She shrugged, so flustered by his touch that she was no longer entirely sure what she believed. “And why not? You confessed on that rooftop that Duvalier had encouraged you to embrace your dark gifts. If a vampire can truly work his will on the mortal mind as legend has long suggested, then what’s to stop you from using that gift on poor unsuspecting women?”
She was caught off guard when he abruptly turned on his heel and paced back to the hearth. His retreat was the last thing she had expected and she could not quite squelch a treacherous flare of disappointment.
He stood with his back to her for a long moment before slowly pivoting to face her. “Come here, Portia.”
“Pardon?”
He crooked his finger at her, the motion both lazy and deliberate. “Come here. To me.”
She frowned, taking a step toward him without realizing it. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He arched one devilish brow. “Embracing my dark gifts. Come to me, Portia. Now.”
Startled to realize his words were not an invitation but a command, Portia gazed into his eyes. A hypnotic flame seemed to be burning in their smoky depths, mesmerizing her like a moth helplessly drawn to the one thing that was destined to destroy it.
The bolster slipped from her fingers to the floor. She felt an irresistible tug as if he’d somehow bound her to him with an invisible but unbreakable cord. Then she was gliding toward him, putting one foot in front of the other until she stood directly in front of him.
“Touch me,” he commanded, his smoldering eyes devoid of both conscience and mercy.
A tremor wracked her, but she couldn’t tell if it was born from fear…or anticipation. “Please, Julian,” she whispered. “Don’t do this.”
He leaned down to her ear, returning her whisper with one of his own. “Put your hands on me.”
Almost as if they had a will of their own, her hands drifted to his chest. She touched him, spreading her fingers to stroke the firm, muscled planes of his chest through the thin lawn of his shirt. He made no move to touch her in return but stood as rigid as a marble statue beneath the loving caress of its sculptor. Her right hand wandered shyly to the open throat of his shirt, bringing them skin to skin, flesh to flesh. She gently sifted her fingers through the crisp curls of his chest hair before twining her hand around the broad column of his throat. To her sensitive fingertips, his skin felt like heated satin stretched taut over bronze.
She gazed deep into his eyes, a helpless captive to his will. In that moment she would have offered him whatever he asked of her, including her throat. But she knew before he spoke that it wasn’t her throat he wanted.
“Kiss me.” His words were little more than the echo of a whisper in her mind, but she could no more resist them than the tide could resist the inexorable tug of the moon.
Drawing his head down to hers, she touched her lips ever so gently to the corner of his mouth. Forbidden fruit had never tasted so tempting…or so sweet. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, she thought, she could somehow break the wicked spell he had cast over her.
But the darkness only made it easier to surrender to him, to press feather-soft kisses along the firm, full curve of his lower lip, to breathe out his name on a sigh before deepening the delicious friction of her lips against his.
Still he made no move to return the caress, forcing her to bear all the burden of pleasuring him. His purported indifference only made her more determined to coax a response from him. Remembering how he had claimed her mouth with such boldness on that snowy rooftop, she parted her lips and stole a taste of him with her tongue.
As Portia offered him the tender sweetness of her open mouth, Julian groaned his own surrender. He wrapped his arms around her, nearly dragging her off her feet in his desperation to mold her enticing curves to the hard, hungry planes of his body.
He didn’t know what had possessed him to make the first move in a game he had no hope of winning, but he could not stop the dizzying rush of triumph that burned through his veins as she melted into his arms.
He had thought to enchant her but he was the one bewitched by the silken breath of her sighs, the warm velvet of her skin, the honeyed delights of her mouth. She cast her spell without need of a single word, beguiling him with the promise of pleasures no man could resist. He wanted her more than any woman he’d ever tasted, more than blood, more than life itself.
He’d spent over five long years trying to break the bond forged between them in that crypt only to discover it had been forged with unbreakable chains. No longer able to bear up under their weight, he sank back on the fainting couch, dragging her down on top of him. Still devouring her mouth, he raked a hand through her hair, scattering the pins until the dark strands came tumbling down around them in a silken cloud.
As their tongues tangled in a song older than words, his hands wandered over the slender contours of her back. He desperately wanted to unlace the built-in corset of her bodice, to free the plump softness of her breasts so he could touch and taste them as well. His deft fingers possessed the skill to do so, but some ghost of conscience stayed his hand. He consoled himself by allowing his hands to dance lower, to skate lightly over the small of her back before claiming the generous swell of her rump for his own.
Undone by his possessive grasp and the slippery silk of her dress, her thighs slid apart, leaving her straddling him. As she writhed against the throbbing ridge of his arousal, driven by raw instinct, Julian feared he was in danger of bursting into flame without the threat of torch or pyre. But if such a fire could destroy him, he would willingly cast himself into its flames and welcome his doom.
He lifted his hips, deepening that exquisite friction until he felt the vibration of Portia’s own moan deep in his throat. He knew in that moment that he was one decadent kiss away from rolling her beneath him and ravishing her right there on the fainting couch in his brother’s library.
Oddly enough, it was the dark and primal power of that image that gentled both his kiss and his embrace. He slid his hands to her back and dragged his lips from her mouth to her temple, nuzzling the downy skin he found there. She collapsed on top of him, resting her cheek against his chest.
He held her close, reluctant to surrender the warmth of her skin, the shuddering whisper of her breath against his throat, the blessed beat of her heart—all gifts he had surrendered when he lost his soul.
Toying tenderly with the silky strands of hair at her nape, he whispered, “Portia?”
“Hmmmmm?” she murmured.
“I have a confession to make.”
She lifted her head to gaze at him, her eyes still shining with desire and her lips glistening with the dew of their kiss.
Swallowing back a sharp pang of regret, he smoothed a stray curl from her cheek and said quietly, “I don’t possess any powers of mind control.”
Ten
Portia blinked down at him, the mist in her eyes slowly evaporating. “What ever do you mean?”
He gently stroked her hair. “I didn’t bewitch you, darling. Vampires can’t mold mortals to their will. It’s nothing but a silly myth.”
She shoved herself to a sitting position, taking all of that precious warmth and life with her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you bewitched me! If you hadn’t, I never would have behaved in such a shameless and wanton manner.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid it was nothing more than the power of suggestion.”
She stared at him for several seconds, then rose stiffly to her feet, shaking the wrinkles from her skirt. With her hair tumbled, her lips swollen from his kisses, and the color high in her throat and cheeks, she looked as if he had ravished her. Instead of shaming him as it should have, her disheveled appearance only made him want to tug her back into his lap and finish what he’d started.
If you hadn’t confessed your duplicity, you fool, she could have been yours. Recognizing that smooth, oily voice, Julian wondered if he would ever truly be free of Duvalier.
He watched thro
ugh wary eyes as Portia wound her tumbled hair into a tight coil and secured it with the remaining hairpins, stabbing them into place with enough force to make him wince. “I can’t believe you would play such a cruel trick on me.”
He rose to his feet. “I wasn’t trying to be cruel, Portia. Too clever for my own good perhaps, but not cruel.”
Avoiding his eyes, she tucked a wisp of lace that had wiggled its way out of her bodice back into place. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly sound explanation. It must have been some primitive form of hypnotism you learned in your travels. I’ve often heard of rogues and charlatans employing such practices for their own selfish gain.”
He captured her wrist and tugged her around to face him, refusing to allow her to dismiss him—and those wild, tender moments of passion they’d shared—so easily. “Perhaps there is a perfectly sound explanation. Perhaps I simply offered you the freedom to do what you’ve never stopped wanting to do.”
She gazed up at him, the hurt in her eyes warring with longing. He could see that she still wanted to touch him. Still craved the taste of his kiss, the feel of his hands against her skin.
“If this is nothing but a cruel trick,” he said softly, touching a hand to the downy softness of her cheek, “then I fear it has been played upon the both of us.”
Her eyes fluttered shut as if to deny the truth of his words even as her lips parted to confess them. He was lowering his mouth to hers to accept that confession when a knock sounded on the door.
Portia sprang away from him, blushing as if they’d been caught rolling around on the couch in flagrante delicto instead of just stealing a kiss.
“Come in,” she called out, smoothing her skirts and giving her hair one last shaky pat.
Wilbury slunk into the library, his thin lips pursed in a sullen pout. “You have a caller, Miss Cabot. Will you be receiving this afternoon?”
She frowned. “Who is it?”
“The marquess of Wallingford,” the butler drawled with the same enthusiasm he might have given to announcing Genghis Khan and his invading hordes. “He claims he wanted to make sure you hadn’t suffered any distressing repercussions after your unfortunate ‘adventure’ the other night.”
“How very kind of him,” she murmured, stealing a thoughtful look at Julian’s scowl. “Why don’t you show him into the drawing room and ring for Gracie to bring us some tea? Perhaps Caroline will be kind enough to pour for us.”
“Why don’t you show him in here and I’ll pour?” Julian suggested, parting his lips just enough to reveal a teasing threat of fang.
“On second thought, Wilbury, why don’t you show our guest into the music room? The windows all face west and we wouldn’t want to squander a moment of this lovely winter sunshine.” Portia offered Julian a dimpled smile. “I should hope the sunlight would show me off to my best advantage.”
He glowered at her. “Oh, I don’t know. I rather like the way you look in the dark.” And the way you feel, his smoldering glance plainly added.
As Wilbury took his leave, Portia hastened toward the door, turning back to face Julian only when she was well out of his reach. “It has occurred to me that if we’re both going to be residing beneath your brother’s roof while we decide what’s to be done about your mistress—”
“Former mistress,” he bit off, folding his arms over his chest.
“—then perhaps it would be best if you tried to think of me as your sister.”
Julian shuddered. “I’d much rather think of you as the comely upstairs maid who stole my…heart when I was thirteen.”
“Well, at least that explains what happened to it,” she replied briskly. “Now if you’ll be kind enough to excuse me, sir, I’ll leave you to your dreams.”
She ducked quickly out the door, knowing full well that the only thing that could follow her into the sunshine-dappled entrance hall was his frustrated growl.
“Would you care for another kiss, my lord?” Portia extended the elegant Sevres tea tray, a vapid smile frozen on her lips.
The marquess of Wallingford choked on his tea, his rather prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Pardon me?”
As Caroline gave her ankle a sharp kick, Portia felt heat flood her cheeks. “A crumpet, my lord. Can I tempt you to try another crumpet?”
“Oh…well, in that case…” Still looking doubtful, he plucked a crumpet from the tray.
Resting the tray back on its wheeled cart, Portia glanced at the window. The sun’s ruthless rays were streaming through the broad bay, illuminating every flaw in the beautifully appointed music room, including the marquess’s receding hairline and the sneer of derision that haunted his lips even when he smiled.
“I’m relieved to see that you haven’t suffered any ill effects after your little escapade the other night, Miss Cabot. I shudder to think of the fate that might have befallen you while you were searching for that—” the marquess stopped and attempted to clear the snarl from his voice. “Forgive me—I had a bit of crumpet caught in my throat—while you were searching for the viscount’s brother.”
Caroline shot Portia a knowing look. “Our Portia has always had a tender heart. You can’t fault her for trying to bring our black sheep back to the fold.”
“I have nothing but admiration for your Christian charity, my dear.” Wallingford graced Portia with a thin-lipped smile. “But some lost souls are beyond redemption and best left to the devil’s dubious mercies.”
After her encounter with Julian in the library, Portia should have been in hearty agreement with him. Which didn’t explain why her hands were suddenly trembling with anger.
Before she could slosh her tea into her lap, she lifted the cup to her lips and took a delicate sip. “Then I can only assume you haven’t heard the wonderful news?”
His smile wavered. “What news?”
“Julian has come home,” she said, affecting an ingenuous smile of her own. “After all these years, he’s finally returned to the loving bosom of his family!”
Looking as if he had the tea tray itself lodged in his throat, Wallingford rose halfway to his feet, his gaze flicking ever so briefly to her bosom. “Kane is here? In this house? At this very moment?”
“You needn’t whistle for the nearest constable, my lord.” Portia returned her cup to its saucer. “We’re all well aware that you bought up all of his gambling vowels.”
“And I’m sure my husband will be more than happy to settle any debts his brother incurred while he was away,” Caroline added, helping herself to another tea cake.
The marquess sank back down on the sofa, looking none too pleased by the notion. “Far be it for me to sully this lovely occasion with crass talk of commerce. I just can’t help but question the wisdom of allowing a…a man with Kane’s reputation to reside beneath the same roof as an unmarried and impressionable young woman.”
Portia arched one eyebrow. “And I can’t help but wonder if your fiancée would have embraced such a cynical viewpoint?”
Even in the poor light, she could see Wallingford’s face darken. “Since Miss Englewood and I are currently estranged, her opinions are no longer any concern of mine. It’s just been my experience that the best use for the black sheep of most families is to make mutton.”
Portia abruptly rose to her feet. “I’m afraid I must leave you to my sister’s care, my lord. I’m feeling a bit flushed and fear I might be taking a fever of some sort.”
“Nothing contagious, I hope?” he ventured, jerking a scented handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and holding it over his nose.
Keenly aware of Caroline’s suspicious gaze, Portia offered him a cool smile. “It’s nothing you need trouble yourself about, my lord. I appear to be the only one susceptible to this particular ailment.”
Bobbing him a graceful curtsy, she hastened from the music room, hoping she could find a cure for the malady she suffered before it proved fatal to her heart.
The winter night fell hard and early, taking the tem
perature with it and leaving sparkling kisses of frost on the windowpanes of Portia’s bedchamber. Although she knew the darkness would free Julian to prowl the house, she had no intention of remaining a prisoner in her own room. As soon as Adrian sent word that Larkin had arrived, she would join them all to discuss Valentine’s future. Or lack thereof, she thought grimly.
Her restlessness growing, she tossed aside the book of Byron’s poems she’d been trying to read and wandered to the window. After only one encounter, Julian had her craving the shadows, craving the night, craving his touch. It was hardly the first time his kiss—or his touch—had ignited this strange yearning, this nagging restlessness. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. The delicate brass hour hand was already creeping toward the seven.
She went to the door, peering toward the stairs. It was then that she detected the faint bass rumble of men’s voices drifting up from the first floor of the town house.
Her suspicions growing, she hurried down the stairs, pausing to steal a look from the window on the second story landing. Larkin’s curricle was already parked in the alley behind the town house, its matched pair of bays snorting out puffs of steam in the frosty air.
Her determined strides carried her past a pair of startled footmen and directly to the door of Adrian’s study. She threw it open without bothering to knock.
Adrian was perched on the corner of his desk while Larkin and Julian sprawled in the leather chairs flanking it. Each of the men had a cigar in one hand and a tumbler of port in the other. At least Adrian and Larkin had enough sense to look gratifyingly guilty.
Portia closed the door behind her with a decisive thump, batting at the haze of smoke that hung over the lamplit room. Although Larkin and Adrian immediately put out their cigars in deference to her presence, Julian simply took a long, lazy drag on his slender cheroot, then blew out a ribbon of smoke that curled around him like a lover’s hand. His fashionable pallor had given way to a healthy glow, which made her suspect Wilbury had made a late run to the butcher shop.
The Vampire Who Loved Me Page 11