She touched the side of her neck again, and pulled away, looking at her hand for the blood that wasn’t there. Her fingers brushed over her lips in an echo of the kiss. Her heart still pounded and her chest felt flushed and full. And down low, an insistent throbbing, a hot reminder of the intensity of her dream.

It put her in mind of that shocking interlude with the Knave of Diamonds…so warm and liquid like. Intense.

Maia didn’t need to throw back her covers; she must have kicked them off during the dream. She dropped her feet to the floor, relieved to feel the relative cool of polished wood beneath them. During the summer, she had no need of a rug to warm the floor. Her night rail fell in a light cloud to just over her feet, loosening and allowing a bit of air to relieve her heated skin.

She couldn’t banish the dream; and in fact, Maia realized she clung to the memories that were now sliding into mere wisps. She’d never seen his face, the shadowy man who came to her, whose weight she’d sworn had been pressing her into the mattress only moments before. She still felt his imprint on her body. Heavy. Hot.

But she was clearly alone. Clearly the victim…or perhaps recipient was a better term…of a mere dream. A most realistic one, but a dream nevertheless.

And why she was dreaming about phantom vampires visiting in her chamber when she’d received such happy news today, Maia couldn’t understand. At last she’d gotten word that Alexander was coming home and should arrive within a week. Perhaps sooner.

Before she opened the letter from him, she’d been over come by apprehension. She’d nearly put it aside to open later, at night, when, if the news was bad—if he’d changed his mind or wasn’t coming back—she’d be able to stay in her chamber alone with it for a bit. The last thing she wanted was for Corvindale to see her humiliation or grief.

She’d held it, looked at the crinkled envelope, folded and a bit dusty and stained from its long journey, and considered how she would react if it wasn’t good news. What she would do to hide her pain. And then Maia had to wonder why she was so worried about it. Alexander had never given her any indication that he didn’t hold her in high esteem. Certainly there’d been the faintest whiff of scandal attached to her after the Incident with Mr. Virgil, but she’d been so careful and had acted the epitome of propriety since. Alexander had come on the scene more than a year later and if he’d heard whisperings about it, the incident hadn’t seemed to bother him.

But if he were to call off the engagement…Maia’s stomach twisted. She’d lost her parents, too, and although this would be nothing like the pain she’d experienced then, it would be devastating. The announcement had already been made. It would be a scandal if her engagement was broken, for what ever reason. A terrible scandal.

When she opened the letter and read his brief note, her fears had ebbed. I shall be home within the week. At long last.

That made it sound as if he’d missed her, didn’t it?

Just then, she heard a new sound on the moonlit street below. It sounded like a carriage door opening, and Maia rushed to the open window when she heard voices. Had Angelica returned?

She looked down and saw a hooded and cloaked female figure climbing up the front steps as the carriage rumbled off. Please let her be Angelica!

Maia didn’t hesitate. She slipped quietly out of her chamber, heedless of her bare feet and flowing nightgown, hurrying silently down the corridor to the stairs. But by the time she got halfway down the angular staircase, pausing on the landing at the second floor, she recognized the voices below.

Not Angelica.

A door closed on the lower level, and she heard the businesslike tread of solid footsteps coming from the corridor where the earl’s study was located. The last person she wanted to encounter was Corvindale, so Maia turned and started to climb back up. Worry and disappointment replaced the momentary surge of hope, but then she heard something that made her pause.

“—from Dewhurst,” wafted up an unfamiliar feminine voice.

“What is the message?” Corvindale replied, his words rising clearly.

Maia crept back across the landing and started down the next flight, aware that her feet would be in view of whomever was in the foyer should they look up. Don’t look up.

“He bids you come retrieve the girl,” said the woman, who was obviously the messenger. “From Black Maude’s.”

Corvindale’s curse was sharp and vulgar. “She’s at Black Maude’s?”

Maia saw the top of his head as he whirled and started off, presumably back down the corridor in preparation for leaving.

“Wait!” Maia said, surging faster down the steps.

He turned up his face and their eyes caught as she hurried down, and for a moment, Maia felt the breath knocked out of her. Him.

No, impossible. She forced herself to breathe, to pull her attention from his glittering dark eyes. He was dressed in a white shirt that sagged and a loose neckcloth, as usual.

“Miss Woodmore,” he said, but his voice wasn’t nearly as cold as it usually was. “I presume you heard the conversation.”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“No,” he began, but she interrupted.

“Yes. She’s my sister. She might need me. Who knows…”

Her voice threatened to break, a combination of desperation and fear weakening it. “Who knows what he’s done to her.”

Corvindale held her gaze for much too long and then snapped, “You have three minutes to dress yourself appropriately.” He turned away and stalked off.

Maia looked down, having momentarily forgotten her state of dishabille, and realized that the moonlight streaming over her had highlighted the flimsy fabric of her summer gown and her bare feet.

Three minutes wasn’t nearly enough time, but she would manage it. She had no doubt that Corvindale would leave without her.

Dimitri hadn’t expected the ever-proper Miss Woodmore to meet his deadline, so he was surprised and annoyed when, precisely three minutes later, she came tearing down the stairs. That was the thing about her. She 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.