Authors: Erica Ridley
It was horrifying and appalling and . . . more than a little exciting. Every time he chose a pastel angel from the adoring crowd, Ellie’s flesh tingled as if it had been her hand he had touched. Every time he spun an enraptured young miss out of his arms for a beat or two, Ellie felt the loss of contact down to her very bones. It was as if she could feel what they felt, both the delicious sense of vulnerability as one wide-eyed innocent after another let herself be trapped in his arms, as well as the darker thrill of possession, of mastery, of control over everyone who fell within his line of vision.
If the dukes and dandies felt threatened by the relentless power exuding from the dashing Mr. Macane, they disdained any instinct for confrontation. The married gentlemen clutched their wives to their chests as best they could. The unattached bucks melted into the wainscoting like wolf pups cowering before the leader of the pack.
Macane spared a glance at neither set, as if none of the gentlemen present posed the slightest threat to him having his way with whomever he wished. No matter what that might entail. Although Ellie had, as expected, seen no signs whatsoever of the handsome Lord Lovenip’s being tempted by blood rather than by the ladies themselves, he was certainly dangerous in his own right, and a volatile addition to any throng. Not to mention provocative.
“Miss Breckenridge—” Ellie sucked in a breath, shocked to have heard a stammer in her voice. One would think this man had cast a spell over the room. “Miss Breckenridge,” she began again, once she had regained her command over both voice and body. “Presumably, the man who has enraptured the entire party without uttering a single word is the infamous Lord Lovenip. I see him dancing with those he should and those he should not, but nothing more untoward than that. I thought you said he . . . bites?”
“Not all of them.” With obvious difficulty, Miss Breckenridge tore her eyes from the man in question. She turned toward Ellie, her movements sluggish, as if she yearned to tilt her face to him. “And not all the time. That’s what makes him harder to catch.” Her shoulders lifted with a sigh. “And it’s why nobody believes me.” Miss Breckenridge’s voice lowered. “He’s not playacting, Miss Ramsay. He’s a predator.”
Unconvinced of dark magic afoot, Ellie pursed her lips and considered. “What is he waiting for, then? A solicitation?”
“A temptation, rather.” Miss Breckenridge lifted one of her slender arms and gave a flick of the wrist at the teeming crush. “He’s bored. He’s danced with these women before, many times. Such is the burden of the Upper Ten Thousand—there are a limited set of us at any given party.”
“A trial, to be sure,” Ellie murmured.
“I have had a devil of a time catching him in the act,” Miss Breckenridge continued. “My own sister doesn’t acknowledge the truth, which is what prompted me to hire a professional. Nothing short of impartial corroboration will gain me her ear.” She gave a sharp nod. “I shall now step aside and allow you your head.”
“Very well.” Ellie returned her gaze to the riveting Highlander who somehow made six-plus feet of controlled muscle seem elegant and graceful. She strongly suspected the virginal misses swarming about were in danger of losing something far more irreplaceable than a ration of blood, but how on earth could Ellie prove it?
“Dance,” she suggested to her client. “Dance with him, and I promise to watch very closely. I shan’t even blink.”
Miss Breckenridge recoiled as if Ellie had suggested eating spiders with tea. “Are you mad? I’ve no wish to be nibbled upon by Lord Lovenip, no matter how handsome the devil’s spawn might be. Dance with him yourself if you’d like to tempt him into action.”
Nibbled upon. Yes. That did sound—Ellie gave her head a violent shake.
No,
rather. What bug was in her brain today? She had no wish to be nibbled upon, by him or anyone else. Furthermore, while Mr. Macane might be a rake of the first order, that hardly made him an undead creature bent on draining the blue blood from London’s finest. Should she risk a dance to prove it? Why, certainly. Miss Elspeth Ramsay was more than willing to get
her
hands dirty in the name of science.
But how?
No one knew her. She was a dowdy spinster in outdated attire, hidden in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. Anonymity was the crux of any covert investigation. That’s why every time she infiltrated a crowd, she spent the first quarter hour mentally chanting,
Don’t look at me, Don’t remember me,
at everyone who passed her by. Her wish was always granted. Or perhaps someone of her station would never suffer particular attention. It went well against the grain to wish for the opposite. And even if the unthinkable happened and Lord Lovenip
did
happen to notice an unremarkable old maid flanking the third daughter of a duke, he’d suppose her Miss Breckenridge’s chaperone before he thought her a viable dance partner.
Besides, did she even know how? Ellie frowned, realizing for the first time that her ability to perform dance steps—or not—was one of the many maddening holes in her memory. Her mother had cautioned against taking this assignment, as if Ellie might forget herself and never return home. Utter nonsense. What Ellie could not forget was how badly their pockets were to let. They could ill afford to turn down money, and it was just a simple ball. Ellie would stick to the shadows, as always, and hopefully return home overlooked but a few pounds richer. And life would go on as always.
But she couldn’t stop the traitorous voice inside her head from whispering,
Look at me; notice me
as she stared at Mr. Macane’s devastatingly handsome form.
Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. His focus was on his simpering dance partner.
Chest tight with resentment and envy, Ellie shifted her gaze to the insipid debutante in his arms. Beautiful and probably brainless.
I hope you fall.
The girl’s legs collapsed beneath her.
Ellie gasped in shock at the coincidence, unconsciously pressing her back against the uneven wall.
Macane extended a graceful hand to the trembling girl at his feet, but his dark gaze focused over her head, as if he could see through the throng and through the shadows, to the young lady trying desperately to melt into the wainscoting.
“You can’t see me. You can’t see me,” Ellie whispered, suddenly and unreasonably terrified.
“He can,” Miss Breckenridge corrected her, her voice faint. “I fear you’ve been marked.”
Ellie’s body fought to free itself from the wall, as if pulled toward him by a force more powerful than her self-control. At the same time, every sense, every pore, screamed danger. Her breathing faltered and her heartbeat sped until her only reality was herself . . . and him.
The melody ended, and a new one began. Without breaking eye contact with Ellie, Macane handed the young girl off to her mother and strode forward, his step purposeful, his eyes determined. Despite the crowd, despite the music, despite her own breath rasping loudly in her ears, from across the ballroom she could clearly hear him speak his first word of the evening.
“You.”
And then he pounced.
Without seeing him cross the dance floor, without any memory of peeling herself from the far wall, their shadows intertwined and those eerily beautiful green eyes were piercing her to her soul.
“I—” Ellie faltered, unsure what she’d meant to say, or if there truly was anything
to
say.
He frowned, which only served to unnerve her even more. “You’re not—”
“I forgot to make introductions,” gasped Miss Breckenridge, at Ellie’s shoulder. “Of course. Mr. Macane, allow me the honor of presenting Miss Elspeth Ramsay. Miss Ramsay,
this
is Mr. Mártainn Macane.”
Yes. Obviously. But all Ellie could do was stare up at him, mesmerized by the tiny crease between his brows, as if he were as puzzled as she was to find herself the object of his attention. Who had he thought she was? And would he leave, now that his hopes had been disappointed?
Mr. Macane’s brow smoothed, and his chiseled features relaxed into a mask of perfect ennui. He inclined his head and favored her with a close-lipped smile.
Miss Breckenridge would no doubt assume he did so to hide unsightly fangs. Ellie knew better. Close-lipped smiles were what one did when one was only pretending. Her mastery of the art enabled her to mask her own humiliation at not being worthy of a true smile. His unexpected interest had been nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. More than understandable, given the crowd and the distance they’d had between them. Now that the dancing shadows thrown by the glass chandeliers no longer masked her features, he could finally see her for who she really was: nobody.
Never had she felt her lack of status so keenly.
He gazed at her a moment longer than was proper, undoubtedly determining the best way to extricate himself from an undesirable situation. To Ellie’s surprise, he extended his hand. “Shall we?”
She blinked at him until her addled brain deciphered his meaning, then she croaked, “Dance?”
“Certainly.” The edge of his mouth lifted as if he found her amusing.
Ellie was not amused. She was mortified. And determined not to let it show.
“Go,” her client hissed, sotto voce. “I shan’t even blink.”
Head held high—given that this dance would secure her place in infamy, and she’d no longer be able to cavort unnoticed amongst the ton, and how was she to earn a living without her anonymity?—she allowed him to lead her onto the parquet. Then she remembered that perhaps she’d better not hold her head
too
high, as it tended to elongate one’s neck, and she had no wish to emulate the brainless ninnies exposing their bare skin to him at every turn. She would be different. She would be . . . immune.
And if not, well, at least she would act like it.
When he led her about the perimeter of the floor, keeping time with the music, she was delighted to discover her feet did in fact know the right steps, even if her head didn’t. Unfortunately, that meant she needed something else to concentrate on.
Macane.
The dark-haired Scotsman perfectly embodied London fashion—except for one detail. Ellie’s gaze settled upon his bare neck. Strong, pale, and all the more striking due to an inexplicably absent cravat. Miss Breckenridge had mentioned that as one of his affectations. While the dandies struggled to keep their heads afloat above clouds of starched linen cascading from beneath their chins, Mr. Macane was shockingly unique. He did as he wished. He danced with whomever he wished. And, if Miss Breckenridge was to be believed, he drank from whomever he wished.
Ellie’s eyes widened as she realized the thought of his lips at her throat quickened her pulse more from excitement than fear. What was wrong with her? Why did her blood thrum faster, as if calling out to him?
She focused on the curve of muscle between his neck and his shoulder, attempting to shame herself into behaving properly by proving his heartbeat was steadier than hers.
Except . . . she couldn’t find a pulse point.
Frowning, she tilted her head and listened for the sound of his breathing. She couldn’t hear that, either. Strange, for her senses tended toward the extraordinary. She could see the individual fibers in the fine linen stretched across the expanse of his chest, but could not detect the pulse at the base of his neck. She could discern the fine leather of his shoes and the worn satin of her own, but could not detect the merest breath exhaling from his nose.
She leaned into him a bit more than she ought, certain that she was missing the obvious while sharing the thrall of the mindless fancy gripping the ton. But even with her face close enough for her breath to send a stray curl brushing against his powerful chest, all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, and all she could see was herself acting like a proper ninny.
Ellie pulled back and glanced up at him in embarrassment.
His eyes were not on hers. His gaze was locked on the base of her neck, where her own pulse point fluttered like a butterfly struggling to break free from its cocoon.
A slow smile curved his lips, gapping just long enough to flash a sliver of white teeth. Not fangs, Ellie told herself. Just teeth. As normal as hers. She took a deep breath and shivered as she inhaled the scent of cologne and clean linen.
Everything had an explanation. Macane was an accomplished rake, not a vampire. He happened to be brilliant at the art of illusion. With his absent cravat and his close-lipped smiles, he lent just the right touch of mystery and illicit adventure to woo the golden flock. Genius, actually. If she’d thought of it first, perhaps she’d be the celebrated Original of the ton, rather than the spinster who investigated frivolous claims for the rich.
She glanced up at him again. His mouth was no longer curved in a smile, but it was still wide and firm. The swooning ladies could keep their macabre fantasies. She’d much rather have that sensual mouth kissing her than biting her. If there weren’t such a crush of people . . .
As if they shared one mind, his next artful spin took them from the sparkling dance floor to a spot behind a hand-painted Chinese folding screen—which hid the entrance to the gardens. Before she could object (presuming she would have objected) Ellie was out the door and beneath the moonlit sky, still cradled in Macane’s arms.
A frisson of trepidation caused her to catch her breath. She stared up at him in a panic. Might he actually kiss her? As far as she could remember, no one had ever tried. No gentleman had ever noticed her long enough to think of it. And now—what if she did it wrong? What if she did it
right
? What would be expected of her then?
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You dazzled me even as you tried to hide.”
Well, that was laying it on a bit thick. Ellie wasn’t ugly, but nor were artists dueling for the honor of painting her portrait. She was plain. Worse than plain: She was
nondescript
. Wracking her brain for an appropriate setdown to such ridiculous flattery, she narrowed her eyes at him . . . and nearly swooned at his expression.