When Twilight Burns (7 page)

“That is very kind of you,” Victoria replied, unsure how she felt about his protestations. Part of her had wanted an excuse to move from the chambers that belonged to the lady of the house, which attached to the master's rooms. And the other part of her wasn't quite ready to let them, along with their bittersweet memories, go. “And there are many very comfortable chambers available for your pleasure. I'll express your wishes to the staff if you like.”

“That would be greatly appreciated. I must confess my ear is not used to hearin' the accents, and I have had a terrible time understandin' the butler—is that who he is? The one whose eyebrows stick out further than his nose?”

At Victoria's surprised smile and nod, he continued in his own oddly accented voice, “It took me three times to understand that I should let the groom take my horse, and that I couldn't have tea until three o'clock—although he did offer me some other food, something he called ‘repast.' In Kentucky, we don't drink a lot of tea, but when we do, it's whenever the urge strikes us. Not at three.”

Victoria couldn't contain the little amused smile that escaped, and immediately she bit her lip. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend him. His humor and charm were refreshing, absurd enough to make her forget that the rest of her life was too bloody dark. He would have the ladies in the
ton
eating out of his hand in no time. And then she realized what he'd meant earlier. “Oh, the heavy thing. Do you mean the
ton
?”

“Yes, ma'am, that's it. Where do we find the
ton
? And what do we do with it?”

Stifling another smile, Victoria explained that the
haute ton
was the nickname for the crème de la crème of London Society—and that he was now a member of “the heavy thing.” By the time she was finished, they were both chuckling. Their conversation ended with James, as he'd insisted she call him— “for if you don't, I won't know who you're talking to!” —extracting a promise that she would join him for dinner that evening in the main dining room.

She would make a visit to Kritanu, who was with Briyani's body in the chapel, then have time to dress for dinner.

Despite the time it would take away from other matters, Victoria had a suspicion the meal would likely be the most enjoyable part of her day.

 

+ + +

That night, it was well past eleven by the time Victoria excused herself from James Lacy and his newfound enjoyment of a French brandy from Armagnac. Apparently he was used to something they drank in Kentucky called rotgut, which sounded as horrible as he claimed it tasted. She herself had had two glasses of sherry—one more than usual—and she was feeling more than a little loose-limbed.

Yet, as she climbed the stairs, it all came back to her: less than twenty-four hours earlier, she and Sebastian had been slogging through an underground river of sewage. And the rest of the day's events had left her even more worried, confused, and grieving.

Inside her chamber, she pulled the cord to summon her maid, Verbena, to assist her in preparing for bed. Or perhaps not.

A lamp had been left burning low on her dressing table, and Victoria refrained from turning it brighter. Instead, she walked over to the tall window that gave her a view of the moonlit gardens below. Behind her, the room was lit with a bare glow, enabling her to see through the pane. There was only a quarter moon, and clouds obscured many of the stars, so the grounds were painted mostly in heavy shades of black and dark blue. A pale sweep of gray designated a pea gravel path, and a cluster of lilac bushes rose in dark relief next to a glowing white bench that happened to catch the glare of the moonbeams.

She touched the cool glass, considering. Perhaps she should be on the streets tonight, trying to find out what she could about a vampire that attacked in the daylight.

Or perhaps it would be best to get a solid night's sleep and allow her mind to clear of sherry, as well as the reality of the problems she faced.

Alone.

Despite the fact that Sebastian was here in London with her, he came and went as he pleased, and Victoria felt utterly alone. She was without her Venator companions, far from the people who understood her and what her life was.

Max was gone, somewhere, God knew where. Wayren was in Rome, along with the other Venators Victoria had come to know and like—Brim, and Michalas, and others.

Aunt Eustacia was dead. Kritanu, though here, was grieving his nephew, and still reeling from the loss of Aunt Eustacia.

She also felt the loss of kind, gentle Zavier, a Venator who had made his desire to court Victoria quite clear. He had died at the hands of Beauregard.

She heard the faint snick of a door as Verbena came in behind her, entering through the sitting room that sat between the marquess's chamber and that of the marchioness. Still trying to decide whether to have her maid dress her in a night rail or in men's trousers, Victoria continued staring out the window.

She realized a fraction of a second later that Verbena was never so quiet, no matter what time it was or how tired she might be. Victoria's heart gave a little bump and the hair on her arms lifted.

Just as she started to whirl from the window, a shadow moved behind her—a blurred reflection in the pane, and then it shifted out of sight. Strong hands closed over her shoulders, halting her in mid-pivot. Although he wasn't standing so as to reflect in the window, she recognized him now—by the way he touched her, the familiar scent that lingered on his fingers, the way his body brushed against hers. Her edgy nerves settled.

“Where's Verbena?” she demanded. She didn't attempt to turn toward him.

“Sleeping quite soundly, I believe,” he said. “A comely girl, but repose is definitely not her most attractive state. Her snores are like to rattle the windows from their frames, and would be fairly off-putting to a gentleman who might wish to…er…
lie
…with her…though I'd venture to say that the poor beleaguered Oliver would seize the opportunity if offered.”

“I rang for her. She'll be here any moment now.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken.” In the window's reflection, his arm lifted from her shoulder and she saw that he was holding a slender rope.

“You cut the bellpull?”

“I didn't want to ruin your reputation, Lady Rockley,” he said in a low purr. “At least here.” He moved closer, brushing up against the back of her from shoulder blade to bum to heel. His proximity brought warmth to her bare shoulders. “Especially now that the new marquess has arrived.”

“It would have served you right, Sebastian, if you'd sneaked into the wrong chamber. What if I'd had my belongings moved to a different one, as would be expected?”

He chuckled, his breath ruffling her hair. His hands closed over the tops of her shoulders and began to rub them, gently moving the narrow bands of sleeves up and down over the curve. “Why do you think Verbena is sleeping so soundly? She had no qualms about chatting with me over a little turn of brandy—”

“—into which you no doubt slipped a bit of
salvi,
to help your cause. No wonder she's snoring.” Victoria would have died before admitting it, but the gentle caresses over her arms lulled her from frustration and edginess to…comfort. Perhaps something more.

“I'm nothing if not prepared—and resourceful.”

Victoria pulled gently away and turned. “As much as I'm enjoying your attempts at seduction—”

“You are?” His sensual lips widened into a delicious smile. “And here I thought I'd lost—”

“—I must presume you have another reason for arranging this assignation.” They were standing very close, slippers and boots staggered against each other. Her hem brushed the tops of his feet, and her full skirt edged between his ankles. He was looking down at her, his golden-brown hair a thick and wavy nimbus in the lamplight.

“You must? How…devastating.” He tugged her into his arms at the same moment, pulling her close, so close that she could see his eyelashes, even in the low light.

“I thought you were quite angry with me this morning,” she whispered, suddenly glad that he seemed to be no longer. Her heart was thudding in her chest, and the room felt very close and warm. Something seemed to have clicked inside her, opened, loosened. And she didn't think it was just due to the sherry.

“I was. And most likely still am,” he replied, his breath warm on her face. “But right at this moment…I don't quite recall why.”

She wasn't sure she did either.

Victoria stepped closer, her foot sliding between his large booted ones as she met his mouth. Warmth flooded through her as though it had been released from some strict reservoir, and she sagged against him. His body was lean and solid, and as their mouths melded together, she moved her hands to touch his chest. It was warm under the linen shirt he wore, and she felt the curve of the muscle flexing there.

Before she could protest, Sebastian was pulling at the buttons at the back of her gown. “Perhaps I could take Verbena's place this evening,” he said after a particularly long, delving kiss.

Victoria snickered against his mouth. “I'm disappointed in you,” she murmured, tugging away his neck cloth. “I thought you were more original. I imagine there must be dozens of eager lovers all over London offering to act as ladies' maids on any given day.”

He huffed a small laugh against her neck, close enough to the sensitive part near her ear that she quivered. “If I've lost my rapier wit, it's only because of you, Victoria.” She felt him draw in a breath, his chest expanding beneath her hands. He covered her lips again, drawing her sharply against him, plunging and twisting his tongue deeply into her mouth.

She allowed herself to taste him, the slick, sensual warmth flavored with brandy and clove, to let him coax and tease and seduce her with his mouth.

And then she pulled easily away, firmly stepping back. “I have something to tell you.”

He smiled crookedly at her. “Ah, well, I knew it couldn't last. And, alas, I have things to tell you as well.”

“So you didn't come here expressly to seduce me.” She stepped away from the window and gestured to one of the two wingback chairs. “Perhaps you'd care to take a seat.” Then she turned the lamp brighter.

“Ah, civility rears its ugly head,” he sighed, taking her suggestion. “Would you consider me uncouth if I mentioned how much, at this moment, I despise civility?”

Victoria chose to ignore him. “Are you going to give me the copper ring? You took yourself off so quickly this morning that I didn't have a chance to ask—purposely, I'm sure.”

“You certainly have the sound of your aunt in your tone, now that you've taken her place as
Summa
Gardella.” He sat with one ankle positioned over his knee, lounging back into the depths of the chair.

“No prevarications, Sebastian. I take my role as the leader of the Venators—of which you are one—as seriously as she did. What do you plan to do with the ring?” She sat in the other wingback chair and faced him.

“The ring is one of the five Rings of Jubai that Lilith had made for her most trusted Guardian vampires,” Sebastian explained. “Unfortunately, though you might expect otherwise, my grandfather was not one of the recipients of the five rings.”

Victoria gave a little laugh. “To the contrary. Knowing Beauregard as I did, I'm not at all surprised Lilith didn't count him as one of her most trusted Guardians. Not only did there seem to be no love lost between them, but he also was clearly a creature concerned only with himself.”

“I'll allow your disparaging comment about my grandfather to pass for now,” Sebastian said in a cooler voice. “I'm not ignorant of his faults, but he was still my grandfather and he never caused me any harm. What he did to you—tried to do—was unacceptable, and I reacted accordingly.”

“You do have my gratitude for that,” Victoria replied, fervently meaning it.

“Your gratitude? Ah, what a wealthy man am I,” he said dryly. Then his flippancy evaporated and a serious expression took over. “Before we talk further, there's something I must tell you. I'll get back to the Rings of Jubai in a moment, but first…Victoria, do you feel all of a piece? Since you…woke up, do you feel different?”

She looked at him and recognized something desperate in his face, and stopped her reflexive “I'm fine” response. “Most of the time, I feel…the same. But there are moments when I do not.” Like when she was angry, her vision threatened to tinge red—literally. And earlier today, when Gwendolyn had been prattling on about her happiness and her wedding…how that surge of envy had caught Victoria by surprise, making her cold and angry. She'd been a lot more angry lately, come to think of it.

Or…when she'd smelled the blood in the underground abbey…

Now that she put it together, it made horrible, awful sense. She felt her face drain of color and feeling. “My God.”

He seemed to understand, and reached for her arm. His slender fingers closed gently over the top of her hand. “Victoria, you're not a vampire…but I greatly fear you still carry some residue of Beauregard's attempt to turn you. I still…I feel the presence of an undead when I'm near you.”

She stared for a moment without seeing as the pieces clunked into place. “That was why you didn't seem to notice the vampires down in the tunnels.”

He nodded ruefully. “Your presence makes it difficult for me to sense other—er, the undead.”

Victoria thought for a moment. “Does Wayren know? How about Max? And Ylito?”

“Wayren knows, and I'm certain she's told Ylito and Hannever, for if there's any hope of an antidote, they would help. As for Pesaro—well, he is aware of the situation. But…of course, he has his own concerns.”

Yes, indeed he did. But she felt hollow anyway, knowing Max knew.