by Колин Глисон
"Yes, and when she's the Marchioness of Rockley, she'll have a husband who will want to follow her when she comes out on patrol, as he did two weeks ago. Or who won't let her go at all, and because he's her husband he'll be able to keep her in on the nights we might need her. Or enforce her presence at more and more of those ridiculous balls, or evenings at Almack's, or weekends in Bath… We have life-and-death business here, and my concern is that she'll be less available for help when we need it." As always, when he became impassioned about something, his English grew thicker with their homeland accent.
"You've never been one to want to work with someone, Max, so why are you so concerned about it now?"
"Lilith grows stronger every month, and we need to work together. All of us. And what happens, Eustacia, when Victoria begets an heir for the Marquess of Rockley? She can't be hunting vampires in that condition."
Porca l'oca! Max was right. Eustacia had her own worries, but she'd tried to push them away, tried to play devil's advocate with him because she didn't want the rift between him and Victoria to grow any wider. But she could not argue with his points, and indeed, had spent some sleepless nights worrying on them herself.
From all aspects, it could not work. She could not believe it would, had never known it to happen. Yet Eustacia had learned not to live by absolutes. Just because it hadn't happened didn't mean that it could not.
Time to change the subject.
"And the marquess—I presume he has recovered from his experience at the Silver Chalice and is not rushing about London trying to hunt vampires?"
Max grimaced, presumably a reaction to the large gulp of whiskey he downed. "He called on me the day following the incident. Did I not tell you that?"
"No… you did not."
"He wanted to know why I put the salvi in his drink. He was quite… agitated. We nearly came to fisticuffs. He appeared to be under the impression that I had taken Victoria to the Silver Chalice, and that it was I who influenced her so. He was babbling on about destiny… and from what I was able to glean, he had just come from her home. He left me with the impression that they were calling off the wedding. Which is the reason I was quite surprised to receive that."
Eustacia could think of nothing to say. She merely raised her eyebrows, hoping he would continue. When he did not, and instead sat glaring at the offending invitation, she prompted, "Whatever did you tell him? About the salvi?"
"I told him the truth—that it was for his protection. That he'd walked into a nest of vipers that he had no hopes of understanding, and that the only way I knew to get him out safely was to make him sick. Unfortunately, it did not work as planned."
And that he'd been bested by a non-Venator was probably the largest reason it sat like a stone in his belly.
"If he follows her again, he could easily jeopardize our work."
True. Too true. "Victoria will have to find a way to manage that, Max. I trust that she will be able to."
She prayed her niece would be able to.
"It would have to be raining today, of all days," Melly muttered to Winnie as she watched her beautiful daughter exchange vows with the catch of the Season. "A fortnight of sunshine, and today must be overcast!" Despite her annoyance, she cast a satisfied glance over her shoulder, gleeful at the expressions of some of the other mamas who hadn't been quite as successful in their matchmaking endeavors. Today was truly a coup!
Indeed, a soft, summer rain was falling on this, the day of the Marquess of Rockley's wedding. The sky was colored with pearl-gray clouds, and the steady rain brought the smell of peat and summer flowers to the air. The overflow guests were huddled outside the chapel under hastily erected tents, and more than one pair of spectacles had fogged or misted up. Melly's lorgnette was damp, but that was from tears of joy… not the rain.
"The drizzle isn't bothering them," Winnie whispered back. "I've never seen Victoria look so beautiful, and so happy." She dabbed at her eyes, then snorted, bull-like, into her lacy handkerchief.
Melly had helped her daughter dress at St. Heath's Row in a slip of soft lemon silk, with a lacy white gauze skirt over it. The lace was embroidered with seed pearls, twists of satin ribbon, and ocean pearls, giving the whole of it a gentle glittering sort of glow. Madame LeClaire had outdone herself!
Victoria's maid had drawn up only the topmost of her curls onto the crown of her head, leaving the rest of the unruly mass to cascade down her back and over her shoulders. Melly had forbidden the use of those ridiculous sticks in the bridal coiffure, and so more pearls, and also ice-white diamonds, had been woven into the corkscrew tresses. Still more created a wrap around the top of her cluster of curls, holding them in a crownlike position.
Moments after the heaviest of the rain showers eased, Victoria had walked down the aisle at the small stone chapel on the grounds of St. Heath's Row carrying a cluster of lilies of the valley and yellow roses. English ivy, wrapped around the stems, trailed to the ground at her feet.
The marquess was resplendent in a dove-gray coat and ink-black breeches. His boots shone like jet, and his waistcoat was rich claret patterned with black-and-gray paisley. His neckcloth, a solid color matching the waistcoat, had been tied to within an inch of its life, and was as crisp as a bloodstain on his perfect white shirt. Such exquisite fashion sense!
Rockley's thick walnut hair was brushed back high off his forehead, and did not dare fall from its place even when he tipped his head to look down at his bride. The long sideburns that framed the very edges of his cheeks had been trimmed and lay flat and smooth against his skin. His eyes, half-lidded as they always were, were fixed with great emotion on the glowing bride next to him as he spoke his vows clearly and for all to hear.
As his mellow voice boomed his promise to love her daughter until death did they part, Melly couldn't resist looking over at Lady Seedham-Jones, whose three single daughters—all of whom had come out in the last four years—were sitting next to her. The lady in question had the look of a wrinkled prune about her face.
That was when Melly noticed the Italian gentleman who seemed to know her aunt Eustacia quite well. Maximilian someone-or-other—since he didn't have a title, Melly hadn't bothered to learn his last name. "Whatever does that Maximilian person have in his hand?"
Winnie turned to look at the tall dark-haired man with the arrogant face. He sat in the back row of the chapel, looking rather bored, and as Melly watched he slipped something—a long, pointed stick—from the sleeve of his jacket. He hefted it in his hand, then slid it back into the starched white cuff. More than once.
"How very odd," Winnie murmured, fingering the crucifix that dangled from her neck. "It almost looks like a stake one would use to impale a—"
"Don't say it!" Melly hissed. "Do not even breathe your foolish thoughts here at my daughter's wedding!"
"But, Melly, you know—"
"Hush! They are about to be presented as husband and wife!"
Winnie complied and closed her mouth, but her eyes darted back to the Italian gentleman sitting in the last row. Melly pretended not to notice, but she did keep a wary eye on the man for the rest of the wedding celebration.
However, he remained on the outskirts of the revelry and never once left the fete. So it was most certain that Winnie's imagination had run away with her yet again.
Silly woman.
Victoria had never seen the bare chest of an adult male, but she found it exceedingly captivating when, late on the day of her wedding, in the privacy of his bedchamber, her new husband whipped off his shirt.
The starched white broadcloth fell in a crumple on the floor and Phillip stepped over it, moving toward her outstretched hand. She wanted to feel the smooth skin that had been hidden under his shirt. Who would have known that such a proper gentleman had such firm, golden ridges dusted with dark hair, of all things! But the curls felt soft and interesting when she finally touched them, and if the gentle intake of his breath was any indication, he did not mind her questing fingers at all.
Not at all.
Victoria was still garbed in the night rail that Verbena had hustled her into, after all of the guests had left St. Heath's Row. The faintest sounds of clattering dishes and servants ordering one another about during their effort to clean up did reach her ears, up there in the suite of rooms that belonged to her husband, but Victoria's attention was quite focused elsewhere. In particular, on the hands of her husband, which were industriously unbuttoning the tiny buttons that Verbena had done up a mere fifteen minutes earlier.
She held her breath when the flimsy cotton lawn, trimmed with an abundance of lace and satin that she was certain had gone wholly unappreciated by her new husband, fell away, baring her shoulders and a great deal of her bosom.
And whilst Phillip, the man she loved, carried her to the bed they would share, if she happened to think, ever so briefly, that he was not the first man to see her breasts bared… well, that thought was immediately driven from her mind when he replaced smoothing hands with his lips.
It felt quite delicious, and Victoria was gratified that the pleasant tingle between her legs grew stronger and moister under her husband's ministrations. And that she was feeling his warm skin under her hands and nails as they ruffled the scattering of hair that grew in so many unusual places—on his muscular arms, over the flat expanse of his chest, down a long, thin line that disappeared into his trousers.
He'd left off kissing her breasts to move back up to her mouth and then along the most sensitive area of her neck, where the vampire bite was all but gone. For the first time in her memory, his hair had moved out of place and fell forward on the sides, brushing his sideburns and the edge of his jaw.
Phillip moved back, away and off, and shucked off his breeches. With a covert glance, as if to check her reaction to the bulge thus revealed, he took a bit longer to slip out of his drawers and then stood looking down at her.
Victoria felt hot and trembly all over when she saw the part of him that most obviously wanted her.
He came back toward the bed, where she'd hiked herself up on one elbow to watch him undress. Sprawling next to her, his nakedness lining the length of her night rail, he trailed a hand along her body, from her throat down along between her breasts and into the deep vee from the part of her gown he'd impatiently left buttoned. But not for long.
His fingers deftly slipped the remaining buttons from their loops as he bent forward to kiss her. And then, as his hands brushed over the newly exposed skin, he stopped.
"What… ?" He sat up, away, and pulled the edges of her nightgown aside to expose the soft rounding of her stomach and the glint of silver that lay there. "What is that?"
Of course. She'd realized he'd ask about it. He wouldn't recognize a vis bulla, as Verbena or Sebastian would. But she hadn't expected the expression on his face to be one of such… displeasure.
She'd already decided how to explain it. "A Gardella family tradition," she told him, reaching for the squared-off roundness of his shoulder to pull him back toward her.
He resisted, and though she was strong enough to keep him moving toward her, she released him.
"Why?"
"It's believed to offer a kind of protection. As I said, it is a family tradition that Aunt Eustacia requested I follow."
"It is… unusual. Does it hurt?" He reached a finger to touch the silver cross.
"No. Not at all." She flicked the cross and its small hoop to demonstrate.
"I'm not at all certain I like it, or that it's appropriate."
Victoria stared at him for a moment, then told herself it was her wedding night and she did not want it to be spoiled. "I can take it out for tonight, if it would make you feel better."
"Feel better? I'm, not certain I agree with your choice of words… but, yes, Victoria, I think I would rather look only at your beautiful body without any adornments."
"I will be right back, then." She had no intention of removing the vis bulla and leaving it in his bedchamber to be lost. Pulling on a robe she'd discarded almost as soon as she entered the room, she hurried to her adjoining chamber. In the low light she untwisted the silver ring and slipped it from its mooring at the lip of her navel. When she pulled it out and placed it on her dressing table, she had to sit for a moment. Its absence left her light-headed and clammy, and she found she needed to rest her head on the table for a moment.
She could put the vis bulla back in, in the morning. And perhaps Phillip would grow used to it.
She turned toward the door that joined their bedchambers, and started… for he was standing there, her husband, in all of his naked beauty. Dark hair, heavy blue eyes… lean limbs shadowed with the glow from the candle on her dressing table. Her breath caught for a moment and she felt muzzy-headed again… and this time it was not from the removal of her vis bulla.
"Come here, darling," Phillip said, holding out his hands to her. His shoulders flexed easily in the flickering candlelight. "I hope I did not spoil the mood." He smiled in a manner that reminded her uncomfortably of Sebastian—a bit wicked, edged with promise… yet there was a tenderness there in his eyes, something she'd never seen in Sebastian's golden ones.
And why was she comparing him to Sebastian? Her husband, on their wedding night? Perhaps it was only normal for one to compare and contrast when confronted with something unfamiliar… and exciting.
She stepped into his arms, glad that he'd come to her and apologized. She felt the warmth of his body, long and textured against hers, and the prod of his erection was gentle against her hip. Her half-donned robe gusted around them, and she slipped it off her shoulders. It collapsed onto the floor, pooling at her ankles as her naked breasts pressed against his chest.
Phillip kissed her along the side of her neck, where her skin was the most sensitive, and where the bare brush of his lips made her toes curl and her breasts tighten. Somehow his mouth didn't stop its tasting of her as he brought them to the bed—her bed, not his—and tumbled her onto it.
"So beautiful, my darling," he told her, propping himself up on an elbow above her. His body cast a shadow over half of hers, and she watched in fascinated interest as he drew his finger gently down between her breasts, along the irregular line of dark and light. The tingling that had begun in her belly, then between her legs, tightened almost painfully as he bent to draw her nipple into his mouth.
As he sucked and tugged, the sensation grew and ebbed with the rhythm of his mouth and the slide of his tongue. His breathing became deeper, warm and moist over her skin, and when he slipped his fingers between her legs, Victoria didn't know whether to press her knees together… or let them fall away.
"Let me, Victoria, my wife," he whispered against her neck, drawing his mouth along her jaw as he positioned himself over her. "I will be very gentle… and after a moment, you will feel only pleasure."
She did. She let him, and opened her legs in a wanton manner, one that would have horrified her if she'd thought about it… but she did not. She let him. Let his fingers stroke and slide, dip and delve, until she did not know what was happening… only that it was pleasure beyond anything she'd imagined.
And then… the pain. The sharp, quick pain as he moved his hips between hers, and then, as he had promised, only pleasure.
Only easy, rising, fulfilling pleasure.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wherein the Marchioness Proves Herself an Excellent Storyteller
Victoria felt better when she reinserted her vis bulla the next day. It took a little bit of jimmying and tugging to get the silver hoop back in place, but she managed it with a bit of help from Verbena, and once that was done she finished dressing.
She was pleasantly sore from the activities of the night before, and, so far, quite delighted with her new marital status. Over breakfast she and Phillip ate kippers and eggs, sausages and biscuits, preserves and clotted cream. And then they boarded his traveling coach, which had already been loaded with their trunks, and embarked on a two-week honeymoon.
When th
ey returned, she was rosy-cheeked and no longer sore.
On the morning after their return, Phillip left St. Heath's Row early to take care of some business in town with his solicitor and banker. Victoria worked diligently if reluctantly on her correspondence, but was saved from an entire afternoon of tedium by a missive from Aunt Eustacia inviting her for tea.
"You look lovely, my dear marchioness," said her elderly aunt when Kritanu showed Victoria into the sitting room. "Rested and quite happy."
Victoria bent to kiss her aunt's uncommonly soft, unlined face. "Indeed I am, Aunt. But I am also quite desirous of returning to the task at hand."
"We are delighted to hear that," drawled Max, who was standing across the room.
"Max. I never did thank you for agreeing to attend the wedding," Victoria replied. She had expected him to be there, and as part of her new position, she'd decided she was no longer going to allow him to nettle her. Her happiness made it much easier for her to pity his dark moods and what could only be great loneliness.
He bowed. "I was happy to be of assistance."
Perhaps he too had decided to be less combative.
"And how was the wedding trip?" Max continued, standing until Victoria took her seat. "I trust the marquess is well and has given no indication he plans to revisit the Silver Chalice."
Perhaps not.
"We haven't spoken of that evening since it occurred," Victoria told him, keeping her voice mild.
"Victoria, I realize it is your first day back from your honeymoon, but I felt it necessary to contact you," interjected Aunt Eustacia. "We've learned that a group of vampires has planned a raid of sorts on Vauxhall Gardens early in the morning. Despite Max's expertise, we felt there should be two Venators in order to keep them from succeeding."