Elizabeth tamped down the urge to gawk. “All right.” In the event he misunderstood, she hurried to nod. “I would like that.” Dear heavens, was this actually happening?
In the blink of an eye, she finally saw herself as a married woman, mayhap with children and moving away from her brother. Starting my own life with a man who won’t harm me. And her heartbeat pounded loudly in her ears even as that ever-present longing flared. Could the marquess banish those lingering feelings for the earl who’d left her life in chaos?
“Excellent.” All too soon he led her to the side of the dance floor, where he took possession of her hand and once more kissed the middle knuckle. “I’ll come ‘round in a few days, once your brother is back in residence.” Then he was gone, off to claim the attention of Lord Mountgarret’s niece, Dorcas.
She put a hand to a heated cheek, hardly daring to believe she’d taken the first step in managing her own life. As she glanced about the room, hoping to catch Felicity’s attention and tell her the bizarre turn of events, her gaze skimmed over the flash of golden hair, the twinkle of that ever-present emerald stickpin—the one she’d given him—in the folds of a cravat tied in a unique knot only he favored.
Oh no!
With her stomach twisting, Elizabeth panicked. Not here, not now, not when I’ve taken a step forward in my future. A ripple of interested whispers accompanied the newcomer’s arrival, of course they did. She picked up her skirts and whisked herself behind a grouping of potted ferns and other hothouse plants as she gasped. Dear Lord, it’s him.
The Earl of Devon had arrived at the party, the man she could never forget, the vampire, the man who’d attacked her all those years ago and took what she hadn’t wished to give, the man who’d left her with the fleeting vestiges of startling rapture tinged with horror.
The man she wanted still but refused to chase, for he was indeed a monster.
Her heartbeat accelerated, beating out a frantic tattoo even as frissons of need made themselves known deep in her core. Then, almost as if in slow motion, he turned his head, looking at the exact spot where she’d taken refuge, causing her to shrink further behind the plants.
And he started her way.
CHAPTER THREE
Seconds after he’d arrived at Mountgarret’s party, anticipation buzzed through his being. She was here. The woman he could never forget—Lady Elizabeth Sinclair. The woman he could never have, the woman he could love with very little effort, the woman whose life he destroyed because of the beast that he was.
Misgivings fired in his gut but he cast his glance about the dance floor anyway, rapidly scanning the couples, until he looked at a grouping of hothouse plants and caught the red hue of skirting as she slipped behind the unlikely covering. Despite the fact she conscientiously sought to avoid him, he could scarcely believe his luck. He refused to waste this opportunity, for they couldn’t continue to keep avoiding each other.
As he edged the floor where a dance was once more in progress, he ignored the whispers that followed him; they always did. Rumors flew behind lifted fans while guests cast surreptitious looks his way. It didn’t bother him anymore; this being singled out from the more respectable members of the ton. Not that many notables were in attendance tonight. He had fought against their prejudices for the bulk of his life; people talked, they gossiped about what they didn’t understand.
And no matter what, they would never understand him or what drove him. They could either accept him, or if they didn’t, they could move the hell out of his way.
However, deep in that locked place inside of him, he wished things were different—that he was different—and could live the life of respectability. A life where people would greet him at events, a life where he could walk the damned streets in the daylight, have a chance with Elizabeth. But he wasn’t afforded such things. Neither were his friends. They’d made the best of what fate had handed them, and it wasn’t a bad life, but it wasn’t altogether a happy one either.
Trouble was, the pursuit of such kept putting him in Elizabeth’s vicinity. Was it destiny’s hand at play, or was it merely wishful thinking on his part? He’d tried so hard to stay away from her, had managed it rather well, until Donovan took it into his bloody mind to get married. And then he’d seen her again, been in her company, and all the old feelings had risen to the surface, landing him in his current morass of confusion and need. Why the hell couldn’t he move away from the past they shared? He didn’t know, but he wished desperately to find out how and why they were bound.
Closer and closer he drew to the potted-plant refuge. Behind it, Elizabeth shrank as if attempting to make herself smaller, insignificant. Did she truly think he wouldn’t see her? Or that he would ever harm her again? A tiny grin of amusement lifted the corners of Rafe’s lips. He always knew of her whereabouts, even when he wasn’t in the same room as her. As long as he stayed in London and she was there too, he could pinpoint her location. It was like a sixth sense he possessed, forever connected to her.
A product of the curse, or did some other magic have a hand?
“Elizabeth,” he whispered as he made his way behind the plants to join her. Two gilt-painted chairs waited in the semi-private area, and she occupied one of them, her white-gloved fingers clenched tightly in her lap. The deep ruby of her gown contrasted starkly with the greenery and the ivory-papered walls. The creamy tops of her breasts peeked out over the lace-lined bodice. The hair streaming from a top-knot high upon her head gleamed like the richest caramel-infused chocolate. “It is good to see you.” The two months he’d been gone had been hell, for each time he closed his eyes, he saw her, dreamed of her… he always saw her, and it taunted him knowing he could never have her.
Not, at least, without a miracle.
“Rafe.” Elizabeth slowly rose, her eyes wide and round, confusion and a trace of fear shadowing those brandy-hued depths. Fear he’d put there. Fear that would never dissipate. Though how she could even remember that night was beyond him. When he enthralled a victim, they never knew what happened to them beyond the feeling sexual satisfaction afterward. “You’re back.”
His chest ached, for she alone called him by his name instead of the moniker, Rogue, or even his title. “Yes.” A frisson of surprise sailed down his spine. She’d noticed his absence? Encouraging sign. Did the same otherworldly sense that he felt pull at her as well? “I figured my holiday should come to an end, and I found I missed London.” Missed her, more precisely, even though being in her company was sheer folly, for with that mysterious tug came hunger for everything she might give.
Even now, the age-old ache flowed through him, faint and throbbing.
“It has its moments.” She kept her voice to a whisper, but she lifted a hand to the left side of her neck where he’d bitten her all those years ago.
Rafe frowned as she fingered the delicate skin though there was no trace of the puncture wounds. After eleven years, did that night still plague her? “How have you kept yourself while Donovan remains away?”
Her shrug lifted only one shoulder. “It’s been quiet. Lonely.” The last word sounded pulled from her throat, and it went through him straight to his length. Damnation, he hungered for her—for all of her, and that was dangerous indeed. “I’ve become accustomed to having people underfoot since he married. I’ve busied myself with my charity work.”
Did that mean she missed him too? No way to tell, but they had spent time together during those tension-fraught days when Donovan nearly threw everything away, worked in tandem to bring the duke to his senses. And he’d adored being near her. “Understandable. Does he return soon?”
“Tomorrow.” She stood staring at him, questions in her gaze, but she asked none of them. And was that… longing deep at the back of those depths? For what? Please, God, let it be me. Finally, she broke the strained silence brewing between them. “I didn’t think you’d come to such an event tonight.” When she caught him staring, she immediately dropped her hand, but high color remained in he
r pale cheeks.
“To borrow your words, such things have their moments.” His gums ached, signaling that his incisors would soon grow into fangs if he didn’t maintain tight control. What was it about this woman that set him at sixes and sevens so easily? Surely desire for one woman wouldn’t continue to haunt him for this long.
Her gaze lowered slightly to his mouth. Did she know that he’d fed or that he wanted to do a myriad of illicit things with her? Was she hoping to see evidence of such? She already knew what he was. Either way, Rafe remained perfectly still, for this was the most interaction they’d had since her brother left on his honeymoon. He ignored the need thrumming through his veins, ignored the rapid flutter of her pulse, ignored the way her pupils dilated. Was she even aware of that need? The tendons in her neck worked with a hard swallow while she looked at something beyond his right shoulder. Perhaps she struggled to forget what they once were to each other. “Why are you here? You aren’t in the habit of attending ton functions.”
“I am not, but Valentine is a close friend and I wished to support him. The poor man is doing his best for his nieces, despite the… obstacles in their paths due to him.”
“Yes, but at least he has the courage to do so and doesn’t hide himself away.”
Did that mean she assumed he was a coward, that he’d fled London because of the same? He took a step toward her, frowning when she retreated until the chair hitting the backs of her knees prevented further movement. “Also, I do enjoy a bit of socializing every now and again. It is good to be among people at times.” If he didn’t force himself out, he’d become a recluse and fall into depression, and then he might as well fit up his townhouse into a Gothic spectacle in order to more make himself into the monster they all assumed he was.
Or run the risk of ending it all, the perfect tragedy of story books.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “You’re here to find a woman who will give you what you need.” The whispered accusation speared his chest, and he didn’t deny it.
He held up a gloved hand and shook his head. “There are alternatives to stalking women, leading them on for one purpose and then dumping them in the shadows. I am not that man.”
“Your damn club.” She fairly spat out the words. “That is where you go when you must become the beast.” Again, she glanced at his mouth, and her notice sent hot saliva pooling, that he hurriedly swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Did you feed before coming here?” Her eyes narrowed. “Bite some unsuspecting woman, take what you wanted from her, because you could?” Each word was like a poison-tipped arrow lodging into his chest.
He nodded. After all, they both knew what he was. “The women at the club are not naïve. They know what is asked of them,” he said quietly. “You are aware of that.”
“You’d think I’d be used to the foibles of the Cursed Lords by now,” she said in a low voice, but she gave into a full body shudder. Then she swept her gaze to his once more. Horror and disgust roiled in those depths, tinged with something he couldn’t read. “I don’t know how you live with it.”
“I have no choice.” He curled a hand into a fist as annoyance slid through him. His fingertips hurt. If he gave the beast an inch, his nails would lengthen into claws. Why couldn’t she understand that, and perhaps support him? When she pointedly directed her attention to his hand, he relaxed his fingers. “It is what I am. I make no apologies for that.”
“Oh, don’t I know it?” Anger glittered in her eyes now, full blown animosity that had the power to plow into him as if she’d struck him. Part of him wished she had slapped him, all those years ago. At least some of her rage would have diffused. She crossed her arms at her chest, and the high color still blazed in her cheeks. “Never once did you offer up words of apology to me after that night. You behaved as if what you took was your right and due.”
Rafe gawked at her. “How the deuce can you even remember it?” Such a thing simply wasn’t possible. He fed from willing women all the time, but she…
Damn it. Perhaps that was the catch, a loophole in the curse. Would an unwilling victim remember everything? If a person’s body had been primed for flight and fight, would the magic of the enthrallment fail to work?
I must ponder this.
“How can I not? It sits in my memories as fresh as if it happened yesterday.” If she could have flayed the skin from his bones with merely a glance, she would have. Already the heat from her gaze roiled over him. “Those images never leave me, and I still feel you… everywhere.” A blush blazed in her cheeks. “I relive what happened—all of it. I can never escape it, or you.”
“That shouldn’t be possible…” He let his words trail off, for she wouldn’t believe him. He didn’t believe it himself, but part of him rejoiced that she thought of him, remembered that part of what they’d shared had been very good indeed. When she continued to glare, he rushed onward, desperate to change the subject. “Did I see you dancing with Lord Rockingham as I came in?”
“Yes.” The blush renewed itself in her cheeks, but for an entirely different reason… and he hated it. Jealousy speared through him—hot, deadly, dangerous. “He aims to call on me, and I’ve decided to let him.” Defiance shone in her expression. “He appears to be a gentleman.”
As if he could never attain such lofty heights. “I don’t know much about him.” But he’d damn sure find out, if only to protect her.
She sniffed and tossed her head, sending the long curls bouncing. “The marquess is everything that’s proper.”
“Undoubtedly,” he managed to bite out from around clenched teeth. An acute ache set up in Rafe’s chest. It didn’t matter how wonderful and solicitous he’d act toward her, for in the end, the marquess was fully human… and I am not. Apparently, that was what she wished for. He didn’t want to know about a new man in her life, had always assumed she’d remain Donovan’s unattached sister in the hopes that she might change her mind about him. Yet, if this man would make her happy… Oh, God, how can I let her go? How could he bear witness to her marrying another? “Perhaps you should talk over the situation with Donovan upon his return.” Surely her brother would have sage advice.
“Bah!” She threw up her hands. “I’m quite capable of running my own life without needing to defer to a man. And what’s more, my existence is quite different from his or even yours. You both come at it from a different perspective.”
Damn, she’d grown spirited of late. He adored that in her. It only enhanced her beauty and the wonderful woman she already was. Yet she wasn’t at ease in his company, and the ache in his chest intensified, along with his hunger. What would she feel like in his arms, this spitfire of a woman? Would she still welcome his embrace as she had that night? Until he’d killed any affection she once had for him by being a monstrous prick.
“Elizabeth, I…” He heaved a sigh. What the devil to say to her after so much time had passed and they’d both ignored the issue before? Why did it rear its head now? He hated the gulf between them, despised that he was the one who put her out of his reach. “I very much wish we could start again.”
“I’m not sure that is possible,” she said in a strained whisper as sadness pooled in her eyes. “I don’t know that I can…”
“But you accept what your brother is.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone.
“That is different.”
He didn’t see how. “Is it, though?” His jaw worked as he searched for something erudite to say. “What happened between you and I—”
“—will never happen again.” With a tiny sob, she shoved past him. As he turned and tracked her progress with his gaze, she skirted the ballroom and then vanished out a doorway that led further into the bowels of the house. A few seconds later, the dratted marquess followed at a leisurely pace. No doubt to comfort her and raise himself in her esteem.
“Damn it.” Rafe shoved the fingers of one hand through his hair, not caring that he upset his valet’s work or that the bit of leather he
used to tie back his longish hair came away in his hand. He lingered for a while in the ballroom, looked for Valentine, but not finding him, he assumed the viscount had holed up at a card table, so he left the room.
In the corridor, he ran into a maid in his haste to reach the entry hall. Muttering an apology and after gripping her upper arms until she found her balance, he continued on. No sooner had he retrieved his outer wear from the butler than a high-pitched scream shattered the relative calm.
“What the deuce is going on?” He exchanged a confused glance with the butler, and then they both trotted off in the direction of the commotion.
Not far from where he’d collided with the maid, she lay on the marble floor, pale and quite dead, two puncture wounds in her neck, a tiny trickle of blood marring her skin.
Three hours later and well past midnight
Good God, what is happening to my life?
Once Bow Street and the local constable had finished their investigation—for the moment—Rafe fled the viscount’s home and took refuge once more at Bête Noire. He’d been more upset than he let on at the scene of the murder—for that’s exactly what it was. The young woman had been killed and the perpetrator and made it look as if a vampire had done it.
Did someone know for a fact his secret? And if so, did they truly harbor enough hatred for him that they would try to frame him for murder?
With a shaking hand, Rafe lifted his snifter of brandy to his lips. All thoughts of Elizabeth were forgotten, as was the acute need and hunger he’d experienced in her presence, in light of this more startling occurrence. There was one comfort, however. Since none of the London upper crust did indeed have proof he was a vampire, Bow Street hadn’t questioned him in-depth or accused him of wrong doing. If they found anything amiss with his slight run-in with the maid, they didn’t say anything.
Bitten By the Earl (Lords of the Night Book Two) Page 4