by Diana Ballew
The driver arrived at the door and tipped his hat. “Good evening, Miss Richland. Allow me.”
He escorted her into the handsome, velvet-lined carriage. She ran her fingers along the plush seat, savoring the smooth texture against her skin.
Derek’s house was a mile away, at most. To the west, menacing dark clouds loomed over nearby Whidbey Island. A threatening breeze blew across Port Gardner Bay, carrying the salty scent of the cobalt sea.
As they neared the final block, the wind kicked up with the approaching storm. Fallen autumn leaves and twisted, broken branches rustled in the streets.
The carriage turned on to Grand Avenue. Just up ahead, the massive cedar-shingled house with a second story turret stood before her. Perched high above the perilous cliffs, the mansion faced the islands in Puget Sound and the incredible fuchsia sunsets often greeting the western skies.
The driver reined in the horses. He promptly climbed down, tethered the horses, and opened the carriage door. With a leather-gloved hand, he escorted her along a cobbled pathway framed with boxwood hedges. Sheltered, fiery torches with bending yellow flames defied the gusting wind, illuminating the narrow path leading to the covered front porch.
Erin undraped the scarf from her hair and slid a loose curl back into place. “This place is truly amazing.”
The driver’s breath caught, his steel-gray eyes narrowing. Her chest slowly tightened as his intense gaze lingered on her face and hair for far too long. She reached up to secure any wayward tendrils, but each and every hair felt in place. Uncomfortable, she cleared her throat.
His gaze snapped away. “Yes, this place is remarkable, Miss Richland.”
The coachman thumped the brass knocker on the massive double-doored entrance. An older woman with hair as white as fresh snow opened the door. Wearing a long black dress enveloped by a contrasting white apron, the slender woman wore a prickly scowl that would scare even the most persistent door-to-door solicitor.
She guided Erin’s coat off and hung it in the entry armoire. “Come, Miss Richland. Master Rudliff has been expecting you.”
Master Rudliff. Well, well. Erin stood in the enormous entry, craning her neck for a better view. The sprawling wood floors, clearly made from the finest Douglas fir trees, were so brightly polished she could see her reflection. Painted a rich color of deep taupe, the plaster walls exuded warmth below the imposing ornate crown molding and high-beamed ceilings.
Centered in the foyer was a round walnut table topped with a stylish vase filled with evergreen sprigs, twisted branches, pinecones, and winterberries. The fragrant arrangement smelled as if she had just stepped into a damp northwestern forest.
A tuxedoed butler wearing what appeared to be a mask similar to the one described in the new French novel Le Fantôme de l’Opéra arrived with a sterling tray of crystal glasses filled with sparkling liquid. “Champagne, Miss Richland?”
“Yes, please.” She took a glass from the tray he extended.
“Allow me to escort you upstairs. Master Rudliff is expecting you.”
Erin followed along the shadowy hallway that appeared to go on forever, leading toward the rear of the house. Trailing the servant up a wide staircase, medieval-style, candlelit sconces hung high upon the dark, paneled stairway, lit their way. Music filled her ears. She looked up and saw Derek standing at the top of the steps, dressed as what appeared to be a gothic count.
“Good evening, Miss Richland. I’m delighted you accepted my invitation.”
Reminding her of a handsome effigy, his body towered over hers as she ascended the last step. She gazed into his eyes, as he reached for her hand and whispered a kiss upon her knuckle.
He tilted his chin. “I must say, you make a particularly lovely feline. Your eyes are especially green tonight, like the exquisite emeralds adorning your hair.” His gaze narrowed. “The dragonfly combs are unusual. Wherever did you find them?”
A warm flush rushed to her cheeks. She fingered the combs in her hair. “Oh, I just borrowed them for tonight. Apparently, they’re quite old and from London.”
A single eyebrow rose. “From London, you don’t say. Most interesting,” he said, leaning forward, surveying the combs more closely.
She smoothed her hair. “I … I believe they’re one of a kind.”
“Yes, I think perhaps they are.” He flashed her a dazzling smile.
Derek made a handsome nobleman. His slicked back hair looked longer and darker than she remembered, giving him a sharp, almost sinister, appearance. He wore black trousers and a crisp white shirt framed by a blood-red vest. A long black cape with red velvet lining completed his costume.
Gesturing with a forward sweep of his arm, he asked, “Shall we?”
She nodded. He touched the small of her back, sending a jolt of warmth clear up to the nape of her neck as he guided her into a large room.
“Oh, my,” she said, entering the dimly lit area. Far larger and more open than she would have expected, the room felt massive with the enormous windows that reached from floor to ceiling, overlooking the bay. Band members, dressed in white tuxedoes, congregated in the corner with instruments. Their hands and faces were painted bright white with thin, black etchings around their eyes and mouths, making them resemble human skeletons.
An oversized, linen-covered table stood in front of the tall windows. A selection of wines, appetizers, and desserts sat off to one side. On the opposite end, a huge roast beast of some sort rotated slowly on a fiery spit. Next to the meat, an assortment of freshly-baked breads lay in wooden baskets lined with black linen cloth. She cast her attention to the magnificent ice sculpture in the shape of a large, predatory wolf, dead-center. Icy, crimson punch flowed between bared, pointed fangs before dribbling into an oversized sterling punch bowl.
All around the room people mingled in extravagant costumes: Marie Antoinette and King Louis the XVI, Caesar, Cleopatra, Napoleon, wicked pirates, and a creepy assortment of witches, goblins, vampires, wolves, and medieval warriors. In every direction, the fantastic costumes worn by the guests made her feel as though she had gone back in time.
“I have some friends I’d like you to meet.” Derek led her across the room toward the couple dressed as Marie Antoinette and King Louis the XVI. The king, seated on a damask divan, rose when he saw them approach.
“Derek. A splendid party, my friend.” The middle-aged man with a stocky build dipped his head and smiled. “And who might this splendid creature be?”
Derek draped his arm over the man’s shoulders. “Edgar and Charlotte Eberhart, I’d like you to meet Miss Erin Richland.”
Charlotte angled her chin and nodded gracefully under her immense white wig. Erin noticed a thin, white scar traversing the woman’s right cheek and another across her slender neck.
“Enchanted,” Edgar said, bowing formally. ”I was hoping it was you, Miss Richland. Derek has had fine things to say on your behalf. Do I understand that you work at the Everett Messenger?”
Erin nodded and smiled. “I’m delighted to meet you both, Mr. and Mrs. Eber —”
The queen gasped. “Dear girl, please, we’re simply Edgar and Charlotte. We so despise being addressed formally.” She crinkled her nose. “It makes us feel more ancient than we already are.”
“Let her speak, dear.” Edgar leaned forward. “As you were saying, Miss Richland?”
Erin cleared her throat. “Oh, yes. You see, my father owns the newspaper, and I’ve recently bullied him into giving me more responsibility. So, the short answer is, yes. I work at the Messenger.”
“That’s splendid, my dear,” Charlotte said, snapping her fan open with a flick of her pale wrist.
“And have you found the mischievous wolves at the cemetery you seek?” Edgar asked. “I do hope it’s not a breach of conduct that Derek told us about the wretched animals wreaking such chaos.”
Erin looked at Derek for a moment before turning toward Edgar again. “No. No, of course not. The authorities have already been notifie
d, and the caretaker will be on the watch for any more suspicious activity.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the white-haired servant interjected. “I must speak with you a moment.”
Derek’s gaze shifted from Erin to Charlotte and finally back to her. “Excuse me a moment.” He turned to his servant. “Yes. Yes, of course, Mrs. Schauss.”
Erin watched as the two walked toward an unoccupied corner, talking in hushed tones. She smiled and turned toward Charlotte. “Mrs. Schauss appears rather serious.”
Charlotte snorted and lowered her fan. “You could say that.” She tilted her chin. “Edgar, perhaps Miss Richland would like some of the divine party punch. Something tells me it would be to her liking.”
Edgar’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Perhaps not, Charlotte. It’s possible our gracious host would like to offer her a glass himself.”
Charlotte sighed, raised her chin, and snapped her fan open.
“It does look refreshing,” Erin said, attempting to lighten the moment. “I’ll just help myself.”
Edgar leaned forward. “Oh, but the champagne is delightful, my dear. Perhaps you would like more —”
“Let her drink what she chooses, Edgar.” Charlotte lowered the fan and smiled. “Women these days know exactly what they want and what’s best for them. They certainly don’t need a man making decisions on their behalf. Isn’t that right, Miss Richland?”
Erin smiled, delighted to have found a woman in the room with similar insight about the modern world. “Indeed, and well said. Excuse me a moment.”
As she strolled toward the table, she saw Derek and Mrs. Schauss still conversing in the corner. The servant gestured dramatically with her hands while Derek stood tall and rigid, his lips pursed tightly together, shaking his head.
“Hmm. I wonder what that’s about.” She reached for a chilled silver goblet, held it under the fountain, and watched as the fluid dribbled like liquid garnets into the metal cup.
Suddenly, Derek was by her side.
“Is the champagne not to your liking?”
She flinched and placed a splayed hand across her chest. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I … I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He gestured toward her goblet. “Perhaps a different champagne — or wine — would be more to your liking?”
She glanced around the room, taking notice that everyone appeared to be drinking from the chilled goblets. “That’s not necessary.”
A band member in full tuxedo fanned out his tails and took a seat behind an organ. Without pause, the band began playing a haunting gothic piece. The butler turned the lights off so only the candelabras and faces of the skeleton band glowed, giving the eeriest feel to the darkened room.
Ignoring the chill creeping up her spine from the evocative music, Erin smiled. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mr. Rudliff. This is impressive. I’m almost frightened.”
“I enjoy hosting a good party now and then.” He took a step forward and placed a hand in his trouser pocket. “But please remember, Miss Richland, my name is Derek to my close friends.”
The nervous flutter of her eyelashes tickled the top of her cheeks. She lifted her gaze to his. “Is that what we are? Close friends?”
The color of Derek’s eyes deepened. “I’d certainly like to think so.”
His eyes followed her every move as she took a healthy sip from the goblet. His tongue darted out and moistened his full bottom lip. Instantly, the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck twitched.
“You’ll have to tell me how you like the punch. It’s an old family recipe.”
Erin tilted her chin and licked her lips. “It’s very good. Different. Earthy.” She drank more, allowing the liquid to linger against her tongue, trying to determine the unique flavors before swallowing. A solitary drop dripped from her lip, landing on her chin. “Oh, I’m so clumsy —”
“Allow me.” Derek pulled a silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and blotted her chin, his dark pupils narrowing in on her lips.
“Good thing I didn’t come as an angel dressed in white.”
He gazed into her eyes. “Do you like it?”
“The punch? Oh, yes, very much.” She drank from the goblet again.
Derek reached toward her chalice. “Ah, ah, now, not too much. It’s rather potent for those unaccustomed to its unique —”
“Nonsense,” she said playfully, furrowing her brow. “Everyone’s drinking the punch. It’s delicious.”
His eyes widened as she downed the rest and set the empty goblet on the table. “Erin, you must —”
“Derek. Another grand party.”
Derek turned. “Ah. There you are.” He patted the younger man on the back. “I’d like you to meet someone special. Gregore, meet Miss Erin Richland.”
Dressed as a Franciscan friar, Gregore smiled and bowed. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Richland.”
She dipped her head. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”
“There you are, Gregore. Come dance with me,” called an approaching costumed woman.
Gregore’s face brightened. He leaned in toward Erin, his eyebrows waggling, and whispered, “I love to dance.”
And just like that, the playful friar was gone in a flash, whisked away by a chatty pirate wench.
Derek looked into Erin’s eyes, his piercing gaze so intense the back of her eyes stung. He offered his arm. “Shall we dance, my dear?”
My dear. The sultry cadence of his words slid from his lips straight to a secluded place deep within her pelvis. “Yes, that would be lovely,” she said automatically, still captivated by the intensity of the eyes staring back at her.
Leading her toward the center of the room, Derek slid his hand along the silken fabric of her dress at the small of her back. Within seconds, they were moving across the dance floor. Costumed guests, sitting off to the side, whispered with one another. Soon, couples joined in on the dance floor.
Erin gazed up into Derek’s eyes. “I suspect you’ve done this often?”
“Done what often?”
“Danced like this. Like an expert.”
His fingertips dug into the sleek fabric as he swept her across the room in a waltz, his cape wavering behind him as if flying on its own.
“I’m not an expert, but I have done this several times over the years.”
The thought of him dancing with other women needled her. She quickly brushed the ridiculous reaction aside. Derek was devilishly handsome and terribly wealthy. Surely, he’d had many opportunities to dance with women. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he looked at the other women with the same soulful gaze when they danced, the kind of contemplative stare that made a woman feel as though they were the only people in a room.
Had the house grown warmer? A sudden flush of heat spread like tiny sparks of fire seeping into her skin.
Derek guided her, but her feet felt as though they had gone numb, moving on their own, while the penetrating warmth probed every inch of her skin.
The steady drizzle of rain outside intensified, as though suddenly closing in around the house, surrounding them, the showers pounding the roof like a blaze of gunfire. The wind wailed, howling like a mournful dog across the eves. The pace of the music increased, grew louder, the beat deeper, more powerful, echoing across the wooden floors as Derek glided her around the floor, over and over, keeping with the rhythm.
Beads of moisture formed across her neck as costumed guests hemmed in closer, dancing with curious smiles, then quickly retreating. Bodies moved in, then out: Marie and Louis, Napoleon, Abe Lincoln, a vampire dancing with a ghost. As the music intensified and the drums beat with the rhythm of her racing heart, guests glided by, smiling and nodding, but others stared as if grimacing before darting away. An angel and a wolf danced nearby, moving within inches of them. The wolf lurched toward Erin, bared his teeth and snarled, then whizzed away.
She gasped and gripped Derek’s broad shoulder. “Is … is it hot in here?”
His eyes narrowed. “
Not particularly. Are you feeling all right?”
Warmth slithered like a serpent through her veins. She fanned her face. “I think so, but would it be all right if we got a bit of fresh air?”
Derek stopped in mid-step and looked out the set of large windows. Her gaze followed his. In the distance, dimly-lit ships bobbed like tiny, floating candles in the rough sea below.
“The storm is fierce outside,” he said with a frown. “But I know where we can go.”
He took her hand and led her through a back door to a covered porch overlooking the bay. Immediately, the wind seized their clothes, and his cape swirled like a winged bat taking flight. She reached up, holding her fuzzy ears in place as the gusts whipped wildly about.
“Over here.” He escorted her under cover.
She pressed her back against the cold cedar wall, relishing the cool sensation against her heated skin beneath the dress. Spreading his cape, he moved in and towered over her for extra protection.
Beneath the soft glow of the porch light, her head felt as though it were bobbing like the boats in the distance. The punch, the storm, his masculine presence looming over her, all of it made her suddenly breathless.
He stood in front of her, their bodies inches apart. Through his clothes, heat radiated from his skin, sparing her from the biting wind. Towering treetops of massive evergreens bent and bowed; twigs snapped like brittle bones, and large branches crashed to the ground nearby, echoing across the tall bluff.
Derek’s eyes remained fixed upon hers, glowing like an azure sea in a tempest. His nostrils flared as though catching an invigorating scent within the swirling current of air.
She closed her eyes and inhaled his unique virile scent of bayberry cologne and the rich, earthy aroma of the northwestern forest. God, how she wanted to wrap her arms around his broad back, breathe in that wonderful scent that was all Derek, and pull him into a deep, passionate kiss.
As if he had read her mind, she felt the scratch of his mustache on her upper lip as his mouth came down upon hers. He kissed her gently at first, his lips closed, but when she responded with a soft moan, he softly coaxed the seam of her lips open with his tongue. The kiss intensified, growing passionate, heated, seductive, as he wrapped his arms around her in an embrace, pulling her hard against his broad chest.