Колин Глисон: As Shadows Fade

Good God. What was the duchess wearing? It was shockingly… orange. And the soup of eau de toilette scents was strong enough from here… what would it be like in the thick of things?

He was going to have to skirt the side of the dance floor and make his way out to the patio in search of Victoria.

Just as he was about to move, he caught a few words of conversation behind him: “… in that red dress.”

Max turned and pinpointed two men who were chuckling lasciviously together, shoulder to shoulder. One of them was the butler, whom Max had refused to allow to announce him, and the other appeared to be a groom or footman.

“Lucky gent t’ave that in ’is ’ands,” said the footman, who, based solely on the appearance of his full, glistening lips, Max decided was the more vulgar of the two. “Looked ripe f’the pickin’.”

Max stepped toward them, and the two men straightened from their not-quite-muttered conversation.

“May I help you, my lord?” asked the butler.

Max was not a lord, per se, but he forbore to correct the man. The higher his perceived position, the better his chances of getting the information he required. Of course, there was always the option of slamming their two heads together. “Were you speaking of Lady Rockley?”

The butler drew himself up taller-even taller than Max, but several stone lighter and certainly not as quick on his feet. His Adam’s apple bobbed above the high collar of his shirt. “What of Lady Rockley?”

“I’m in search of her.” The two men remained silent, the footman looking slightly ill at ease; truly, he was little more than a boy. But when Max had been that age-sixteen, perhaps seventeen-he’d already been hunting vampires for more than a year. On his own and without the grace of a vis bulla.

“I’m not certain-”

Max stepped closer. “I suggest,” he said, pleasantness oozing from his voice, “that you desist in prevaricating and tell me where she is. And,” he added, his tone dropping low enough to make the footman’s eyelashes flicker, “I suggest you also cease from speaking about the marchioness in such unflattering terms.”

The butler swallowed. “She left some time ago, my lord. With… er…”

“Yes?”

“A blond man,” the footman offered, obviously wishing to be of assistance in an effort to dispel Max’s obvious anger.

A blond man. Vioget?

“Did she go willingly? That is, was she agreeable about leaving? So early?”

The butler nodded, his face blaring hesitation. He obviously wasn’t certain if Max was angry or pleased that Victoria was gone. That made two of them. “She… er… was smiling and laughing a bit just before they left, my lord.”

Definitely Vioget then. That was good. Perhaps they’d made plans to meet here, and Victoria had contrarily chosen not to tell him. That would be no surprise.

“In whose carriage?” Not that it mattered. Vioget would make use of any vehicle, and soon that rich red dress would be crumpled in a pile. Or torn, under eager hands. Its fabric was delicate enough to split at the slightest strain.

“My lady’s, my lord. They went out to her carriage.”

Max stepped back, satisfied. Yet… something itched deep inside him. He ignored it and turned to leave. It really wasn’t terribly urgent that he see Victoria tonight.

But what if it wasn’t Vioget? What if she’d left in a carriage with another man?

“The man… how tall was he? What else did you notice of him? His name?”

And then there she was. In front of him.

“Max?” Her voice lifted in surprise as she stepped through the door, into the foyer. There was, indeed, a blond man with her. And it wasn’t Vioget.

What the hell had she been doing in her carriage with George Starcasset?

Max tore his attention from Victoria and focused on her companion, but not before he noticed her hair was a bit off-kilter and one of her gloves was missing.

Max turned a cold gaze onto Starcasset. The man didn’t even attempt bravado, which was no surprise. After all, he didn’t have a gun in his hand to give him ballocks. A tinge of red flushed over the man’s round cheeks, and he gave a little bow. “Signore Pesaro,” he said formally. “We’ve just returned.”

“I see that.” Max didn’t trust himself to say much more. There were too many people around, and he’d likely end up with his fingers around the man’s throat-which would be a great blow to his reputation for control.

Where the hell was Vioget? Why wasn’t he at this blasted dance, protecting his own interests?

“Max, what are you doing here?” Victoria asked, moving closer. She was looking at him with sharp eyes that held not a hint of shame, and, quite likely-bloody hell -a bit of smugness. Blast. “Perhaps you had an urge to waltz after all?”

“I came to see you on a matter of some urgency,” he said, duly pushing from his mind the one and only time they’d waltzed. He didn’t like to dance, but he was damn good at it, and the glow of pleasure-not to mention surprise-in her eyes at the realization had been worth the ridiculous display. He glared at Starcasset. “Alone.” In a carriage.

No.

Victoria’s red lips tipped up at the edges, revealing the collection of tiny dimples around them. “Of course, Max.” There was that knowing edge to her voice, that allure, as she looked up at him as if she knew-she knew -how bloody uncomfortable he was.

Damn and blast. He should have left London weeks ago.

He should have found Vioget and sent him here tonight.

He should have merely lifted his brow and looked down at her with an arrogant expression and asked if she was ready to hunt vampires now, or if it was more important to finish off her dance card.

But it was so much harder now. After. Since.

There was so much hanging between them.

Victoria slipped her arm through Max’s before he could react, and she pressed her hip, torso, leg, all alongside him. “Good night, George,” she said coolly, as if she weren’t fairly melting against Max. Bloody hell. “Remember our agreement. I will keep my promise.”

“Of course. Thank you again, Lady Rockley.”

“Let’s go,” snapped Max, easing away from that red dress and the woman in it. As he turned, she bumped closer, and he saw, for the first time, a thin streak of red along her neck. “What the hell is this?”

Without thinking, he touched it, and saw that it was a thin scratch that oozed blood, half hidden by her hairline and around the back of her neck. Not a vampire bite.

Before she could reply, he grabbed her by the arm, angling her away from him, and started them toward the front door. “Get her carriage,” he snapped at the goggling footman, who fairly pissed his pants, presumably at the expression on Max’s face.

“My God, Max, you don’t have to be so rude,” Victoria said.

He ignored her. And Victoria, for once, closed her mouth and said nothing while they waited for the carriage.

The carriage. The small, dark, closed carriage.

Bloody hell.

Victoria climbed back into the conveyance she’d alighted from only moments before. The scent of Maybelle’s ash still hovered in the air, and she swore she heard Max sniff as he slipped in after her.

She hadn’t even pulled all her skirts up and into the carriage, saving the hem from being trod upon or caught in the door, when he pushed past and sprawled on the opposite seat, settling in the center of the bench in an arrangement that clearly indicated his desire for solitude there.

The footman closed the door, and Victoria heard it latch in place. Inside, the interior felt dark and close. Her corset suddenly felt more restrictive.