"Indeed." Victoria turned back to her mirror. For, after all, what else was there to say?
"I can appreciate her devotion to her aunt, but if Victoria continues to disappear at inopportune moments, she will lose all chance of landing the marquess—or any other prudent marriage contract!" Lady Melisande was pacing the parlor of Grantworth House.
"Now, now, Melly, don't fuss," Petronilla urged. "Surely the fact that your foyer and sitting rooms are filled with flowers indicate that Victoria has intrigued more than one potential beau!"
"Indeed, but none of them are from the Marquess of Rockley! He did not call today, and I am fearful that Victoria's leaving the ball early last night has cooled his interest."
Winifred reached for a ginger cookie, a large crucifix thunking against her chest as she sat back. "You said your aunt is ill?"
"I do not know—but she sent her friend Maximilian Pesaro to fetch Victoria to her side last night, claiming that she was. I do not wish to interfere, for my aunt has a vast fortune she will leave to us… and… well, she can be a bit frightening… but it could not have been a more inopportune moment for her to call Victoria away!"
"Maximilian Pesaro? I do not believe I know him," Winnie commented, looking with interest at the lemon icing on a plate of chocolate biscuits. She had yet to make her selection, for fear of choosing one with a lesser amount of icing. "Who is he?"
"He was the frightfully tall man who came striding through the room just after dinner like he was on a mission somewhere important. Dark hair, swarthy skin, and an expression that was like to send my heart pounding from my chest!" Petronilla replied, hand clasped to said chest as though to keep the organ in place. "He looks terrifyingly dangerous. Like a pirate!"
"At least you did not say he looked like a vampire." Melly took a seat on her favorite chaise. "He is a particular friend of my aunt, and has recently arrived from Italy, perhaps six months ago."
"He could be a vampire," considered Petronilla, her eyes gleaming. "I wonder if he is! Your aunt seems to know an awful lot about them."
"I have taken to carrying garlic in my indispensable, on the recommendation of my butler's sister's mother-in-law," the duchess confessed. "I do not wish to be a victim of those creatures!"
"A duchess carrying garlic. How ridiculous!" Melly laughed. "Winnie, there are no such things as vampires. In fact, the latest I have heard from my cousin Lord Jellington is that the Runners believe those people left for dead by the wharves were attacked by some kind of mad dog, and that the claws made the marks that people think look like Xs. They shot and killed one just two days ago, and there have been no more attacks since."
"And what about the people who have disappeared? Beresford-Gellingham and Teldford?"
Melly put her teacup down rather a bit too abruptly. "And what do you believe happened to them, Winnie? They turned into vampires themselves? That's ludicrous. Beresford-Gellingham likely took himself off to the Continent to get away from his creditors, and Teldford is foolish enough to have tripped and fallen in the Thames, never to be seen again. Just because two or three people have not given their whereabouts does not mean there are vampires about!"
"My maid told me she heard of a woman who was visited by a vampire in her bedchamber," Petronilla breathed. Her hand fluttered at her throat. "She said that it wasn't frightening at all… that he was very gentle and… passionate."
"Gentle until he sucked all of her blood out with his fangs!" exclaimed Winnie in shock. "Nilly, I assure you, it would be no sweet picnic to have a creature suck the blood from your chest!"
"I would agree if I believed they even existed. Now, enough of that ridiculous topic. Tell me what I shall do to ensure that Rockley regains his interest in Victoria," Melly said, forgetting her habit of nibbling. She stuffed a whole ginger cookie in her mouth.
"Rockley was so attentive last evening, and the way he spoke about fetching your lemonade and having a thirst all night… well, I was certain he intended to ask you for a second dance, Victoria. I can't imagine what could have happened," Lady Melly said as they settled in the carriage that evening.
"I can't either, Mama," Victoria lied.
"Unless that girl Gwendolyn Starcasset has caught his eye again. He did dance with her twice at Lady Fiorina's ball three weeks ago." Lady Melly's eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "You must invest greater effort into catching his attention, Victoria. Unless something has put him off, which I can't imagine what, you should have no problem regaining his attention. He finds you very attractive; he had his eyes on you whilst you were dancing with that dreadful Lord Truscott I warned you about."
"Lord Truscott wasn't so dreadful."
"Hmph. He hasn't the money nor the looks of Rockley. I do hope you will pay some attention to the marquess the next time we see him at an event. Perhaps you should not have left the ball early last night."
Victoria nodded and agreed. Once her mother was put to something, she was put to it. And apparently Lady Melly was determined to make a match betwixt her daughter and the marquess.
In all honesty, Victoria had to admit that it was a pleasant thought. She'd danced with Rockley several times, and spoken with him at other social engagements, and she found nothing about him lacking. He was agreeable enough. Handsome enough. Witty and kind and charming, just as he had been that summer long ago when she knew him only as a young man—certainly not a marquess!—who seemed carefree and bold. They'd met every day for a fortnight, and he'd never let on that he was more than a boy from the village. He thought she was interesting and original and he had sought her out, based on his memory of her. That meant something, did it not?
Or perhaps his memory of her had been so perfect—although how a young woman harping on him could be considered perfect, she wasn't sure—that the reality of who she was today, grown into a young lady, did not meld with what he remembered. Perhaps she was a disappointment.
At least he hadn't tried to entice her into a secluded alcove and thrust his tongue down her throat and his hand into her bodice, as Viscount Walligrove had done at the Terner-Fordhams' dinner party two nights earlier. Victoria had dealt with the lecherous man and his bloated lips quite neatly. He hadn't known what came at him when she used some of the kalaripayattu moves Kritanu had taught her. Combined with the added strength from her vis bulla, Victoria's defense techniques had left the viscount in a heap on the floor, with a black eye, a broken nose, and a sprained ankle.
Perhaps he'd think twice about groping an innocent girl in the future.
"We are going to have to see about procuring a different maid for you, Victoria," continued Lady Melly in a completely different vein. "That girl—Verbena—is much too careless in her work. Look at you—your hair is already falling down, and we haven't even arrived at the Straithwaites' yet!" She leaned toward Victoria, her hand reaching toward the thick curl that rested over Victoria's shoulder.
"Mother, please." Victoria moved quickly out of reach; though that meant huddling further into the corner of the seat she shared with Lady Melly and crinkling her silk skirts even more. "I have no need to replace Verbena. She arranged my hair this way purposely; I wanted to try a different style. Perhaps we'll start a new fashion." She smiled, even as she toyed with the offending lock of hair to make sure it still covered the four red marks on her neck.
"Hmph." Lady Melly settled back in her seat. "I can't say as I like the style for myself, but there is something to be said for being an Original. If you need to be an Original in order to catch Rockley's eye, then so be it. And I suppose the Straithwaites' musicale is one of the better places to debut a new style, if there is one."
Victoria couldn't argue. Lord Renald and Lady Gloria Straithwaite were distant cousins of Lady Melly, and every year they displayed the substantial musical talents of their four daughters at a performance carefully choreographed to show them at their finest. The eldest had made a successful match last Season, and the Straithwaites clearly intended to continue the trend.
Because the Straithwaite daughters were triply endowed—with talent, funds, and curves—the musicale was fairly well attended by the marriage-seeking bachelors of the ton.
Shortly after arriving at Stimmons Hall, Victoria found herself seated in the ballroom. Tonight, however, though there would be music, there would be no dancing. The rows of chairs and the few settees along the side walls made it clear that all attention was to be focused on the four Straithwaite sisters.
She couldn't help but crane her neck to see if perhaps Rockley had elected to attend, but she did not see his dark head anywhere. Victoria settled in her seat to peruse the elegantly lettered program that had been rolled up and tied with pale pink ribbon. When she unscrolled it, she understood why. By the time one sat down and opened the program, it was too late to make an excuse to leave.
Ten pieces were listed.
Ten.
Victoria stifled a groan. She appreciated Mozart and Bach as much as anyone, but to sit through ten different pieces—each with three movements—was just too much for her. She cast a covert glance at the other attendees to see if there were any other shocked faces, but there weren't.
She was just going to have to suffer through it.
At first Victoria listened. She truly tried to listen. She sat primly next to her mother, taking as much time as possible to arrange her delicate skirts in gentle folds over her knees and the chair. Then she clasped her hands neatly in her lap, with her reticule tucked under her fingers. She could feel the outline of a small glass vial in the little pouch, which reminded her of the screeching pain in her neck when Max had poured his salted holy water on the bite. Verbena had somehow acquired a small bottle and filled it for Victoria so she would have her own.
Seething over Max's supercilious comments, and the pain he'd inflicted on her without warning, occupied Victoria's mind for approximately three movements of one of Mozart's quartets. It was only when she realized she'd gone beyond crumpling her reticule with annoyance and on to mangling her silk skirt that she knew she would have to think about something not quite as inflammatory as Max.