The Trelayne Inheritance Page 3

  She had to stay away from him as Sarina suggested.

  But she didn’t want to.

  No logic in the world was powerful enough to reason away that truth.

  At two in the morning, Sir Alexander soundlessly entered the crypt where Sydney slept, his acute senses on full alert. As if the stone sarcophagus weighed nothing, he pulled it out and opened it. What he found made him reel back with both shock and hatred.

  Damn that Britton degenerate. Sydney was just a lad…the latest convert. Harmless.

  They say I’m ruthless, Alexander thought, staring down at the stake buried in the crumbled, powdery form. When a vampire suffered impalement like this, even his bones deteriorated to dust. Alexander felt sick at his stomach and knew he must feed soon.

  But he was sick with more than hunger.

  What manner of ruthless creature could so coldly, efficiently, kill its own kind? Maximillian Britton. A vampire young in years but old in cunning. He wanted to rule England supreme, and he didn’t care who he had to dispatch to do it.

  Gagging, Alexander shut the lid and shoved the casket back. His throat was dry, and his fangs ached at the roots as he read the warning as intended.

  He needed to feed. He needed strength for the battle to come. He hurried out, soundless as he blended with the night.

  Some miles away, in his own estate, Maximillian Britton, Earl of Trelayne, needed to feed, too. He pulled up the sealed bottle of blood from his personal well in his suite, but the familiar sight of the stoppered bottle, its contents more black than red, sickened him. He just managed to set it down before he dropped it in disgust.

  He reeled back, his stomach roiling, and knew he’d vomit soon if he didn’t feed. But he didn’t want to drink…he wanted to suck. The warm spurt of blood, not the chill, almost coagulated soup that was increasingly distasteful to him.

  The memory came to him of that lovely neck, tilted away in such pride and aloofness.

  Angel. Eileen’s daughter.

  His fangs ached, beyond the roots, down into his jaw bone, gnawing hunger into his gut Grinding his back teeth together, Max stared at the silver-plated family shield his father had never let out of his suite. Then his brother had treasured it, on through each of Max’s older brothers, finally passing down to Max himself, the youngest and last surviving Britton.

  The family motto was embossed and gilded in blazing gold, as if to forever imprint itself on the eyes that read it: “Tomorrow’s a gift, but today’s a blessing.”

  In other words, make every day count as if it could be your last. Max had lived his adult life according to that credo, finding joy where there was sorrow and pleasure where there was pain. Most of all, hewing always to the straight and narrow path set first by his father and his siblings, and then by the other Watch Bearers. He’d come too far along that lonely road to be tempted aside now by a chit who hadn’t a clue of her sexual power.

  Staring at the motto until his eyes watered, Max forced himself to drink of the disgusting pap. Forced himself not to think of that lovely white throat and its delicate, throbbing vein.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Feeling, for some unaccountable reason, uneasy in the Hall, Angel took advantage of Sarina’s offer and rode about the countryside for a few days, sending her groom back to the mansion over his protests. “Gustav will whip me, belike.”

  “Gustav? Who is that?”

  “He be the head groom Miss, and a right tight stable he runs.”

  “Tell him it was my decision.” Angel wheeled her mount away and rode off.

  Out here, she felt safe enough. The spring nights were chilly, but the days were magnificent. It almost seemed to Angel as if Mother England herself wanted to indulge its newest favored daughter.

  Winding country roads led from charming villages to delightful hamlets. Cottages were interspersed with grand mansions. Lush sheep meadows were bounded by sleepy trees. Spring lambs cavorted with their ewes while rams grazed, oblivious to their offspring.

  On this, the third day after her arrival, Angel wrapped up the remnants of the lunch cook prepared for her. She shut the book she was reading and bookmarked it with her finger, intending to finish the chapter before perambulating back to the Hall. Surely soon Sir Alexander would invite her into his laboratory.

  But she paused to watch a tiny lamb, still shaky on its legs, stumble over to what it apparently took for its sire. The lamb lifted its adorable, curly head, sniffing the much taller ram. The ram bleated its displeasure and lowered its horns, preparing to butt the baby. A ewe ran between them, taking the butt instead. Apparently unharmed, she gently herded the lamb away.

  “And that,” Angel said to herself, “is as good a polemic as any I’ve ever heard espoused at a suffragette gathering on the division of labor in the typical marriage.”

  “Ten seconds of pleasure for the man, a lifetime of toil for the woman?” The voice came from above Angel’s head.

  Astounded as her thoughts were so neatly completed by the disembodied female voice, Angel at first wondered if her own ambivalence about the matter had somehow taken corporeal form. But as she turned her head, she saw someone drop lightly down from a tree, an apple core in one hand. Only then did Angel note the horse tied to a tree some distance off. This…entity had obviously eaten an impromptu lunch in the tree, watching the same bucolic scene as Angel.

  And come to the same tart conclusion.

  Fascinated, Angel stared. Woman didn’t seem quite descriptive enough for this…person. True, this person was female, even though she wore breeches. True, she was imposing, even though she was plain. And certainly true, she was intimidating, even though Angel was not easily intimidated. The person obviously read Angel’s unease, for her wide mouth curled in a self deprecating smile.

  “Don’t mind me and my cynicism, young woman. Marriage is not always so,” the person said, her gray eyes cool and analytical. “I have observed that it can be mutually pleasurable and beneficial, though I cannot empirically prove it with my own experience.”

  Angel’s lips twitched. “You speak as if marriage belongs in a petrie dish, where it can be studied as the strange anomaly it is.”

  “Indeed, if I had my way, every woman would dissect her prospective husband, inlaws, home and prospects before subjecting herself to potential eternal misery.” The woman tossed away the apple core as if disgusted at the mere thought of such misery. Then she offered a rather large, very strong hand. “Shelly Holmes.”

  Switching her book to the other hand, Angel shook it. “Angelina Blythe Corbett.”

  “Blythe? Ah, then you must be able to direct me to Blythe Hall. I fear I took a wrong turn somewhere.”

  “You surprise me.”

  The gray eyes stared at her enigmatically.

  “I’d expect you to have your way mapped to the smallest detail.”

  “Ah, there you do me an injustice. Even those of us of a scientific bent--” she nodded, acknowledging Angel of the same bent, “–can enjoy the journey as much as the destination. Why else should one make the trip?”

  Angel laughed, liking this redoubtable woman immediately. “Would it be rude of me to inquire as to your mission at your destination?”

  That full mouth widened further into an even broader smile. “I like the way you think. How did you know I’m on a mission?”

  Angel looked at the mare loaded down with bags, at the dust covering Miss Holmes’s clothes, and the spark of excitement behind that smile. “You’ve come far, to stay long, and are in such a hurry that you’ve not tarried to clean the dust of the road away. You packed your own meals. When you got lost, you decided rather than wandering about hoping to find a marker, you’d sensibly wait for a local resident and ask directions to one of the more famous estates in the county. All bespeak more of a mission than a visit.”

  Miss Holmes clapped. “Excellent! I do declare, for such a young person, you’ve an admirable head on those pretty American shoulders. New York, I opine.”

  Ang
el blinked. American was not difficult, because of her accent, but how did she know… Miss Holmes tapped her fingers against her chin, appraising Angel and her own mount carefully in return. “It’s not just your accent. The research tome you hold, ‘Blood–its Strange Properties and Exigencies,’ was written at New York University, I believe. It’s a subject of some interest to me as well, you see, and I’m familiar with its content. Given your own analytical abilities, I further opine that you are a researcher too, and have your own mission at Blythe Hall.”

  Not sure whether to be offended or amused, Angel reluctantly nodded. “Correct on all counts. I was actually a lab assistant at the university. My superior wrote this book though I am, I confess, an uncredited editor.”

  “No man is a superior to any woman merely because he has the requisite genitalia.” Shelly smiled wickedly. “Though even I admit to a certain appreciation of gender differences at, shall we say, propitious moments.”

  The blush started at Angel’s toes and worked its way up her knees to her shoulders to her face. Now, finally, she was speechless. Never in her life had she heard a woman speak so frankly, especially on such short acquaintance.

  Hearty laughter echoed so loud it startled the ram. He veered sideways into another ram, who took affront. He got butted for his impudence.

  “Serves him right, too,” Shelly said, swallowing back another laugh. “Forgive me, my dear Miss Blythe Corbett, but you were so smug in your intellectualism, I had to overset you a bit. It’s something I know a deal about, you see.” The smile faded. “Rational thought, as critical as it is to our kind, even more, I believe, than to males, is still no substitute for softer feelings. We were constructed to need those. Denying them only leads to unhappiness.”

  Without another word, Angel turned back to her mare, away from those grey eyes that seemed, at this moment, to reflect Angel’s own troubled countenance.

  Even Sarina had not been so insightful.

  Obviously unperturbed at Angel’s abrupt coldness, Miss Holmes ambled toward her mount. “Do you mind if I ride with you back to Blythe Hall? Just so I don’t get lost, you see.”

  “I guess not.” Angel kicked her mare into a lope, hoping that would forestall further conversation. Angel had come here to learn, not to be a curiosity to others.

  Which led, a priori, to Angel’s burning curiosity: Who was Shelly Holmes and why had she come?

  When, some time later, they rounded the long, curving drive that led to the house, Miss Holmes drew her mount to a stop and admired the gray edifice. Blythe Hall was new as such mansions went, being a mere fifty years old. Consequently, it was more modern than other mansions in the county. It boasted gas lights, an actual watering closet in the master suite, so Angel had heard, and a steam activated lift to the tower.

  The hall had three triangular pediments in front, topped with a square tower in the middle. Each lower floor had diamond paned bay windows, and tall chimneys abutted the ends like authoritative exclamation points.

  “Look at me,” the hall seemed to say. “An upstart I might be, but I’m someone to be reckoned with.” The grounds were equally imposing, artfully arranged in circular fashion around the house itself until it seemed the very center of the universe, not lost in it.

  “Impressive,” Shelly said.

  As they rode around back to the stables, Angel noted that Shelly sat straight in her saddle, sharply appraising every mounting block, groom, and horse in the paddock.

  A man dressed in finely made but serviceable breeches came to the stable to watch them ride past. He had dark hair, a dark face, and a dark air about him that made Angel uneasy. He also carried a crop in one hand with an air of authority, and he snapped an order at a stableboy, who hustled off.

  Gustav, Angel presumed. She watched Shelly give the man the same appraising look and decided there would be fireworks between the two before many days had passed.

  When she dismounted, Shelly gave Angel a smile very different to her earlier ones. Bland, impersonal, she all but bobbed her head. “Thank you most kindly, Miss Blythe Corbett. But I must run along now. I see I’m sorely needed here.” Strangely, she was looking toward the Blythe cemetery, barely visible on a rise, as she said it. Then she stalked off and stopped before the head groom.

  Angel couldn’t hear the exchange, but it was obviously lively.

  At nuncheon, Sarina verified Angel’s conclusion. “Yes, Miss Holmes is our new stable manager. She comes highly recommended.”

  “I see.” But Angel didn’t. Why would a stable manager be of such a scientific, analytical bent? And what was her self-appointed mission?

  The answers came, appropriately enough in this comfortable but most unsettling world, when Angel wasn’t looking for them.

  Enlightenment, in her prior experience, came through laboratories and dusty books, not through crystal chandeliers and heady wines. But as there was nothing typical about Blythe Hall or its master and mistress, there was even less typical of the legendary balls they gave almost every sennight.

  Why, as Sarina’s maid nervously declared that Saturday evening as she helped Angel dress for her first such ball, “I saw two ladies fight over an invitation once. They ripped it clear in two, they did, and most put out with them were their mammas. The richest blokes in three counties come to these fancy dos. Who needs the ton and the upper ten thousand when we have our own marriage mart right here in Oxford?”

  “What happened to the two young ladies who ripped the invitation? Which was allowed to come?”

  “Why both, miss. The lady Sarina is such a tender-hearted creature she had her secretary write out two fresh invitations for each of them.”

  “And did they find suitable husbands?”

  The maid suddenly got busy brushing off the hem of Angel’s pristine gown.

  Angel got the distinct impression she heard the question but didn’t want to answer it. Before she could figure out why, a gentle knock came at the door. Sarina entered.

  Angel met her huge blue eyes in the cheval mirror. Sarina’s gaze dropped as she appraised her husband’s niece. Angel saw a strange spark that made her eyes glow like blue-hot embers for a bare instant, but when Sarina looked at her again, her eyes were limpid. Mischievous as usual. “I do declare it’s fortunate I am not the jealous type, or I wouldn’t allow you to come because you will quite overshadow me. I’m glad the new gown so suits you.”

  Staring back at her own image, Angel tugged for the tenth time at the red silk bodice, trying to pull it up. Sarina and Alexander had insisted on purchasing her a welcoming gift in the form of the first–and probably only–ball gown Angel would ever own. The low cut heart shaped bodice was trimmed in gold brocade and buttoned with gold frogs that were intended to give it a slightly military look that instead accented the femininity of Angel’s lush curves. The same brocade rimmed the vee inset of a deeper shade of silk that bedecked her full skirts. The Hussar-style sleeves were also fastened with gold frogs.

  Angel eyed herself doubtfully. The red silk had seemed daring when she stood before the dressmaker feeling like a stuffed pheasant about to be displayed over a mantel. She felt even more so now she stared at the finished effect. Poor flamboyant creature, strip the feathers away and she’s just another piece of meat at the market..

  Sarina laughed at the look on her face. “I had a Pekinese once who used to ogle the edge of my bed exactly so. As if she aspired to reach it but wasn’t sure she was quite up to the task. I made the mistake of lifting her up that first time and did it ever after until the poor thing expired, too young and too fat…and too dependent.” Sarina gently caught Angel’s shoulders and whispered, her fresh breath stirring the upswept dark hair at Angel’s ear, “You are your mother’s daughter, my dear. Up to any task you set yourself.”

  Her smile was so glowing Angel was infected with some of her enthusiasm. She stared at herself again, moving from side to side. The swish of silk seductively cooed over the crisp rustle of taffeta, soothing Angel’s nerves
. She’d longed for taffeta and silk just a few days ago. Abruptly, she felt feminine, eager to dance. And, for the first time in her life, beautiful.

  Angel’s return smile glowed more than she realized. “Are there handsome men at this ball?”

  “The best looking in the entire county. And they shall all be fighting over the last space on your dance card. Come along.” Sweeping her own full white skirts aside, Sarina led the way out.

  Not for the first time, Angel noted how Sarina’s taste in clothes was oddly virginal. Still, they were flattering to her and did what Sarina obviously wanted–they kept her looking young.

  Angel felt positively seductive in contrast. She wasn’t so sheltered that she didn’t realize Sarina probably planned for her to feel that way. To put her at ease, perhaps, or try to help her land a rich husband.

  They joined Alexander, resplendent in black velvet that brought out his saturnine good looks, on the landing leading to the second floor ballroom.

  He bowed. “Charmed, my dear. Shall we enjoy a bracing aperitif before we greet our guests?” He led the way into the second floor salon and walked straight to the liquor tray. He fussed for a moment, and then handed Angel a glass of tawny port. She sipped, making a moue of distaste, but he laughed and insisted she finish it. She swallowed it down, coughing slightly.

  Taking the glass, he patted her hand and put it back at her side, his eyes moist as he obviously recalled his sister when he stared at her. “If I’d come across you on the street I’d have recognized you immediately as Eileen’s daughter. You make us both proud, child.”

  Angel’s throat closed up, and she could only nod. Remote relatives or not, this couple had been so kind to her that she felt ashamed of her occasional unease with them. This ball would make that right. Since they seemed to want her to be a femme fatale, again for some mysterious reason she couldn’t fathom, Angel resolved to repay their hospitality by being charming to every man she met. For once, she’d not brood or fear for the future. She only enjoy the moment.