“No.” She nestled the talon beside her breast, tucked behind the corset. “The ribbon doesn’t match my gown. But I promise I will wear it to the next salon.”
“That would please me immensely.”
She stifled a shiver to imagine pleasing this man. At this horrible moment she realized her future was tenuous.
“I wonder after your intentions?” she found herself blurting. Very well, so curiosity would kill this cat, or at the least, maim her. “Regarding your pursuit of me.”
“As I’m sure Henri told you—”
She put up her palm. “It is not something I can consider at the moment.”
Constantine audibly swallowed. “I understand. You and Henri were close. But marriage aside, you must choose a patron quickly. Henri’s blood is established in you,” he continued. “To take a new patron will require some … re-structuring. Time to adjust. You must be blooded anew.”
An emptiness eddied at the back of her throat. How much time did she have? She had only needed to drink from Henri twice a year. Yet she had felt his death as if he’d been ripped from her very soul.
“I will consider your proposition if you will show me how willing you are to have me in your life.”
“You’ve to ask me anything.”
“Understand, just because I am considering your proposal does not ensure that I will accept. But I find it would be extremely challenging, if not socially humiliating, to step under your patronage when you’ve already so large a harem. I feel I would become lost amongst the throngs.”
“They mean nothing to me, Viviane. I do not love any of them. My kin are there to serve a purpose.”
“Would I not serve that same purpose?”
“No, it would be different. Viviane, I love you.”
The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. What beasties snuck upon her heart?
She maintained decorum. “Then prove it. Send them away.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. Cease patronage to your entire harem.”
Taken aback, he thumbed the Van Dyke beard on his chin. “They would die without me.”
Viviane shuddered inwardly. She was only promising to consider his proposition.
“It shall be done,” he said.
ONCE RHYS TOOK A PERSON’S scent into his nose, he had it forever. A vampire, on the other hand, must be much closer, within hearing range to track the heartbeat of his victim. Thanks to his mixed blood, Rhys could track Viviane LaMourette anywhere in the city, if he desired.
That was the question. Did he desire to track her?
What was he doing? Seeking to revenge the vampire lord. What had become of his initial, and real, attraction to the vampiress?
Those whimsical blue eyes had captivated him. Too bright, too bold. And that mouth. So red, so soft. And that imperious command of independence he had found refreshing. The woman might well be a libertine.
And that teasing curve at the side of her mouth. Like a delicate petal, it begged plucking.
“And what is wrong if I wish to pursue fine things?” To take them, hold them in his hands and crush them against his skin.
What was wrong was he had veered off course. He’d come to Paris on a mission for the Council. And still, no word from William Montfalcon, which was beginning to disturb him.
Rhys had been suspicious of Montfalcon’s unlocked door upon arrival. It was as if the man had left for the day and intended to return—yet had not. So he and Orlando were staying in the man’s home with hopes he was merely away on holiday. Rhys knew Montfalcon would not mind, and if foul play had occurred, he felt sure Montfalcon would appreciate someone looking over his home.
He had not taken time to question any in the salon after the distraction named LaMourette had turned his head.
“Don’t allow her to change your course,” he muttered.
Yet his course had altered to include revenge against Salignac. That bit of side play he would enjoy.
Later that evening, Rhys tracked the vampiress’s carriage through the tight, dark streets until it pulled up at a stable behind a town house hung with red shutters. An oil lamp flickered above the front doorway, leaving the stables shrouded in shadow.
The maid stepped from the carriage and wandered into the stable, her heels clicking abruptly.
A cloaked figure emerged from the stables behind the maid, a man, perhaps a stable hand. He stepped into the carriage. Closing the door behind him, the maid tugged up her hood and loitered outside.
“The vampiress is out on the prowl.”
Vacillating whether or not to approach, Rhys decided he must attend his own neglected hungers, or meet the full moon with a raging madness he could not abide.
“Time to find a donor,” he muttered, hating the act as much as he needed it.
CHAPTER SIX
CONSTANTINE DE SALIGNAC settled onto the tattered velvet divan, hastily untying the jabot at his neck. He was eager to slip into oblivion. But it was difficult to concentrate after what his man Richard had reported.
“That bastard is in town,” he muttered.
He swiped his palms over his face, and scratched the small patch of dark stubble on his chin.
Richard had reported seeing Hawkes lurking about, sneaking through the salon as if to spy.
“Rhys Hawkes, will I never be free from you? Do you walk this earth only to torment me? To show me what others must never know?”
Richard popped his head into the study. “She’s on her way, Salignac.”
“Properly spiced, I hope,” he snapped.
“Drank the whole bowl of opium,” Richard offered with his usual lascivious glee. “She can barely walk.”
Constantine’s fangs descended in anticipation. Normally Richard waited until he’d been directed to prepare the evening’s repast, but for some reason Sabine had gotten into the opium early. She’d cast him a stabbing glance when he had greeted Mademoiselle LaMourette.
Sabine had no right to jealousy, and yet rarely did his glossy-eyed kin ever show signs of fight over him. Pity.
Sabine was his oldest and favorite. He had a few dozen female kin that he blooded regularly in hopes of eventually getting them with child. A mortal woman-made vampire required five to ten years of blooding from her patron before she could accept his seed and grow fruitful. Sabine had been carrying his child for five months now.
