Indeed, all dancers involved in Ballet Noir were creatures of the incubus; vampires who live by night and-in lieu of blood-draw their nourishment from the sexual energies of humans.
As much as Moira wanted to languish in dreams of her handsome lover, she had a day full of writing ahead of her; her editor, the honorable Lord Thomas Caldwell at Silver Ridge Books, had commissioned a sequel to The Phantom Lover. And the lady author had a plan.
“I shall write the first few chapters today,” she wrapped her plump body in her favorite white lace dressing gown, taking a seat at the cherry wood writing desk that formed a corner of her bedroom. “Then research my love scenes tonight, when Ian comes for dinner.”
And, if their last few engagements had been any indication, he’d also stay for breakfast the next morn.
On the other side of London a second woman woke; rousing herself from the sleep of the dead.
“I never was much of a day person.”
Bethelyn Castor rose from the sheets of the canopied, lavender doused sleeping place that marked the centerpiece of her personal living space at Theatre Satine; an exclusive ballet theater that she owned and operated on the secret outskirts of downtown London.
She always admired the sheer grandeur of her treasured boudoir, which came complete with lavender butterfly wallpaper, matching bedding, and a rich assortment of cherry wood furnishings.
Its most glorious accent, in her estimation, took the form of the handsome golden-haired sprite lying naked in her bed.
One of her star dancers at Ballet Noir, the only troupe to dance the halls of Theater Satine, Noel stood as a glorious example of beauty in motion.
And when sleeping, she observed, he resembled nothing short of an angel in repose.
Bethelyn paused just a moment to behold the vision that now slept alone in her bed. She marveled at the wave of pure gold hair that spilt unbound across her pillow; framing a bronzed face that came complete with flawless skin and full, lush lips. She relished the sight of thick eyelashes fanned over carved cheekbones; lamenting at the same time that these lashes concealed his gem blue eyes-and that her slick lavender sheets concealed his lean, perfect body.
Growling low in her throat, Noel’s older lover felt her fangs grow long in her mouth; always a sure sign of her own arousal. On any other morning, she mused, she’d act on this feeling; pouncing the warm and willing beauty to unite and satisfy their merged thirst.
“Make that any other evening.” Running a soothing hand through her unruly mass of light blonde hair, Bethelyn retrieved a black silk day dress from her wardrobe and tossed it over the curves of her full-figured body with careless aplomb. “Any respectable vampire would be in bed at this hour.”
Yet as the leader of an incubus den that doubled as a rather salacious dance troupe, she knew that nothing about her life was remotely respectable.
“And when one has to meet a human investor, a woman who is ready to provide the money for my next production,” with a broad smile she turned for the door, “one makes adjustments.”
Soon she stepped into the main sitting area of Theatre Satine; a lavish centre of dark beauty that never failed to steal her breath.
Fronted by a classic set of stained glass double doors, the club’s walls shone with a rich sheen of rose brocade wallpaper; a glorious surface that itself shone as a backdrop to various examples of erotic artwork. Each of these luminous oil paintings depicted a gorgeous young couple in the throes of erotic ecstasy.
Seated at one of the lace-covered tables that occupied this theater-which, for all intents and purposes, doubled as a private club-was Zelda Martin, a prominent seamstress who owned one of the busiest clothing shops in London.
A longtime friend and associate of Ballet Noir, this slender, raven-haired Englishwoman crafted many of the lush, lavish costumes that marked Noir performances.
A strong supporter of the arts, she’d also single-handedly funded several of the troupe’s shows.
“Zelda!” Swooping down upon her smiling visitor with a warm, maternal hug, Bethelyn claimed the seat beside her; staring in blatant admiration at her petite, olive-eyed guest. “You look lovelier than ever.”
“I’m also wealthier than ever,” Zelda squared her slender shoulders, running a smoothing hand through the folds of her pink velvet skirts. “The queen has commissioned my signature rose gown for the occasion of her birthday ball.”
“Splendid!” Bethelyn applauded, adding with a shrug, “If you seek a place to invest some of this money, we are planning a wonderful new production at Ballet Noir.”
Zelda tilted her head, gracing her hostess with a captivated smile.
“So pour me a magnum of your best champagne and tell me all about it,” she nodded.
One hour and a good number of bubbly glasses later, Bethelyn had given Zelda a full account of “The Phantom Lover”; the spellbinding novel that was sure to make the perfect Noel ballet.
“I only hope we’ve secured the rights,” Bethelyn folded her hands on the table. “The author came to see our show a few weeks ago, and she left in a huff when she beheld our…” she reddened in spite of herself, “after show activities.”
Zelda let loose with a raucous laugh that echoed throughout the theater.
“Blimey, that’s the best part!” She winked. “Now don’t misunderstand, the pirouettes are nice,” she allowed with a wave, “but the orgies that take place after the show are truly sublime.”
Matching her laughter, Bethelyn clapped Zelda’s back and sat back in her chair.
“So tell me dear,” she tilted her head, “Can I count on you to fund our show?”
Immediately sobering, Zelda took a long sip from her crystalline tankard as she considered this question.
“I shall,” she said finally, “only this time, Bethelyn, I want something special in return.”
“Name it!” Bethelyn smiled.
Her grin dissolved seconds later, as she heard the stated condition.
“I want an evening with Ian.” Zelda’s tone was firm and unyielding as she leaned across the table. “If he agrees to be mine for one night, I will fund your show in full.”
Bethelyn shifted in her seat, entwining her fingers tight.
“I am afraid, Zelda, that Ian is not available,” she released on a sigh.
“Not available?” Zelda scoffed, tossing her mane of raven hair to divinely haughty effect. “Before he came to you, dear lady, he was ‘available’ to half the matrons in the ton.”
“And in the time that has elapsed since then, I’ve enjoyed his attentions myself,” Bethelyn smiled, but only briefly. “As of late he’s been spending a great deal of time with Moira Bentley, the author of ‘The Phantom Lover.’” She grinned again at the mention of Moira. “Moira’s book changed his life, and the woman herself has given him life. For the first time since he came to me, Zelda, I see light in his eyes. For the first time he laughs and smiles….”
She paused, an uncharacteristic sheen of tears filling her azure eyes.
“He’s a man again, and he’s a man in love.”
“He’s a man I desire,” Zelda interrupted, unmoved by Bethelyn’s show of emotion.
Rising from their table, Zelda fixed Bethelyn with a pointed look as she turned for the door.
“No man,” she snarled, “no money.”
“Ian!”
As much as Moira loved her beautiful manor drawing room-with its cherry wood furniture, red brocade wallpaper and plush ivory carpeting-she found that its most beautiful accent came in the form of a newly arrived visitor; a tall, muscular man who managed to dwarf his delicate feminine surroundings-not to mention shame them
