“There’s nothing to fear in my foyer.”
Oh yes there is. You
. “Why did you help my daughter when you believe I am capable of murder? When you suspect—wrongly—that I made your brother disappear?”
“Your crimes are not your daughter’s crimes.”
“Do you intend to let me go home to her?”
“I want to find my brother.” He watched her carefully. “However, I don’t plan to take revenge. Revenge is a bloody useless thing to want and a dangerous thing to pursue.”
She refused to show how much he scared her. “Do you have a portrait of your brother in this dark house? I should like to actually see the man you accuse me of seducing.”
He paused. “I told you what he looks like.”
“Yes. Like you only more attractive. I would prefer to see for myself.”
With gentlemanly aplomb, he offered his arm. Given she was essentially his prisoner, the gesture seemed absurd. He felt no noble consideration to her. “Come,” he said.
She sighed and touched him. Her hand slid along his forearm. Rock. Iron. Solid as stone. A sizzle rushed up her fingertips, then rippled in her tummy like waves in a pond. She’d never felt so giddy at a man’s touch.
It must be the strain.
“The gallery is this way.”
She had to hurry to follow his long stride. They stepped through a doorway, into a black, silent space. She felt cold as he moved away. He whipped back the drapes and silvery light fell in.
He raked his hand through his hair. She had survived by reading masculine emotions—all gentlemen revealed them. Men were far more expressive than women, and more honest about what they felt. Women only got into trouble becausethey tried to ignore what they saw. In Heath, she saw great pain.
He pointed to a life-size portrait behind her. “That is my brother and me,” he said huskily. “He is named Raine.”
Two young men stared down from the painted canvas. Heath was seated; she could tell at once it was he. The same sweep of auburn hair, but in the picture, it was caught back with a velvet bow. An identical proud nose and full sensual mouth, but his eyes were green. He sat back in casual repose but looked ready to leap out of the frame. His brother, Raine, looked thinner, more uncertain. His hands lay on the chair as though he was holding his brother and drawing strength from him. He looked very young. And despite their youthful faces, they wore elegant blue tailcoats, with pristine collar points and cravats.
“This picture was painted a long time ago,” she observed. “Yet you have hardly changed.”
“It was painted before my marriage. And I will never change, love. Never grow old. My soul has crumbled to dust. On the outside, you would never guess I was supposed to be dead. You would never see I was different at all.”
His marriage. He said it casually, but he had said nothing about a wife. “And your brother?”
“He changed. He has aged since that picture. He only became a vampire a few months ago.”
Vivienne stared intently at his brother. She tried to envision Raine looking older—more grizzled, more lined, more dissipated, or whatever ravages age had bestowed upon him. “I’ve never seen him. That is the honest truth.”
“I believe you.”
She jerked around. Shadows moved across him as though trying to caress his body. “Why do you believe me now?”
“You’re angry. If you weren’t innocent, you would be scared. Now you are just getting frustrated with me.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Very. I don’t know what happened to your brother. And I don’t know
why
those peers died. Or what Mrs. Holt wants.”
“You don’t believe you take their souls?”
“Of course not. I don’t believe in magic—black, white, or otherwise.”
“It’s interesting. You are a very jaded woman, but you are filled with hope. It glows from you. I can almost taste it exuding from you.”
Hope
. Vivienne flinched. Hope should not have existed for a girl whose mother was a tart, working for
Oh yes there is. You
. “Why did you help my daughter when you believe I am capable of murder? When you suspect—wrongly—that I made your brother disappear?”
“Your crimes are not your daughter’s crimes.”
“Do you intend to let me go home to her?”
“I want to find my brother.” He watched her carefully. “However, I don’t plan to take revenge. Revenge is a bloody useless thing to want and a dangerous thing to pursue.”
She refused to show how much he scared her. “Do you have a portrait of your brother in this dark house? I should like to actually see the man you accuse me of seducing.”
He paused. “I told you what he looks like.”
“Yes. Like you only more attractive. I would prefer to see for myself.”
With gentlemanly aplomb, he offered his arm. Given she was essentially his prisoner, the gesture seemed absurd. He felt no noble consideration to her. “Come,” he said.
She sighed and touched him. Her hand slid along his forearm. Rock. Iron. Solid as stone. A sizzle rushed up her fingertips, then rippled in her tummy like waves in a pond. She’d never felt so giddy at a man’s touch.
It must be the strain.
“The gallery is this way.”
She had to hurry to follow his long stride. They stepped through a doorway, into a black, silent space. She felt cold as he moved away. He whipped back the drapes and silvery light fell in.
He raked his hand through his hair. She had survived by reading masculine emotions—all gentlemen revealed them. Men were far more expressive than women, and more honest about what they felt. Women only got into trouble becausethey tried to ignore what they saw. In Heath, she saw great pain.
He pointed to a life-size portrait behind her. “That is my brother and me,” he said huskily. “He is named Raine.”
Two young men stared down from the painted canvas. Heath was seated; she could tell at once it was he. The same sweep of auburn hair, but in the picture, it was caught back with a velvet bow. An identical proud nose and full sensual mouth, but his eyes were green. He sat back in casual repose but looked ready to leap out of the frame. His brother, Raine, looked thinner, more uncertain. His hands lay on the chair as though he was holding his brother and drawing strength from him. He looked very young. And despite their youthful faces, they wore elegant blue tailcoats, with pristine collar points and cravats.
“This picture was painted a long time ago,” she observed. “Yet you have hardly changed.”
“It was painted before my marriage. And I will never change, love. Never grow old. My soul has crumbled to dust. On the outside, you would never guess I was supposed to be dead. You would never see I was different at all.”
His marriage. He said it casually, but he had said nothing about a wife. “And your brother?”
“He changed. He has aged since that picture. He only became a vampire a few months ago.”
Vivienne stared intently at his brother. She tried to envision Raine looking older—more grizzled, more lined, more dissipated, or whatever ravages age had bestowed upon him. “I’ve never seen him. That is the honest truth.”
“I believe you.”
She jerked around. Shadows moved across him as though trying to caress his body. “Why do you believe me now?”
“You’re angry. If you weren’t innocent, you would be scared. Now you are just getting frustrated with me.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Very. I don’t know what happened to your brother. And I don’t know
why
those peers died. Or what Mrs. Holt wants.”
“You don’t believe you take their souls?”
“Of course not. I don’t believe in magic—black, white, or otherwise.”
“It’s interesting. You are a very jaded woman, but you are filled with hope. It glows from you. I can almost taste it exuding from you.”
Hope
. Vivienne flinched. Hope should not have existed for a girl whose mother was a tart, working for
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