Michele Hauf - Seducing the Vampire

And he had achieved it. To her detriment. Now she could think of nothing more than seeing him again. Tempting him to touch her, to unleash her from her self-imposed freedoms. To take their kiss beyond.

Did he mark it off as folly? Or did she haunt his thoughts, as well? Did he crave her? Did he wish to feel her teeth against his neck, his mouth, his veins?

“I want more of him,” she said on a wistful sigh. “A taste of him.”

A taste would not bond her to him as kin to patron. A deeper drink was required for that.

Rolling forward onto her stomach, she teased a red tassel decorating the toe of a cerulean slipper. Each pair of shoes had been lovingly placed on a tilted shelf, the sides of each foldable box down to reveal the contents. It was as if a confectionary shop displayed its wares of satin, lace and ribbon.

Noticing the corner of paper tucked beneath one box, Viviane drew it out. The card was about the size of her hand, and featured a marvelous ink drawing with exquisitely lascivious detail.

“Blanche, you do surprise me.”

The drawing depicted a man on a chair, leaning over a woman who sat on the floor. Her dress spilled from shoulders and hips to reveal he teased her nipple with one hand and her quim with the other.

But more interesting in the picture was the chair decorated with arabesques of large male members, and on the woman’s shoes were tiny female figures, legs splayed to reveal all.

The erotic art increased Viviane’s ache for a sensual touch. She traced a fingernail along the curve of the woman’s breast, and tapped the man’s delving fingers.

Rhys could touch her like that and she would not stop him.

Even though he disturbs you?

She imagined herself in such a position—with Rhys leaning over her. Sucking in her lip, she slid her hand down her skirts to press between her thighs. Giddy desire stirred. She needed so much more than a kiss.

Portia tiptoed in and leaned a shoulder against the damask wall below an angel-bedecked candelabrum. “Dear, you look so melancholy. It is Monsieur Hawkes.”

Viviane hid a sly grin behind the erotic card. “You think to know so much?”

The maid nodded, sure of her assessment. Wilted ruffles frilled about her bosom and mobcap; she’d been steaming Viviane’s gown.

Viviane sat up against the padded post and drew her legs into a curl. She displayed the card to Portia. “Were you aware of your former mistress’s secret stash?”

“What is that?” Portia bent to examine the card. “Oh my. He’s touching her so … And oh.” She clutched the card, but Viviane snatched it and possessively pressed it to her chest. “I had no idea. Shall I dispose of it for you?”

“No. It appeals to me. As does Monsieur Hawkes.”

Portia’s eyelashes fluttered in delight. “He was appealing.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, that gray streak in his hair is charming. Makes me wonder if he got it because of some devastating trauma that wounded his heart. And now he bears the scar of it as a reminder.”

“You have quite the imagination, Portia.”

“Is he a vampire?”

“Apparently.” At Portia’s wondering gaze she explained. “He seemed out of the ordinary. Not like vampires I’ve met. Rough-mannered. Dressed poorly.”

“Oh, dear, yes, no lace.”

“That, and did you see his walk? A bowlegged strut like something right off a pirate’s ship. The man was overall …” She searched for the correct summation.

“Wild,” Portia murmured with wicked delight.

Viviane hid a smile behind the card. Passion had flared in Rhys’s brown eyes as he’d stepped defiantly before her to divert her pace in the salon. When he’d stepped around behind her, she had felt his eyes roving down her back, lingering at the base of her spine. It was as if he had touched her there.

What a divine place to experience touch. And she preferred if it were by a man’s tongue while she lay naked before a blazing hearth fire. The tickle of a wet tongue down her spine, tracing into the dimples of Venus that crowned her derriere …

“You’re thinking about him,” Portia chided teasingly.

“He fascinates me, nothing more.” She studied the card again and wondered if there were more to the collection tucked away.

“Does he desire to give you what Salignac can?”

“What, exactly, is it Constantine can give me?”

“Safety. Life.”

She liked those things. But freedom was missing from the list.

“You do adore fine things, ma chérie. And your coffers are not growing larger. Hell, what coffers?”

She hated that Portia spoke the truth with little reserve. But she did not fault her for it.

All the servants had mutinied following Henri’s death. They were owed wages, and Viviane had discovered Henri’s caches empty. Upon Portia’s suggestion, she’d handed each employee a silver candelabra or two and bid them adieu. But the stable boy, Gabriel, and Portia remained.

Every day new creditors knocked at the door seeking to collect Henri’s debts. The furniture in the music room had been carried out yesterday. She had no idea how she would pay Rose Bertin, the dressmaker, yet supposed she could return all of Blanche’s gowns.

Viviane studied the shoe and wondered if she could pay off a few leeches with a damask mule or ermine slipper?

“I’ve pressed the gown with the hummingbirds on the sleeves.”

Viviane adored that one.

“Master Rosemont just arrived,” the maid added. “He’s copying out lessons.”

“Excellent. Help me prepare.”

IT WAS SATURDAY AFTERNOON and Master Rosemont stood over Viviane, gently guiding and observing as she copied out the word carriage on the paper. Henri had seen to arranging for her studies but days after her arrival.

“It’s a complicated word,” Viviane said as she finished the e. “But pretty. Did I make it right?”

“Your penmanship is coming along well, Mademoiselle LaMourette.”

Much as she insisted he use her first name, he never did. He was young, and more than a few times Viviane had caught him observing the rise and fall of her bosom as she concentrated over her work. Once she had met his roaming gaze and he blushed so deeply, she decided never to do that again. The man was nervous, but a kind teacher.

“Are there some words you’d like to write today? List a few and I’ll write them for you to copy.”

Pressing the quill’s feathered end to her lips, Viviane perused the many objects in the room, wondering which of them she’d most often need to write about.

“Shoes,” she said. “Hmm, and wine.”

“Yes, of course.” Bemused, Master Rosemont scrawled the words on the page. His strokes elegantly imprinted the ink to paper with an ease that made her marvel. “A few more, and I’ll leave them as your homework. How about Portia’s name?”

“Oh yes. Portia. And gown. Salon. Book. Park.” Her mind wandered to some of the more lascivious pleasures— stroke, tickle, tongue—but she wouldn’t do that to him. Would kiss be too extreme to mention? Yes, it would. “How about … Hawkes?”

“Very good. Beautiful animals, are they not?”

“I’ve not seen one close up.” Save for the man version. “Have you?”

“Only a dead one. Poor thing. It hung in the taxidermy shop on the left bank. Gorgeous plumage. I felt sudden anger for the hunter at the sight of it.”

The hunter. Like a wolf slayer?

Averting her rising guilt, she studied the paper he turned toward her. “Is that the word?”

“You tell me.”

Viviane knew the first word began with an s. “Shoe,” she said.

“Very good. And the next.”

She recited them all, and when the short word beginning with h ended the list, she traced her finger beneath the letters. “Hawk.” Which wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted. “If I put an s at the end?”