But if that were true, if the undead were somehow obliterating themselves from his notice, then the vampires would have to know to do so. To obstruct their undeadness from him somehow, they’d have to know or suspect a Venator was present. And Max was certain no one had seen through his disguise or he persona he’d developed over the course of the last eighteen months.
The fact was, Max still hadn’t been staking vampires, and his weapon hand was getting itchy. He’d had to continue to refrain from dusting any undead (except for random thugs he accosted late at night in the likes of Whitechapel and Seven Dials) for fear he’d compromise his identity.
He felt like a tightly coiled spring, ready and needing to find a way to release the anger and tension that steeped inside him. And now Savina had showed up to make things even worse.
“You! I say, young man! Do you have cotton in your ears?”
A demanding voice penetrated Max’s thoughts, and he suddenly realized he was the one to whom the peremptory Aunt Cecilia was speaking.
He recovered immediately and gave a short chuckle. “Young man? How very kind of you—if not flattering, Mrs.—erm, pardon me, but I don’t believe we were properly introduced.”
“Call me Aunt Cecilia. Everyone does. Don’t even remember my own surname anymore.” She cackled in an open-mouthed manner she surely would have considered uncouth if someone else had done so. “That’s what age does to a body. Too much to remember. But my ears seem to be working better than yours at any rate. Sit down here, young man. I want to talk to you.”
Max laughed genteelly, and did as he was bid. “The last time anyone called me a young man was far too long ago, but thank you for the compliment, Mrs.—er, Aunt Cecilia.” He settled himself in the chair and was just about to lean back and cross his long legs when he realized that was Max Denton’s habit and not that of Dr. Melke. Instead, he used his walking stick to prop up his folded hands atop each other as he leaned slightly forward in an ungainly position in which he would normally never be seen.
“What are you doing here, young man? You tell me what brings you to Knotwood Abbey at Christmas time. Don’t you have a family of your own?” Aunt Cecilia’s whiskey was nearly gone, but her eyes were still sharp and lucid. She crooked her finger at the hapless Rodney, who leapt to refill the glass.
“My wife is long dead,” he replied, and the layer of grief in his tones was genuine. “I prefer not to spend the holidays at home for that reason.”
“It must be very difficult to lose someone you love. Especially around the holidays.” Savina’s throaty voice settled over him like a warm blanket, sending prickles over his skin and causing his fingers to tighten involuntarily.
She’d come to stand just behind his high-backed chair. He felt the warmth of her hand when it settled at the top, just a few inches from his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he could see a strip of her dove-gray frock that sparkled with pink beads and silver sequins. The rest of her image had been impressed on his memory the moment he’d first seen her, with pink gems shining from a comb in her short, curling dark hair, large almond eyes, and wide, rosy lips.
Max craned his head just enough to be polite, looking up and around to respond. “It’s been many years,” was all he said before returning his attention to Aunt Cecilia. “Aside from that, I find it more interesting to travel about and experience other forms of celebration than to remain in the same rut, so to speak,” he said, focused on the elderly woman in an effort to continue the conversation with her instead of Savina.
Yet the presence of the woman he’d once loved continued to insinuate itself around him. Not only her scent—the same flowery-spicy perfume she’d worn when they were together—but also the warmth of her body…and very simply, her nearness. It was like an electrical charge in the air, vibrating against him from all sides. To his horror, Max realized his palms had gone damp beneath their gloves and his heart was thudding sharply.
Damn and blast it. What the hell was wrong with him?
He was saved from having to consider that question further as an elegant chime tinkled. Dinner was served, according to Rodney. Thank God.
Max resisted the desire to bolt to his feet. Instead, he took his time rising, as befitted his late-fifties persona, and held back as each gentleman offered his arm to one of the women by order of rank. Fortunately, Dr. Melke would be at the lowest societal rung of those present.
Lord Glennington offered to Aunt Cecilia, deVos to Lady Glennington, Stoker to his own wife…and that left Max to follow at a leisurely distance. He’d sit as far from Savina as possible, get through the meal, and once that was over, the men would repair to the study for cigars and brandy. After that, he’d be home free and could excuse himself for the evening…
And then the real work could begin.
But when he entered the dining room, which was festooned with holly, pine boughs, and ribbons galore, Max had his first stopper. For Lady Glennington was directing everyone to their particular places, and somehow, in some hellish world, the seating arrangement included the unassuming, boring Dr. Melke sitting next to the lady celebrity photographer—and newlywed—Sabrina Ellison Stoker.
This was going to be an interminable dinner.
Chapter 3
~ Trapped ~
MAX COULD SEE no way out of the situation and took the chair indicated by Lady Glennington.
This placed him between Savina and his hostess. Across the table from Savina was her husband Liam, and across from Max, Aunt Cecilia was settled. DeVos was across from Lady Glennington, and the lord of the manor sat at the head of the table.
Max made certain there was a generous space between his chair and Savina’s. The last thing he needed was for her arm to brush against his—or worse, her skirt or even her knee to be near enough for him to feel the warmth. He was well enough aware of the brush of her shoe against his foot and her bare arm and the sleek movement of her toned muscles as she shifted next to him. He studiously ignored the way her hair—which she’d cut much shorter since he’d seen her last—left her neck and shoulders bare and curled enticingly around her ears and chin. Instead, he turned his attention to adjusting his chair, straightening it in position against the table as he slid it further away from Savina.
This jockeying put him slightly closer to Lady Glennington, who seemed delighted with the situation.
“I was so hoping to have the chance to get to know you better, Dr. Melke,” his hostess murmured as she made a show of adjusting her skirts and napkin as the footmen poured wine for everyone. “Aunt Cecilia was monopolizing you earlier, but now she will have to be content with Jelle and Mr. Stoker.”
“Indeed,” Max replied, doing nothing to betray his surprise as the back of Lady Glennington’s hand slid slowly and deliberately along the outside of his thigh during her adjustments. The back of his neck was no longer merely eerily chilled, but getting very warm under its stifling collar due to the unaccountably odd situation in which Max found himself.
“After dinner, I have something very special planned,” said Lady Glennington, looking at him from under her sparse lashes. “It’s a game I made up for the servants…but tonight, we’ll all participate as well. It involves partnering off and searching through the house for hidden gifts. There are many corridors and alcoves and empty rooms where the presents might be hidden.” Her voice dropped suggestively. “Sometimes people are gone for hours.”
“Indeed,” Max said again just as he felt Savina shift on the other side of him.
“Where did you say you were from, Dr. Melke?” Her clear, throaty voice drew his attention.
“Amsterdam,” he replied quickly, once again giving her little more than a polite glance. “And yourself?” He busied himself with adjusting his own napkin and flatware, wondering how in the bloody hell he was going to extricate himself from this position.
If he were a woman, he could pretend to feel faint or have the megrims or something.
But unfortunately, such excuses weren’t a
vailable to a man.
“My father is from Rome and my mother from Egypt,” Savina told him—which was the truth. “And I grew up in Italy. In fact, that’s how I met Liam,” she added, beaming at her husband. “Isn’t it, darling? Although it took quite a long time before we found each other. Sometimes it takes a few false starts before one discovers true love, doesn’t it?”
Max kept his expression bland, though the blithe comment slipped into his belly like a stiletto knife. So Liam Stoker was her damned true love, was he? “I wouldn’t know,” he replied smoothly. “I was married only once, and that was to my first—and last—love.”
“How romantic,” Savina said, her expression soft and dreamy as she put a slender hand to her throat. “And you still pine for your wife, then, Dr. Melke? How long has she been gone, if I might ask?”
“What sort of dinner conversation is this?” demanded Aunt Cecilia in a voice that drew the attention of everyone around the table. “Lost loves and dead wives? I don’t want to talk about the past. I want to talk about now.” She thunked down her whiskey glass—which had somehow followed her into the dining room though everyone else had moved on to wine—hard enough to make the place settings clink. “I’m eight-nine bloody years old and this is going to be my last Christmas, and I want to know how you’re going to make it memorable, Justine.”
“She says that every year,” Lady Glennington muttered to Max, then projected across the table as she replied to her husband’s aunt, “It’s going to be very special this year, Aunt Cecilia, because we have Mrs. Stoker here. She’s going to be photographing all of our festivities, from the bringing in of the Yule Log to the flaming of the Christmas pudding, even to the hanging of the stockings—”
“Hanging of the stockings?” the elderly woman screeched. “What sort of nonsense is that? Now you have us doing laundry? What are the bloody servants going to do then if we’re washing stockings?” Aunt Cecilia was so incensed she nearly knocked the ladle from the footman’s hand as he leaned forward to pour consommé into her soup bowl. But that didn’t stop the old curmudgeon, for she continued her diatribe as the footman managed to evade her movements. “I’m not as old-fashioned as I used to be, Harold, but I’m not about to be taking on the chores of a laundry maid! You had best tell your wife she can wash out her own bloody stockings!”
Max could hardly keep a straight face, and to his horror, he felt Savina shaking next to him as she clearly tried to control her own giggles. He glanced over and saw her fingers white-knuckled around her soup spoon.
“Now, Aunt Cecilia,” Lord Glennington began, sounding very harassed. Max could hardly blame the man, for he too had anticipated a quiet, uneventful meal—which certainly seemed not to be in the cards tonight. “Justine is not asking you to do anything as base as washing out stockings…are you, darling?” His voice rose in a questioning manner as if he wasn’t altogether certain what his wife had planned.
“Don’t be ridiculous, my lord,” Lady Glennington replied, easing back as the footman ladled her soup. “No one is going to be washing stockings except for the servants. We are going to be hanging clean and empty woolen stockings at the fireplace to be filled by Father Christmas. It’s a new American tradition that’s just catching on, and—”
“American?” Aunt Cecilia looked as if she were about to have a stroke. Stoker half rose in his chair, obviously preparing to catch her if she went apoplectic, while deVos merely looked on with amusement. “An American tradition…here…at Knotwood Abbey? Harold! What on earth is your wife thinking? I demand you tell her you won’t have it!”
“So much for wedded bliss,” murmured Savina.
Max wasn’t certain if she meant for him to hear, or her husband across the table, but he couldn’t hold back a smile regardless. But when he saw the way Stoker was looking across at Savina with eyes filled with adoration and sparkling with shared laughter, his own humor evaporated sharply.
Good God. It was only the first course. How in the hell was he going to sit through an entire meal of this?
But when his own soup was served, Max realized he was quite hungry and decided it would be best to apply himself to the meal in the event something happened to delay—or even end it, at the way things were going. Though the consommé was hardly enough to take the edge off his appetite, it was flavorful, and the bread roll offered by a second footman helped alleviate his hunger pains.
Not to mention the fact that the wine flowed freely, and Max didn’t demur when his glass was filled for a second time. He also noticed Savina ate with relish—something he had always found both endearing and amusing. The woman was always hungry. She would stop in the middle of chasing a vampire if there was a pastry shop along the way. There had usually been crumbs in the bed, too.
His thoughts soured and he turned his attention to Lord Glennington, who trying in vain to change the subject from American Christmas customs and who should do the laundry.
By the time the second course was served, Aunt Cecilia had calmed down, having made her position about hanging Christmas stockings on the fireplace quite clear. Multiple times, in fact. Talk turned to the weather, which, according to Glennington’s elderly groom (who apparently felt such things in his bones), was going to be crisp and cold tomorrow, and likely a bit wet.
“Tomorrow night, on Christmas Eve, I shall be the one to light the Christmas pudding,” Aunt Cecilia announced suddenly, just as the third course was brought out.
Lord Glennington’s eyes popped wide, and Max felt Lady Glennington stiffen next to him. In fact, he could feel her muscles tense quite easily, for during the course of the meal, the lady had maneuvered her chair and foot even closer to his. There was even a moment when her hand “accidentally” settled onto his thigh as she leaned across him to speak to Savina about the sterling silver salt cellars that graced the table.
Max hoped the woman didn’t notice how strong and muscular his supposedly fifty-some-year-old leg was.
“Now, Aunt CeeCee,” Lord Glennington said, waving the footman over to refill his wine glass for at least the third time. “After what happened last year, are you certain it’s a good idea? It took the servants a month to get the smoke smell out of the dining room, and that was after we had to repaint and repaper the walls. Remember how the windows had to be open all day during the cold weather to air the place out?”
Savina was giggling next to Max again, and though he wanted to join her in the levity, he didn’t dare look at her. But when she moved suddenly and muttered, “Oh drat, there goes my napkin,” he had to turn back toward her.
“No, no, Mrs. Stoker,” Max said, enunciating her name very carefully as he held up a hand to stop her from bending over. “Allow me.”
He worked his chair back from the table and angled his head and arm under the tablecloth to retrieve the lost napkin. Just as he grabbed it, he realized the reason she’d been giggling and smiling so slyly.
It wasn’t because she found the situation with Aunt Cecilia amusing. It was because she had slipped off her shoes and slid her foot up inside her husband’s trouser leg. She was teasing him from under the table, using both sets of her silk-clad toes to caress his calf—and who knew where else.
Max narrowly missed hitting his head as he withdrew holding the damned bloody napkin in his hand, and he realized one of the dots of glue at the corner of his eye was coming loose. His shirt collar was uncomfortably tight and warm—not to mention his padded corset—and that heat was fighting with the familiar eerie chill at the back of his neck. He was bloody damned finished with this table and the people at it.
He needed to find a damned vampire before he exploded.
“Here you are, Mrs. Stoker.” Max tossed Savina’s napkin in her general direction, barely looking at her. Then he folded his own napkin and placed his hands on the table, preparing to rise and make his final excuses. But before he could do so, the footman was there directly behind his chair with a large platter of roasted potatoes, parsnips, turnips and carrots—w
hich, by the by, smelled divine—and a second footman was there to serve.
Max’s escape was thus aborted, and he resigned himself to sitting there between one woman who had her hand on his thigh, and another woman whose feet were making love to her husband beneath the blasted table.
“You look so cross, Dr. Melke,” Savina said as the vegetable-bearing footmen moved on. “Are you not enjoying the meal?”
“But of course,” he replied heartily. “The company is quite stimulating, and I find myself looking forward to seeing Aunt Cecilia light the plum pudding on the morrow. I think she’ll do a fine job, won’t you then, my lady?”
“Elton,” hissed Lady Glennington—who’d already insisted he call her Justine, forcing him to offer her the same courtesy, “don’t be a tease!” Then her voice dropped, “At least, not until later.”
Good God.
Max felt Savina look over at them with undisguised interest, and he wondered if she’d heard their hostess’s flirtatious admonishment. Not that it mattered—Savina didn’t know who he was, and why would it matter to her anyway if the lady of the manor and one of her guests were having a fling? It was almost expected of the husbands and wives of arranged marriages among the British gentry.
But his stomach lurched at the thought of imagining himself in an intimate situation with Lady Glennington—he would not think of her as Justine, for that implied an intimacy he in no way wanted to pursue.
But wait.
Perhaps he did want to pursue such an intimacy.
What a bloody damned fool he’d been.
The answer to his problem had been fairly in his lap—quite literally—all evening. If Lady Glennington (perhaps he would think of her as Justine after all) had Rasputin’s amulet in her possession, what better opportunity to look for it than to accept her blatant invitation?
Alphas for the Holidays Page 43