He released the wrist he'd held on the top of the settee, but not her glove, and when she pulled away the glove came off, turning inside out from her fingers. Her hand and arm were bare.
She stepped back, out of his reach. Sebastian was not the type of man to climb over the settee after her.
But he wasn't looking at her; he was holding her forlorn white glove between his hands, stroking his fingers down over its length as if smoothing his touch over her arm. Then he wrapped it gently around one of his hands and looked up at her.
"Where is your ring?"
At first she thought he was speaking of her vis bulla,
the ring in her navel… but then she realized he was looking at her bare hand. Her left hand.
"I don't have one… yet. Did you know I was there in the room at Redfield Manor?"
"Of course. I also knew the moment you went out the window; Maximilian was too busy staking vampires to notice. But I saw the twitch of the drapes and knew you were gone. I understand you killed seven vampires that night."
"It was eight. And Max defeated three Imperials on his own."
"Bravo, Max." Sebastian rose and she stepped farther away. "Victoria, you are annoying me. I am not going to leap across the room and ravage you." He did indeed look angry, an unusual expression in a face that was normally bent on wooing or charming.
He tucked her glove into his pocket and walked with rather harsh footsteps back over to the table where he'd poured their drinks. Turning to face her, he leaned back against it, crossing his legs at the ankles and his arms over his middle. He looked all bronze and golden and utterly dangerous. His hair gleamed dark near the crown, but tawny and blond and even silvery at the curling tips, and his mouth was set in a harsh line, the upper lip shadowing his lower one to a dark toffee color.
There was silence for a long moment. Victoria had expected him to demand some sort of additional recompense for the information that led to their obtaining the Book of Antwartha, but he did not. His enticing, engaging manner had evaporated and now he merely looked displeased.
"I am sure it is safe for me to leave," Victoria said at last. "I'm certain Max has managed to get Phillip away by now." She looked at him, expecting an argument.
But instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out her glove, offering it to her.
It lay draped over his open palm, but when she reached for it his fingers closed over her bare hand. And tugged.
Perhaps it was surprise at his sudden movement; perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps she was just tired of fighting it. But Victoria allowed herself to continue forward until she was standing as close to Sebastian as she had been in the hallway.
Transferring her hand to his other, as if unwilling to chance her escaping, he tucked the glove back in his pocket and looked down at her. Humor glinted in his golden eyes. "That was easier than I expected."
"Sebastian—"
He turned her bare hand palm up, lifted it, lowered his face… and touched his lips to the inside of her wrist. They were soft but firm, gently damp, and featherlight. They almost tickled. Then they moved, opening, tracing the texture of the veins and tendons in this demure region. He nibbled on the narrow edge of her wrist, gently bit the full pad of her palm at the base of her thumb.
Victoria couldn't pull her arm away. No, that wasn't true—she could; she knew she could break his grip easily—but she could not force her muscles to move. Her eyes closed; her other hand reached out blindly, to catch herself, and flattened against a solid, warm, breathing chest.
"I have always wanted to taste a Venator," murmured Sebastian, moving up to look at her. His lips were no longer thin and harsh; they would never look thin and harsh to her again after this. After feeling them.
He still held her fingers, which curled helplessly around his, and he traced his thumb over the top of her hand, looking at her.
And then they both heard it, and just as the noise registered in her mind, the door slammed open.
In the doorway stood Max, leaning heavily against its side. "Rockley's been attacked," he said, then slid to the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
In Which Miss Grantworth's Bedchamber Sees Much Activity
The next thirty minutes were a blur of activity. Max, although confused and weak, was still coherent enough to explain that he'd managed to stop a vampire in the midst of an attack on Phillip."Was he bitten?" asked Victoria, wrapping one of his heavy arms around her shoulders so that he leaned against her and one hand dangled free just below her left breast. She was helping him out to his unmarked carriage—not as difficult a task as it would have been if she didn't wear a vis bulla.
"No… got there in time. Staked the bastard."
Victoria assumed he meant the vampire, not Phillip. Although she wasn't completely positive.
Max had saved Phillip, hustled him into Barth's hackney, and given the driver explicit instructions on how to get him home and what to do once there. Phillip was unhurt, but confused and nearly unconscious from the ensuing scuffle.
"What will he remember?" asked Victoria as she helped Max climb into his carriage.
"Nothing. Used the… pendant."
She pushed him into his seat, then climbed back out of the carriage to say good-bye to Sebastian, who, although he hadn't been much help getting Max outside, had not hindered her effort either. He'd come along, showed her another way out from the back area, and helped to call Max's carriage around.
"Thank you," she told him, although she wasn't sure what she was thanking him for.
"Until we meet again," he said simply. He made no move to offer her glove, and she didn't ask. Victoria turned and climbed into the vehicle. Sebastian closed the door behind her.
The carriage lurched as they started off, and she tipped onto the seat across from Max.
He was slumped in the corner, a rumpled lump of black and gray. As the street lamps flashed into the interior, she saw that his eyes were closed.
Had he been bitten? She hadn't even thought to ask… she'd been so worried about Phillip since Max's dire announcement.
Victoria stood carefully, coming over to his side of the carriage, and nearly fell in his lap when they went around an unexpected corner.
She was just reaching for his collar when he opened his eyes. "What are you doing?" he asked, pushing himself upright.
"I thought you might have been bitten."
"Sit down." He glowered at her. "I haven't been bitten in… years."
"Then why do you carry salted holy water? And why does that bite look like it's new?"
"So that if I am with anyone who's bitten, I can pour it on their bite." He seemed to be suddenly more alert.
"What happened to you, then, if you weren't bitten?"
He drew in a deep breath, folding his arms over his middle. "I was drugged. By your marquess."
Victoria's eyebrows rose. "Really. So a mere slip of a marquess got the best of you, when a nasty vampire couldn't? And you freely admit this?"
Max opened his mouth as if to speak, but appeared to change his mind. He turned to look out the window, his profile flashing every time a street lamp illuminated the carriage interior. She looked at the haughty slope of his nose, the set ridges of his mouth, the unruly mess of dark hair. He looked beat.
"What happened, Max?"
"I did what you asked, Victoria. We needn't discuss it further." He did not look away from the window. "Your marquess is safe and will suffer no ill effects—and very little memory of what happened, because I took care of that too. He was trying to shoot a vampire with a pistol." Scorn laced his voice. Then, "Where is your glove?"
Victoria looked down; both of her arms were hidden under her cloak, the bare one and the gloved one. "I… Sebastian took it."
Max turned to look at her. "And what else did he take?"
Victoria's heart thumped faster. She shook her head.
"He expected payment for his information; what else did he take?"
Liberties. Liberties her fiance hadn't taken. And in a way, he'd taken yet another piece of her naivete. Shown her exactly why women wore gloves. All the time.
"Victoria."
"Nothing. He has my glove, and has taken nothing else. I am a Venator, Max. He is no match for me."
It might have been a laugh that issued from his lips; Victoria wasn't sure. But he said nothing, just turned and looked back out the window.
They rode in silence for a time; then she spoke. "Thank you. For what you did tonight."
That drew his attention from the passing scenery. He looked at her, dark and angry, from his corner across the narrow space. "Rockley had no idea what he'd walked into tonight. This is exactly the reason you cannot marry, Victoria. Your two worlds simply cannot intersect as they did tonight. Continuing on this path will only cause more destruction."
And with that, he turned back to the window and said nothing more.
Victoria did not sleep well that night. Her dreams were filled with a storm of images melding together: Phillip and Sebastian, Aunt Eustacia and Max, and words and voices running together: I've always wanted to taste a Venator… You cannot marry… That is something I would pay dearly to see… Does he know you walk the streets at night?… What else did he take?
She woke to find sun streaming through the window, nothing at all like the dark dinginess of her clash of memories. It was nearly eleven o'clock. Madame LeClaire would be arriving in two hours for her gown fitting.
Her wedding gown fitting.
Victoria passed a hand over her eyes. Was Max right? If she married Phillip, was she attracting more destruction?
Emptiness clawed her belly, and it was not because she'd had nothing to eat. How could she not marry Phillip? Charming, funny, handsome Phillip? The man who made her laugh, who jested with her, who helped her to see the humor in the society she was forced to live in. Who'd brought her flowers after she lectured him. The man who did the right thing, what was expected. A man she could understand.