The Vampire Dimitri

was constantly surprising him with her stubbornness, and, much as he hated to admit it, her wit. Even when he became his most earlish, she didn’t back down.

A quick glance told him that she actually carried her shoes, and that some loose cloaklike garment was draped over a frock that he suspected wasn’t completely done up, for Luce’s sake, and he had a moment of serious regret.

If he’d given her a bit more time, she might not have presented herself partially clothed. Although whatever she’d donned would be an improvement over the transparent pink thing she’d been wearing earlier.

Without a word, he gestured for her to precede him out the side door where his footman was waiting with the landau. He’d chosen to be driven in the closed carriage rather than to drive himself for a variety of reasons—the least of which was the benefit of having another set of male hands if assistance was needed to procure Angelica— but now as he climbed into the very small, close space with Miss Woodmore and they started off, he regretted that decision. He should have had Iliana join them, for she was nearly as welcome a set of hands as a man. As well, she wielded a stake rather well for a mortal woman.

His companion, a very different sort of mortal woman than Iliana, but no less stubborn or intent, was busy putting her shoes on. The cloak had slipped from her shoulders confirming that, yes indeed, her dress sagged because it wasn’t properly done up in the back. From what he knew of current fashion, it was unlikely that she’d had the time or ability to even pull on a corset and that was not a comforting thought.

Dimitri settled into his seat across from her and focused his eyes anywhere but there.

The aversion of his gaze didn’t help matters much, for in such an enclosed space the blasted woman’s presence was not to be ignored. The essence of a spice like cardamom or perhaps something even more exotic mingled with some sweet floral like lily of the valley, along with female musk and the crisp clean cotton of her frock, creating that potency he found impossible to dismiss. How in the bloody hell could a woman smell like a damned spice cabinet and a garden and still be so enticing?

Either slumber or her hurried dressing had mussed up her hair so that flyaway strands sprung from the braid that hung over one shoulder.

One ivory-blue shoulder, bared and pristine.

Elegantly curved. Brushed with a swath of moon, and then shadow, and then streetlight with the motion of the carriage.

Dimitri jerked his gaze away. He swallowed hard, felt the throbbing of his gums as he tried to keep his fangs sheathed and the rest of him from stirring. Satan’s black bones, he was as bad as a green boy with his first whore. Even with Meg he hadn’t experienced such a lack of control.

Pressing himself back against the seat squab, he angled his left shoulder so that the hard edge of the cushion frame dug into the throbbing, painful Mark on his skin, adding to the constant agony with which he lived. The deep, sharp response was a welcome distraction.

Yet…his thoughts would not be suppressed so easily. It would be nothing to reach across and close his hands over smooth, fine skin. Lower his face to hers again, taste her lips again, fill his hands with soft, silky flesh. Heaven. His nostrils flared automatically as she moved, sending a renewed waft of her scent into him and her gown shifting tauntingly.

With great effort, he kept his eyes from burning red and hungry. His fangs were extended, but still hidden. It’s been too long.

A hundred and thirteen years. Three months. Five days.

His Mark twinged sharp and hot.

It should have gotten easier. It shouldn’t be this impossible to keep from needing something he hadn’t had for so long—especially since he no longer made the mistake of starving himself. But the saliva pooled in his mouth and his heart thudded in his chest. His skin prickled and his muscles leaped beneath, as if coiling up and ready to spring.

It was her proximity. The fact that they were so close and intimate in this small vehicle. The fact that only last night he’d allowed her to taunt him into kissing those damned full, top-heavy lips.

His unease was also due to the fact that moments before Voss’s messenger had arrived tonight, Dimitri had been dreaming. Slumped in a chair, in his study, dreaming that he was arching over a slender, ivory body, filling his hands with feminine curves, tasting the warmth of her mouth…sinking into a virginal white neck, drinking the rich lifeblood as she moaned and writhed, pressing herself against—

“Where are we going?”

Miss Woodmore’s question yanked Dimitri from the dark vortex of his thoughts. He swallowed hard, grateful for the redirection. Angelica. At Black Maude’s. “Billingsgate.”

Pulling the cloak back up to her shoulders, she commenced with some odd contortions that he realized were her attempts to do up her dress.

Dimitri made a sharp disgusted sound. “Turn around, Miss Woodmore,” he said. “Allow me.”

Her gaze flew to his, her eyes rising in a lowered face that made her look even more shocked. “I don’t think —”

“It would be best if you didn’t. Think,” he added for clarification as much for himself as for her. Because when she huffed and turned around to present him with her back, his newly ungloved hands trembled.

Perhaps not the most intelligent decision he’d ever made, but this entire farce had commenced with a foolish decision six years ago, when he agreed to act as guardian to Chas Woodmore’s sisters. That had been before he’d ever seen or met any of them.

Not that he supposed he could have denied Chas’s request anyway. Especially if he had seen them. For Dimitri always did what was right. He did what honor demanded, despite the searing reminder of the devil’s Mark on his back.

Miss Woodmore’s skin was warm.

He didn’t exactly touch it, not directly, but he could feel it through the thin fabric. And perhaps a fingertip brushed over its smooth silkiness when he buttoned the first button at her nape. A finger might also have brushed the curve that swept down to her shoulder. Nothing like his own, roped with the rootlike Lucifer’s Mark, scarred and dusted with erratic hair.

He was quick, his fingers nimble, his fangs thrust out so far his gums hurt, filling his mouth. Her scent, the light brush from the hair swept over the back of her neck, the heat from her skin and the confirmation that she wore no corset made his gaze tinge red.

He didn’t need to remind himself who she was: his ward, whom he was bound to protect. A mortal. A chit who infuriated him for any number of reasons. A young woman preparing for her wedding to a fine gentleman. The sister of one of his friends.

No, it wasn’t who she was, or who she wasn’t, for if Dimitri wanted her—wanted anyone—he’d have her. He’d lull her and coax her and ease her in. Simple as that, and damn whoever or whatever got in his way.

But he didn’t. Want. Anyone.

He’d given it all up decades ago. He was an island.

And he’d remain that way until he discovered a way to put himself back the way he was, or until he died.

As soon as Dimitri finished, he removed his hands and tucked himself into the deepest corner of his seat, cursing Voss anew for everything he could think of: for taking Angelica, for whatever he’d done to her in the interim and for choosing a place to hide so far from Blackmont Hall that the ride was interminable.

“Are you going to tell me what’s happening?” Miss Woodmore demanded. Apparently, in her eyes, fully clothed was fully armed.

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.” Dimitri sounded bored even to himself, and was rewarded when his companion sat bolt upright in her seat and fairly quivered with indignation and fury. How her eyes snapped and snarled, and she wasn’t even Dracule.

“You certainly do, my lord. You aren’t a bit obtuse. Were those really vampirs at the masquerade ball last night?”