Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 22

He was a striking gentleman with a vigorous face in the bloom of youth and a thick mane of unruly black hair. The cerulean blue of his gaze was direct and alert, almost unsettling, and he had a pleasing and generous mouth that appeared inclined to good humor. He bowed, his warm regard lingering just a little longer on Milli.

Though his manners and greeting were friendly enough, the Haywoods seemed ill at ease. Emma felt it too—a restiveness in the blood. It was as though her heart was a nervous bird, alert in its nest of ribs, deaf but not unwitting to the almost inconspicuous whisper of menace she sensed but couldn’t see. This was like as not due to the coldness radiating from a giant of a man who stood seemingly apart from the rest. Such fierce looks he threw about him—Emma swore his eyes were violet. No, his mien did nothing to help quell the prickling along her skin.

Only Milli appeared unaware of the queer undercurrent. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Valko.”

“I am sure the pleasure is all mine, mademoiselle.” Mr. Valko spoke his English as beautifully as a native, and it was very hard to place his accent. One would hardly have noticed that he had one at all if not for the untamed force with which his tongue rolled over certain consonants. What Emma did know for certain was that he was not French, though she had no doubt of his being a proficient in that tongue as well.

“Mr. Haywood,” said Victoria, “might I tempt you to try a lovely pinot noir from Mr. Black’s schloss.” The imposing gentleman at whom Victoria inclined her head was evidently the vintner of whom she spoke. “He has one of the finest wineries along the Rhine.”

“I should be delighted,” was the reply.

Emma, upon being offered the same vintage, readily accepted, for she was eager to quiet her nerves, and looked forward to confronting Lord Winterly’s gaze with a little Rhineland courage underpinning her own. At least, all thanks to Victoria’s inadvertent reintroduction, there was now one less face unnamed—Mr. Black, the proprietor of a schloss and a winery along the Rhine—only four more strangers to go.

The wine was served to her in gold-rimmed crystal, and felt like smokey ambrosia as it slid warmly down her throat. But she made the mistake of glancing too soon towards Lord Winterly. Her lips parted. His eyes were roving down the contours of her throat as she swallowed, a powerful emotion fermenting in his gaze.

Had she not hastily turned and latched her own gaze to Mr. Black instead, she would have swooned right there on Victoria’s drawing room floor.

Mr. Black, though safer fodder on which to feast her eyes, was only slightly less jarring to her womanhood. Like Mr. Valko, he had eyes cut from the clearest crystal and he used them with unnerving effect, surveying the lavish room and all those who stood within it with a seasoned regard that negated the unlined face. His features were handsome but less refined than Lord Winterly’s—a shrewdness in the shape of his mouth whereas Lord Winterly’s lent itself more to cunning. The man to whom Mr. Black was speaking—seeing as Mr. Valko was now otherwise occupied with Milli, and Victoria was entertaining the Haywoods—was the fierce, violet-eyed man. Further away, beside the piano, was Lord Winterly, murmuring with the other three unnamed, and they in turn were nodding thoughtfully as they watched her. This, of course, only flustered Emma all the more. Unwittingly, she steered her attention back to the cold giant, and he, as though feeling the weight of her scrutiny, shifted his gaze towards her—it was more a collision of cold violence. Violet was certainly a color to wither the bones.

“Oh, do not mind Gabriel,” said Victoria, noticing the tense set to Emma’s shoulders.

Ah, so the grim-faced man has a name.

“He’s a growler,” she went on. “Never learned to smile, you know.” She then winked at him—brave woman. “I do believe he appeared in the world a full grown, motherless dyspeptic.”

Lord Winterly sent his sister a sharp look to match his friend’s.

Emma took a fortifying gulp of German wine. “Victoria, forgive me, I was not clever enough to catch the names of the men speaking to your brother.”

“The gentleman to my brother’s left is Dr. Vanus Pyne from Spitalfields, a police surgeon, and the gentleman beside him is his colleague, Dr. Troilus Wheatstone, a physician at the London Hospital. The other gentleman is Mr. Armi Morris, an associate of Mr. Black’s.”

Emma smiled, grateful to her hostess not only for the information but also for the discretion employed, for Victoria had spoken confidentially. And her uncle’s sonorous confabulating—something about proposing to import Mr. Black’s wines—was quite overpowering, deaf as he was.

At length, the butler materialized again and beckoned them all into the dining room with a ceremonious, “Dinner is served.”

“Thank you, Gore.” Victoria strode towards Mr. Black and linked her arm in his. “Shall we?”

It was now half past nine o’clock precisely. A very late dinner indeed, even by the standards of the beau monde, and they would likely not be finished with desert till midnight at this rate.

They were led into a dining room that was hardly less extravagant than the drawing room, though perhaps a little brighter. The candles were perched in the midst of the flower arrangements on lofty, gilt candelabra. The setting was beautifully complimented by golden chargers, sparkling crystal glassware, polished silverware, and starched napkins intricately folded into orchids. Emma was seated beside Mr. Morris, and Mr. Wheatstone placed himself to her left. Opposite her, Lord Winterly was pulling out a chair for himself, grinning as though reading the dismay she felt writ upon her face. Emma had expected, or hoped, that, as the host, he would take the seat of honor at the head of the long table, but it