The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (10 page)

When he was two hundred and eighty-nine, it had been a very good year—for blue-blooded aristocrats with their elaborate wigs and their carriages so fine.

So many good years he had spent a-roving, walking alone. He had lived decades upon decades, traveling a hundred roadways, never quite finding a true home. Then he had met Clair, and he had believed the world would be a different place, an exciting world filled with laughter and love for him once again. Alas, he had been most foully mistaken. As the Earl of Wolverton seldom was.

Still, he thought wryly as he approached Clair, he would survive this heartbreak, just as he had survived having his heart stopped when he’d become a vampire. Yes, he thought smugly, he had once been a human, a vampire, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king. But each time he had found himself flat in his coffin, he had picked himself up and Renfield had dusted off his jacket.

Yes, the world would keep spinning ‘round, the nights would still be lovely and long, and Asher would continue to try and live the vampire creed, forgetting that tomorrow ever comes. And he would survive this thwarted love affair and survive it in the grand style his rank demanded.

“Ah, the remarkable Clair Frankenstein,” he said, his eyes drinking her in as he took her hand in his. Swiftly he lifted it to his lips, and with his usual savoir faire, he curbed the primal instinct to bite down. He smiled at her with a hint of devilment in his eyes, hoping Huntsley was watching and eating his heart out. Werewolves were known to literally do that.

As usual whenever Clair was near, Asher found himself ignoring everyone else. He barely noticed the lady next to the new Airs. Huntsley.

“How is your room? All is satisfactory?” Clair asked.

Asher nodded haughtily, knowing what she was asking. Although her guest list included quite a number of shape-shifters and two vampires, many of the guests were mortals. The coffin she had prepared for him in a hidden chamber in the cellar was perfect. She had even lined the coffin with lavender. “Most appropriate. My thanks to my considerate host.” Placing a second lingering kiss upon her hand, he regretfully released it. “The way you look tonight… Well, where do I begin? You are enchanting.”

Blushing, Clair drew away and asked, “Asher, have you met my dear friend Miss Paine?”

Jane watched her friend interact with the earl, and her heart beat a furious pit-pat in her chest as Asher turned his fabulous blue eyes in her direction. Would he recognize her? she wondered. Please, anything but that.

She blushed furiously, making her freckles stand out. Silently she begged fate to not let the Earl of Wolverton know that she was the one who’d splashed him with brandy.

For a second, Asher froze; then he politely bowed, and Jane curtsied gracefully in spite of her knees knocking together.

Clair made formal introductions. Lord Asher raked his eyes from Jane’s head to her neck to her toes to her neck again.

Clair excused herself with a sly smile. She saw icy fires in Asher’s eyes, and Jane’s blush. Wedding bells were ringing in her head, and she wished her arms were four inches longer so that she could pat herself on the back. Hiding a self-satisfied chuckle, she silently bragged that she was getting this matchmaking business down to an art. And with that, she left the odd couple alone.

Asher turned to Jane and hissed, “It is you.” His lips curved into a slight sneer as he inspected her. At the masquerade ball, they had been strangers in the night exchanging glances. Then Asher had wondered about the chances of, before the night was through, passionately partaking of her blood. Tonight his mysterious Cleopatra was revealed in all her unsplendor. The fairy tale was false. The swan had become a rather ordinary duckling. What were the chances that the insane, mysterious maid of the masquerade would be a friend of Clair’s?

“I never thought to see you again after you doused me with booze,” he remarked curtly, pulling out his monocle and continuing to examine her. He felt strangely disappointed and irritated that she wasn’t the temptress he had imagined. Nor would he forget that she had ruined one of his favorite jackets, causing his longtime servant Renfield to pitch a fit about the sordid state of his wardrobe when he had arrived home. “Why did you do that?”

“A mistake, my lord,” Jane managed to choke out. So much for hoping he wouldn’t recognize her! Oh, if only she could stick her head in the sand like her ostrich.

“So, what ill wind blew you to the Huntsleys’?” Asher questioned, disgusted to realize that he had thought about this maid from the masquerade more than once, twice or even thrice since the farcical incident.

“Clair and I have been friends since nursery days,” Jane explained. “Quite good friends, really.”

“Then I must express my condolences to her. Did you ruin her pelisse, too?”

Jane narrowed her eyes. “You might try, my lord. However, if you knew Clair well, then you would know that she is fiercely loyal—to those she loves.” She saw him flinch and knew she had scored a hit. “How did you know it was I you met that night? My mask covered my face.”

“I am no fool,” Asher snapped. He had noted her freckles, tiny brown dots that covered her cheeks and her nose, and danced at the edge of her bodice. He wondered if they covered her breasts, those milky, plump orbs that were surprisingly outstanding. He wondered what those breasts would taste like.

Bloody hell! Asher shook his head. Where had that thought come from? This lunatic female was certainly not his style. He was one for the best and the beautiful alone.

“You have freckles,” he said bluntly, again staring down at her impressive chest. “How not the fashion.” He preferred his women to be a whiter shade of pale, nothing like blemishes or freckles marring their skin.

“I didn’t know it was the fashion to be insulting.” She had meant to give an apology, regretting what she had twice tried to do to the earl. But now she found herself fighting back tears. She hated her freckles. “No gentleman would make reference to them.”

“My manners can be deplorable at times,” Asher agreed contemptuously, shrugging his shoulders. “But then, I have never claimed to be a gentleman, just an earl.”

Jane lifted her chin. “No, you would never let anyone forget your consequence.”

Asher narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t know it was fashionable for a young lady,” he accused, stressing the word, “to throw brandy all over her acquaintances.” Disdainfully he watched Jane’s blush deepen. He had seen demons of that same deep crimson.

“Touché,” Jane replied coldly. Yes, this rude earl just might be the conceited Count Dracul after all. “I meant to apologize immediately once seeing you again, as any lady should do. I suppose I was overwhelmed by your exalted presence and lost my head, both tonight and on the night of the masquerade,” she finished sardonically.

“You were drunk as a lord that night,” he accused.

Jane answered tightly, gritting her teeth, anger flooding her system like electrical current. “A gentleman would never point that out. And I must remind you that I did not overindulge that night. I couldn’t have. Ladies never do.” She couldn’t remember much, but her mother had trained her too well in ladylike carriage.

“The ladies I know certainly do,” Asher replied, sneering slightly. The ladies and not so ladylike ladies of the bar he had courted and discarded had indulged in many things; most were quite debauched.

Jane lifted her chin a degree higher, glaring up at the arrogant vampire. “I’m sure most of the ladies”— she stressed the word just as he had done—”that you have known are quite beyond the pale. Although, what they see in you besides your own puffed-up consequence is beyond me. It appears that a Peer of the Realm’s impressive title is no indicator of sterling character or good manners.”

Asher arched an aristocratic brow and lifted an elegant hand to shoo her away. Frankly, he didn’t care if her feelings were tromped upon; he was too old a vampire to learn new tricks such as kindheartedness. And he had never been one to cater to the masses. He had seen too many abuses of conformity. Just take the French Revolution, for one—people lost their heads over that!

“I am what I am and proud of it. My lineage goes back to William the Conqueror. Can you say the same?” he snapped. “Which makes me wonder why I am wasting my time in having a conversation with you.”

Jane clenched her fists, resisting a strong impulse to punch the odious earl in his arrogant though beautiful face. Have one drink too many, once in her life, and see how it got thrown back in her face, and in a public setting! She was really going to have to find false courage someplace else from now on.

“Bloody buffoon!” she swore, glaring at Asher. She longed to say more, to tell him exactly what she thought of his remarks, but she was too angry to do anything other than fight back tears. This pompous bloodsucking fiend thought he owned the world!

Asher’s chuckle deepened as he glanced down at her tightly clenched fists. “Really, Miss Paine, despite your friendship with Clair, I begin to see that you are no lady at all. Perhaps you could try to imitate your dear friend and seek out at least a bit of charm. Gentlemen don’t attend to shrews unless they’re beautiful—a claim you certainly can’t make.” And with those words, he casually strolled away.

“Oh, if I only had my model four stake!” Jane seethed, anger overcoming her wounded feelings. “I’d know just where to stick it, you rotten vampire.”

He’d
kill that scamp Clair Frankenstein Huntsley. Asher swore silently, sitting up straighter. And he’d throw in her husband for fun.

The blue of his eyes glowed with glacial flames as he stared disdainfully at her, showing Clair his displeasure. Of all the guests at this house party, he was seated next to the very irritating and ordinary Miss Paine. What an insult to him, a connoisseur of great beauty. Not to mention the fact that Miss Paine was touched in the head. Why had Clair chosen her for his dinner partner? Surely she didn’t think he would find Miss Paine of interest. Asher pondered as he glanced sideways at the object of his pique.

He supposed Miss Paine did have a graceful swanlike neck, pale and elegant. And her eyes were very large, slightly tilted and of a silverish green hue he had never seen on a human being before. But her nose was definitely too snub, her hair of a plain brown color, and she had all those tiny little freckles.

Humph, he thought, turning his steely gaze back in the direction of his hostess.

Clair winked at him, then looked at her husband, who was seated on her left. She ignored Asher’s aristocratic huff and, with an expression of utter innocence, gazed into her spouse’s dark green eyes.

Ian Huntsley almost laughed. He knew his wife’s look well. Leaning closer to avoid being overheard, he asked, “My love, what are you up to?”

“Moi?” she said.

Ian arched a brow.

Clair laughed. “You know me so well.”

Ian waggled his brows. It wasn’t the pale moon that excited him anymore—it was the thrill of his wife. Just the nearness of her had him panting, wanting to howl with delight. “Shall I describe in detail that mole you have on your very cute, very luscious—”

She slapped a hand over his mouth. “Harry Ian!”

He nipped at her fingers. He knew he was in trouble when she called him Harry. “ Elbow. You have the most luscious elbows I know.”

Clair withdrew her hand. She knew exactly what her husband had truly been going to say. But that was the trouble with Harry Ian: He really was a wolf—and not only every full moon, but in bed, out of bed, on the table, on his desk in the study, in the stables and even on the blue Persian rug in their bedroom. Or at least wolfishly hungry for her. Yes, love and passion definitely burned brightly in their bedchamber, enough to keep them warm on even the frostiest winter night.

Ian chuckled and Clair blushed. “What are you up to?” he repeated.

Clair glanced down the table at the scowling Asher and frowning Jane. Ian followed her gaze.

“Well?” he asked, frowning as well. “What? Asher? As much as I hate to admit it, the vampire saved us both from a vicious blood feud.” It had formed a blood bond of sorts between them. But that didn’t mean he had to like the bloody pompous bastard.

“Asher needs a wife, and Jane needs a husband,” Clair explained. Her eyes were all innocent and wide.

Ian groaned. “No. No, you are not matchmaking again. Please tell me you aren’t. Besides, Asher eats females like Miss Paine for breakfast. Literally.”

Clair smiled her secret smile. Her husband knew that she was a friend of the famous Van Helsings; she just hadn’t told him that Jane was one, having introduced her as Miss Paine. Clair knew that Ian might have one or two tiny objections to her matchmaking a master vampire and a vampire hunter. However, Clair also knew that once the pair fell in love, her slight omission would be a sweet deceit, and Ian would forget all about it… she hoped.

Ian glanced back at the pair, who were busily ignoring each other, and shook his head. “I don’t exactly think it’s a match made in heaven. But then, with a vampire for the intended, I don’t think it could be!”

“Very funny,” Clair remarked. “I think it’s a fine match. Asher is very lonely, and so is Jane. Jane is loyal and intelligent. Also, she’s very clever when she’s not nervous. Asher is loyal in his own way, and his wit is piercing.”

“Along with his fangs.” Ian shook his head. “Clair, they don’t even appear to like each other.”

“Nonsense! Great-aunt Abby predicted a match for the two of them with her tarot cards.”

Ian rolled his eyes. He knew Clair believed in her great-aunt’s fortune-telling abilities. He even knew that sometimes Great-aunt Abby was correct. But it was clearly the luck of the draw and not any true clairvoyant ability.

Ignoring him, Clair continued. “I believe they are right for each other, and if I put them into each other’s orbits enough, they will feel the gravitational pull.”

“And will be satellites for life.”

“Exactly,” Clair stated. “We’ll see them married before the holiday season.”