She did not know quite what to think of St. Vire. Certainly he was extraordinarily handsome, and he had promised that he would treat her well. And so he had. More than that, he had gone to great lengths to please her, going so far as to insinuate himself into Lady Jersey’s good graces to procure vouchers. He had an occasionally frivolous manner, had a clever tongue, and was even a little vain at times. Clearly he took great care over his clothes, for he dressed with impeccable taste. And … he liked her. Or so he seemed to imply by his wish to hold her hand and in the way he complimented her.
Leonore pushed the thought aside. No doubt he treated all ladies the same. Did he not manage to make Lady Jersey do as he wished? She smiled wryly. She was sure he had used the same wiles upon Lady Jersey as he had upon herself. He was a wicked flirt, to be sure!
And yet, there was something else … Perhaps it was his illness that caused him to seem a little sad, made him seem as if he were a little on the edge of … Of what? Leonore was not sure.
Most certainly, sadness. She had seen it herself, flickering across his countenance from time to time when he did not know she was watching him. An answering sadness crept into her heart at the thought, and then a growing warmth. He had been kind to her, and even to Susan, which she felt sure he did either from the kindness of his heart or to gain her approval. What had she offered him in return? Surely, at the very least, she should give him her trust. He had asked nothing of her so far, except to hold her hand that once in the theatre.
She blushed, remembering it. That was all he had done, but it had been as intimate as a kiss. She had not known what to think of it at first, but she understood that certain intimacies were allowed between betrothed couples, and even more between married ones. Her mind went back further, to when Susan had left them alone in the parlor, how he had stepped close to her and had leaned forward as if he had been thinking about kissing her.
Leonore wet her dry lips at the thought. She had not liked the kisses that some former employers or employers’ sons had tried to press upon her when they had caught her alone. She had rightfully repulsed them. But this, now, was different. It was not a forbidden thing to kiss one’s betrothed.
She shook her head at her thoughts. What nonsense! Did she truly know that St. Vire had wanted to kiss her that evening before the opera? No, she did not. Most certainly, she did not know if he had wanted to do so lately. He had been the soul of courtesy and propriety each time he called upon her after the opera.
A glance at the clock made her rise hurriedly from her chair. It was late in the afternoon, and if she was to ready herself for Lady Bennington’s ball, she had to start now.
St. Vire glanced up at the clock from the ancient grimoire he was reading. It wanted but an hour and a half until the start of Lady Bennington’s ball, and he was not at all sure if he wanted to go. He had replied to the invitation tentatively, saying he might have to attend to some business at that time. He gazed again at the book of spells he had been studying for the last hour. His sleep had been full of shifting images, and he did not know if any of them held a clue to his fate, but the grimoire had instructed that he take note of his dreams. He was almost certain he was very close to finding the additional information he needed. Impatience flickered through his mind at the thought of delaying the gathering of knowledge by yet another day, just so he could make an appearance at a ball.
Yet, Leonore would be there. He felt an unfamiliar eagerness at the thought, and his smile became crooked. She had become the icon of his restoration to humanity. In reality, it was his research and knowledge of the magical arts that would restore the full use of his physical senses to him and stem the onslaught of madness. But somehow he had come to look upon Leonore as the embodiment of all his hopes.
Well, it was true after all that he could not do it without her willing participation. With luck, he’d be able to effect the transformation without her knowledge of his true nature, and so elicit her willingness all the more easily.
But of course, it would not happen if he stayed away from her. With Leonore, it seemed that gentle attention from him softened her to him more and more. If he stopped now, it was wholly possible he might lose ground with her. He would, therefore, go to Lady Bennington’s ball. Marking his place in his grimoire, he closed it.
St. Vire sighed and after a long look around the room, grimaced. He would have to tidy the place soon himself, as he never let servants into his study. Some tiny shards of glass still sprinkled the floor from the time he had smashed the single mirror that had hung above the mantelpiece many years ago. It did not bother him, as he knew where they were and avoided them, but from time to time it irritated his sense of order. He’d tried sweeping them up before, but he always seemed to find some slivers of glass scattered across the rug.
He shrugged. He would deal with cleaning later. A sense of anticipation grew in him as he thought of the ball. He had not told Leonore he would attend, so perhaps she would be surprised. It occurred to him that he had not danced with her yet, as this was the first ball Leonore had attended since their betrothal. Leaving his study, he smiled slightly. He imagined her in his arms in a waltz—his hand on her waist, his legs brushing hers. It would be amusing to see how she reacted to such a public embrace. He chuckled to himself. It would be even more amusing to see how she reacted to a private one.
It was Leonore’s fifth social function, but she was not accustomed to the brilliant lights, the laughter, and the gaiety she found amongst the ton. Most of all, she was not used to the attention. She had not thought about it when she first agreed to marry St. Vire, that she would have to make a change in attitude, different from the governess’s diffident manner she had acquired. Regardless, she must now do her duty and present the best face she had to the world; she could not shame her betrothed after all he’d done for her so far, and that before they even wed.
As she and her mother descended from their coach and ascended the steps to Lady Bennington’s house, Leonore smiled reassuringly at her mother. Mrs. Farleigh had been invited as well, as chaperon to her daughter. The change in status was difficult for her mother, who was more used to seclusion than Leonore. As a result, Leonore had to deal with the brunt of the attention. Her father had declined to attend any of these social functions, and she was thankful for it. He disliked balls and routs, and preferred to keep to his gaming hells and his taverns. She was ashamed of her relief when he told her this. What was worse was that she knew she’d be more ashamed if he decided to accompany her and her mother.
Leonore shook off these thoughts. Castigating herself over it was useless. She was used to her father’s habits and had steeled herself against the humiliation he heaped upon her. He had once been the cause of her dismissal from a governess’s post, banging at her employer’s door and in his drunkenness demanding to see his daughter. But her life was changing now, and she would not have to bear the humiliation of being dismissed again.
The chandeliers within Lady Bennington’s house sparkled as if hung with diamonds instead of glass. The jewels on the guests were as bright, and the laughter brighter. Leonore could feel people’s attention upon her as she entered and saw a few guests whisper to each other. She raised her chin in defiance and smiled at Lady Bennington, who welcomed her and her mother warmly.
“Mrs. Farleigh, Miss Farleigh, I am so pleased to see you here,” Lady Bennington said. “Please do partake of the refreshments, and there is a retiring room should either of you feel fatigued after dancing.”
Mrs. Farleigh murmured a few polite though awkward words, but Leonore noticed her mother looked less anxious at the mention of a retiring room. Her mother would probably not stay in the ballroom for very long, and so she’d best resign herself to either finding a friendly guest to whom she could talk, or wearing her slippers thin from dancing all night.
Lady Bennington leaned toward Leonore a little. “I was wondering … will Lord St. Vire be attending? I sent him an invitation, but he had only replied that he might.�
��
“I am sorry, my lady, but St. Vire has not informed me whether he would or not.” Leonore could see a flicker of disappointment in Lady Bennington’s eyes, but that lady was too polite to let it show on her face. She smiled instead and introduced Leonore to a blond young man who seemed eager to dance with her. She noticed that her mother retreated immediately to another room, and Leonore resigned herself to dancing most of the evening.
Leonore enjoyed the first dance and went from one partner to another for the next three dances. A part of her, nevertheless, kept wondering if St. Vire would appear after all.
An hour passed, and she mentally shrugged. No doubt he had decided not to come. Disappointment rose within her at the thought, surprising her. After all, she had not come to the ball expecting to see him. Yet, she wished he had come. She wanted to thank him for persuading Lady Jersey to call upon her and offer vouchers for tickets to Almack’s assembly rooms. As she sat, resting between dance partners, she fingered the light blue silk crepe of her dress and smiled to herself. She may not have expected to see St. Vire, but she had hoped to. Her gown was of the latest fashion, and she had dressed with care, just in case St. Vire might attend the ball. Well, it was not a wasted effort, for one should always look one’s best, after all. She fanned herself lazily, for the ballroom was quite warm.
“May I have this dance?”
Leonore looked up, startled, and her heart began to beat wildly. “Lord St. Vire! I … I had not thought you would attend.”
She had not heard him approach—of course she hadn’t. The noise in the ballroom would have drowned out anyone’s footsteps. He looked impeccably elegant. He was dressed all in black; the only color upon him was his green eyes, his chestnut-red hair, and the ruby he seemed to be so fond of, set within the folds of his neckcloth. In all, he was a singular figure, and it was no wonder that people turned to stare at him as he passed.
He gazed at her, smiling, and brought her hand to his lips. “My dear, do try to call me Nicholas. I hear ‘Lord St. Vire’ from everyone, and I am fond of variety.” He pulled at her hand gently, and she stood. “And of course I had to attend. I realized I did not know whether you danced well or not. I thought perhaps I should find out.”
Leonore’s breath became short. He was looking at her, and his smile was intimate … or so it seemed to her. “Of course, my lord,” she said and went with him to the dance floor. She chided herself. She was sure he looked so at all women—it was nothing, really, just his usual manner.
A shock went through her when she felt his hand upon her back. It was a waltz! Heavens, but she should not be dancing the waltz, not now, before one of Almack’s patronesses gave approval for her to do so. She stared, alarmed, at St. Vire. “My lord—”
“Hush, Leonore, and simply enjoy the dance.” His smile turned mischievous as they moved to the music. “Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is here, and I asked if I might dance the waltz with you; she allowed that it was proper for me to do so. I am your betrothed, after all.”
Of course he would ask; he was a gentleman after all. She relaxed, and an answering smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Do you always get your way, my lord?”
“Except when I ask my affianced wife to call me by my Christian name.”
Wife. Her smile left her; she gazed into his eyes, his handsome face, then looked away. She knew she was not yet ready to wed this man, for the idea of herself being anyone’s wife still seemed a foreign one. The idea of being a governess forever still had some hold on her.
“If you wish to call off the betrothal, you know you may do so,” St. Vire said before she could speak. She thought a tight, bereft look crossed his face before it became pleasantly cordial again.
“I— No,” she said firmly. Perhaps he truly did wish to marry her, perhaps for herself, for here he was clearly giving her a choice in the matter. A warmth rose within her at the thought and caused her to smile at him. “No. I do wish to wed you … Nicholas. You have been so very kind to me and my family. How could I not wish to wed a man like you?”
An expression of ironic amusement came upon his face. She felt his hands tighten upon her back and hand. “You need not feel obligated to me, Leonore. I am not as good as you think.”
“Well, then, if you will not be complimented, then I shall be obliging enough not to do so,” she replied. “Besides, I know you are not a saint.”
“No?” He put on an expression of extreme chagrin.
She chuckled. “I think you are a terrible flirt and a little vain, also.”
“Am I? How so?”
“Why, I know you flirt because half the ladies in London profess to be in love with you.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Half the ladies in London have come calling at my house, inquiring after you, and all of them have said it.”
He grinned widely, then his eyes half closed, assessing her. His hand shifted to her waist, caressing it lightly. “And to which half do you belong, Leonore?”
She felt a shiver pass over her as his hand moved up from her waist and his thumb made little circles upon her ribs. She gazed at him, and her breath came a little short, for his eyes held a caressing warmth. She firmly gathered her scattered thoughts together and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I will not tell you that.”
“And why not?”
“I have already shown that you are a flirt, and telling you would only inflate your vanity.”
St. Vire laughed. “Well, that cannot be, for I am sure you would prick it with your words and it would burst.”
“Alas, I fear my words would have little effect on you, as you fence so well with your own,” she replied.
He gave her a wide smile and drew her a little closer to him. “You underestimate your effect on me, my dear.”
The dance ended, and Leonore fanned herself, glad that she had the excuse of a vigorous dance to explain her heated face. They had ended their dance near some windows that opened to the terrace. Fanning helped her gain some measure of composure, though she thought her face must still be quite pink.
“A trifle warm, are you?” St. Vire asked solicitously.
She shot him a suspicious glance, but his expression was smoothly polite. “Yes; the dance was a particularly spirited one.”
“Perhaps a short walk outside on the terrace would refresh you.”
The ballroom was indeed oppressively hot, and the thought of a cool breeze was very tempting. She gave a little nod, and St. Vire left her briefly to fetch her shawl, which she had left draped over a chair.
The air was cool outside, and Leonore shivered slightly at the first brush of a breeze. She felt a light caress upon her arms; it was St. Vire drawing her shawl about her shoulders.
He smiled down at her, then took her hand and placed it upon his arm. The noise and music of the ballroom faded behind them as they walked a little upon the terrace. They said nothing for a while, but there was no awkwardness between them. It was as if St Vire was content to be silent, demanding nothing of her. They came to the low stone wall that separated the terrace from the gardens below, and he drew her to it.
She gazed at him, seeing how the moonlight outlined each of his features precisely so that his pale profile seemed etched upon the darkness of the sky. The night suited him, she thought, for night was full of contrasts, when all things seen were either black or white. He, also, was full of contrasts; at once kind and vain, generous while he protested he was wholly selfish.
He leaned against the stone wall, looking over it to the gardens. He breathed in deeply, and an odd expression, a mix of longing and frustration, crossed his features. He breathed out again in a quick rush of air.
“Is there something the matter, Nicholas?” She moved toward him and touched his sleeve.
He turned and smiled at her. “No. I was merely thinking it has been a long time since I have been in a garden.”
A sudden sadness and strange warmth curled around Leonore’s heart. Of course it would be unlik
ely he’d venture into a garden. It was a thing best seen during the day, and Nicholas could only come out at night. He could not see the open faces of flowers or breathe in the full perfume that scented the air only during the day. Their colors would be varied shades of gray under the moon, and never the rich panoply of hues that would show so clearly under the sun. A wild impulse moved her to tug at his arm.
“Come,” she said and pulled him away from the terrace wall.
St. Vire’s smile turned quizzical, but he followed nevertheless. He watched her step quick and light upon the terrace steps to the garden. Moonbeams touched her form, and her dress shimmered as she walked, clinging and releasing, hinting at feminine curves beneath. Only the faint strains of music reached his ears now instead of the murmur of voices and instruments combined. His feet soon touched earth instead of stone, and his legs brushed low shrubbery.
His eyebrows rose. He had not expected this, that Leonore would bring him here to the garden. He had thought her somewhat staid, for she had been all that was proper with him, never giving into any impulse. But now they were in the middle of the garden, the moon illuminated the clearing, and roses surrounded them. Their scent was not strong, or rather, he could barely smell them. But then an abrupt, sharp fragrance filled his nostrils, for Leonore had plucked a rose and brushed his cheek with it.
“I will give you this,” she said, and she gazed intently into his eyes. “You have given me and my sister much, and I do not know how to return it. But when we are wed, I will give you roses, fill the house with them, and you will see their color even in the night.”
Nicholas’s breath left him suddenly as he looked into her eyes. They were no longer wary, but looked upon him with trust and even warmth. The light from the waxing moon shone upon her elfin face and silvered her blond hair, and the silk of her dress as she breathed shimmered upon her breasts like water. He had dreamed this today, of Leonore and the moonlight, fairylike and unreal. Even the scent of roses had come sharply to him, as it had in his dreams, as they never had since his change into a vampire. He took her hand, and then reached up and gently touched her cheek with his finger.
The Vampire Viscount Page 6