Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 44
He glared at the glass as though it were filled with vinegar. “My tastes are…singular, and by no means catered to here.”
She nodded, understanding him to mean he possessed a fastidious palate accustomed only to the finest wines. Mr. Black’s wines, no doubt. Accordingly, he partook of neither food nor drink.
“What do you prefer to drink, Lord Winterly?”
“Call me Markus,” he said suddenly.
She was blindsided at first, but quickly gathered her wits and looked about her. When she was satisfied no one had heard him, she said, “I cannot.” It was something a betrothed couple might do, or siblings, but they were neither of those things. It was unseemly that he should even suggest it of her—no, command it. He had a curious and clever way of disguising his commands to make them seem like suggestions; to make one almost desperate to comply, if only because it would please him. “I cannot,” she said again.
“But you can.”
“Then let me rephrase: I will not.” It was too intimate.
He only smiled, having no doubt expected her answer. “As to your question, I prefer my libations from the source.”
Oh, they were back to the previous subject again? Lord, he was hard to keep up with. “From the source?” Wine did not flow from the vine like some veinous wellspring. “So you’ll drink champagne in Champagne and Burgundy in Bourgogne?”
“Directly from the source,” he said again. His mephistophelian eyes seemed to dilate like a billowing black cloud. The effect held her transfixed. He was devouring her with a look, his movements imperceptible, invisible, as he reached for her. His palm slid over hers. Without knowing how it was done, she found herself surreptitiously maneuvered behind a pillar so that they were hidden from the glare of candlelight. “En garde, Miss Rose.”
Before she could even form a gasp of shock, his lips were pressed to hers. Then, just as swiftly as he had descended, he pulled away—the kiss brief yet infinite. Her lips pulsed with heat as she gaped up at him. She could still feel the weight of those beautiful lips—the very same lips now curled with devilry.
“Have I shocked you again?” When she failed to answer—she could not have answered for all the champagne in France—he said, “I see that I have.” He bowed over her hand, still grinning. “And that even after I gave warning.”
“Why?” It was all she could manage.
“Why ever not?”
“You…you mustn’t do that again.”
“I have no intention of repeating that again.”
She felt her lips tremble with sudden disappointment. “Oh, well, that is good.”
“Things must progress, you know.” His smile became infinitely darker. “And I promise you, Miss Rose, the next kiss shall not be so chaste.” Then he slipped away, leaving her to pick her jaw up off the floor.
She stood a long while behind that pillar, still flushed with the heat from that brief kiss. When she finally gathered her wits, she could not recall if he’d slipped away on silent feet or simply vanished like smoke—like some devil. All she knew was that she was alone (despite the crowded room), and all that remained of him was the warm imprint of his lips upon hers.
Slowly, she brought her fingers up to trace the kiss he’d left her. Good God, if that was his notion of chasteness, she might well not survive the next kiss.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Family Ghosts
“Miss Rose?” The gentle tap on Emma’s shoulder startled her from thoughts of illicit kisses. “Are you all right?”
She whirled around to see that Ana De Grigori was gazing at her with smiling solicitude. “Oh, Mademoiselle De Grigori, I…I beg your pardon, I must have been wool-gathering.”
“Please, you must call me Ana.” She linked their arms and guided Emma out of the shadows. “There will be no formality between us, for I am quite determined that we shall be the best of friends.”
“Well, if you insist…” Emma glanced back over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wayward viscount. But it seemed he had indeed dematerialized into smoke.
“I do, Miss Rose.” An expectant pause followed, but it took a few long moments before Ana had Emma’s full attention.
“Oh,” she said, blushing, “forgive me! Please, call me Emma.”
Ana nodded, also glancing back, ostensibly to see what could be distracting Emma. “Was that Lord Winterly I noticed you dancing with earlier? Handsome devil, isn’t he?”
Flustered, Emma replied in the affirmative on both accounts. “I understand the Winterlys are distant relatives of yours.”
Ana stopped, a thoughtful furrow between her brows. “I suppose we are.”
The sudden change in Ana’s countenance intrigued Emma, but she forbore the urge to pry and at length they began walking again.
“But we seldom venture into the same circles.” Confusion must have been plainly writ across Emma’s brow, for Ana then added, “Perhaps you noticed my sisters and I at Vauxhall with Miss Winterly and Mr. Valko?”
“I confess I did.”
“I regret we were not able to speak then, but perhaps we may remedy that tonight.”
“I should like that.” And Emma meant it too, for in Ana she believed, from the brief conversation they’d shared in the palatial De Grigori library, she’d found a kindred, a fellow littérateur with a love of the strange.
“As to my family’s association with the Winterlys, you are to understand that the De Grigori bloodline is as old and distinguished as theirs and, by and by, certain familial affairs do require settling—disputes over ownership of property and suchlike. But I shan’t bore you with familial politics.” Ana gave a dismissive flick of her wrist as they stopped to watch the dancers. “Now do let’s talk of something else. I hope you enjoyed your time in our humble little library and that your search for knowledge was successful? I was sorry to have missed your departure, and I know my sister, Mina, can be rather…impolite to strangers; even my sister Tanith has a sweeter disposition than our youngest