Blood Rose. Sharon Page

with it. It was incredibly long, curved like a scythe, and soon many women’s hands teased it while the vampire moaned his pleasure.

      Serena looked away. These women must be fools. This vampire would drink from them. He would hurt them. The books described the vampire’s bite as the most intense pleasure, but Serena didn’t believe it.

      “Are you all right, little lark?”

      It was Drake Swift, murmuring by her ear, setting her skin tingling with the warmth of his breath.

      Serena nodded. She was. Her heart beat a wild rhythm as they passed men—the dozens who prowled the hallways or who suckled women’s breasts or who rutted wildly against the wall-papered walls. What would happen if she walked into Roman? Or Leonardo? But she did not recognize any of the handsome faces with their glittering, reflective eyes, their long, curving fangs.

      Every vampire she saw was attractive and wore clothes that spoke of great wealth. Many smiled at her. With just a glance, a vampire could make a lady lust and need so much she willingly offered her neck, but the heat these demons ignited—which she fought—was nothing compared to the sparks that scorched her each time she brushed against her hunters’ bodies. She walked between the two men, Mr. Swift on her left, Lord Sommersby on her right. She no longer knew which man’s hand rested on her waist, her shoulder, or gently grazed her arm.

      “Which way, sweet?” Mr. Swift whispered.

      “The ballroom,” Serena said.

      Suspicion glittered in the earl’s dark eyes. “The most crowded place here? No other way?”

      She swallowed hard, and whispered, “There’s a gallery that overlooks—and stairs on both sides. We could pass through there, go down the stairs, and then down to the tunnels.”

      “And all this you learned from books?” Sommersby asked.

      “Yes, all this I learned from books.” This brothel had existed for decades—she had traced its ownership back hundreds of years, to the original Tudor building that had been on the site.

      A gong sounded—it was subdued, but it must act as a summons, because people began to flow in the opposite direction to the gallery. Some vanished into bedrooms on the way. But Serena could see that no one was looking in their direction as they reached the draped entrance to the gallery.

      His lordship went in first, simply vanishing behind the curtain. She was alone with Drake Swift. It was eerie to gaze at his mask, to have no idea of his expression. He moved in front of her, to trap her back against the wall, shielding her from the eyes of a couple of women who passed.

      He bent as though biting her neck but did not touch her. His words were soft. “Do you want my touch, Miss Lark?”

      His voice was deep, roughly accented—Serena knew he’d grown up around Covent Garden—but his brazen words only made his low baritone more sensual.

      Serena felt his warm breath on her skin and grew indecently wet. She felt dizzy still—from the drug, she assumed. From shock, too, no doubt, but she couldn’t give in to that. “Yes,” she said simply. She touched Mr. Swift’s cheek, below his mask, and didn’t care. She pulled him closer, drew him until his hot mouth ignited against her neck. “I do want your touch.”

      “You’re a brave woman, Miss Lark,” Mr. Swift murmured as his lips skimmed around her throat, down to the hollow at the front. Heat flared in her blood.

      Was she brave? She was nervous. Were brave people nervous? She knew that Drake Swift was wildly courageous. He’d told her that once in the Society’s library—I’m addicted to the hunt, love. It is almost as fun as making love. She hadn’t blushed for him then, which she had suspected was his goal—to embarrass the prim former governess.

      His teeth brushed her neck, and the pressure sent a bolt of pleasure rocketing through her. Warmth. Wetness. A delicious tickle. He was running his tongue over her neck! Her quim ached with the contact. Even the brush of the mask’s long nose along her neck made her legs wobble.

      She pushed on Mr. Swift’s shoulders to force him away. He conceded, lifting his mouth from her neck. “Did I frighten you?”

      Serena tipped her head back to look into his eyes, dazzling green behind the mask. “Of course not! But I’m so close now—I can’t be sidetracked.”

      He laughed at that, leaning back against the wall, his eyes bright behind his mask. “Do you really think books are more important than hunting? More important than passion?”

      “Tonight, yes,” she answered, trying to banter.

      “Do you really believe that words, not stakes, can destroy vampires?”

      She hadn’t expected such a question from Drake Swift, the man known as the Mad Slayer. Strangely, having him forsake his devil-may-care persona and show a glimpse of his soul made her heart thump against her ribs. She moved closer to the drapery. “Words have great power. And I have no choice but to bury myself in words—the Society will not let me hunt.”

      “But tonight you defied them. Are books worth risking your life?”

      He was questioning her motives, and she couldn’t have that. “Are you offering, now, to let me hunt with you?” she asked. “To take me on as an apprentice?”

      He looked more startled than if she had lifted her robe and jumped on him. Of course he would never consider hunting with a mere woman by choice.

      “Hurry—” It was Lord Sommersby, holding open the drapery.

      Mr. Swift gallantly offered his arm, but she ignored it to dart up the stairs, holding up the trailing hem of the oversized robe.

      The gallery was empty, shadowed. The dangling chandelier that should illuminate the salon below was unlit, but the crystal caught golden light from wall sconces below and dazzled. Urbane laughter welled up, as did the strains of cultured music and feminine giggles.

      She’d expected wildness, rowdy sounds, mayhem—like an uproar in a theatre pit.

      “The exit must be there—shielded by those curtains,” Lord Sommersby directed. His domino cloak flapped around him as he strode across to where the railing reached the wall, beside crimson curtains. His long legs crossed the space in seconds.

      “Wait.” Mr. Swift kept his voice low as he prowled to the gallery’s edge. “We should see if we can spot Miss Lark’s captors in that crowd.”

      “Even if we do, we aren’t attacking here,” Sommersby warned.

      Her library—and Dracul’s journal—were so close. Serena moved to the gallery’s edge to look down on the ballroom. She wanted a glimpse into the vampires’ world. If she was truly a vampire, she wanted to know…

      How could she be a vampire yet not drink blood? Not be undead? She didn’t understand—and she was determined to make Ashcroft tell her.

      The brass rail around the gallery was smooth, cool beneath her touch—her hands were still bare. She needed a moment to plan. How was she going to retrieve the Vlad Dracul book without Lord Sommersby discovering what it was? He’d take it from her, likely by force. He might be known for heroism, but it was known that if he wanted something, he took it.

      How could she find it and hide it?

      She heard the click of boot heels behind her, Sommersby approaching her. Drake Swift was scanning the crowd below. Blinking, Serena looked down on the scene. Everywhere she saw women. Courtesans, high-flyers, jades, lightskirts—but all were voluptuous, lovely, fascinating. Many were young, with long silky hair that reached their bared bottoms, but they were of all ages, all coloring, all sizes and shapes, and most wore the same costume. They wore corsets of black with scarlet strings, dyed black stockings, and heeled shoes.

      It was scandalous, but it also seemed so freeing to be un-afraid to parade around in such clothes—certainly wearing just a robe made her feel both courageous and nerve-wracked.

      There