The Rest Falls Away

"Never believe that I have forgotten my promise to take you riding across the fields and meadows… but I feared for the weather to drown out our ride, and knew that the carriage would protect you better."

"Lord Rockley, it is my turn to make a bit of a confession."

He turned to her with interest, noticing that she was alternating between looking at her fingers, then ahead of them, and then at him. Where was his bold lady now? "I am most intrigued. Please, confess what you will."

And then the thought struck him that perhaps he would not appreciate her confession. What if she felt the need to divulge the name of another beau?

"I'm certain you recall the day after you fell from your horse, meeting up with me in the same meadow. I had gone there hoping to see you again, but not at all certain you would be there, of course."

He smiled, relief lightening his grip on the reins. "You would likely have found some other way to track me down and apologize for your harsh words, right, Miss Grantworth?"

She laughed, and he was pleased that she'd read the humor in his speech and remembered that she had not even thought to apologize for flaying a layer from his back. Good. That was part of what made her so interesting to him. She was not a shrinking violet, this Miss Grantworth whom he remembered… or whom she had become. He was more than pleased.

"As it was, I did not need to hunt you down, nor to apologize, as I recall, Lord Rockley, for you met me in that field, and you were the apologetic one." She looked him fully in the eyes. "That was the first time I'd ever been given flowers by a man… and I still have the pink ribbon you tied them with." As if to prove her point, she lifted her hand and tugged away the cuff of her glove, displaying a bit of her wrist and a pale pink swatch of satin tied around it.

"Your confession, such as it is, delights me, Victoria." Propriety be damned; he'd called her by her Christian name for those weeks that summer. It felt foolish to be formal when they were reliving those moments.

He'd navigated them from the main drag of Regents Park and turned off into a more private area. Stopping the cabriolet next to a small thicket of lilac and forsythia, he gently wrapped the reins around the small post there for just that purpose.

Reaching for her gloved hand, he said, "Miss Grantworth, I would be most appreciative if you would call me Phillip, as you did before." He was aware of his voice deepening, as it did when he became serious, and he forced himself to look at her with a nonchalant expression. Perhaps it was too familiar too soon, but, devil take it, he must have fallen in love with her years ago, for he'd never forgotten her. Couldn't get her out of his mind. Had practically made a fool of himself tracking her down at the Straithwaite musicale the other night. Thank God he'd arrived late enough to miss the damned thing.

And it appeared, once her faulty memory was jogged, that she had not forgotten him.

"Phillip is such a strong name," Victoria replied, looking not at him, but at the way his fingers traced each of her own gloved ones one by one. "It suits you. And you may continue to call me Victoria, as you did when we were younger."

And then, as if her words were some offstage signal, the clouds opened and the rain blasted down in sudden, loud torrents. The startled squeak from Victoria's maid at the back of the cabriolet drew her attention, but Phillip stopped Victoria from turning back to see to her with a gentle hand at her cheek. Any excuse to touch that flawless white skin.

"My tiger will take care of her," he said. "And their moment of distraction will allow me to do this."

He leaned into her sphere and touched his mouth to hers. She smelled like flowers and some kind of spice, and though he barely got a taste, her lips were warm and moist with surprise.

She did not start or move back, but instead pressed closer, angling her head to one side so their mouths fit better. Much better.

The rain streamed down around them, spraying fine mist onto the edges of the seat and onto their shoes. The tip of her nose, cool from the damp air, brushed against his warm cheek as their lips moved together. He released her hand and closed his fingers gently around her upper arms, bringing her closer to him so that her lovely breasts brushed against his jacket. Not close enough, but he was patient.

Or perhaps he wasn't.

She tasted as delicious as he'd imagined, and he wanted to sample more. He deepened the kiss deliberately, testing her… and she did not fail. She opened her mouth to him, and he felt the rush of want as their lips and tongues tangled. The brocade of her cloak crumpled under his fingers, and he closed his eyes when she reached up to touch his jaw.

When he released her and moved back, he looked down into green-and-brown-flecked eyes, hazy and heavy-lidded, and he felt rush of satisfaction. She bore the stamp of his possession there in her face and wet on her swollen lips, not to mention in the faded ribbon around her wrist. He was going to marry this woman, by God.

The freedom of wearing trousers!

Victoria had attained the age of twenty never experiencing the full range of movement, the loss of the fear of tripping over one's skirt, and the pure naughtiness of having one's nether limbs encased and defined in such an improper way.

She felt incredibly scandalous and powerful as she climbed into Barth's hackney without any assistance other than what appeared to be a heavy walking stick that had been sharpened to a point at the end. Verbena followed after her, looking like a moonfaced, wide-eyed boy, clutching a thick stake in one hand and a large silver cross in the other. With her hands otherwise engaged, it made her activity a flurry of useless motions until Barth lost patience and shoved her inside.

Scrambling into a seat across from Victoria, Verbena tried to adjust her cap while still holding the stake and cross. One peach braid stuck out, doing little to support her disguise.

"What makes 'em afraid of silver?" she asked as the hackney jolted into motion.

"Because Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver," Victoria replied. She was not nervous, but her senses were on edge. She hadn't told Aunt Eustacia of her plan to visit St. Giles tonight, afraid that she would either forbid her to go or, worse, send Max along too.

"And garlic?"

"I do not know that, but I suspect it is because of the odor. A vampire's smell is much keener than a mortal human's. Perhaps it is acutely displeasing to them in their undead state."

"Can you recognize one? When we're there… will you know if there's one before they try 'n' bite us?"

"I can always sense if there is one nearby," Victoria told her maid, realizing that the girl was plying her with questions to steady her nerves. "Most of the time I can tell who the vampire is, and I am getting better at doing so. Don't worry, Verbena: I do not think they will attack without provocation, especially if we are seeking them in a public place."

After a brief, difficult discussion with Barth, Victoria had convinced him to take them not only to St. Giles, the vilest and most dangerous neighborhood in London, but specifically to a place where he'd encountered vampires in a social rather than a predatory setting. Since Barth had seen and in fact transported vampires many times without being attacked, Victoria realized that he must know where they gathered.

It was only because she was a Venator that Barth agreed to take them to the Silver Chalice.

"If'n anyone can pr'tect himself, it's gonna be a Ven'tor," he said by way of acquiescence.

When the hackney jerked to a halt (if Barth hadn't been Verbena's cousin, and guaranteed trustworthy for that reason, Victoria would have hired a driver with more finesse), she opened the door.

It was after midnight, but the street was as busy as Drury Lane would be after the theater let out. The smells were much worse, however, and Victoria wondered how the vampires could stand it. The back of her neck had been cooling, but once she opened the door it became so cold she felt as though icy picks were thrumming on her nape. Turning up the collar of her man's jacket, as if that would help, she adjusted her hat to make sure none of her telltale curls were escaping.

Although it was a cloudy night, the street wasn't dark, due to random gas lamps swaying outside some of the establishments. Victoria used her lethal walking stick as leverage as she stepped down from the hackney, then moved to talk with Barth and instruct him, "Stay, regardless of what happens.

"Where is the Silver Chalice?" she asked, noting that it seemed an odd name for a place that attracted vampires.

"Down there." Barth pointed a shaking finger, whilst the other hand clutched his cross.

Victoria turned to look as Verbena stumbled out of the hackney, jostling her as she landed on the ground. "I see nothing but a burned out building."

"Down there, behind it."

Victoria stepped closer and saw what he meant: an opening two doors wide, barely noticeable near the foundation of the burned-out building. As she moved toward it, something bumped into her from behind, nearly sending her sprawling. Her walking stick raised, she pivoted to see Verbena shrinking away from three menacing creatures. Her maid's mouth was open wide in a silent scream, and Victoria had to swallow her own automatic reaction and remind herself that she was not helpless. She was a Venator.

"Wot brings two such dand'fied young men to this part of town, do ye think?" asked one of the three men. Something gold flashed in his mouth along with a grin that looked decidedly lascivious. Then something else gleamed silver in his hand.

The three men had circled around them and stood close enough that Victoria could smell the fumes of alcohol and other unpleasant odors. All three were dressed in dark clothing that appeared to be, whilst not so very clean, at least in fairly good condition. They weren't vampires; vampires didn't need knives. A stake might not stop them, but Victoria knew she was stronger than three mortal men. Still… her gloves dampened under her palms. She hadn't thought to bring a nonvampire type of weapon.

"I b'lieve I heard the young men say they be looking fer the Silver Chalice," replied his companion, as if Victoria and Verbena were no more than a disinterested audience to their conversation. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">