damned toward mortals, regarding them as convenient sources of pleasure, service, and sustenance. From thence, it could only be one small, wicked step to regard mortals as prey.
But still it made no sense. For was not one of the delights of the Damned to give pleasure far beyond any mortal sensual experience? Did the pleasures of the hunt outweigh the luxury of a seduction? Memories of strength and power, the fierce joy of pursuit and capture, came back to her. However much she might justify her actions as a soldier might justify his killing during a war, she could not deny the pleasure of ripping into an enemy’s throat, the exultation of his blood and fear . . .
“Ma’am, if you please.” She heard the crunch of gravel behind her.
“Yes?”
“Ma’am, my instructions are to stay close.” There was something, a hint of a foreign accent in his voice.
“Very well.” She stood and listened. She could hear Raphael’s breath; beyond him, in the meadow at the side of the driveway, a scamper of small furred beings, the brush of an owl’s wing in the dark, the hectic rush of air as a bat turned and skittered . . . sounds no mortal could or should hear, and yet she still deluded herself that she was not one of the Damned! Further into the darkness, cattle stirred, made uneasy by her presence—or was it by the presence of another like herself? A breath of wind sent a faint scent to her nostrils, the scent that had clung about Martha earlier that day, rank and musky yet with the familiarity of the Damned about it. The scent of an animal.
Some hunt alone, with no society, no loyalties to any others, little better than beasts . . .
“Take my arm,” she whispered. “Come closer to me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he did so. She now stood between him and le Sale, for that was what it must be.
She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. “Whisper quietly to me as though . . .”
His hand moved to his hip and she saw against the silk lining of his coat the gleam of finely polished wood and steel with a delicate tracery of ivory. “As though we’re courting . . .”
With a smooth, easy movement he withdrew the pistol and cocked it.
She slowed their pace and listened, ignoring the distraction of his person so close to hers, hip to hip, his arm around her waist beneath her cloak.
He gave a soft murmur of laughter. “Ah, a good servant enjoys his work, ma’am.”
She who had once hunted at night was now prey. The creature moved clumsily, doubtless weak from hunger, lonely and fearful, almost as though it didn’t care that she could hear.
She gave a low growl, and beside her Raphael’s breath hitched; if he had had any doubt of her nature, now it was clear what she was, or what she was becoming.
The creature was on her with a sudden burst of speed and a desperate clumsiness, but even so it was stronger than she. Its prey was not Jane, but Raphael—she found herself knocked to the ground as it leaped on Raphael, en sanglant agleam in the moonlight, a woman with wild hair and eyes, a once-fine gown in shreds and tatters, her movements weak and frantic as though she had not dined in some time. The pistol exploded with a streak of fire and left the scent of powder in the air. Whether the ball found its target she didn’t know—certainly the woman did not slow down.
Jane grasped the woman’s matted hair. “Leave him!”
From her appearance it looked as though the woman was more animal than human, and Jane was surprised when she spoke. “He is mine!”
“He does not consent. Go to the house. They have willing humans there.”
But even as starved as she was, the woman had strength beyond Jane’s, and one blow of her arm sent Jane reeling back, stars bursting before her eyes. She found herself flung several feet away. As she struggled to her feet there was another loud explosion and flash of fire; Raphael had managed to grasp the second of the pair of pistols, and this time his shot was true.
The woman fell back with a cry, dark blood staining the ruined bodice of her gown. She fell and began a painful crawl away from them. The wound, which would have proved fatal to a human, merely weakened her enough to cause her to abandon her attempt to dine.
Jane ran to her. “I beg of you, do not go!”
“I am dishonored; I am sale. Leave me.” The woman snarled and melted into the darkness.
“Let her go,” Raphael said. He got to his feet, brushing his coat off, and bent to retrieve the pistol that had fallen. “What do you think would happen to her if she came to the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“William would show her little clemency or mercy, ma’am.” He examined the pistol and tucked it inside his coat again. “She would receive justice. This way she survives a little longer. Shall we continue?”
Jane nodded and brushed dirt from her cloak.
The moon was a small sickle in the sky, but there was light enough from the stars for her keen sight to observe the wound on Raphael’s knuckle, a bright trail of blood that made its way with tantalizing slowness down his finger (powerful, elegant hands; how had she not noticed before?). And the scent, God forgive her, mixed with that of gunpowder and scorched fabric and flesh, which brought hurtling back memories of other nights and other hunts.
“You bleed,” she said.
“Aye, ma’am, so I do.” He was not one to be overcome by her powers (whatever they might be; she wasn’t sure of her capabilities. Had not la Sale thrown her as easily as a man might throw a sack of grain onto a cart?). This man would yield only if he wished; all the seductive powers of the Damned could not help her.
He raised his hand to his mouth and licked the knuckle clean, a deliberate and tantalizing gesture.
She let out a small sigh of disappointment. But the blood welled anew.
“You wish . . . ?” He offered his hand. It might have been an invitation to walk on, and she stood, frozen, watching the scarlet trail, imagining how that would feel and taste on her tongue, the pleasure of his male taste and smell, the touch of hands whose refinements were marred with a little roughness.
And if she drank his blood she was Damned and there would be no turning back; there would be no more doubt or uncertainty.
If she would not yield as one of the Damned, she could yield as a woman. She stepped up to him and kissed him on the lips, receiving the shock of an aftertaste of his blood, delicious with the flavors of almonds, of honey, and, yes, a little of bitter herbs she could not identify.
He made a soft sound of surprise and gathered her close. She clutched the lapels of his coat as though she drowned and he were her only rescue, but she wanted to sink into sweet, deep oblivion. He winced as her sharp teeth scraped the softness inside his lips, but she would not allow herself t
o draw blood. This, for the moment, was enough.
“So.” He put her from him, and she wondered if she too wore a look of dazed wonder, her lips swollen from kissing. “My instructions are to see you safely home.”
“You will.” She looked upon him with pleasure, a tall, well-made man, although not a young man—the silver in his hair attested to that—muscular and graceful with a body made to dance or fight or, yes, make love. Definitely a body for making love.
“Come,” he said, and led her through the starlight, onto the road and past the darkened cottages and finally by the pond where a duck gave a comical sleepy quack.
They did not speak, she wanting to savor the moment, for almost certainly she would want his blood, or another’s, and sooner than she cared to think about. She could have entered his mind, but delicacy forbade it. For all she knew, he might regard her as an easy conquest; he might be one of those who craved to provide the sustenance of the Damned as others craved gaming or strong drink or opium. For this night, she wanted to keep her illusions beautifully intact.
He kissed her hand at her front door—or, rather, he kissed her wrist at exactly the point he would have chosen had he been Damned and wished to dine—and she thought she might swoon with pleasure. He bade her good night with grave formality, and while she could not bear to let him go, she could not wait to rush inside and light a candle from the banked-up fire.
She had a lot to write about.
“Go away.” Jane’s pen scratched over the paper before her.
“We have callers,” Cassandra said.
“I’m barely fit to be seen.”
“And whose fault is that? If you had not stayed up all night, you would not be such a bear with a sore head this morning.”
Jane leaned back in her chair and shook the sheet of paper dry. “I am a busy bear with a sore head, sister, and I am not in the mood to exchange polite idiocies over tea.”
“Not even with handsome gentlemen?”
“We don’t know any, and I doubt these mythical handsome gentlemen have come to see me. Or you, for that matter.”
“Of course not.” One of the annoying things about Cassandra was her refusal to be provoked. “They—or rather he—has come to see Anna.”
“But Anna is not here in Chawton to see gentlemen—wait, who do you mean?” She stood, alarmed, and straightened her papers, absently wiping her pen on her handkerchief.
“Duval—Jane, you look a fright, come back.”
Jane, her appearance forgotten, ran into the parlor where Anna, Mrs. Austen, and Martha sat. Duval stood and bowed as she entered.
She longed to attack him, but the mayhem of spilled blood, the possibility of his being armed, and, not least, the cruelty of revealing her true nature to her family stilled her.
“I trust you are well, Miss Jane,” he murmured. He cast an amused glance at her. She was fairly sure she had a smudge of ink on her cheek, and her gown bore the brunt of the fight last night. Altogether she was fairly sure that she looked exactly what she was: a woman of a certain age, bedraggled and slightly grubby. He, on the other hand, was impeccably handsome and elegant, and to Jane’s dismay Anna was gazing at him with besotted admiration.
“It is most kind of you to call, sir, but I regret we must bid you farewell.”
“Jane!” her mother exclaimed.
“Have you not forgotten, ma’am, that the chimney sweep is due to visit today? We must cover the furniture.”
“No, Jane, you are mistaken,” Martha said. “Sir, my friend is all at sixes and sevens when she is writing; you must forgive her.”
“You write, Miss Jane?”
“Yes, sir. I write novels.”
“Oh. Novels.” He looked at her with some pity.
“They are very good,” Anna said. “And a publisher was very interested in one of them once, am I not right, Aunt?”
Jane sighed in exasperation. “It has been very kind of you to visit, Mr. Richards, but it is not proper for we ladies to receive you.”
He bowed and picked up his hat. “It was delightful to see you, ladies.”
After he had left, Cassandra turned on her sister. “What on earth is the matter with you, Jane? All this nonsense about a chimney sweep! Why were you so rude to him?”
“He is most unsuitable company for Anna . . .” Jane stopped as she saw Anna’s look of avid interest.
“Why, Aunt Jane?” Anna asked.
“Delicacy forbids me from saying more. He is more dangerous than you can imagine. We should not receive him again. If necessary I shall write to your father and he—” She stopped as the front doorbell rang again. “This place is a madhouse this morning, and I am busy. You must entertain yourselves and the next herd of visitors without my presence.”
As she stepped into the vestibule she heard the murmur of voices and darted forward to greet the new guests.
“My dear Jane!” Dorcas Kettering grasped her hands. “How delightful to see you. I am afraid we had to bring Raphael with us, but as William’s steward he is most respectable, almost a gentleman. What do you think of my gown today? I borrowed it from one of our servants.” She wore a striped cotton gown that revealed a lot of ankle.
“Oh. Much better, although I think the original owner must have been considerably shorter than you. The paste earrings, however—”
“Diamonds, my dear.”
“Not at all suitable, I fear. They are quite lovely, but not in the daytime.”
William, clearly annoyed by talk of feminine frippery, interrupted. “Duval was here. We saw him leave. Is everyone safe?”
“Yes. Perfectly safe. Raphael, how very pleasant to see you again.” She wondered if William knew what had transpired between her and Raphael last night and concluded he probably did. “I made Duval leave.”
“You made him leave? How?” William asked.
“I told him the chimney sweep was expected at any moment and I was quite rude. I embarrassed my family.”
He frowned. “Duval and his kind need stronger measures than bad manners, as you know.”
He stood back to allow her and Dorcas to enter the parlor, where Cassandra looked at Jane with a satirical air and Anna looked sulky.
“I thought you had to write, Aunt Jane.”
“Oh, I can spare a few minutes yet.” She introduced Raphael to them and prepared to enjoy the sight of her family gravely exchanging pleasantries about the weather with the Damned.
Raphael sat next to her, making her acutely aware of her bedraggled appearance.
“I have been awake all night,” she muttered to him.
“I too.”
“I was working,” she added, in case he harbored any illusions that her wakefulness was caused by thoughts of him. “Writing.”
“So was I. Hunting.” He shifted so his coat swung aside to reveal a pistol.
Finding herself gazing at his muscular thighs clad in tight-fitting buckskins, she cleared her throat. “Would you care for some more tea?” As she poured, she muttered, “Hunting les Sales?”
He nodded.
“Do you kill them?”
“What are you two talking about so very seriously?” Mrs. Austen found it necessary to intervene.
“We are talking of vermin, ma’am,” Raphael replied.
“How charming,” Mrs. Austen replied. “More tea, Mrs. Kettering? My son sends us this tea from London. It is a most superior blend, do you not agree?”
“What are you, Raphael?” Jane asked in a whisper. “You are not one of the Damned, yet you—”
“Oh, how very kind!” Cassandra cried. “Jane, Mrs. Kettering has offered to let us copy some of her music. My sister, Mrs. Kettering, has the clearest penmanship on a manuscript; it is as good as printed music.”
“Most kind indeed,” Jane said, trying not to look at William.
You hunger?
I’m not sure. But she looked at Raphael and couldn’t tell exactly what she hungered for.
He is my servant, but you co
uld do worse than to take him as a lover. You will have need of him, or another, when you wish to dine.
You, sir, are offensive, and I assure you once again I shall fight a metamorphosis with all my strength.
“I think, Miss Jane, you and I must establish a musical club and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours,” Dorcas cried.
Jane glanced around the parlor, trying to imagine it crammed not only with the gentry of Chawton but also with a cluster of the Damned, notorious for their indifference to music, wondering on whom they should first dine. “That is a very fine idea, but—”
“We are in agreement then! What do you think, William?”
“Excellent. Since it is Dorcas’s idea, we should play host first. I invite you all to the Great House tomorrow afternoon, if that is convenient. Raphael will see to invitations to others in the village.”
“Will Mr. Richards attend?” Anna asked.
“Regretfully, no, Miss Anna,” William replied. “He is not at all suitable company for a gently bred young lady like yourself. He has a reputation as an unscrupulous rake who is heavily in debt and gambles—”
“Quite unsuitable, as I have told you,” Jane said, dismayed by Anna’s avid interest.
“But my brother, Mr. Fuller, will be there,” Dorcas said. “He is very fond of music.”
“I regret we cannot attend,” Jane said, but she was interrupted by her sister, mother, and Martha, exclaiming that the family would be delighted to attend, while Anna beamed with pleasure.
Shortly after, their guests took their leave, with Jane unable to continue an unspoken conversation with William or a whispered one with Raphael.
“Why, we are becoming quite fashionable,” Mrs. Austen commented. “And Mr. Raphael seemed quite gentlemanly for a steward, although when I was a girl it was a very respected profession for a younger son. I think, however, that Mr. Fitzpatrick is an old-fashioned sort of gentleman. I do wonder why he has not married. But who is this Mr. Raphael? He sounds foreign.”
“I am sure Aunt Jane can tell us more of him. She talked only to him the whole time,” Anna said.
“A slight exaggeration,” Jane said. “May I remind us all that Anna has not been sent to stay with us to enjoy society but to reflect upon her errors. We should not visit the Great House tomorrow.”
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 7