“Oh come, man! I am young. I am enjoying myself.”
“Indeed.” He plunged his feet into the copper bowl, huffing out a satisfied moan at the heat. “And she said nothing else?”
“Only it has been almost a month since William promised to return to her. She’s all put out about that. I wish I had a bit of coin to give her. More than she usually asks, that is.”
“I think I can help you with that, Orlando. I want to speak with her. See if she’ll give me further information regarding Montfalcon’s whereabouts. When do you see her next?”
He shrugged. “Few days.”
“Excellent.”
IN THE SHOE ROOM, Viviane sat with her back to a padded damask column. A loose linen chemise spilled from one shoulder. Lace about her neckline and wrists tickled her skin like a lover’s breath. Rhys’s breath. A red satin shoe with black frogs and an ebony heel she clutched to her heart.
Earlier, Portia had dusted the room with lavender powder, which lulled her. Sleep had eluded all through the morning hours. And now, well past two in the afternoon, she could not begin to start the day. For he haunted her thoughts. Her every step. Every time she ran her tongue across her lips she thought to taste him.
Him—the vampire with the warrior’s name and the curious scent—Rhys Hawkes.
She touched her mouth and allowed a wicked smile at the thought of Rhys’s mouth tasting her. She pressed her thighs together and almost, almost, reached a pinnacle. Surely, it would take more than a kiss to bring her to climax. Yet for as agitated as she’d been lately, Viviane was surprised she’d not come from a mere kiss.
What power did the man wield to affix himself in her thoughts—into her very body—like this?
Constantine she never thought about, unless it ended in revulsion.
Rhys, it seemed, could not be near her without touching her, if even through the slightest glide of his knuckles along her skirts, he sought connection.
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
