And yet, as she pulled the bell rope to summon Betty, she knew that it wasn’t that Nicholas had kissed Lady Lazlo. He was the only person—aside from Susan—she had allowed herself to trust. She had thought she’d found a firm foundation upon which to set her heart, but now knew she had not. The discovery was like having a leg kicked from under her, and she had stumbled badly this evening. She would not do so again.
Betty arrived with a pair of new gloves. Leonore reflected that it was a good thing the gloves would cover her hands and hide the welts she received from spilling the wax on herself. But as she drew on the gloves, she frowned. The welts had disappeared, and her hands were as smooth, white, and free of pain as if she had never burned them. She shook her head. No doubt she had not burned them as badly as she’d thought, and the pain had been heightened because of her agitation.
Leonore shrugged and focused her mind on the ball she was to attend. She would keep her wits about her and put on an unconcerned face if Nicholas went to Lady Lazlo’s side. At least the mask she wore would help hide any slip she might make. She sighed. It was too bad she could not always wear a mask. At times her emotions crowded up within her so she was sure they showed for all to read. She looked in the mirror, then pulled up her gold mask and could see her eyes peering from the slits. She did not look like herself, and it made her feel at once free and oddly frightened. How easy it would be to pretend she was someone else while at the masquerade ball, someone whom Nicholas loved.
Again Leonore shook her head at herself. How nonsensical she was being! She dismissed the idea firmly, and it drifted down into a small, shadowed corner of her mind, convincing Leonore that she had indeed forgotten it.
Chapter Fifteen
Nicholas stared at the door for a moment, then turned and wearily rubbed his hand over his face. Well, he had done it now, hadn’t he? Leonore hated him—precisely what he meant for her to feel. And she had thrown his sins in his face once again. It was just as well. Perhaps she would decide to leave him and go back to her parents’ house. He shivered and threw a log into the fireplace, not bothering with the tinderbox but summoning a fire-salamander, which he let loose upon the wood. It licked and crawled upon the dry wood until the fire shot up high, then merged with the flames it had created.
He had told Leonore he’d make her excuses if she chose not to go to Lady Comstock’s ball, but it was he who wished he did not have to go. Mercia would be there, and she had been getting impatient. Well, he could tell her that Leonore was leaving him, and that should put an end to her impatience.
Pulling on his robe, Nicholas rang for his valet and sighed deeply. He had not been able to find the right spell to protect Leonore or keep Mercia from harming her. It had taken him years to find the one that would turn him mortal again. He was lucky Mercia had little interest in magic, or else she might be more suspicious than she already was … although who knew what she might have discovered during the decades she was gone. Certainly, she’d known enough of satanic rituals to create more vampires.
At least the warding he had put upon Leonore had made Mercia overlook her presence. It was not precisely invisibility, but it gave the illusion that he was neglecting Leonore more than he really was.
And that was just it—he could not stay away from her, could not help wanting to touch her and do things for her that would make her smile or laugh or sigh in pleasure. He was a weak coward, to be sure. If he were resolute, he would have made Leonore leave him long ago. Well, he was sure he’d done it now.
When Nicholas finished putting on his costume, he looked in the mirror and could not help laughing. He had selected the mask of a golden dragon, one he had found in China when he had traveled there many years ago. He’d gone to seek the dragon knowledge he’d read about in some of his books. It had been an uncomfortable trip, for his dark red hair and pale skin had frightened many of the people there. They believed him to be a demon … and they were not far from wrong, at that.
The only man who had not run from him in fear was an old Taoist priest, who had consented to speak with him of ancient magic. It was he who had shown him how to summon a fire-salamander—the little dragon—and it was he who had given him the mask. St. Vire understood dragons to signify wisdom to the Chinese and so was honored to have received it from the old priest, though he did not know why the man had decided to give it to him, a foreigner. The only thing the priest would say was that for St. Vire, it signified hope.
Perhaps that was why he selected the mask to wear tonight at the masquerade ball. He was not sure of what he hoped … or perhaps it was a farewell to hope. He pushed down the persistent despair that threatened to seep into him. Allowing that emotion would do him no good at all.
He certainly looked odd in the mask; it was much smaller than many of the masks he’d seen in China, but it covered most of his face. The long, bright brocade cloth that hung from the top and draped behind him held it in place. He knew it would attract much attention with its exotic design. He did not mind that at all, however, and he rather liked the idea that no one would know who he was underneath it until the unmasking.
Leonore was waiting for him when he arrived at the foyer. He would have laughed if he had not despair just under his surface calm. She, too, wore a golden mask, covering all but her lips and chin. But she was dressed as a medieval Italian princess, with a tall hennin for a hat, the tip of its cone draped with sheer silk. Her dress was as elaborately brocaded as his domino—gold on red velvet, and its long hanging sleeves were edged with ermine. The bodice of her high-waisted gown was low-cut, and her breasts looked white as cream in contrast to the deep red velvet. St. Vire sighed, wishing he did not have to go to the masquerade, but could stay home instead and explore the contours under her costume.
“My goodness,” Leonore said when she turned to look at him. “A dragon?”
“Yes, oh Princess.” He bowed, feeling at once relieved and frustrated. “It seems our costumes have dovetailed nicely.” She had obviously not been so angry that she felt she must leave immediately. Something was keeping her here, despite her hatred of him. He did not want to hurt her more than he had already. What would make her leave? He did not want to kiss Mercia more than he had to, for she disgusted him.
“Yes,” Leonore replied, then looked away from him. “Nicholas, I … I am sorry for my outburst this evening. It was wrong of me.”
“Well, don’t do it again,” he made himself reply and detested the way he sounded—petulant and rude. He saw her flinch and hated himself even more.
“Of course,” Leonore replied, her voice stiff—with anger, he supposed. He could not tell with the mask over her face. He offered his arm as they moved toward the door, but she did not touch him. He shrugged and opened the door.
When they arrived at Lady Comstock’s house, Nicholas sensed Mercia’s presence and searched the crowd. It was easy to find her; she wore a costume designed to reveal her charms rather than disguise them. She was dressed as Mozart’s Queen of the Night—appropriately, he thought. He glanced at Leonore at his side. Lady Comstock, a respectable woman, would not invite people like those who had attended the Harlowe’s masquerade; Leonore should be safe from any seducers. He left her to go to Mercia.
She knew who he was immediately—she was of his kind, after all. Her eyes measured him, and her lips widened in a smile.
“A dragon. Does it bite, I wonder?” Mercia murmured.
He bowed and kissed the cool flesh of her hand. “Yes, most definitely,” he replied.
“All the time?”
“Surely, you know the fairy tales.”
“No, tell me.” She took a step closer and briefly touched his chest with her fingers.
“Dragons eat only princesses.”
“Ah, I am safe, then, for I am a queen, as you see.”
He made himself smile intimately at her. “But queens were often once princesses, so you are not safe at all.” He noticed the young Sir Adrian Hambly was not at her side. “Especially whe
n her young knight is not by to guard her.”
Mercia shrugged slightly and let out a sad sigh. “Alas, my poor knight is … indisposed. He has not been well of late.”
Nicholas clenched his teeth. No doubt she had drained the young man to the point of illness—or death. She had not changed at all; she was still the greedy, careless bitch she’d always been. She could use her body like a drug and cast a glamour so that her victims could not leave her. Utter hatred made him bare his teeth, but he turned it into a wide, avaricious grin.
“Then you are wholly unprotected. Beware, oh Queen! Dragons can carry off such ladies and devour them whole.”
Mercia laughed. “But I have been known to ride dragons and so cannot be harmed.” The musicians at the other end of the room started up their instruments. Nicholas put Mercia’s hand on his arm and led her to the dance floor.
He smiled slightly and bent to her ear. “But you do not attend the opera often, yes? Perhaps you don’t remember the end of The Magic Flute. Fire consumes the Queen and the earth swallows her up.”
She cast him a sharp look through her mask. “Is that a warning, Nicholas?”
“For your own benefit, I assure you.”
She frowned, but did not speak, for the figures of the dance separated them. Nicholas looked about him and saw that Leonore was dancing as well. She averted her face, and he was sure she had been looking at him. Now she smiled at the gentlemen who passed her in the dance, and a few of them gazed longer at her than necessary.
Angry heat flashed through Nicholas, and he suddenly realized he was jealous. He pulled his gaze away from Leonore. It was a useless emotion, and he should be glad she had some admirers, for then she would not be lonely once they parted. But the thought of Leonore in another man’s arms, someone else kissing her and making love to her caused him to misstep. Clumsy fool! He would not think of what Leonore might do when she left him. It had not happened yet. Better he think of what he must do now rather than … he would not think of it.
The dance brought him back to Mercia, and she smiled sweetly at him as he took her hand.
“You are truly the gentleman, Nicholas. I appreciate your warning. But let me give you a warning as well: I grow impatient. It has been many months now, and your little pet wife has still not left you. Be warned that I can strike swiftly and close—as you well know.”
Nicholas put on a bored expression. “So you’ve told me. If I dally with the woman, why should it matter to you? You have your little pets, also, and I know you won’t give them up. Why should I?”
Mercia’s smile grew hard. “Because they mean nothing to me, and I suspect your little wife means more to you than you say.”
“Think what you want. As it is, she has informed me today she hates me, and no doubt she will leave soon.”
“Will she?” Mercia gave him a shrewd look. “A jealous wife rarely leaves her husband, it seems to me.”
“Oh, she will.”
“I am not so sure, my dear Nicholas. But if you have any trouble, I can certainly rid you of her. Shall I demonstrate?”
He gave her an ironic look. “I thank you, no. I believe I can manage my affairs quite well.” The dance ended, and an improbably mustachioed Turk eagerly asked Mercia for the next one. She nodded her head at the gentleman, then left Nicholas with a last, sly smile.
He stared after her. He was skirting close to the edge; he could hear the angry impatience in Mercia’s voice underneath her slyness. Music began again, and he looked away to find Leonore gazing at him. The next dance was a waltz, and he did not want anyone but himself to dance it with Leonore. But when he went to her side, she turned from him and accepted a gaudily dressed cavalier’s hand for the dance.
Nicholas’s hands turned to fists at this cut direct from his own wife, but he suppressed the urge to tear her away from her partner. Instead, he turned and asked a lady standing next to him for the waltz. She was a plump lady, disastrously costumed as a sylph, but he did not care. Any woman would have done, only so that he could keep an eye on Leonore. But his partner kept up a flow of chatter to which he must at least reply from time to time. Between that and the whirling steps of the dance, he was not able to keep his eye on Leonore at all.
What a fool he was! He made himself respond properly to his dance partner until the dance ended. He looked for Mercia, but she had disappeared. He breathed a sigh of relief. He felt suddenly tired and wanted to go home. But he had not been here very long, and with Mercia’s barely veiled threats, it was unsafe to leave Leonore alone at the ball, either. The ballroom, stuffy and hot, seemed to close in on him. At the very least, he wanted fresh air.
A windowed door, slightly ajar, led out onto a balcony. Quickly, Nicholas slipped out and took off his mask and was glad he did. The cold night air brushed his face; he breathed it in and let it out again, and his breath hung in the air, a light mist upon the darkness. No moon shone in the sky, for clouds had gathered, and a faint humidity promised snow. A frozen breeze wafted through his hair, cooling his disordered thoughts, and he was able to think clearly for once.
He leaned against the low balcony wall, his hands rubbing against the smooth stone. His senses had continued to become more finely honed so that the wall’s texture came through clearly to his hand and to his mind. Sometimes a passage of music impressed itself upon his ears and surprised him with such emotion that his breath would catch in his throat.
But he’d thought he would become clearer in his mind as well, and he was not. The spell had not said that emotions would spring upon him like a trap so that he did not know how to escape to cool logic and intellect again. It was not the madness, which used to spin him around, taunting him with the merging of reality and illusion. Though he’d yearned for the ability to touch, hear, and see with a fine, sensitive appreciation again, he’d also been proud of his ability to be detached from the foolishness of emotions. He was a scholar and pursued knowledge and pure objectivity. It was not something he thought he’d be giving up when he regained his senses.
Now, however, he’d gone through the gamut of emotions: hatred, jealousy, and yes, love. He had always done what was expedient and logical. This return of his emotions gave him nothing but trouble, for now he needed to sort through them and had no time in which to do so.
And it was a dangerous thing, for it had caused him to become weak and indecisive, delaying his separation from Leonore. Not only did he have to think, but now his emotions demanded that he consider them as well. He was not, admittedly, good at dealing with them. He sighed. Perhaps that was one consequence of becoming human again. Acting from sheer expediency was a far simpler thing to do.
He would have to be vigilant. He could not let his emotions ruin his plans or endanger Leonore. His thoughts turned to Mercia, and he tamped down the anger he immediately felt. Staying a vampire was inevitable. He needed to think like one.
She had not bothered with Leonore so far, but Mercia was clever and impatient and might kill her soon. For all he knew, Sir Adrian was probably dead by now, or close to it, and everyone would assume the boy had died of some wasting disease. After that, who else would fall before Mercia’s seduction? Perhaps she would even punish him, enticing his new friends, and he would see them die, one by one. And then, of course there was Leonore.
He would have to kill Mercia.
Relief washed over him. At last he could take some real action, and he could work toward it, however distasteful. There were many ways to kill a vampire—a long knife through the heart, fire, shutting one in a church, and of course, exposure to sunlight. He’d have to choose the most discreet and, if possible, the least dangerous. Mercia was strong, perhaps as strong as he, especially since he’d begun the spell for becoming human again. He would have to be very careful, but he was sure he could do it. Just a little more time, and Mercia would be dead.
Nicholas smiled grimly, put on his dragon mask, and entered the ballroom again.
Leonore refused to watch Nicholas cross the room
. She was sure he had recognized Lady Lazlo somehow—perhaps they had arranged an assignation. Her face heated with anger, and she was glad the mask covered her face. If an amalgam of hatred and love could exist in her heart, surely it was a poisonous one, for it made her feel ill. She wished she hadn’t apologized to him, wished she had not come to the masquerade at all. Coward! Have you already forgotten your resolve to turn away your attention from him? She took a deep breath and smiled at a passing pirate, who responded by asking her to dance.
She made sure to dance every dance that was asked of her, for it kept her occupied and did not allow Nicholas to approach her even if he wanted to. But she could not dance forever, and Leonore’s legs finally trembled with fatigue. She sat on a nearby chair and politely refused one gentleman’s offer of yet another dance. Unfurling her fan, she began to wave it, but it was taken from her hand and waved for her. She looked up. Nicholas.
He wore his mask still, and he did not smile. Yet, the tension she had sensed about him had lightened somehow. She wished she knew what had occurred to make him so, or even what had caused his strained manner of late. Leonore looked away from him. She should keep herself unconcerned with his affairs. The veil upon her hat stirred, and she felt Nicholas’s breath close to her ear.
“Leonore,” he said softly. “Let us go home. I do not wish to be here.”
Relief washed over her. He had danced only once with Lady Mercia and had not disappeared with her tonight. Perhaps his affair with her was over. She bit her lip. How foolish she was! She should not hope so soon.
“Yes,” she replied and rose from her chair.
Snow fell in thick, wet flakes as they stepped out of Lady Comstock’s house into the carriage. Leonore was glad she had chosen the costume she wore, for it was heavy velvet and the ermine at her sleeves kept her arms and hands warm. Nicholas sat close to her, and she allowed it, even welcomed it. The barrier that had been between them seemed to have dropped for the moment, though she had all the reason in the world to want to keep it between them. She did not want to be hurt again, after all. Having Nicholas’s leg pressed next to hers was comforting somehow, and the lack of tension in his body—tension that had seemed ever-present for the past four months—made her own body relax as well.
The Vampire Viscount Page 19