Graced

by Amanda Pillar

  “I look fine,” Dante announced.

  The valet hovered around him, brushing this, flicking that.

  “Thank you; that will be all,” Dante said and stared hard at the man. With a sniff, the valet took himself off.

  “Pompous little fool,” Misty said after the door shut behind the fussy man.

  Dante just shook his head.

  “So, did you hear what I said when I came in?” Misty asked. She walked away from the mirror and toward the chairs in his suite. She took the one closest to the empty fire grate.

  Realizing that he was going to have a little brother-sister chat, whether he wanted one or not, he followed her to the chairs and sat down, careful to try to keep himself neat. Although, he was apparently already rumpled beyond repair.

  Idiot.

  “No, sorry, what did you say? I was too busy being a dummy for the valet.” Dante tried to smile.

  “I said I like him.”

  “Who? The valet?” Dante raised an eyebrow.

  “No, you idiot. I like your fiancé.” She lifted a hand to flick her hair, but recalled it was up, so she patted it instead.

  “Greystoke?”

  “Do you have another?” she asked.

  “No.” Dante crossed one leg over the other, then thought better of it when he saw the material stretch.

  “I met him a week ago, at Liverly’s ball. Well, I’d met him before that, but never bothered to pay any attention to him. Although he is handsome, for a human.”

  “Good for you. Liverly’s an idiot.” More so than most other vampires.

  Misty was staring at him. “Greystoke seems to feel the same way about Liverly.”

  “He’d have to be brain dead not to.”

  That made her smile. He’d seen her smile a lot in the last few days. More than she normally did, anyway, but not around their father. She only smiled when it was just the two of them. Like when they were children, and she’d been happier and he’d been less awkward. He hadn’t known he was so different back then. Dante wondered if it was because he was leaving the estate—maybe she was trying to bond with him? He wasn’t sure. Misty had never really seemed to enjoy doing anything other than annoying him.

  “And your fiancé doesn’t seem to want to marry you.”

  Dante didn’t even bother to raise his eyebrows. He’d already worked that little gem out for himself. “You don’t seem too surprised. Should I be hurt?”

  “I thought Father’s story was too good to be true.” Misty tapped her chin.

  “I can’t believe you even thought it was true.”

  Misty’s finger stopped. “I try to give Father the benefit of the doubt.”

  “How nice for him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You seem even less charitably inclined to him than normal.”

  “Let’s just say that you thought Father would want me off his hands and you were right. He had to give up fifty thousand groats to do it, but he did it. He also ensured that I would agree to this marriage with more than just the threat of being sent off to one of his remote estates.”

  Dante wouldn’t actually have minded that.

  Her lavender eyes glittered. “What else did he threaten you with?”

  Dante shrugged. He wasn’t sure he wanted Misty to know. What if she got angry at him one day and found the papers? No, he wouldn’t take that risk.

  She seemed to accept his reluctance to speak more about it. “I wondered why Greystoke would agree to marry you when you’d killed his fiancée.”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill her. It was an accident,” Dante muttered.

  “I’m sure your soon-to-be husband really cares about that.” She rolled her eyes at him.

  Dante stood. “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t have a stake ready for me tonight.”

  *

  Dante was no longer a Kipling. From the moment he’d signed his name on the marriage certificate, he had become a Greystoke. Which was rather stupid, considering he would more than likely outlive his husband, provided that said husband didn’t have a stake stashed anywhere. From the look in Greystoke’s eyes, Dante wasn’t entirely sure that wouldn’t be the case.

  “A toast,” Viktor said, raising a champagne flute, “to the married couple!”

  Dante and Greystoke were standing in the ballroom at Kipling House, surrounded by three hundred of their “closest” friends. Most of whom Dante couldn’t even remember meeting, let alone liking. Tables laden with food were propped in the corners and servants wove their way through the crowd of guests, handing out glasses of sparkling wine.

  The tinkling of hundreds of crystal glasses sounded amidst a cheer of “Hear, hear!”

  Forcing a smile, Dante tried to look pleased with his new lot in life. From the corner of his eye, he could see Greystoke doing the same, although the man’s knuckles were clenched white around his cane. Not only had Viktor married him to a human with brown eyes, he’d married Dante off to a cripple. Then again, it wasn’t as if Greystoke had gotten a great deal either, being married to the man who had killed his fiancée.

  The toast seemed to start a procession. Their three hundred guests swarmed forward, trying to be the first to congratulate them. Reds and blacks were the predominate colors worn by their “friends,” and jewels and feathers glittered in various shades of hair. But Dante couldn’t remember any of their names. And he doubted that any of the well-wishers were sincere.

  After what seemed like an indeterminable amount of kisses and handshakes and coy smiles, the crowd thinned. Part of him was itching to get out of the room; he couldn’t stand being around so many people. Listening to their chatter—and with his hearing, it was hard not to—just made him even more convinced of their idiocy.

  “Have you ever seen two such handsome men?”

  “Why did they have to marry Greystoke to him?”

  “Food marrying one of us. It isn’t right.”

  “I’ve heard he doesn’t even like men.”

  “Greystoke was engaged and there’s a rumor that Kipling killed her so he could have him.”

  That caught his attention. Interesting. He hadn’t thought of that possible spin on the scenario. Kudos to them, he thought, looking around for the speaker.

  “Kipling,” Greystoke hissed.

  Jerking his attention back to the few remaining well-wishers, Dante automatically smiled at whoever was standing in front of him.

  Greystoke pinched Dante’s arm, and Dante bit back a curse. “Yes, dearest?”

  He felt rather than heard Greystoke snort. “I’d like to introduce you to my mother and sister, the Countess of Maerton and the Honorable Darla Greystoke.”

  So, Dante was given their titles, rather than their names?

  Dante bowed to them and took the countess’ hand, raising it to his lips. “It is entirely my pleasure to meet my new mother and sister.” He repeated the gesture on the girl.

  The countess smiled at him warmly, and he had the feeling she was pleased by what he had said. The girl, Darla, seemed genuinely happy. Her face was flushed pink and her eyes sparkled. They were brown, not even the slightly more interesting shade of Greystoke’s, but they seemed…kind. He wasn’t used to seeing that in an aristo’s eyes. In anyone’s eyes, for that matter.

  “It is so wonderful to have another son,” the countess said. Her voice was smooth and soft, and he couldn’t detect the lie in it. But then, he’d never been that good at reading people, and humans were sometimes harder to decipher.

  “I’m looking forward to us all getting to know each other,” Dante said, not really sure what else he should say. He could feel Greystoke’s eyes boring into him.

  “Aren’t we all?” Greystoke muttered.

  Chapter 39

  Anton drew off his gloves and threw them on the bed. There were no servants, no one to tell him off or take the gloves away for him; he’d asked them all to take the evening off. Alone in his room, he could finally let his shoulders slump. He felt uncomfortable, not right in his own
skin. He’d pictured this moment months ago: a married man, in Greystoke House, on his wedding night.

  But it was all wrong.

  The person in the next room wasn’t Annabel, wasn’t anything like Annabel. It was worse than if it was just some other woman, someone who could be a mother to his heir. Instead, it was the murderer of all his dreams. Shutting his eyes, he rubbed his sore thigh and just tried to breathe. The reception had been a nightmare, so many people, far more than even he liked, wanting to pass judgment on his hasty wedding to one of Pinton’s most reclusive vampires.

  His father had only attended the service, and hadn’t even bothered with the reception he’d forced Anton to arrange with Wintermere. Reginald had just made sure Anton had signed the contract, and then he’d returned to the country estate, where his dogs and port would be waiting for him.

  Then there had been his mother and sister.

  They’d been so happy for him. He’d seen Darla’s eyes light up when she’d met Dante. Like there’d been stars in them, and not from infatuation, which he could have understood in a girl her age, when confronted with someone who looked like Dante did. No, she’d just been so pleased for Anton.

  “He’s so handsome!” she’d gushed when she’d finally managed to get him alone.

  “Yes.” Because really, he wasn’t about to deny what was right in front of his eyes.

  “Oh Anton, I’m so happy for you. I knew you loved Annabel, but Dante is perfect for you!”

  How she could determine that from a five-minute introduction, Anton wasn’t sure and didn’t want to know. Not when “perfect” was a freak.

  A knock sounded on the door that connected his suite to Annabel’s—no, Kipling’s—rooms. Dread started to form in the pit of his stomach.

  “Yes?” Anton called out, because he couldn’t very well pretend to not be there. He watched, with moths in his stomach, as the brass handle turned slowly and Kipling appeared, dressed in a brocade robe the color of warm brandy. The vampire looked good. How could he? How could someone so evil look so appealing?

  Kipling stood in the doorway, seemingly uncertain.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  Anton just looked at him.

  Kipling ran a hand through his hair, knocking out the hair tie that held it back. Black silk cascaded over his shoulders and swept across one cheek. Something clenched down low in Anton’s gut. Grunting, Kipling quickly bent down and scooped up the tie. The movement was so full of grace it made Anton feel like a clumsy oaf, just standing there, still decked out in his wedding finery.

  “What do you mean?” Anton finally hedged. He limped over to the small sideboard positioned under a window. A silver tray set with liquor and glasses was perched carefully in the center of the sideboard. Next to it was a pair of chairs placed either side of a delicate, round table. Anton reached out and uncorked the whiskey decanter and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a small, square glass. He didn’t normally drink spirits, apart from a nightcap here and there, but he took a deep swallow before taking a seat on one of the chairs. It was spindly, but cushioned. He sighed with relief. His poor leg wasn’t up to being on his feet so much.

  Seeing him sit, Kipling shrugged and took the spare chair.

  “I don’t know how to be married,” Kipling said after a few moments of silence. Anton tried to savor his whiskey and pretend this wasn’t his wedding night and that they weren’t actually in his bedroom.

  “Join the club.”

  Kipling eyed him. “You wanted to be married.”

  Anton nearly choked on a mouthful of golden burn. “Sorry?”

  “You wanted to be married.”

  Feeling like he was no longer in danger of swallowing his way to death, he said, “Not to you.”

  “Well, no. But to Sandy.”

  Anton gritted his teeth, the familiar anger rising up at her whore’s name. “Her name was Annabel.”

  “Sandy, Annabel.” Kipling slashed a hand through the air. “Whatever she was called, you contemplated the concept of marriage.”

  “Well, yes. But marriage to her.” He stood and poured himself another glass of whiskey. The first had disappeared awfully fast. Maybe he could get drunk on his wedding night? Then he wouldn’t be expected to have sex, surely? Reaching over to grab the now-full glass, he had to stop and grip the sideboard to keep his balance. Bloody leg. He could feel the muscles trembling.

  “Want some?” he asked, his back to Kipling, pretending that was why he was still at the window, not because his leg hurt too much to walk even those few steps.

  “Why not?”

  When he felt his leg would hold his weight again, Anton poured a couple of fingers of whiskey into another glass and headed back to the small table. He set Kipling’s glass down on his side, before taking a seat.

  Kipling took a sip of the drink and then wheezed. “You hate me.”

  “Whiskey a bit strong for you?” Anton asked.

  The vampire cracked a half smile. “A little. But I meant, you hate me for taking Annabel from you. I didn’t mean to kill her; I want you to know that.”

  “You just botched Choosing her. It’s common among vampires.” Anton rolled his eyes. They both knew that there were few fatalities from being Chosen. “I can’t see her agreeing to being Chosen, despite the protestations from you and your father.”

  Something flickered in Kipling’s eyes, but it was gone before Anton could decipher it.

  “I did everything I was meant to, when I Chose her. I can’t say why it didn’t work.”

  Anton shrugged. He wasn’t really sure he was drunk enough to be having this conversation. The one he’d wanted weeks ago.

  “Either way, I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” Anton asked, squinting at him.

  “I just said I was.” Kipling looked uncomfortable as he took another sip of amber fire.

  “Most people say a lot they don’t mean,” Anton observed.

  Kipling tilted his head to one side. “I’m sorry it upset you. If I could do it again, I probably still would have tried. Although, to be honest, if I’d known I would end up here because of it, it might have made me think twice.”

  Should he be happy that Kipling supposedly loved Annabel enough to Choose her? Maybe, if he’d actually believed it.

  “So, why did you agree to marry me?” That question had been bothering Anton. He could see why his father had agreed to the wedding; there were fifty thousand reasons. But Kipling?

  “My father made me.”

  Anton couldn’t help the bark of laughter. “Oh, poor baby.”

  “You’ve met my father, right? You paid attention to him when you were there?” Both of Kipling’s eyebrows were nearly in his hairline.

  “Yeah, your father’s an asshole.” Actually, there were a whole host of other words he would have liked to use, but that one seemed polite enough given the context.

  “Nice euphemism.”

  “Thanks, I tried.”

  “Anyway, you saw what my father was like when you came asking about San—Annabel. He sees a problem, he eradicates it. Crushes whoever is in his way.”

  “What’s that got to do with the price of peas in Panzana?” He didn’t want to say “you and me” or “our marriage.” For some reason, that would make it feel real. Which was absurd, because the three hundred-odd well-wishes they’d received and the fact they were sitting in his room having this cozy little chat wasn’t evidence enough?

  “Well, I was a problem Father wanted to be rid of. Marrying you was my best option.” From the look on Kipling’s face, Anton wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the alternatives were.

  Anton took a sip of his drink and glared moodily at his feet. His leg wasn’t in good shape, but he guessed that was a positive in this situation. He might be able to use it as an excuse to not consummate the marriage. Having sex with Kipling seemed wrong. But he didn’t know if Kipling would want it. It wasn’t necessary, but it migh
t be expected. It just felt like the worst kind of betrayal he could do to Annabel’s memory.

  “So…” Kipling said.

  Anton glanced up at him. “So?”

  “Do we have to have sex?” Kipling blurted. His face was blank, utterly devoid of expression, which wasn’t much of a feat, Anton thought, since he had decided that Kipling didn’t emote at the best of times.

  Anton’s pulse kicked up a notch. Something about the word “sex” coming from Kipling’s mouth made his gut churn, two parts dread and one part arousal. It made him feel sick. “No?”

  Kipling seemed to sag into his seat. “Thank the blood.”

  Relief swamped through him only to be followed with something like disappointment as he processed Kipling’s reaction. “You don’t like men? I mean, you don’t like men sexually?”

  While he couldn’t stomach the idea of fucking Kipling now…Anton couldn’t guarantee how he’d feel in ten years’ time. He believed in honor, in keeping it. He wouldn’t betray his vows, even to Annabel’s murderer. But to have the option of no sexual relief for the rest of his life, other than from his own hand? It gave him a whole new feeling of dread.

  “I don’t really like anybody.”

  Anton frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  A very faint pink tinge seemed to wash over Kipling’s cheeks. “I don’t really like…sex.”

  “Sorry?” Anton wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Had someone said they didn’t like sex?

  Kipling seemed more than uncomfortable. He was picking invisible pieces of lint off his robe. “I’ll do it, if you want it. But I don’t like it.”

  He glanced up and must have seen some of the shock Anton was feeling.

  Kipling pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just… This is awkward. I’m not like everyone else, I’m different.”