of my league, you mean.” Swift’s hands fisted at his side.
“I—I fear it was the drug,” Miss Lark said, and she touched her cheeks, wincing as though she’d burned her palms.
Swift, who thought she was an innocent miss, was taking advantage of her shock and confusion. Jonathon lifted his fists.
“Gentlemen, stop!” Miss Lark managed to make a whisper into a shout. She wagged her finger like a disapproving governess. “Roman—the vampire who captured me—is leaving. He was speaking with the madam once more and is going into the crowd. We should go now to the library.”
Miss Lark set his head spinning. Beneath her veil, her cheeks were still flushed from her ecstasy. Her words were rushed as though she still hadn’t caught her breath. She’d just witnessed the lewdest acts he’d ever seen. But she was fixated on the bloody library.
What did she want there? Did she really not know she was a vampire? Did she believe Ashcroft’s lie about her parents’ deaths by vampire attack? Had she really come here to find a book that might tell her about her parents? She was such a mix of innocence and determination, vulnerability and strength, he couldn’t tell if she was lying to him.
He saw Swift move to her side. “We should follow the vampires.”
Jonathon had the privilege of rank, and he gripped the brass rail to spend some of his tension. “Too dangerous to combat a half-dozen vampires in their own den.” He looked to Miss Lark and tried not to remember her climaxing for Drake Swift. “You said the vampire was speaking to the madam?”
With bright pink cheeks, she nodded, and her raven-black curls danced against her back.
“Then Madame Roi is who we want to speak to. The vampire Roman will be subordinate to her. She had a great deal of power. She rules the vampires of London.”
Miss Lark frowned. “That is something I have never understood. If you know she is a vampiress, why do you let her live?”
Swift grinned. “Because she has the protection of powerful men.”
“Which powerful men?”
Jonathon sensed she had already guessed the answer, but he gave it to her. “The Earl of Ashcroft. His Grace, the Duke of Russex. Lord Williams.”
Miss Lark looked perplexed. “But why would the three most important men of the Royal Society protect a vampire madam?”
With lordly arrogance he waved the question aside. “Miss Lark, why don’t you tell me how to find the library?”
Her gray eyes narrowed. “Only if you bring me with you.”
“No. Too dangerous.”
“Then I won’t tell you. Instead, I will come back and find it.”
Swift grinned. “She will probably come back…alone.”
Good Christ. “All right, you can come, Miss Lark,” Jonathon conceded. “But you will do everything we say.”
“Indeed.” Swift grinned.
Jonathon let a seething growl escape. Sexual banter had not been his intention.
“I’ll go first,” Swift added in his irritating devil-may-care tone. “Check for trouble.”
Jonathon had never been happier to watch his partner leave.
Serena saw Drake Swift vanish behind the heavy crimson drapery. She was alone with the earl, and the instant the curtain stilled, Lord Sommersby grasped her arm and drew her close to his side. Within the narrow slits of his mask, surrounded by the deep violet paint, his eyes were molten, reflecting golden candlelight. “What book is it you want, Miss Lark? What exactly are you searching for?”
The man had instincts too well honed for her good. “I don’t know,” she lied. “I wanted to search the library and see if I found any—”
She broke off at the sound of a coarse female voice. “I want ye to fuck me from behind over the gallery rail, milord. Won’t ye please?”
Astonished, Serena watched as the curtain opened and a blond courtesan sashayed in. The woman wore one of the black corsets, with the gold chains attached, and one of the wands was buried up her bottom. Her companion, a man who stood almost as tall as Sommersby, also wore the domino and a mask of black silk.
Why hadn’t Mr. Swift warned them the couple was coming?
“Oh!” The blond jade saw them and gasped in surprise.
Before Serena could think, Lord Sommersby’s broad shoulders and wide chest filled her view. He bent, until his mouth hovered just an inch over hers. It was part of the disguise. He would not kiss her—or if he did he would not mean it.
Had he known she had climaxed? She had foolishly cried out—and had been mortified. It had been so unexpected, so astonishing. She’d prayed both men had no idea what had happened to her.
Lord Sommersby’s lips grazed her cheek, through the veil. How sensual his mouth was. The firm brush set her skin tingling, made her gasp. “You must know how much I desire you.”
His hand cupped her chin and turned her lips to his. “No, my lord. I had no idea.”
A smile. His lips quirked up in a smile. A brief one that vanished quickly.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the dark-haired vampire bend the blonde over the railing. His legs spread, and he thrust his hips forward. A frantic womanly squeal followed—obviously he’d penetrated. The man began to grunt, hoarse, fierce grunts. And the woman cried, “Yes! Yes!” and “Deeper! Deeper!”
Serena swayed—Sommersby settled his hands on her hips. Held her steady. “Start moving back, my dear. We’ll slip away without them noticing.”
“No kiss?”
“No. Now take a step back.”
For one mad moment, Serena wanted to press forward, push her lips to the earl’s, but she obeyed him. She let him guide her backward until the velvet drape brushed against her back. She thought of Mr. Swift, and fear began to throb around her heart. Where was he?
Christ Jesus, his hands were shaking.
Drake Swift looked down and dispassionately watched his fingers tremble. The signs always began this way. First, he’d slowly lose control of his limbs. Then his speech. Blackness would creep in on the edge of his vision.
Bloody solange was killing him.
Drake reached into the slim pocket sewn in his coat lining. One vial left. He needed more—this would be enough for tonight. A few minutes away from Miss Lark and Sommersby was all the time he needed. He’d ducked into this unused room, while Miss Lark and his partner waited on the gallery.
Hell, hiding in a brothel’s bedroom to drink a potion that would kill him. Christ. He’d fought hard to be better than this.
Beneath the pad of Drake’s thumb, the glass was smooth. Fragile.
