The Vampire Dimitri

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?”

Damn and blast and Lucifer’s head on a pike. Had the staff been talking? Of course they knew all about their master and his lifestyle, but they were well-paid to keep their mouths shut—particularly around Mirabella, who had no idea about her own history with the Dracule. She’d been too young to remember anything when Dimitri took her in. Or could Iliana have slipped some information?

Dimitri waved an impatient hand. “If you must know, yes.

I suppose I’d best answer your question or you’ll never leave me be.”

Miss Woodmore’s breath caught audibly and she sagged back against her seat. Apparently she hadn’t expected such immediate confirmation. “Vampirs? They’re real? They truly do exist? Why are we in danger from them?”

He wavered for a moment, then chose the path of least resistance—in this case, meaning the path of fewer questions. “Cezar Moldavi is a vampire and because he is angry with your brother, he’s looking for you and your sisters.” He used the English term for the Dracule despite the fact that Miss Woodmore was somehow aware of the Hungarian pronunciation of vampir.

“Sonia, too?” Maia gasped, eyes growing wide. She looked as if she were about to erupt from her seat and charge off to Scotland.

“Be still, Miss Woodmore. I’ve already ascertained that your youngest sister is safe, and I’ve made the necessary arrangements so that she will remain so. A convent school is an excellent sanctuary for one who wishes to hide from vampires. They can’t cross such a holy threshold.” He eyed her narrowly, forcing himself to ignore that increased pulsing on his shoulder. “Perhaps you might consider joining her.”

“Indeed not!” she replied, her shocked, fearful expression dissolving. “I know you don’t wish for Angelica and me to burden you any further—and you are not alone in this opinion, for it’s my fondest wish as well—but I am not about to be shipped off to St. Bridie’s. Alexander—Mr. Bradington—will be arriving within a week, for I just received a letter today and—”

“Ah, yes, the erstwhile groom is at last returning to our little island here.” A flash of distaste soured his belly. The man was welcome to the termagant sitting across from him. “I suppose you’ll be bringing dressmakers in and speaking to flower-sellers and cake-makers, and there will be all sorts of activity disrupting my household, now that you’ve continued to rearrange my library.” He glared out the window, ignoring the way the moonlight seemed to turn her rich chestnut-bronze hair to silver.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Dimitri dared not let her. “We’re nearly there,” he said, shifting in his seat and turning his scowl on her. “You’ll stay in the carriage, Miss Woodmore. Black Maude’s is no place for a proper young lady.”

Her pointed chin lifted as if pulled on a string, and her eyes narrowed. “My sister—”

“Miss Woodmore,” he said, allowing his voice to go low and silky, “you of all people know what can happen to a woman if she is seen where she should not be seen.” He fixed her with his gaze. “Do you not?”

Even in the faulty light he could see the range of emotions that flashed across her face: shock, first—the bald, blanching of widening eyes and parted lips. Then mortification and chagrin as she struggled to keep her chin up and her eyes from skittering away, and at last, fury.

“So you do remember,” she said through a stiff jaw. Ah, the woman put on a good face, especially when she was backed into a corner. He had to give her credit for that.

“How kind of you to remind me of my unfortunate near-mishap. What was it, three years past?”

Dimitri spread his hands and fingers in a blasé motion. “I don’t quite recall the details,” he said. “Other than the fact that you were dressed in boy breeches with your hair tucked up under a cap, and were attempting to enter a very disreputable area of Haymarket.”

And that the man who’d taken her there, the bollocks-sucking William Virgil, would have compromised her if they’d been seen—or worse if they hadn’t. Much worse.

“I was never certain whether you had recognized me or not,” Miss Woodmore was saying in a surprisingly cowed voice. “I had rather hoped that no one had.”

But Dimitri had indeed recognized Miss Woodmore—by her scent when he passed by, which, he supposed, was why it was burned into the insides of his nostrils so that he couldn’t dismiss it, devil take it. Especially when they were in such close quarters as this blasted carriage.

Miss Woodmore didn’t recall much of that evening; Dimitri had made certain of it afterward by utilizing his thrall. She couldn’t remember that she’d actually walked into an establishment not very different than Black Maude’s. One that catered to the particular tastes of men who craved young, virginal women. Reluctant, young, virginal women.

The more reluctant, the better.

It was a residence that she would never have been able to leave if Dimitri hadn’t intervened.

And Miss Woodmore certainly didn’t remember how three men and the madam of the place had attempted to keep Dimitri from removing her from the premises. And how he’d scooped up Miss Woodmore whilst baring his fangs and blazing his eyes and applying his brute force to pummel those repugnant people.

And how he’d very nearly used his fangs, for the first time in a century. Not to feed, but to destroy. To tear them into shreds.

No, Miss Woodmore couldn’t remember him carrying her breeches-clad body back safely with him, ignoring what would be a scandalous display of curves and a torn shirt if anyone were to see her. The only thing she would remember was him helping her into a hackney and escorting her back to Woodmore.

That journey was the first time he’d been subjected to Miss Woodmore’s tart, insistent tongue.

As a result of his forethought and expediency, the entirety of her scandal was that she’d been seen in breeches and out at night without a chaperone, in the company of a disreputable male—and that, only by the Earl of Corvindale. And, naturally, he didn’t lower himself to spread gossip.

Dimitri considered it a favor to Chas that he’d handled it thus, and a favor to Miss Woodmore that he’d never divulged the details to her brother. It was too bad that she wasn’t aware of all he’d done, for perhaps she would be a bit more appreciative if she were, he thought as he examined her balefully.