Seducing the Vampire

Breaking the kiss, she leaned back, but Rhys followed her, forehead to forehead.

“You surprise me, LaMourette. I thought my presence offended you.”

Indeed, she surprised herself.

“Regarde moi,” he said.

No, she would not look at him. Could not. Her bold heart grew trepid.

“It was nothing more than a thank-you kiss, Monsieur Hawkes. Lost in a moment of relief.” She exhaled resolutely. “I assure you, now I’ve gained my senses, I will ask you to leave.”

“I am honored to have earned your kiss, even if in a moment of nonsensical folly. Good eve, LaMourette. Until we next meet.” He glanced upward. “Full moon in less than a week. What is it Shakespeare wrote? Well met by moonlight?”

“I believe it was ill met by moonlight.”

“Ah? Well then, forget I said that. Meeting you has been beyond a pleasure. Au revoir.”

She lifted her chin and did not look until he’d broached the cross street and his silhouette filled the alley. Broad-shouldered and solid. He was built like a peasant who worked the fields. Not refined. Brusque. And such a swaggering walk. Nowhere near the aristocratic elegance she was accustomed to.

Viviane swiped her tongue across her bottom lip. The taste of him did not offend. And the smell of him, so much a part of this mortal realm, crept into her pores and fixed itself there. Complex, yet simple. Dark. Sure of himself.

Yet she could not abandon the ill ease something about the man was very wrong.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“YOU SAY SHE WAS WAITING for William Montfalcon to return to her?”

Orlando nodded fervently. “He’d told her he was bringing money, so they could be together.”

Having returned from his nightly visit to the brothel, Orlando’s ginger hair was mussed and his shirt untucked from his breeches. But he wore a smile like a badge of triumph.

“Her name is Annabelle,” Orlando said.

“Just Annabelle?”

“Yes, just.” A wider, more pleased grin had never graced the boy’s face.

Ah, the afterglow of a night well spent.

Settling in for the morning, Rhys sat on a stool at the end of the bed, stripping his stockings off before the porcelain ewer filled with boiling water. “How did this topic come up while you two were …?”

“I asked her if she ever thought to stop and leave the world behind.”

“Interesting conversation.”

“We did more than shake the bed.” The boy plopped onto a chair, one arm draping the back, a leg dangling over an arm.

Rhys recalled the drunken high of after sex, and felt a nudge of jealousy. Kissing—or rather, receiving—LaMourette’s kiss tonight had only increased his frustration.

“I am a gentleman, Rhys. You taught me to treat a woman with dignity.”

“Is that so? I don’t recall directing you to comment on their assets as if they were confections on display at the market.”

“Oh come, man! I am young. I am enjoying myself.”

“Indeed.” He plunged his feet into the copper bowl, huffing out a satisfied moan at the heat. “And she said nothing else?”

“Only it has been almost a month since William promised to return to her. She’s all put out about that. I wish I had a bit of coin to give her. More than she usually asks, that is.”

“I think I can help you with that, Orlando. I want to speak with her. See if she’ll give me further information regarding Montfalcon’s whereabouts. When do you see her next?”

He shrugged. “Few days.”

“Excellent.”

IN THE SHOE ROOM, Viviane sat with her back to a padded damask column. A loose linen chemise spilled from one shoulder. Lace about her neckline and wrists tickled her skin like a lover’s breath. Rhys’s breath. A red satin shoe with black frogs and an ebony heel she clutched to her heart.

Earlier, Portia had dusted the room with lavender powder, which lulled her. Sleep had eluded all through the morning hours. And now, well past two in the afternoon, she could not begin to start the day. For he haunted her thoughts. Her every step. Every time she ran her tongue across her lips she thought to taste him.

Him—the vampire with the warrior’s name and the curious scent—Rhys Hawkes.

She touched her mouth and allowed a wicked smile at the thought of Rhys’s mouth tasting her. She pressed her thighs together and almost, almost, reached a pinnacle. Surely, it would take more than a kiss to bring her to climax. Yet for as agitated as she’d been lately, Viviane was surprised she’d not come from a mere kiss.

What power did the man wield to affix himself in her thoughts—into her very body—like this?

Constantine she never thought about, unless it ended in revulsion.

Rhys, it seemed, could not be near her without touching her, if even through the slightest glide of his knuckles along her skirts, he sought connection.

And he had achieved it. To her detriment. Now she could think of nothing more than seeing him again. Tempting him to touch her, to unleash her from her self-imposed freedoms. To take their kiss beyond.

Did he mark it off as folly? Or did she haunt his thoughts, as well? Did he crave her? Did he wish to feel her teeth against his neck, his mouth, his veins?

“I want more of him,” she said on a wistful sigh. “A taste of him.”

A taste would not bond her to him as kin to patron. A deeper drink was required for that.

Rolling forward onto her stomach, she teased a red tassel decorating the toe of a cerulean slipper. Each pair of shoes had been lovingly placed on a tilted shelf, the sides of each foldable box down to reveal the contents. It was as if a confectionary shop displayed its wares of satin, lace and ribbon.

Noticing the corner of paper tucked beneath one box, Viviane drew it out. The card was about the size of her hand, and featured a marvelous ink drawing with exquisitely lascivious detail.

“Blanche, you do surprise me.”

The drawing depicted a man on a chair, leaning over a woman who sat on the floor. Her dress spilled from shoulders and hips to reveal he teased her nipple with one hand and her quim with the other.

But more interesting in the picture was the chair decorated with arabesques of large male members, and on the woman’s shoes were tiny female figures, legs splayed to reveal all.

The erotic art increased Viviane’s ache for a sensual touch. She traced a fingernail along the curve of the woman’s breast, and tapped the man’s delving fingers.

Rhys could touch her like that and she would not stop him.

Even though he disturbs you?

She imagined herself in such a position—with Rhys leaning over her. Sucking in her lip, she slid her hand down her skirts to press between her thighs. Giddy desire stirred. She needed so much more than a kiss.

Portia tiptoed in and leaned a shoulder against the damask wall below an angel-bedecked candelabrum. “Dear, you look so melancholy. It is Monsieur Hawkes.”

Viviane hid a sly grin behind the erotic card. “You think to know so much?”

The maid nodded, sure of her assessment. Wilted ruffles frilled about her bosom and mobcap; she’d been steaming Viviane’s gown.

Viviane sat up against the padded post and drew her legs into a curl. She displayed the card to Portia. “Were you aware of your former mistress’s secret stash?”

“What is that?” Portia bent to examine the card. “Oh my. He’s touching her so … And oh.” She clutched the card, but Viviane snatched it and possessively pressed it to her chest. “I had no idea. Shall I dispose of it for you?”

“No. It appeals to me. As does Monsieur Hawkes.”

Portia’s eyelashes fluttered in delight. “He was appealing.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, that gray streak in his hair is charming. Makes me wonder if he got it because of some devastating trauma that wounded his heart. And now he bears the scar of it as a reminder.”

“You have quite the imagination, Portia.”

“Is he a vampire?”

“Apparently.” At Portia’s wondering gaze she explained. “He seemed out of the ordinary. Not like vampires I’ve met. Rough-mannered. Dressed poorly.”

“Oh, dear, yes, no lace.”

“That, and did you see his walk? A bowlegged strut like something right off a pirate’s ship. The man was overall …” She searched for the correct summation.

“Wild,” Portia murmured with wicked delight.

Viviane hid a smile behind the card. Passion had flared in Rhys’s brown eyes as he’d stepped defiantly before her to divert her pace in the salon. When he’d stepped around behind her, she had felt his eyes roving down her back, lingering at the base of her spine. It was as if he had touched her there.

What a divine place to experience touch. And she preferred if it were by a man’s tongue while she lay naked before a blazing hearth fire. The tickle of a wet tongue down her spine, tracing into the dimples of Venus that crowned her derriere …

“You’re thinking about him,” Portia chided teasingly.

“He fascinates me, nothing more.” She studied the card again and wondered if there were more to the collection tucked away.

“Does he desire to give you what Salignac can?”

“What, exactly, is it Constantine can give me?”

“Safety. Life.”

She liked those things. But freedom was missing from the list.

“You do adore fine things, ma chérie. And your coffers are not growing larger. Hell, what coffers?”

She hated that Portia spoke the truth with little reserve. But she did not fault her for it.

All the servants had mutinied following Henri’s death. They were owed wages, and Viviane had discovered Henri’s caches empty. Upon Portia’s suggestion, she’d handed each employee a silver candelabra or two and bid them adieu. But the stable boy, Gabriel, and Portia remained.

Every day new creditors knocked at the door seeking to collect Henri’s debts. The furniture in the music room had been carried out yesterday. She had no idea how she would pay Rose Bertin, the dressmaker, yet supposed she could return all of Blanche’s gowns.

Viviane studied the shoe and wondered if she could pay off a few leeches with a damask mule or ermine slipper?

“I’ve pressed the gown with the hummingbirds on the sleeves.”

Viviane adored that one.

“Master Rosemont just arrived,” the maid added. “He’s copying out lessons.”

“Excellent. Help me prepare.”

IT WAS SATURDAY AFTERNOON and Master Rosemont stood over Viviane, gently guiding and observing as she copied out the word carriage on the paper. Henri had seen to arranging for her studies but days after her arrival.

“It’s a complicated word,” Viviane said as she finished the e. “But pretty. Did I make it right?”

“Your penmanship is coming along well, Mademoiselle LaMourette.”

Much as she insisted he use her first name, he never did. He was young, and more than a few times Viviane had caught him observing the rise and fall of her bosom as she concentrated over her work. Once she had met his roaming gaze and he blushed so deeply, she decided never to do that again. The man was nervous, but a kind teacher.

“Are there some words you’d like to write today? List a few and I’ll write them for you to copy.”

Pressing the quill’s feathered end to her lips, Viviane perused the many objects in the room, wondering which of them she’d most often need to write about.

“Shoes,” she said. “Hmm, and wine.”

“Yes, of course.” Bemused, Master Rosemont scrawled the words on the page. His strokes elegantly imprinted the ink to paper with an ease that made her marvel. “A few more, and I’ll leave them as your homework. How about Portia’s name?”

“Oh yes. Portia. And gown. Salon. Book. Park.” Her mind wandered to some of the more lascivious pleasures— stroke, tickle, tongue—but she wouldn’t do that to him. Would kiss be too extreme to mention? Yes, it would. “How about … Hawkes?”

“Very good. Beautiful animals, are they not?”

“I’ve not seen one close up.” Save for the man version. “Have you?”

“Only a dead one. Poor thing. It hung in the taxidermy shop on the left bank. Gorgeous plumage. I felt sudden anger for the hunter at the sight of it.”

The hunter. Like a wolf slayer?

Averting her rising guilt, she studied the paper he turned toward her. “Is that the word?”

“You tell me.”

Viviane knew the first word began with an s. “Shoe,” she said.

“Very good. And the next.”

She recited them all, and when the short word beginning with h ended the list, she traced her finger beneath the letters. “Hawk.” Which wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted. “If I put an s at the end?”

“It will mean more than one.”

“My lady, there’s a visitor in the foyer,” Portia called as she entered the study. “Lord de Salignac.”

“I did not expect him. He knows I do not receive on Saturdays.”

“Shall I send him away?”

“No, I will speak to him.” There was still half the hour for her lesson, and she did not want to send Master Rosemont home. “I’ll send him away quickly,” she said. “Write a few more words for me, please. These few will hardly keep me busy the week.”

“I agree.” With a determined élan, Master Rosemont leaned over the paper.

Flames on a wall sconce flickered as Viviane entered the sitting room.

Constantine wore black, as usual. It was not a color aristocrats embraced, for black was the color of mourning, and of cheap wool they could only afford when they’ve nothing in their purses. Yet he wore the color as if he’d invented it. The damask coat was shot through with silver threads. In one pose the coat looked black. Yet if he tilted a shoulder or lifted a hand, it shimmered the fabric, turning it a jet silver, and then steel.

“I have told you this is not a day I receive visitors.”

“But surely you’ll receive me? Is there someone else here?” Constantine peered over her shoulder. “It’s a man, isn’t it? Viviane, I asked for exclusivity.”

“And I asked for proof of your devotion.”

“Three kin have left the brood,” he stated. Straining his head over her shoulder he glanced toward the study.

“It is not what you would guess it to be.”

“Really? So there is a man in the house?”

“Yes, but—”

He flew into a rage so quickly Viviane was swept off balance as he brushed past her. The last thing Master Rosemont needed was a raging vampire interrupting his work. She hurried after him, but he beat her to the study, and held the writing master slammed against the wall when she arrived.

“Let him go!”

“I demand an explanation,” Constantine hissed at the reddened teacher. “What are you doing in Mademoiselle LaMourette’s home?”

Viviane could but cross her arms and sigh. So the truth would be out.

“He is teaching me to read and write,” she confessed. “Now do release him.”

“Reading?” Constantine dropped the man, who crumpled to the floor.

“Yes, reading.”

The vampire leaned over the table, inspecting her work papers. He jerked a look at her, apologetic yet tinged with a creased anger.

“I believe you owe Master Rosemont an apology.”

“Oh, not necessary,” the frazzled teacher piped up. “I am fine.”

“Forgive me,” Constantine said, and Viviane was glad for his humility.

“I think perhaps I should be off.” Master Rosemont gathered his leather satchel and shoved the paper across the table. “I completed the list for you, mademoiselle. Perhaps you should send for me next Saturday? I shouldn’t wish to intrude.”

“No, please, return at the usual time. I promise this embarrassing situation will not be repeated.” She delivered Constantine knives with a glance. “Will it?”

“Of course not. Can I ensure your ride home, Master Rosemont?”

“Oh no, no. I’m off.” He bowed hastily and made a leg for the front door.

Constantine picked up the list and inspected the words. “Hawk?”

Feeling as though he’d raped her most precious secret, Viviane marched out of the room, hands on her hips.

He followed close on her heels. “So you don’t know how to read?”

“What of it?” she spat out.

“I am surprised. I had thought your patron would have ensured a more schooled kin.”

“So I am not smart enough for you?” A vicious clarity suddenly focused her, standing off the man who would own her if he had his way. “I think you should leave.”

“I admit I was in the wrong to approach Master Rosemont so violently. But please, let’s put that behind us, Viviane.”

Yes, yes, keep the man appeased. “What did you come for?”

He bowed and kissed her cheek, and the other, and finally a brush of a kiss over her mouth. The man was like marble, only because Viviane wondered how to ever soften him, find the soul beneath the hard surface.

“Is that smile for me?” he asked.

No, it was not. “But of course. Who else?” She touched her mouth. Rhys lingered there. “Ah, Portia.”

The maid brandished a silver tray sporting goblets and a wine bottle. Viviane poured half a goblet and tossed it back while Constantine observed with wonder.

“A bit parched,” she offered. She wiped her lips with a finger. “Would you care for some?”

“No, wine tends to sit ill with me. While I was waiting I couldn’t help notice your music room is rather spare of furniture. And on the wall.” He pointed at the strange bright rectangle of English paper where a painting had once hung. “Are you having trouble, Viviane? Because you know you can ask anything of me.”

Pacing away from Constantine to the one remaining settee in the entire house, Viviane decided the truth was not going to harm her, and it would show she trusted him. By all means, she wanted to stay on good terms with him.

“I had no idea Henri was in debt,” she offered. “The creditors began appearing with bills three days after his death. All the servants have left, save for Portia and a stable boy, who am I most grateful for.”

“If you need money—”

“Not at all. I paid the servants with furniture and silver. The creditors took a few horses and one of two carriages Henri owned. I thought it a fair exchange. I don’t wish to make a fuss of it, Constantine. So if we could put the subject aside I would appreciate it.”

“I’ll not mention it again.”

He gripped her wrists and pulled her to him. Viviane knew he would kiss her, and struggled—only a little. He bruised her mouth with an urgent connection that sparkled in her belly. She had to force herself not to grab at his coat to pull him against her.

It would be so easy to let it happen. To not clasp his fingers in an attempt to stop him from tearing asunder the bows securing her corset. To expose her breasts so he might lick them as she needed them to be touched, tasted and worshipped. But she could not.

Tearing from his embrace, she stepped once before he pulled her back and she tripped on her skirts, falling against him. Constantine’s breath whispered down her neck. The prick of his teeth altered her insistent desire as if a penitent’s lash to bared flesh.

She managed to slip the side of her hand across his mouth. Skin tore and her blood oozed out. “Don’t you dare.”

He swept out his tongue and licked the faint crimson trail. Defiance glinted in his dark eyes. “Sweet. As suspected. And pure.”

“That is the only taste you will know of me if you do not honor my request to dismiss your kin.”

She held her breath, matching his defiant stare. Pure. Exactly what he required.

“You are the most exquisite taste, Viviane. To drink of you should murder me sweetly. It is a death I will wait for.”

“Constantine, please, tell me what you want from me.”

He clasped her hand and his thigh brushed hers. “I would ask you to accept my hand in marriage. To come under my patronage. To have my children.”

Hand pressed to her throat, Viviane paced to the table where the wine decanted. She traced a fingernail along the bottle’s thin neck. “Marriage.”

“It would make you mine exclusively.”

No mention of love.

“But you understand that is impossible, Constantine. I’ve needs. The hunger forces me to seek others.”

“Those men are but donors, vessels to feed your hunger. I don’t want to direct you how to go about meeting those needs. But the others, if there are others besides me, I would like you to stop seeing them.”

Other male vampires. Lovers? How ridiculous. “You say that as if I’ve a harem similar to yours.”

“Mine is a necessity.”

“A patron needs only one or two kin. Henri was an example of that.”

“Henri did not lead a tribe. I must set an example by creating progeny.”

Poor luck he was having with that.

Constantine was not cruel. Why did she insist on being so cruel to him?

She returned to the settee and sat on the edge of it, offering her hands, which he took and curled before his mouth to kiss. “I will consider it.”

“I want an answer now,” he insisted. For the first time Viviane felt she’d heard the real Constantine, the powerful lord who got as he wished, and cut down his enemies with one blow. “It is only fair to me.”

“You think you can simply select me to become yours and I will comply?”

“Viviane, you have been granted such independence—” He stopped abruptly, checking his words.

“It bothers you, my freedom? That does not speak well for my future. As you’ve said, I have been granted independence. An independence I expect to retain, at all costs.”

“That would be a steep price. Viviane, the relationship you had with Henri was unique.”

She’d been so young when Henri had taken her under his care. Too young to be pressed into a sexual relationship. And he had never pressed, bless his kind heart.

“Please, let’s not speak of him. My heart still aches for his loss.”

“Of course.” He lifted the talon from around her neck and let it fall from his fingers. “Forgive me. But please consider what the two of us could create.”

Quite sure she did not favor being forced into making a decision, Viviane swung her foot and glanced to the floor beside the settee where she spied a box.

“What is in the box?”

Constantine’s eyes sparkled. “Curious?”

“Of course. Anything secreted within a red satin box and tied with a bow would make a woman’s heart beat.”

“But you avoid answering my request.”

“Show me what is in the box, and I shall consider your request.”

“Ah, so you shall decide our fate by how you judge the value of what I’ve brought you?”

Of course. If it was of value, and she could use it to pay off one of Henri’s debts. “Constantine, you know I will come to you … eventually.” It was a sad truth she must soon face. “I need time.”

“What if you have not time?”

“I have gone well over six months without drinking from Henri. I am … unique. Older.”

“Perhaps it is because you are pure blood.”

“If you distract me with whatever you’ve brought along, perhaps …”

Perhaps she could summon a reason not to answer his question. Ever.

“Very well.” He placed the box on her lap. It was flat, narrow, and the red satin box was tied with a froth of black moire ribbon that wavered like oil under the candlelight.

“There is a craftsman in Rouen who designs astonishing pieces of jewelry. I once asked why Marie Antoinette had not summoned him, and he said she had, but he did not enjoy the fuss. Can you imagine?”

“Not everyone lives for the queen’s summons, Constantine.”

She knew he craved a connection to mortality she would never understand. As well, the fame.

“I saw this piece and immediately decided you must have it. It is as if it were made for you.”

Viviane struggled with the knot, but refused to slip the ribbon from the box, as was possible. To delay the surprise was the best moment, and she always took her time when opening the few rare gifts she received.