“Then I’m certain she’ll find a way to notify Pesaro. It seems to me you have other concerns now. ”
“Sebastian, why did you do it?” Victoria asked, suddenly feeling the pain of loneliness and betrayal. “Why did you steal from us? Why did you try to help Beauregard?”
He had the grace to look abashed—a decidedly unfamiliar expression on his face. “I acted irresponsibly and foolishly. I listened to him—he had the ability to enthrall
me to some extent, even though I was usually aware of it and could control it. And he convinced me that it would be helpful in getting vampires and mortals to coexist. ”
Victoria gave an unladylike snort. “And you believed him?”
“Love can be blinding sometimes, Victoria. ”
She looked at him for a moment. It felt as though something in the air had shifted, broken . . . settled. “It can. ” She drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. She’d made her own mistakes for love—marrying a mortal who had no idea about her secret life. And then lying to him, drugging him with salvi so that she could hunt vampires, thus endangering him and others that she loved.
Love was most certainly blinding.
Somehow, he must have understood what was in her face, for the next thing she knew, Sebastian was there again, drawing her into his arms. He lowered his mouth to hers, softly, as if in question.
She closed her eyes, kissed him back. She drew in his essence, his presence, pushed back the loneliness that had threatened her this day, these last weeks and months.
For this moment, this was comfort. This was Sebastian.
The kiss left her breathless, and suddenly Victoria felt the hip-high bed behind her, its edge pressing into the small of her back as Sebastian pressed into her front. Her gown gapped freely in the bodice due to his nimble fingers at the buttons along her spine. When he tipped her onto the bed, the coverlet was cool against her bare back.
His hands shifted smoothly to pull the fabric away as she looked up, dazed and desirous. It had been a long time. . . . The bed hangings were open, and beyond the heavy maple canopy frame, she saw the painting of Circe and Odysseus.
The fog of sherry and pleasure dissipated, and Victoriacame back to herself. She sat up abruptly, nearly striking him on the chin.
“No,” she said, looking around the room, remembering where she was. A chill raced over her, raising unpleasant goose pimples as she realized—oh, a myriad of reasons why she couldn’t do this. “Sebastian . . . not here. ”
Not where she and Phillip had made love, only a few precious times during their short marriage.
Not here, where she’d kissed him for the last time, felt his hands on her body and the length of him next to her . . . just before she drove a lethal stake into his heart.
Not on this bed, or in this room . . . or in this house.
Five
In Which a Painting Is Criticized
Max moved with the shadows, alternating his quiet footsteps with the call of a night animal or the sift of wind through the trees.
The last time he’d been here at St. Heath’s Row, slipping silently across the trimmed lawn and between the well-tended yew hedges, was nearly two years ago. That time he’d had no trouble gaining access to the residence, for Victoria had dismissed all of the servants for the evening.
She had been expecting the return of her husband as well.
Max had followed Rockley through the house, unseen and unnoticed by the vampire who was driven purely by the need for his wife’s blood. He could have staked the creature on more than one occasion—just beyond the gates of the estate, as Rockley crossed the threshold of his own home, as he mounted the stairs, drawn by Victoria’s scent and her heartbeat.
But Max had waited.
Instead, he’d followed, listened, paused outside of the door Rockley had left open. The door leading to the chamber where she slept.
The sounds, the unmistakable ones of shifting bedclothes and sliding lips, of sighs, intimate murmurs, and ratcheting breathing at last forced him to peer into the room. The stake firm in his hand, Max tensed, tasting bitter disappointment . . . and a bit of self-righteousness. He had been right to come, for he was prepared to do what had to be done, what she was too bloody blind, too weak to do. . . .
Then he saw her arm raise high, an elegant, slender limb caught by moonlight above the rumpled coverlet. And she plunged the stake down into the dark.
He saw the small explosion of silvery ash, heard the faint sob of grief, and he lowered his stake.
When at last she pulled herself up to sit, her rich, black curls had poured over her shoulders and gauzy white gown. That moment, that colorless image of pale skin, shadowed eyes, a streak of tears, was indelibly printed in his memory. He’d never forget the glaze of moonlight over her features, haunted yet determined, when she turned to look at him.