Tainted Blood

by Kathy L Wheeler

Candace Cupardé was a ghost. Specifically, Cupid’s ghost. And being a ghost was no picnic. She longed to let loose her displeasure with a few choice words. But, unfortunately, as Cupid (ghost or not, withstanding) that was an impossibility. Choice words just would not form on her tongue. If she tried to say “damn” it came out as “dart.” “Bastard” formed as button on her disobedient tongue, and if she tried to say “hell”—you guessed it: the word “heart” spewed forth. And well, heart just lacked certain satisfactory elements. Like telling the devil to go to—heart? Most irritating.

Candace was almost certain her long-time friend Dracula (hereto referred as devil), also better known as creepy-scary-vampire-guy, had found some way to divest Candace of her one opportunity of transforming back into her former magical self. And she was furious.

“Honestly, Candi—” Drac started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name. Besides, I like it. It makes me want chocolate.” Drac’s somewhat dramatic sigh was almost comical. “I wish chocolate sustained me like blood. It’s much more appetizing.”

“Some big bad vampire, you are,” she muttered.

“So what do you think of our party so far?”

“Our party?” Candace hovered in the cobwebs next to Drac and looked out over a menacing array of monsters. She spotted Frankenstein, the Mummy, several ghouls. Igor was seen escorting an attractive young man carrying Mya through the hall to an empty chamber. She was a selkie.  Candace looked back at Drac situated on a long black chandelier bar, between two flaming sconces.

“Certainly. You and I are a team,” he said with a pointed gaze in her direction. “That was some miracle you worked on Ren and Wendy.”

Candace was down to four arrows. She needed to unite five couples in love. True love. A tricky business, as there had to be the sustenance for the love to take hold and stick. “I had to do that. You were about to sink your teeth into her pretty little neck,” she said glumly. His eyes twinkled with mischief, his grin cheeky. “Oh, go to—” She stopped, shook her head, exasperated. It just wouldn’t have the same impact.

Drac wasn’t a bad vampire as far as vampires went. In fact, most of the time she really liked him, adored him in fact. Her heart (when she’d had a heart) fluttered like a flock of butterflies when he was near. He was so dart attractive. So much so, that sometimes she found herself wishing . . .

Candace pushed away the notion, frustrated. There wasn’t anything she could do about longings far beyond her control. She had no substance any longer.

Drac laid his hand over hers . . . or tried. It passed through her hand, all the way to the bar he sat on. He frowned.

“What?” She laughed, though it was strained and awkward. “Are you saying you’re tired of blood?”

“Among other things.” Something in his voice caught.

Curious at this odd turn, she floated in front of him and looked him in the eye. “What do you mean?”

Avoiding her gaze, he shrugged. “The whole lifestyle is tiresome, if you must know.”

“You mean like being a filmy ghost where nothing and no one can latch onto you?” she teased, shooting through the chandelier and back proving her point.

He scowled. “I suppose that’s what I mean, in a sense.” Drac hesitated, lips pursed as if biting back a confession. He inhaled deeply, then said, “It’s more along the lines of living in a tomb, never seeing the light of day, or being able to check my appearance in the mirror.”

“Well, that I can certainly relate to,” she muttered.

He didn’t seem to hear her. “It was never my plan to become a vampire, you know. The idea was my father’s. He was the true Dracula. I fail to do the family name justice.”

“I don’t understand.” Concern filled her. She’d never seen this side of her longtime friend. Drac was always the confident, dart dastardly, demon. Occasionally, a fetching demon. One might even suggest dreamy demon.

“Father was the one into everlasting life or some such drivel. I guess he just never figured on being stabbed in the heart with a wooden cross by—” He cleared his throat with a cough. “Er, uh, on a night similar to this.”

Hmmm, fascinating. “Similar to this?”

He threw out his hand. “A night of the harvest moon.”

“Ah,” she said. Her senses trembled. Someone was in desperate need of her.  “Hold on.” Candace dashed from the ballroom, slipping through the door where she'd seen Mya carried. She tugged an arrow from the quiver on her back and set her bow. With a careful aim, she let it fly, stabbing the young man in the heart. His hand landed over his heart. Satisfied, Candace whizzed back to Drac and studied him, frowning. She’d never seen him like this before.

Wistful. Regretful.

And that was saying something. They’d known one another for years, hundreds of them. “If you weren’t a blood-sucking vampire, what do you suppose you would see yourself doing? You know? For a living.”

The question seemed to surprise him. She kept one eye out over the rambunctious monsters below. She still had three love connections to perform to fulfill her duty in gaining back her substance. Then she’d be able to vacate this cold, haunted manor.

“The blood is just for survival.”

Candace bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at his haughty defense and murmured some placating nonsense.

His gaze turned distant, his voice grew soft. “Two hundred years ago, I yearned to serve under Wellington, help take down Napoleon. Instead, all I managed was a bite out of him.” Drac shuddered. “His blood was tainted. I was sick for months.”

 “Yeah, but—”

“A little over a hundred years later, I had an inkling that decorated veteran of World War I was trouble.” He scowled, furrowed his brows. “1923, I believe. His attempted coup in Munich failed with a little help from moi, and he went to prison. But as we learned later, that wasn’t near enough to deter him.”

Candace frowned. “Decorated veteran. Who?”

“Adolf Hitler.”

Candace colored at Drac’s appalled glance. “Oh.” He must think her a complete dunce. Hitler was a true devil.

Drac’s gaze shifted below. “I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance. But after that bout of illness with Napoleon . . . Well—”

Of course, words like button formed easily enough for Drac! Candace floated about, considering his words. “Yes, but what about now?” she insisted.

“Rid the world of terrorism.” His response was quick and succinct.

She swallowed a hard lump in her throat. A wave of intense longing, settled over her, and she turned quickly lest he read her emotions on her face.

Drac would have made a dart dashing hero. Heart! If she had the magic to fix that for him . . . well, it broke her (actual) heart. She turned back to him, fanning her face (to no avail). “Oh, Drac,” she said gently. “You want  . . . you want . . . world peace.”

***

Candi’s insight startled, and burned, through him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Drac said harshly. The emotions roiling through his cold veins made him feel hot enough to fear his father’s ashes reassembled in nothing flat, and dog him to the gates of hell.

“Ha!” Candi Cupardé fluttered about like a firefly, but with more spunk and guile than he’d ever witnessed in his six hundred and fifty-five years (give or take) life. In spite of her wispy presence, he admired her long, blond waves and startling, blue eyes that rarely missed a thing.

She thrust down through the air and pulled another arrow from her pouch and aimed. Smack! Right into the heart of Simza Nuri. Only two left.

Pouting was not a masculine trait, but Drac couldn’t help it. For a man doomed to the cellars during daylight, Candi was the one bright spot he counted on. Wasn’t it bad enough he was condemned to lie in a sarcophagus, day after day after day? Whoever said immortality was the end all had not had to live by that creed.

Although, Madame Mirela assured him the possibility of five couples attending this shindig and finding love together was impossible, he didn’t trust the fortune teller an inch. The woman had an agenda of her own. And if Candi did manage to do to join five couples to true love, Drac would be forever alone. She was his destiny. Air squeezed from his lungs like the vice of an iron bar.

Guilt swallowed him. Why couldn’t he just suck it up like a pint of blood, and tell her how he felt? Let her know how much he loved her company. How much he loved her. What kind of selfish bastard kept Cupid to himself?

Just the thought of letting her go nauseated him. He felt ill. More ill than after he’d sunk his fangs into Ivan the Terrible in 1547.

Drac couldn’t lose her. And with only one more pair to unite, she’d be gone from him. Forever.

 “Did you see that, Drac?” Her vivacious laugh pricked this heart like a thousand needles. “Sebastian refused to let me help him, but he didn’t say anything about my poking Natalie. The man is saved despite his protestations!”

Drac blinked, and she bobbed in front of him. Taunting him.

She giggled. “I’m going to make it. I have only one arrow left. Then I’ll be free of this cold, dank life.”

Red colored his vision in the depth of his fear. He covered it with rage. “You might as well give it up, Candace,” he growled. “You aren’t going to win this little battle. And there won’t be another Harvest Moon for two hundred years.” Two more centuries with her.

The fury in her expression would have made him laugh if it hadn’t been so frightening. In a flash, she jerked out the last arrow, set her bow and let go.

Tingles filled Drac’s vision, the red fading to spots of black and white. He wavered on his perch. “You shot me? Me?” This was okay, he thought. Dead is okay. “I won’t have to live without you now, love,” he whispered.

His grip loosened and he fell. Free at last.

***

Love? Drac said love?

“Igor!” Candace yelled. “Igor, catch him.” And me, but the words to save herself caught in her throat. Candace struggled to fly, but her usual light reflexes were hampered by weight she hadn’t needed to account for since the last harvest moon as she tumbled through the air like a lead ball.

An eternity later, she landed on legs that refused to support her unexpected weight. She fell to her knees.

Igor lowered Drac’s unconscious form to the floor. Her throat burned as she tried to swallow. It hurt.

Everyone’s attention focused on Drac. He’d hate that. And now she’d killed him. Candace laid her hand on his warm face. Warm?—yes. To the touch. T.O.U.C.H!

How could that be? She gaped at a hand that should have gone through his cheek . . . completely to other side.

Slowly she raised her eyes to the surrounding crowd. Their united gazes moved from Drac to her. She swallowed again. But none of that mattered. She dropped her eyes back to Drac, clasped his hand in hers and held it to her chest. “Drac, Drac, I’m sorry. Please don’t die. I love you.”

An eerily silence filled the room. Candace raised her head to a parting crowd for the imposing figure of Madame Mirela. She sashayed through the makeshift isle, her full-hooped, Victorian, solid black dress sweeping the floor with each step. Venom dripped from her sooty lashes.

She tipped her elegantly coiffed head in Candace’s direction. “Mademoiselle Cupardé.”

“What are you doing here?” Candace demanded. An urge to protect Drac enveloped her. She scooted closer, tempted to throw her body over hims.

Lips tightened and disgust marring her brow, the woman seethed fury. “Your flimsy arrows are only good for striking at the heart of lovers already destined for one another or  . . . or building furniture.”

“What do you mean?” Candace prayed she understood Madame Mirela correctly. But one glance at Drac’s pale countenance. . .

“Only the hardest of wood can take out a vampire such as  Dracula. Tis how his father met his fate.” Hate shimmered in her gaze and Candace flinched.

Hope filled her despite the fortune teller’s censure. “I don’t understand.” Of course, Candace's arrows were for striking love into hearts not for killing vampires.

“His father drove me to madness and now I have lost his son.” Skirts rustled and bodies shifted at Madame Mirela’s shocking confession.

Horrified, Candace spoke without thinking. “You killed Drac’s father two hundred years ago?” A wisp of memory curdled her insides. “The last Harvest Moon. . .” her voice trailed. Candace had whisked through the ballroom, determined to help Drac’s unappreciative father. He’d been hell-bent on wreaking havoc throughout the region. Drac had been miserable, embarrassed by his father’s antics. The bloodthirsty bastard had shown no mercy to anyone in his path. Candace would have suffered as well, if Sebastian hadn’t already choked the life from her. She owed Sebastian for that at least.

Candace looked down at Drac. “He’s so pale,” she whispered.

But a night of the harvest moon promised miracles and to her relief Drac’s lashes fluttered then opened. He pinned her with a direct, unrelenting fix. “You love me?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve loved you for centuries.” She frowned, confusion filling her. “Why aren’t you dead?”

With Igor’s help, Drac rose to sitting. “I-I don’t know.”

“Bonjour, Dracula.” Madame Mirela turned her viperous demeanor on Drac. “Much to your regret, you fool, your sweet Candi has fulfilled her bargain.” She laughed, but it resembled nothing like humor. “She is no longer just your ghost.”

“Oh.” Despite the throng of individuals (monsters and such) standing about, Drac’s desolation in that one tiny syllable reverberated throughout the ballroom. A thrill of excitement shot up Candace's spine. From the corner of her eye she spotted Wendy in her bright red gown, her lips moving with some incantation. Candace prayed it didn't backfire on them all.

“Alas, her final arrow was not for decimating vampires—the one through your heart—was not of the correct type of wood.” Madame Mirela hissed. “Ash, oak, alder, holly.”

Candace wrinkled her nose as her words penetrated. “Are you telling me that the arrow I shot through Drac did not make him call me ‘love’?”

“Bah.” Disdain pinched her haughty features, and she sniffed. “A ridiculous notion. You have no power over love.”

Drac leaped to his feet, seemingly fully recovered, anger radiating. Candace glanced quickly at Wendy now sporting a satisfied quirk on her face. “Don’t you speak to her like that, old woman,” he hissed. “She’s Cupid! She’s helped millions find their life’s mate. Perhaps millions more, if I hadn’t been so selfish keeping her for my own the last two centuries.”

Candace sat back on her heels, mesmerized by Drac’s dramatic display. He opened his mouth to expose his fangs. The crowd gasped, stepped back. But Candace didn’t see his fangs. Where were his fangs? Gone. Drac’s fangs were gone.

“Drac,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

Madame Mirela bristled. “You are nothing,” she said to Drac. Her shrill voice screeched through the ballroom, threatening the fragility of the champagne glasses. The old woman turned to Candace, piercing her with such loathing, she flinched. “This is all your fault. You’ve robbed him of his immortality. He belonged to me. And, now—I have nothing. You’ve ruined me, Mademoiselle Cupardé. But take heed. I shall have my revenge, two hundred years hence.” Madam Mirela morphed into a crow and soared across the ballroom through the opened French doors at the far end of the hall.

Drac straightened his shoulders and held out his hand to Candace. Candace was touched by the slight tremble he failed to hide. “Come, my love.”

Candace put her hand in his and rose to her feet on shaky legs.

“Please, resume your good time,” he announced to a stunned audience. He peered at Candace, eyes glittering with something undefined. “We’ve plans to make, a sunrise to witness. Our first of many, together.” The clock struck the witching hour as he touched his lips to hers. Warm. Delicious.

“Are you truly okay, Drac?” She glanced over her shoulder to the French doors.

“I am,” he said, tugging her to the balcony doors. Drac tucked her hand into his arm and said, “She’s gone, darling, for at least two hundred more years. Tell me. What sort of wooden arrows are those of yours?”

“Willow, I believe. A soft wood. They wouldn’t hurt a flea,” she promised. “Or a man no longer wishing to be a vampire.”

Thank you for spending Halloween with the OKRWA Wildokie Writers. For information on OKRWA even joining, visit: our website.

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LUCK OF THE IRISH

What's worse than a leprechaun who has lost his pot of gold? A leprechaun banished to Sedona, Arizona until he can find it and get it back. Will his leprechaun magic create mayhem or will he, and all those who cross his path, be lucky in love?

Follow the tales of lost leprechaun gold as the Wild Okie Writers present the LUCK OF THE IRISH series to celebrate St. Patrick's Day by clicking on the chapter titles in the sidebar.

My True Love Gave to Me

… eleven pipers piping …

 Chapter Eleven

Anna Kittrell

Lady Dinah flicked open her fan. Why was it so dreadfully hot in here? She feared perspiration would dampen her green silk dress.

“Glass of water, milady?” Her governess, Marie, creased her freckled brow. “You are pouring like a sieve.”

Dinah fanned faster. “Thank you, Marie, a glass of water would be lovely.” She swallowed, her throat burning.

She had hoped her wooziness would go unnoticed, but hope never granted her favors. Naturally, Marie had noticed her condition. She’d helped care for Dinah since infancy, then quietly stepped into the role of fulltime caregiver nearly a year ago, when Dinah’s mother died of influenza.

 Dinah swept a bleary glance around the enormous ballroom. Marie was the only reason she had accepted the prestigious invitation to the Pemberton Christmas Ball. To afford her governess the opportunity to dress up, socialize, dance. She loved the aging woman like a mother and felt sorry for her. No fair for Marie, confined to the house, catering to a near eighteen-year-old girl perfectly content to read books all day. Marie would never admit it, but she must feel as if life were passing her by.

In truth, Dinah was not content at all. Neither did she read books all day. She used the books as shields, staring at the same blurred page for hours on end while her intoxicated dazes slowly abated behind the covers.

At nightfall, she crept from the back door—the hinges were meticulously oiled, of course. Through trash-strewn alleyways, she wound her way to the secret dens of oblivion scattered throughout the city, her only witness a scurrying rat or a starving, snarling dog.  

Far worse than the journey was the destination. People, corpse-like, in opium-induced stupors stared at the ceiling through sightless eyes. The dens revolted her, yet she returned night after night to share the sinful pipe.

She had taken her last draw from the pipe near twenty-four hours ago. The longest she’d been without opium since the day her father, Dr. Henry Cooper, provided that first, small, nerve-calming dose, following the death of her mother. Shortly after, he’d revoked the drug, fearful she’d become dependent. Pity it was too late.

“Your water, Lady Dinah.” Marie placed a hand gently on Dinah’s forearm.

“Thank you, Marie.” Dinah stiffened her fingers as she took the glass, attempting to hide the trembling. The rippling liquid gave her away.

“For heaven’s sake, milady, are you all right? You are quivering like that ridiculous artificial bird on the dowager Lady Sempill’s bonnet.”

“Yes, fine. I am quite certain.” Dinah managed to bring the quaking glass to her lips without sloshing water down the front of her gown. Hiding her face with her fan, she gulped hungrily, the cold liquid soothing her dry throat and quenching her miserable thirst. She stopped only when her gaze hit the ornate ceiling, then handed the empty glass to Marie.

“Lord have mercy, child,” Marie exclaimed, eyes bulging. Her expression was so comical, Dinah would have laughed had she not been overtaken by an excruciating cramp in the pit of her stomach. She pitched forward at the waist, belly roiling.

“You are ailing, milady, let us take our leave—”

Dinah forced aside the pain and stood abruptly. “Nonsense.” She cut her gaze around the ballroom, over the glistening Christmas decorations, between the vast, garland-wrapped pillars, through the pretentious gossiping geese who thought themselves better than she. Where had he gone? Panic edged up her spine. She’d seen him but moments ago. Or had she imagined it? Breath shot through her nostrils in shallow puffs. Her head spun, colors swirled, the room turned into an enormous spinning top.

Finally, her gaze swam over his detestable face, just across the room. Mister Hugh Egerton, one of the eleven pipers piping at the den that night on Ashire Lane, conspiring to steal her innocence. The opium made the men lethargic and clumsy, and by the grace of God, she’d escaped, body unharmed. She wished she could say the same for her spirit.

All the more reason to dull the pain.

She licked her parched lips, all but tasting the hot, thick smoke on her tongue. A mad craving snaked through her. From where he stood, Mister Egerton met her gaze, nodded knowingly. Her skin crawled, revulsion and anticipation sharing the cause. She pulled her lips into a smile, masking the sensation. Soon everything would be all right.

“Marie, would you please locate a footman? I require another glass of water.”

“Right away, milady.” Marie scurried off, holding up the water glass.

Dinah took a step toward the blemished excuse for a man leering at her from the far wall.

*

“I must have her, Humphrey,” Owen said, glancing at his brother. “For God’s sake, would you look at her? She is perfect.”

“In appearance she fills your requirements. But what if she has never taken the stage?”

“It matters not. She is the one. I feel it in my bones.”

“In that case, I suggest you hurry, before the lady is spoken for.” Humphrey tipped his head toward the sad-eyed girl crossing the room, the beaded train of her green silk dress whispering over the floor behind her.

Surely, the melancholy beauty Owen had been admiring wasn’t advancing toward the suspicious-looking man leaning on the wall. Owen’s jaw tensed, reacting to the uneasiness settling into his middle. The man had a bad complexion, a greasy smile, and a jagged scar that testified he’d almost lost an ear. Not the type of gent that stepped aside while another man made off with his woman.

Humphrey cleared his throat and tapped his top lip. “You will be needing your handkerchief, brother.”

Owen frowned, tugged the handkerchief from inside his sleeve, dabbed the corner of his mouth. “Wine,” he concluded, examining the red smudge. “Better?”

“Indeed.” Humphrey nodded.

“Good.” Owen flashed a smile at his brother. “Wish me luck,” he said, turning away.

He tucked the handkerchief into his right cuff, then, changing his mind, switched to his left. With quick, calculated steps, he veered into the young woman’s path, intercepting her journey to the far wall.

          Owen’s breath caught as he gazed at the girl’s face. The pale, dewy skin, the sad, violet eyes, the soft pink lips. She was Rose, the lead in his latest play, The Rain Garden, the tragic tale of a dying girl.

          “How do you do?” he asked, extending his hand. His eyes widened when his silver pen—a gift from a theatrically pleased dignitary—flew, as if winged, from the sleeve of his tailcoat to the floor, just as the lady took a step. Time slowed while her slipper rolled over the pen and she stumbled. He lunged, catching her at the last possible instant, saving her from a fall.

          Good Lord, but she was hot. She burned in his arms, as if with fever. A heady aroma of tropical flowers, perhaps hibiscus, radiated from her, the scent strengthened by the elevated temperature of her skin. She gasped weakly, struggling to right her feet.

          “I beg your pardon, milady,” Owen said, an excessive amount of heat rising to his own cheeks. “Seems my pen escaped its holster—the loop of string sewn into my cuff. It appears it dislodged when I tucked in my handkerchief…”

          She wasn’t listening. Her lucid, purplish-blue eyes stared past him. He turned slightly, following her gaze to the seedy character against the wall, his rat-like eyes crawling over Owen’s Rose.

          “Milady?” Owen said, still holding her by the arms.

          She blinked a few times, then snapped her gaze to Owen, sliding her elbows from his grip.

          Owen fell to one knee to retrieve his pen. But where was it? He glanced over the polished floor, then turned his gaze to the hem of Rose’s gown. The silver pen peeked from under the flowing skirt.

          “Excuse me, sir, I must take my leave.”

          He gazed up at her. Dark tendrils escaped her hairpins, sticking to her damp skin. She was perfect. Already on his knees, he considered begging her to be his afflicted Rose.

          “My pardon, but I believe you are standing on my pen.”

          Her cheeks reddened more deeply as she took a step back.

          “Thank you.” He stood, tucking the pen into his cuff, slipping it into its holster beside the tiny vial of ink. One never knew when inspiration would strike. A good playwright must be prepared.

*

          Will he ever stop rambling? Dinah wondered. Her brow tensed further with each syllable. She took a step forward, then halted, locked in place. Her gaze shot to the floor to find the man’s boot planted firmly upon the hem of her dress. Already, he’d toppled her with his blasted pen, must he ruin her gown as well?

          “Perhaps I should introduce myself? I am Owen Fletcher,” he continued on, not allowing her time to answer. “I realize we have not been properly presented, but feel we are acquainted already. For you are my Rose Trellis, I have dreamt of you, and written of your life many times.”

          A nerve pinched between her eyes. She fastened her gaze to his lips, so overly filled with words.

          “Sir, you are mistaken. I am the Lady Dinah Cooper. My father is Dr. Henry Cooper. Now, if you will excuse me—”

          He didn’t budge.

          “Mister Fletcher. If you will kindly remove your large boot from my hand-beaded train, I should like to part company now.”

          “Terribly sorry.” He stepped off the delicate fabric. “Of course. Goodnight, Lady Dinah.” He offered a short bow.

          “Goodnight, Mister Fletcher.”

Dinah returned her gaze to Mister Egerton. His rodent-like eyes were filled with glee. Obviously, he enjoyed the notion of her searching him out, begging for his remedy. She strode a mere three paces toward him, finding her steps once again interrupted by the impudent Mister Fletcher.

“One more thing, Lady Dinah,” he said, his unyielding tongue giving his lips a quick lick. “You have yet to answer, about my play. You see, I wish you to have the lead part— starring role of Rose Trellis—the beautiful, dying flower.”

“You wish me to play the part of a dead girl?” She stepped around him.

“Ahem, let me explain. She lives! The girl battles a life-threatening bout of pneumonia and prevails. The Rain Garden is a tribute to Rose Trellis’s courage. The story of how she fights back against the illness that is killing her, and wins.”

 “Hello, poppet,” Hugh Egerton cooed, his eyes roving over Dinah’s body, his fingers twitching, as if urged to do the same. “A bit low on the medicine?”

Dinah dropped her gaze to the floor and nodded. She felt naked.

“So, what do you say to becoming my precious Rose?”

She snapped her gaze up, disbelieving. Had Owen Fletcher no bounds? She frowned at him. The nerve of this…this…prattling playwright.

“Lady Dinah is engaged in conversation at the moment. You will be running along now.” Hugh waved his hand through the air at Owen, as if shooing a fly.

“Ah—but I await an answer from the lady. Soon as my petition is met, I shall be traveling on. But not before.”

My but he was stubborn.

*

Owen’s tongue tired from constant chatter. But how else was he to distract the lady from the unsavory rascal holding up the wall? Besides, all he said was truth—he positively had to have her in his play as the wilting, yet victorious Rose.

He stood facing the scoundrel, pustule-riddled skin and oily smirk even more wretched up close. The way he looked at Lady Dinah got Owen’s hackles up. The man was downright insolent.

“Forgive me, sir, but the lady didn’t appear to be engaged in conversation. Plainly, her gaze was directed at the floor,” Owen said.

The whites of the man’s eyes reddened. He narrowed them at Owen, color climbing his neck.

“You will watch your words around Hugh Egerton, or else find yourself choking on them.”

“That would be quite unfortunate. But I am afraid I do not believe you.” Owen grinned. An arrogant grin he reserved for moments such as this. He found it either silenced the hecklers, or infuriated them. By the clenching of Hugh Egerton’s fists, it was the latter.

“Care to step outside and prove me wrong?” Hugh asked, his voice rough, as if his throat were packed with gravel.

“Why settle outside what can be settled right here?”

“No! Stop, this instant,” Lady Dinah demanded, her words shaking. The older woman he’d seen her with earlier rushed to her side.

“Step back, milady.” Owen placed a protective hand on Dinah’s arm, gently setting her back.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hugh snorted. “I arrived here in company of the Lord Morris Barlow, and refuse to embarrass him by brawling inside Pemberton Hall.”

“Lord Barlow, you say?” Though well-known and wealthy, Morris Barlow had a sordid reputation. Owen easily assumed he had met Hugh Egerton over an opium lamp at the ill-reputed Ashire den.

The opium-eater and the noble…what a glorious premise for a play.

Owen yanked his gleaming silver pen from his sleeve.

“A daggar!” Hugh Egerton yelped, retreating into the wall as if he could sink through it.

“Not a dagger. Far worse.” Owen tugged out and unstopped the vial of ink, dipped his pen. He returned the bottle to his sleeve and retrieved a slip of parchment. “Your pathetic, smoke-filled life, Mister Egerton, will be the inspiration for my new play,” he said, scratching the pen along the paper. “I assure you, my productions are quite renowned. I am certain the Lord Morris Barlow will be thrilled to be written in as one of your fellows.”

Hugh swallowed, Adam’s apple rising above, then falling below his collar. “What do you require of me?”

Owen turned to Lady Dinah, reading the pain on her graceful features.  His heart ached as he comprehended the depth of her obsession. “Only that you leave this precious rose alone.”

“But she sought after me—”

“Only because of her dependence on your poison. You shall give a sufficient amount to me, that I can wean her from it in a healthy manner.”

Hugh nodded. “Meet me at the Ashire den in an hour.”

Owen tore up the slip of paper, the pieces floating down like the Christmas snow beyond the window.

*

“Milady?” Marie touched Dinah’s elbow.

Tears cascaded down Dinah’s face. She hid behind her fan, confused by the foreign emotions stirring her heart.

“My brother is in control of the situation. As you were,” an older gentleman called to the onlookers, his double-chin bobbling. Then, turning to Marie, “Would you care to dance?”

Dinah squeezed Marie’s hand, then nodded as the gentleman led her radiant governess to the dance floor.  

“Thank you for rescuing me, Mister Fletcher,” Dinah said, turning to Owen.

“My pleasure, Lady Dinah.”

Dinah looked into his eyes, for the first time, really. A beautiful blue-green, like the blown glass ornaments on the magnificent Pemberton Hall Christmas tree.

“How did you know about my…condition?”

He cleared his throat, swallowed. “I too have suffered affliction. I am quite acquainted with the dens.”

Her eyes flew open wide.

“Had it not been for my brother, Humphrey, I would have surely died in one. He saved my life.”

“As you plan to save mine?” Dinah asked, studying his lips, so tempting now that they were void of prattle.

“Precisely.” He brought her hand to his mouth, placing on it a tender kiss.

Her breath pulled in sharply, and she imagined herself being resuscitated, as if with her father’s bellows.

“By the way, my answer is yes,” Dinah offered, hiding a smile behind her fan.

Owen’s eyebrows arched high. “Truly? You will be my darling Rose?”

“Yes. I shall be your courageous, victorious Rose. I have decided she and I have much in common.”

My True Love Gave to Me...Seven Swans a'Swimming

My True Love Gave to Me

…seven swans a’swimming…

Chapter Seven

Silver James

  

       Lord David Barrington, Duke of Alford, swigged his port in disgust. On one side, Richard, Viscount Tetterly spoke of his upcoming nuptials as if his bride-to-be was a prized mare ripe for breeding. David could only discern that the miss in question was one of the Swann sisters, though he’d heard nothing of a betrothal. He shuddered at the thought of having to marry off seven women. He had only his sister, Cecile, to be concerned with. Ceecy was friendly with the Swanns. Surely she would have mentioned a wedding if one was in the offing.

       He’d watched the family’s entrance earlier—Lord John Swann, the Earl of Cockswood, and his lady leading their flock of seven swans a’swimming through this social pond.

       As much as he disliked the subject, truth be told, it was the only reason he was here for this forsaken parade of marriageable maids plumped and primed by their predatory mothers. He’d retreated to the card room to get away from the lot of them—only to be caught up in the discussion from the other side of the coin.

       “What say you, your Grace?” Tetterly called for his attention.

       Brow furrowed, David stared at the man. “I say you’d be wiser to mind your cards than gossiping like that gaggle of geese in the ballroom.”

       The men at the card table chuckled earnestly though David suspected his title had more to do with their appreciation than any wit he might possess. He stared at the men around the table and despaired of ever finding a husband for Ceecy. The girl remained convinced she would make a love match—hopeless romantic that she was. He would be satisfied with a man who would simply take care of her in a manner that wouldn’t force him to be involved.

       “Speaking of…” Tetterly tossed his cards to the table. “I should make inquiry after my intended. Lady Georgette needs a firm hand.”

       The man pushed out of the chair he’d occupied with some effort and snatched a cane. “She will need to attend me this evening rather than dancing.”

       Tetterly limped out, leaning heavily on the walking stick, as David exchanged looks with Lord Drake.

       “The man’s a bit presumptuous. He hasn’t pressed suit with Cockswood and from what I know of the Swann sisters, Lady Georgette will stamp that pretty foot of hers and convince her father to say no. Headstrong, the lot of them. Why else would they all remain unmarried?”

       Why else, indeed. Perhaps David should restrict Ceecy’s access to the Swanns. He swallowed a rather grumpy sigh and turned to leave. He needed to find his sister to ensure she was behaving herself. His need had nothing to do with the lurch in his stomach at the mention of Lady Georgette—most definitely not.

****

       Lady Georgette Swann clung to Edwina’s hand—not out of nerves but to keep her twin sister from the dance floor. “You cannot leave me yet, Edie. You promised! Lord Tetterly is over there, and I know he is looking for me. I shall quite faint if Father accepts him.”

       Edie snorted. “You? Faint? That is about as likely to happen as Father finding us all husbands tonight. What scheme have you concocted now?”

       “I know the odious man. He’ll claim me and force me to sit by his side to keep him company. Drat that he can’t just go to the card room and stay there for the evening. He is unable to dance since his injury at Lord Drake’s hunting party. Mister Granby is here, and I so want to dance with him. He’s positively incomparable, Edie.” She sighed for dramatic effect. “I do wish Nicholas was more acceptable to Father.”

       Her sister made a sound of disgust. “Why would you want him, Georgie? He’s a second son and his family seems to balance perpetually on the edge of poverty. At least Lord Tetterly has prospects.”

       “But he’s old, Edie.” She shuddered. “Please? Go pretend to be me and keep the viscount occupied. I promise to relieve you before long.”

       Edie held up her glove-clad wrist. Her dance card, more than half-filled, dangled from it. “How many names do we share?” She sighed as Georgie smiled in triumph.

       “As if any of them can actually tell us apart. You are a good egg, Edie. I promise to see you dance with the most handsome man in attendance before the night is through.”

They both glanced over to find Lord Tetterly weaving awkwardly through the throng toward them. Edie flashed her a long-suffering look before plastering a smile on her face and turning to the man as Georgie made her escape.

       Mister Granby—Nicholas—had claimed her card for a dance upon their arrival. She scanned the room and discovered him headed toward Edie and Lord Tetterly. She moved to intercept him.

       Touching his arm to gain his attention, she smiled up at him. “Mister Granby? I do believe this is our dance?”

       Granby glanced between her and her twin, now perched on the edge of the chair next to the viscount. “I…forgive me, Lady Edwina, but I thought you held me in little regard.”

       Georgie formed a little moue with her mouth. “Shhh. It’s me. Georgie.” His gaze warmed as he took her hand and whisked her onto the dance floor.

****

       David, standing in the shadows near the wall, glared at his sister as she huddled between the Swann twins. The three of them giggled conspiring behind the flutter of their fans. Over the course of several seasons, he’d found himself studying the twin Swanns—for purely academic reasons, he assured himself. He continued his scrutiny as they’d danced with various men during the course of the ball. They looked to be identical in every way, from the rose-colored gowns they wore to their dark hair swept up into knots on their heads. When they turned their heads in the candlelight, he caught flashes of fire in their locks. He’d discovered the color of their eyes—two differing shades of moss though flecks of gold highlighted each pair.

       “You left Lady Georgette quite flustered after your dance, Granby. Plan to claim her for another?”

       Three young bucks gathered on the other side of a pillar, and David couldn’t help but overhear them.

       “I plan to do more than that. Should her father catch us in a compromising position, he’ll be forced to give her hand to me rather than Lord Tetterly. Lord Cockswood has no male heirs and his title is unentailed. He can name an heir. I should, as his son-in-law, stand a good chance of gaining the earldom.”

       “Ha! That’s an unlikely gamble, Granby,” the third man interjected. “In fact, we should wager on your chances.”

       The first chuckled, and the sound grated on David’s nerves. This was why he hated society and longed to see Ceecy successfully married so he could return to the quiet environs of Alford Hall.

       “I’ll take that bet,” Granby piped up. “I have a far better chance of marrying the Lady Georgette than you do of pressing your suit for Lady Cecile’s hand.”

       David straightened, and as the orchestra had begun to play again, stepped closer. He didn’t want to miss a word of this conversation.

****

       Georgie had hurried up the stairs to the ladies’ retiring room in order to avoid spending more time with Lord Tetterly. The man was an absolute bore. Hunting, his wealth, and his ability at cards were the only things he spoke of. She knew he planned to speak to her father soon to arrange the nuptials. For a brief moment, she considered causing a scandal to avoid marriage to the odious man. In truth, she could not condemn her sisters by any such rash action on her part.

       Since Lord Tetterly tottered about on a cane, she hoped to avoid him for the rest of the evening, or at least play cat and mouse with him chasing after both her and Edie. Resigned to her fate, she returned to the house’s first floor.

        Entering the ballroom, she spied Edwina in the arms of a most striking man. She didn’t recognize him for a moment until Lady Cecile appeared at her side.

       “They make a handsome couple, yes?”

       “Who is that?” Georgie was curious and more than a little jealous.

       Ceecy laughed gaily and tapped Georgie’s shoulder with her folded fan. “That’s David, my brother.”

       Georgie gulped. “Your brother? Lord Alford?” How had she missed realizing how handsome he was before tonight?

       “Indeed, the one and only Duke of Alford. He looks to be quite enjoying himself in Edie’s company.”

       “Humpf.”

       The music ended, the dancing couples bowed and curtsied, and Lord Alford escorted Edwina back to them. He bowed slightly before Georgie.

       “Would you perhaps have an empty space on your dance card, Lady Georgette?”

       The music, a lively quadrille, started before she could answer, and she found herself swept out onto the dance floor. She was quite shocked but delighted at the same time. Georgie had always considered Ceecy’s brother to be something of a staid old curmudgeon. She was elated to discover she’d been wrong.

       His eyes flashed like sapphires, and a strand of dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that enticed her to brush it aside. She avoided the temptation as the dance steps required her to move away from the duke.

       “Stay away from him,” her next partner growled.

       Georgie blinked the stars from her eyes to realize she was now, however briefly, partnered with Nicholas Granby and that Lord Alford danced with Edie. The flow of the dance returned her to the duke’s arms, and she inhaled deeply. He smelled of wood smoke and port, of something deeper and more primal that curled through her, filling her lungs and making it hard to breathe.

        She glanced up at him, and he appeared to be as dazed as she felt. Goodness but he was tall. And strong. And so very, very handsome. Her heart fluttered, causing her to miss a step, but he held her securely, smoothing over her mistake while never taking his gaze from her face.

       When the music stopped—much to her chagrin—she didn’t move, reluctant to leave the warm haven presented by the duke’s presence. He’d mesmerized her. A brittle cough drew her attention.

       “Ahem, Lady Georgette. I require your presence, if you would be so good.”

       Startled, she jerked at the displeasure in that voice. Lord Tetterly. Only he was speaking to Edie. Who’d been dancing with Mister Granby. The man couldn’t tell them apart. Before either she or her sister could react, the viscount had taken Edie’s arm and hustled her away from the erstwhile suitor. Confused, Granby stared from her and then at her sister’s retreating back. Good heavens, he couldn’t tell them apart either.

       “Perhaps some air, m’lady.” The duke’s voice urged her away, as did his warm hand on her elbow.

       Somewhere between the ballroom and the terrace, the duke had procured her a cloak. Settling it about her shoulders, he captured her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her outside.

       “That’s quite a game you have going with the Lady Edwina.”

       His voice sounded grave, and she jerked her eyes up to gauge his expression. “How do you know I’m not Edwina?” she challenged. Oh, the smile curling his full lips quite overwhelmed her.

       “Unlike the dolts who have set their eyes on your prize, I pay attention. You are nothing like your sister, Lady Georgette.”

       Her chest ached as she tried to inhale. The look on his face left no doubt in her mind. He knew. He could tell them apart. Something eased around her heart. He lowered his head, and her eyelids fluttered shut as she arched up on her tiptoes to meet him.

****

       Dash it all. What the bloody blazes was he thinking, kissing the girl out here, away from chaperones, leaving them both as fodder for the gossiping geese should anyone spy them. Why should he care? A scent that reminded him of spring in the gardens at Alford Hall wafted in the air. Georgie. He would forever think of springtime when he caught her scent—and the turnabout was true. Springtime would forever remind him of the girl in his arms. She was quite curvy—no lithe slip of a girl that could break in a man’s embrace. Her heart-shaped face appeared ethereal and angelic beneath the moon.

       And her eyes. Dark green like spring moss and flecked with precious gold. He’d been reminded once more of how delightful they looked as they danced. That and the tiny birthmark behind her right ear. He’d checked the spot on Lady Edwina as he danced with her earlier, and she bore none.

       Not that he needed such proof to tell the sisters apart. His heart would know the Lady Georgette anywhere. Quite gobsmacked by his feelings, he pulled her closer, his arms snaking beneath her cloak to touch her warmth. His mouth devoured the sweetness of her, and heat flared as his blood all rushed to his groin. He’d never in all his thirty-two years felt this way.

       Breathless, she broke their kiss but made no move to back away.

       “My lord,” she sighed. She gazed up at him, and he could see the stars shining in her eyes.

       “I don’t quite know what came over me,” he began. Her face fell, and he hastened to return a smile to her mien. “I’m a quiet man, Georgie—m’lady. I’ve purposely avoided society but for the need to find a husband for Cecile.”

       Her lips quivered though she swallowed hard and blinked, fighting her emotions.

       “Oh my darling girl, don’t you see? You’ve quite undone me. I find myself craving your touch. Your kisses. The gift of your smile. I am not a man who believes in romance but I fear my heart has betrayed me for it is quite sure it wants no one but you.”

       Georgie looked puzzled, her forehead furrowed so adorably he discovered he was incapable of resisting. He planted a kiss between her brows.

       “I…what are you saying, your Grace?”

       “David. Will you call me David, my darling Georgie? You’ve quite won my heart over, dearest one, and I want to marry you.”

       Her countenance lightened and a smile curled her bow-shaped mouth—her most kissable mouth. He leaned down and claimed it for his own, and he decided in that moment that no man save him would ever claim this lovely swan. Georgie was his, just as soon as he asked—no, not asked—demanded Cockswood give his daughter’s hand in marriage. If he had his way, they’d waive the bans before the start of the new year.

       “I’ve fallen in love with you, Georgie Swann.”

       “Oh, your Grace…David. I love you, too.”

######

Join us again tomorrow for Chapter Eight of My True Love Gave to Me...