Summers, Jordan (3 page)

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Lord Devlin glared at
Tildy.

Tildy’s eyes widened and her skin flushed. “Beggin’
your pardon, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll just be on my way.” She all
but ran from the room, leaving Lily to face her father alone.

“You will not talk to me in such a manner in front of
the servants, do you hear me, daughter?”

Lily bit the inside of her mouth to keep from voicing
her instant retort. She calmly rose from her dressing table and faced her
father. “I hear you and obey. As always,” she muttered the last two words under
her breath.

Archibald’s eyes narrowed, but he said no more.

“What is it you wished to speak to me about Father?”

He straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. “I’ve
got a couple of gentlemen I’d like you to give special attention to this
evening, Lord Thomas Wells and Lord Nathanial Martins. Nothing overt, we don’t
want to draw unwanted notice from the gossipmongers.”

“Of course not, we must maintain our reputation.” Lily
flashed back to a time when her father’s reputation as a rake reigned supreme
in their household. There were periods when he didn’t come home for days. As a
child she hadn’t understood, once she’d asked her mother where papa was and
when he’d come home. Her mother had been unable to answer. Even at her young
age Lily hadn’t missed the fresh tears that had filled her mother’s eyes that
day.

As she grew older, Lily realized much of her mother’s
life was spent in tears and pain—the pain that comes from having your heart
broken one too many times. Lily vowed on the day they laid her mother into the
dank moss-covered ground, that she’d never suffer the way her mother had, never
cry over a man—never give her heart away to a rake.

Her father cleared his throat, bringing Lily’s thoughts
back to the present.

“These two gentlemen have vast estates, particularly
Lord Nathaniel Martins. A match with either of these men would be able to
return us to the manner in which we wish to live.”

Lily’s jaw tightened. “How do you know these gentlemen?”

Archibald snorted. “They are business associates, not
that it’s any concern of yours.” His voice hardened, effectively stopping all
argument.

“Does Aunt Margaret know these men?”

He visibly paled. “This is none of her concern. Now
finish getting ready and be down in a few minutes, the carriage is waiting.” He
lumbered to the open door. “If you can’t find yourself a good match, I will.”
Archibald tossed back before exiting.

* * * * *

Lord Lyon observed the crowded ballroom as the first
strings were plucked, signaling a waltz was about to begin. The dancers had
already twirled through a couple quadrilles, a cotillion, and a polka or two. A
rush of energy filled the room as men and women bustled about, jockeying for
position on the dance floor.

The excitement and heat from the crowd sent pulses
racing, hearts pounding, and blood rocketing through the people’s veins. He’d
been in town two days now and still needed time to adjust.

From his vantage point, lazily perched in the doorway
of the salon, it appeared as if half the ton was here. Richard brought a
fingertip to his temple and casually rubbed. It was always the same thing.

For several hours now, he’d been listening to boring
dowagers and matrons with half an ear while they gossiped about the poor
unsuspecting debutantes. Deciding the fate of the young women with a flick of a
fan, as the music strummed on.

The press of the people, the warmth of their heated
bodies triggered his hunger. Normally Richard would have found the combination
of blood types and present company enticing, instead it left him cold. He
missed his manor in
Ireland
.
There he’d been able to inconspicuously sup from the finest necks around, while
enjoying the honest friendliness of his neighbors.
London
seemed cold and dreary by comparison, unwelcoming. And frankly, he was bored.
It didn’t look as if this season would bring him any closer to meeting his
bloodmate than the last.

Lady Clayton’s words wafted in the air. Richard smiled,
as if her comment about men and their sausages had been amusing, before
excusing himself and turning away.

There hadn’t been a single neck stand out that had been
able to hold his interest for more than a sip or two of blood, not that he’d
indulged. It wasn’t necessary to taste, when you’d been around long enough to
obtain the ability to determine uniqueness with one whiff. That’s why he’d paid
Rose so handsomely. She kept him satisfied so that he could remain in public
without seeming depraved. Unfortunately since she wasn’t his bloodmate he was
never fully sated. Only a bloodmate’s blood would allow him to achieve such a
state.

Ignoring his hunger, Richard tugged at the ivory cuff
sticking out of his navy jacket, a nervous habit he’d developed years before
his human death that he’d been unable to dispel. With Parliament back in
session, the ton’s season was in full swing. Young dandies pranced like
peacocks at the balls, catching the eyes of wealthy matrons. Dalliances were
arranged in the speed at which it took to bat a lash. At the same time the
young Corinthians tried to avoid the parson’s mousetraps.

Richard arched a brow. He knew better than most that
wasn’t possible without much experience. The randy bucks’ naiveté amused him,
not that he hadn’t dallied with many ladies in the past. Richard’s reputation
as a notorious rake was well established in the mind of the ton. Men feared him
on the field of business, for he was known to ruin anyone foolish enough to
cross swords with him, while women welcomed him with open legs into their beds,
his lovemaking skills legendary.

The grand dams had all but given up on him making a
suitable alliance, which was for the best considering his special needs. Of
course that didn’t stop the matrons from holding out hope for their
daughters—and themselves.

Beautifully dressed women stepping out in their first,
second, and third seasons secretively kept their eyes on the available men,
calculating how best to align themselves with a good match. Some had been mere
chits, while others had gone so far as to dampen their petticoats to accentuate
the day’s revealing styles.

Richard dismissed them unceremoniously. He wanted no chit or
brazen woman for a wife. Many had tried unsuccessfully to catch his attention
without success. Richard watched his step carefully, never feigning attention
to maidens longer than good manners dictated. No one would be able to accuse
him of social impropriety or undue interest.

Obviously, the dowagers hadn’t informed those same
maidens about the thrill of a good chase. Richard’s lips quirked and he shook
his head. He knew the temptation of bucking society’s rules well. It was a
continual struggle to confine his true nature. Richard watched the men and
women. In anticipation, he casually flexed his muscles. It had been a long time
since he’d participated in a good game of cat and mouse. He’d find the
challenge refreshing.

He supposed he was not so different from the horde.
Richard had come to
London
in
search of a very special kind of woman. He looked neither for titles nor for
riches, for he had both; more than enough to last several lifetimes. What he
sought was infinitely more precious and far more difficult to find, if not
impossible.

Richard sought a strong mate who had an innate
intelligence, one who could accept life in
Ireland
,
who didn’t need the excitement of the ton, and someone with whom he could
converse. He had no patience for birdwitted chits. Beauty would help, but was
not essential. Loyalty was absolutely necessary and if love was present, then
all the better.

Oh, and last but not least, probably most importantly,
he needed a woman who didn’t mind living with a seven hundred year-old vampire.
Not that he was hard to get along with, but he was a little set in his ways. It
was a tall order to fill and Richard held little hope this season would find
the order filled. A true bloodmate didn’t come around often, in fact out of his
many Dearg-due friends, only one of the vampires had succeeded. Years later,
Katherine lost her mate to an attack. Richard arrived in time to save
her—barely. She now devoted her time to helping others.

He grimaced. The past held far too many ghosts and the
future seemed no more hopeful.

He located the hostess across the room. Richard decided
to give his regards then retire for the evening. He was about to turn and join
her, when a flash of yellow crepe caught his eye. Normally he’d just ignore
something so minor, but not much captured his attention, so he decided to
investigate.

Richard pushed from the archway, where he’d been
casually watching the masses. His gleaming Hessians heralded his approach, the
soft click indistinguishable to all but him in the throng. There was a flutter
of yellow on the dance floor as the lady’s skirt bowed out. The young dandy
twirling her took the waltz turn too quickly. Richard cursed inwardly at the
man’s clumsy moves. He still hadn’t managed to see the woman’s face.

Lily’s dance partner, Lord Nathaniel Martins took the
last turn of the waltz wide, bowing her skirts for all to see. She forced a
smile as the music continued. Would this waltz never end? There was no way she
would encourage this cretin one moment longer. He’d practically pawed her on
every turn, all but slobbering on himself. For the past two hours she’d been by
his side on and off, there’d been no attempt at conversation on his part only
innuendo, that truth be told, she hadn’t understood.

He ran his thumb over her wrist. Lily shuddered, hoping
he didn’t mistake revulsion for encouragement. Lord Martins reminded her of her
father in his youth. Extremely overconfident, he relied on his charm to get him
by in polite society, with no ambition to do more. She had no doubt it worked
on some people, just not her. Lily wanted no part of it. She didn’t care what
her father said this match was unacceptable. She’d have to have a word with her
Aunt Margaret, the Duchess of Dreyer. Only she was powerful enough to sway her
father when his mind was set.

Why her father had suggested Lord Martins was beyond
her. As far as Lily could discern he held no attributes other than wealth and
title. Yet when her father had escorted her into the ball and Nathaniel had
immediately joined them, it had been clear the men had reached some sort of
understanding, their acquaintance well beyond mere social politeness.

Lily glanced at the young lord once again, with his
smarmy looks and ruddy face. She swallowed her dislike, slipping on her social
mask. Her opinion of him had not changed. She would do nothing to encourage
him.

The dance ended and the ladies were escorted off the
floor. Richard found himself standing a few feet away from a vision, like
Botticelli’s Venus. She wore a cadmium crepe over a pale sarcenet, trimmed with
shimmering pearls. Short sleeves, boasting a shower of glowing gems, fit
closely to her slender arms. The material gave only a glimpse of her alabaster
skin, before it was once again covered by white kid gloves.

Her golden hair hung Roman style with tresses confined
at the back of her head in sun-kissed ringlets. A demi-turban formed of pale
tawny satin blended beautifully with her hair’s rich color giving her the appearance
of a radiant angel sent from heaven. Richard’s lungs seized, if she was an
angel then he most certainly represented the devil.

His gaze caressed the sprig of vibrant flowers, which
had been placed on one side of her head. So fresh, so full of life, Richard’s
gut clenched as he fought the urge to turn away from her beauty. Her only other
adornment came from a single strand of luminescent pearls, framing her
exquisitely long neck. She held an ivory circular fan, waving it swiftly, yet
daintily in front of her flushed face. The subtle flick of her wrist indicated
a good deal of independence.

Richard sucked in a breath. His senses came alive.
Every muscle in his body went on high alert, including his cock. He had to get
closer. Did she smell as good as she looked? How would she taste? Richard eased
his way through the thickening crowd, greeting old friends along the way,
taking great care to appear nonchalant.

As he approached, her rose water perfume assailed him,
drawing him nearer, surrounding him, taunting like a mistress trying to lure
her lover to bed. Her white skin glistened under the flickering candlelight.
Richard’s mouth watered and his fangs exploded through his gums. He swallowed
hard, willing his canines to retract. Now was not the time to show his true
nature.

A young rakehell of questionable lineage by the name of
Lord Nathaniel Martins stood to the lady’s right, along with several other
couples. Richard knew him well from his extensive circle of friends. The lady
must have considerable connections for Martins to press his suit. He caught the
young dandy’s wandering eye and arched a brow, sending out a slight mental
compulsion to introduce him to the lady. The man coughed and fidgeted for a
second, his face flushing red, before he acquiesced. He leaned in and whispered
in the woman’s ear. She nodded slightly.

The young man turned to face Richard. “Lady Lily
Devlin, may I present Lord Richard Stuart, the sixth Earl of Lyon.” The man’s
lips were tight as he forced out the words. Richard willed Martins to join the
others in conversation, leaving Lily for himself.

Lily turned and inclined her head gracefully then
offered her hand. Richard clasped her fingers and bowed. He felt the tremble
his touch ignited as he rose to meet her face. Her eyes were of the clearest,
palest blue Richard had ever seen, like the Oughterard sky on a fresh spring
morning when everything was in bloom. They widened almost imperceptibly as they
locked on his face.