Chapter Seven
“Oh, Mimi,” cooed Helena. “You’re the fairest of all!”
She and Beatrice stood back admiringly as Brennalyn checked her appearance once more before the oval mirror in her bedroom.
Izzy sat on a footstool at her feet in her long-sleeved nightgown, twirling a lock of her golden hair. “You look like a pwinthess.”
“A princess, do I?” Brenna beamed, her heart squeezing at the love of her girls. “I imagine a princess might have finer jewelry.” She fingered the small, single pearl on a red silk ribbon around her neck. It was the only heirloom she had of her long-dead mother. “But this was my mother’s, and I rarely get to wear it.”
“I think it’s charming,” said Beatrice, her sweet, round face smiling. “Will you dance with Mr. Dawson?”
“Mr. Dawson?” she asked innocently.
“Yes. He likes you. I saw the way he looked at you when he stopped by the schoolhouse today.”
“Mr. Dawson is giving me a ride to the ball, that is all. He was just being a gentleman, knowing I don’t have a carriage.”
“Pfft.” Beatrice grinned at Helena.
“What I want to know”—Helena added with a grin—“is if you will dance with the duke.”
“The duke?” exclaimed Beatrice, gray eyes widening. “Will the duke be there? Oh, why am I too young for balls?” she whined.
“Stop. Both of you. The duke won’t be there.” She smoothed down the skirts of her sapphire gown. Though not an expensive fabric, the color complemented her fair complexion, and the fit accented her slender waist and curving hips. She frowned at her hips, which were perhaps a little too curvy. And her bosom. She should stop eating all of the apple spice cake that Beatrice baked so well. Sweets were her weakness. “He rarely appears at local events like this.”
Even while the words spilled from her mouth, she wondered if he might. He’d never attended a public ball before. Still, she’d taken great care with coiling her hair into soft curls, pinning the sides only, and letting the rest fall down her back. She’d thought of him as she coiffed her hair, remembering how he continued to try and pull it loose every time they were alone.
Her chest seized at his promise. Next time. She wondered when that time might come. He didn’t tell her when he’d see her again. She also questioned her sanity for the hundredth time since she’d been toying with the idea of becoming the vampire duke’s lover.
She’d been unable to do anything at all the rest of the evening, bumbling around the house and in the basement, accomplishing nothing of consequence. She glanced down at her nails, catching sight of a smudge of ink under her thumbnail.
“Oh, Beatrice, can you fetch the soap water?”
A knock came at the front door. All of them gasped. Except Izzy of course.
“Let me get it!” Izzy dashed out of the room to the front door.
“Izzy.” Beatrice shot up and chased after her. “You’re in your nightgown, for Pete’s sake!”
“Oh, well. No time. My gloves, Helena.”
Helena grabbed her long, white gloves, her only formal pair. “They’re so beautiful, Mimi. Were these your mother’s, too?”
Brenna stared down at the shimmery white satin as she pulled one on, her stomach dropping at the painful memory. “No,” she replied with a tight smile. “These are mine.” She banished woeful thoughts. For one night, she simply wanted to enjoy herself. “Now then. All ready.”
Helena wore a forlorn look of longing.
“What is it, darling?” Brenna lifted her chin, finding her pretty green eyes watering. “Oh, dearest. Is this about Reggie?”
She nodded shakily. “I just worry with the work that he’s doing. All the time, I worry.” She swiped a tear before it made its way halfway down her cheek. “It’s so dangerous. And then I see how lovely you are, going to a ball, and I wonder will Reggie and I ever do such things together?”
“Oh, Helena.” She pulled her slim form into her arms. “I was afraid this would happen. You’ve apparently already gone and fallen in love.”
She could hardly blame her. Reggie was barely twenty, only two years Helena’s senior. He’d asked to formally court her on her last birthday. Brenna was hesitant simply because his position in the resistance would make him a target, and therefore could endanger Helena. She couldn’t bear to think of harm coming to Helena or any of her children. In the end, she couldn’t deny Helena.
“I have, Mimi,” she sniffled. “I didn’t know that love was supposed to hurt this much.”
Brenna would’ve laughed if this were a fickle girl’s fascination, but Helena had an old soul and felt things deeply. And Brenna knew better than anyone the icy sting of heartbreak.
“Dry your eyes.” She brought her to arm’s length and squeezed her shoulders. “When this war is over, you and Reggie will go to so many balls and dances and festival gatherings that you’ll be sick to death of them.”
Helena laughed on a sniffle. “I hope so.”
They shared a silent look. There was no guarantee that the humans would win this coming war. If they didn’t, then chances were they’d be living in darker servitude than they did now. The Duke of Winter Hill was a good master for the people of Terrington and the other villages in his dukedom. Even so, Reggie informed them with news from around the Varis Empire that corpses were piling up, and those closest to the Glass Tower suffered the most. There had been sightings of the dread Queen Morgrid visiting her son, King Dominik at his palace, Izeling Tower. The vampire king of the north was known for his savage cruelty, which he’d kept close to his own home, not venturing too far into the duke’s territory. But what if he changed his mind and set his sights on the people of Terrington and Ferriday and the rest of their region?
“You must go,” said Helena, forcing a smile. “Sorry I was being so silly.”
“Don’t ever apologize for your emotions.” Brenna squeezed her shoulder. “They are as important to your being as your mind and spirit.”
They marched together down the hall to the front of the house. The boys were talking over one another. George Dawson stood just inside the entry, smiling at them as they tried to impress him all at once. Except for Denny. He was a year older than Izzy and the newest member to the family, but he had never spoken. He wasn’t sullen, just quiet. No one knew if he was mute by birth or whether he chose not to speak. He was found on a turnip cart, hiding beneath a pile of sacks. When the farmer who’d made deliveries to several villages along the northern road said he didn’t know where he came from, he’d deposited the child with the schoolteacher. Her generosity to children was known in these parts. And though he had never spoken, she was certain his parents had come to some tragic end or that he’d been abandoned. Either way, he was hers now.
“But don’t you think mine is more brilliant?” asked Caden with a grin, shoving his wooden sword in Mr. Dawson’s face.
Emmett snorted. “You don’t even have a proper hilt. Take a look at mine.”
Jack grinned up at both his brothers. These three were in fact legitimate blood brothers, all two years apart with Caden the oldest at fourteen. They lost their mother to a fever two years gone on their farm outside Ferriday, and their father disappeared last harvest, like many strong, healthy men going missing these days.
Brenna had taken them all in, unwilling to send them to the city poorhouse in Izeling, like the ones she’d seen in Korinth. The boys would likely be separated and starved or worked to death in one of those dismal charity houses, which were little more than slave pens. Brenna could never let that happen. And one by one, within the short year she’d been living in Terrington, she’d become the sole provider to these seven rambunctious and darling children.
“Caden. Emmett. That is enough,” she said firmly.
The boys instantly fell back and had the good sense to look a little abashed for overwhelming poor Mr. Dawson, who smiled politely with his hat in hand. Then his eyes alighted on Brenna.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawson.”
“Miss Snow.” He gulped visibly and could say nothing more. Brenna took that as a good sign.
“Oh, my cloak, Helena.”
Helena hopped over with the black wool cloak in hand and helped her clasp it at the neck.
“Shall we?” asked Brenna, seeing as Mr. Dawson was still speechless, gaping down at her.
“Yes. Of course, yes.” He held out his arm for her.
“Now Helena is in charge. Caden, you boys listen. I won’t be late.”
She placed a kiss on Izzy and Denny’s heads. They expected good-night kisses every night. They’d be deep in slumber by the time she returned.
“Lock up tight, Helena.” She gave her a warning look, which Helena aptly interpreted.
“We’ll be fine.”
Brenna had privately trained both her and Caden on how to properly use the gold-embedded daggers should they have any trouble when she wasn’t at home. The element of gold, poisonous to a vampire’s blood, could stall a vampire long enough for a human to escape.
Caden had wondered where she’d found such treasures, but she refused to give him more information than he needed to know. Only that should anyone invade their home, they were to use these daggers. She’d given them lessons on where to best make a man immobile at once—particularly the balls or the eyes—just as Reggie had taught her. Caden had looked on her with new respect after that.
“Don’t worry,” assured Caden with a wink.
“Have a good night,” said Beatrice.
Brenna sighed relief when she heard the bolt slide home. A light snow floated down. She pulled the cowl up and let Mr. Dawson escort her down the path to the wrought-iron gate.
He gazed down at her as he walked her to his phaeton. “You look very…”
He couldn’t seem to find the words. Brenna felt a pang of sympathy for him and gave his arm a squeeze as he helped her up. “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”
His phaeton had a nice overhanging cover, though a closed carriage would’ve been warmer. But she had neither, so she was grateful for his offering to drive her to the town ball. Unfortunately, Mr. Dawson’s admiration was more than she had realized.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “I can give you my coat.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Dawson.” She smiled kindly. “I’m plenty warm.”
He nodded nervously then clicked to his horses with a flick of the reins. They lurched forward and rounded back toward town.
Brenna wasn’t a green girl. She knew when a man was attracted to her. She’d only ever been with Mr. Dawson in larger circles and for short amounts of time. But the longing looks he kept casting at her were of a man quite besotted. Perhaps she should’ve declined his offer to escort her.
She hadn’t courted a man in ages. Not since Elliott. Not that she had plans to court anyone, least of all the duke. A schoolteacher didn’t court a duke. His sultry promises stirred her to one realization. She didn’t have to commit to a man to enjoy the pleasures he could offer. Consequently, there was no fear in letting the duke make good on his promises. She was in no danger of letting her feelings run away with her. Any kind of relationship with the duke would be purely physical. She’d been so focused on teaching and caring for the children that she’d rarely given a thought to her own womanly needs. But her arousal in the duke’s presence told her she certainly still had them.
Unlike sweet George Dawson, who kept glancing at her as he kept his horses in a nice trot heading into Terrington. George was a good, hard-working man who could keep a woman happy in a stable marriage. He had that twinkle in his eyes of a man who longed for hearth and home and bouncing babes on his knee. This was particularly why she shouldn’t lead the poor man on. She would never marry. Never again.
Warm lights twinkled up ahead as they made their way into Terrington. The town hall at the very end was ablaze with braziers in the circle drive. The strains of lively music and a murmuring crowd drifted into the courtyard.
“It seems the ball is off to a roaring start,” said Brenna, unable to keep from glancing around for the silver-wheeled, shining lacquered carriage. She didn’t see it.
Mr. Dawson hopped off and helped her down. One of the village boys, the butcher’s son named Simon, took the reins, gawking at Brenna.
“Good evening, Simon. It’s good to see you hard at work.”
“Thank ye, Miss Snow. Ye look pretty, miss. If’n I can say so about me schoolteacher.”
She laughed. “You can. And thank you.”
Mr. Dawson tossed him a copper coin. Simon caught it in the air.
“Smart boy,” said Mr. Dawson, smiling down at her before he ushered her into the foyer. “Let me take your cloak.”
“Thank you.” He carried his coat and her cloak to the coat room.
Brenna edged forward. The hall was a whirl of brilliant color and sound. Dancers spun with their partners in a merry cotillion. Ladies’ skirts painted the room in a pastel kaleidoscope. Musicians made of two farmers and Old Mr. Sellers from the post office played a jovial tune from a dais on the side. Onlookers laughed and talked while enjoying a cup of punch or a mug of ale. It was a blissful scene. Surely, Brenna could forget about the duke for one evening here.
“Would you like some punch?”
She jumped in her skin, having forgotten Mr. Dawson. “That would be lovely.”
Brenna sidled along the side.
“Evening, Miss Snow.” The magistrate dipped his head in passing with a flicker of admiration at her décolletage.
For a panicked moment, she wondered if she should’ve worn this gown, her only dress other than her regular simple frocks for teaching. But Helena had said it was more modest than what most women wore even about town. Brenna swallowed her anxiety even as she drew eyes from both smiling men and non-smiling women.
Marianne, the one she’d spoke to in the Rose Courtyard, passed her by, wearing the loveliest pink satin gown with a matching reticule looped over her dainty wrist. She caught the young maid’s eye, who merely arched a brow at her, obviously still sulking that Brenna had been chosen that night and not her. The happenings of the Rose Courtyard were considered a place untouched by gossip. While many townspeople knew which ladies ventured there, it was known that no one shared who was chosen. For there were many maids who helped their families by serving as a bleeder to the duke. This rule of silence was instituted by the duke, apparently. Strange rule for a vampire. Why should he care? Still, after being caught in the Rose Courtyard herself, it was the one reason that kept her from sealing herself in her schoolhouse and hiding away.
Here she was thinking about him again. Damn!
“Brenna!” Sylvia waved from near the punch bowl standing with her man, Grant.
She breathed a sigh of relief and pushed through the crowd. Sylvia gave her a laughing hug, her cheeks pink from either merriment or too much punch. Either way, she looked happy. The tall, hard-looking man at her side glanced her way then continued watching the swirling mass.
“Look at you!” Sylvia winked with a bawdy glint in her eye.
“Oh, dear. Is it that bad?”
“That bad? Oh no, you cheeky wench. That good. Where have you been hiding this dress?”
Brenna rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t have worn it. I knew it. Helena said it was pretty. And not too”—she glanced up at Grant, but his attention seemed elsewhere, so she whispered the last—“revealing.”
Sylvia linked arms with her and tossed her pretty head back on a laugh. “Darling, you’re so serious. It’s very, very pretty. It’s just unusual to see you so very—”
“Pretty,” finished Mr. Dawson, standing on her other side with two cups of punch in his hands. “Here you are, Miss Snow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”
She ignored Sylvia’s girlish grin at Mr. Dawson’s attentiveness, but she could hardly pretend she didn’t notice Grant arch his brow at Mr. Dawson when he leaned close and placed a hand at her back to ask, “Would you like to dance?”
“Oh. Thank you, Mr. Dawson. But I’d like to drink my punch first as you went to all the trouble to bring it for me.” She took a sip, which was tart but had a sweet aftertaste of orange liqueur.
Brenna smiled sweetly then caught Grant rolling his eyes before he dipped close to Sylvia’s ear and whispered. What was he about? Her mouth formed a perfect O in surprise then her eyes flitted to her back where Mr. Dawson was persistently keeping a proprietary hand. Though Brenna wasn’t sure how to casually dislodge his partial embrace, she wasn’t sure what Sylvia’s man would have to say about it.
She leaned over to Sylvia and asked low, “What did he say to you?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes. Why is he scowling at Mr. Dawson?”
She covered her mouth to be sure only Brenna heard her hushed reply. “He said if the duke catches Mr. Dawson touching you like that, he’ll break his arm.”
Brenna gasped and stared goggle-eyed up at Grant. He scanned the crowd continually but then his gaze dropped to Brenna and he raised a superior brow and gave her a tilted smile as if to say he warned her. But why would he look as if—
The musicians ceased playing, and the dancers stilled for a moment. The crowd hushed as everyone turned to the door. Standing at the entrance to the hall looking too devastating for words was the Duke of Winter Hill. Flanking his sides were his captain of the guard and another she’d seen around the castle, both in more formal attire than their usual. Though the guards appeared to simply be attending the ball, Brenna knew better than that. They were clearly on duty from the way they scanned the room in short order.
The town magistrate rushed forward to greet them, his flustered wife at his side. Other town officials hurried up to welcome the royal duke and present their wives as well as their unmarried daughters. Brennalyn stifled the envy clawing at her gut when the duke bent over the hand of an exceptionally beautiful brunette. While she batted her eyes coquettishly, he didn’t seem to notice, moving swiftly through the cordialities.
“The duke showed? Well now, that’s a rare occasion,” commented Mr. Dawson.
The music began again and the dancers slowly took the floor.
Brenna couldn’t take her eyes from him. He had just bowed a polite greeting to a rather attractive blonde when his eyes cut across the room directly at her, as if he knew exactly where she stood the entire time. His dark look commanded her to stay put. She gulped down her punch, feeling a dizzy wave upon the last swallow. That orange liqueur was a bit strong, but she needed fortification.
“Mr. Dawson? Could you please get me another glass? It’s very hot in here.”
“Of course.” He took her glass hastily and rushed off toward the refreshments.
“Very hot,” whispered Sylvia. “Well done.”
A twinge of guilt twisted her insides. Until she caught the duke striding down the center of the room, cutting through the dancers, coming toward her with long strides. Then trepidation set in. She thanked the heavens they were in a crowded room, for she wasn’t quite sure how to handle his promise of next time they were alone.
His gaze never wavered. When he finally stopped in front of her and gave her a slight bow, he didn’t hesitate to offer his hand. “I believe this is our waltz, Miss Snow.”
“Is it?” She finally tuned into the melody, recognizing the slow drawl of bows over strings.
“Yes.” He stepped into her space as he was wont to do. “Give me your hand.”
She narrowed her gaze and said low for his ears only, while placing her gloved hand in his. “Only because I don’t want to cause a scene.”
His pretty mouth ticked up on one side. “Whatever you want to believe.” He gripped her waist with his other hand and whirled her onto the dance floor. She was only vaguely aware that Mr. Dawson stood to the side holding two glasses of punch with a look of surprise and disappointment on his face. She winced.
“And what is that look for?” he asked.
“Poor Mr. Dawson. I suppose I’ll have to dance with him next.”
“Why would you do that?” He pulled her tighter on the next turn.
“Because he’d asked me first. And then you barreled in here and swept me onto the floor like you own me.”
“Don’t I?”
“Hmph. No, Your Grace. You do not. No one does.” She tilted her head to the side, watching the dancers as they spun, trying to pretend they weren’t all staring at her.
“Oh, Miss Snow.” The barrel-deep timbre of his voice pulled her attention back to him. Unwillingly. “I love that you believe that is so. But you will be mine ere long. No doubt of it.” He smiled whimsically. “Best not to tease poor Mr. Dawson into thinking he has a chance.”
“Tease? You’re the one who’s teasing. You speak of possession and ownership as if I were a prized mare. I am not.”
“Indeed not, kitten. You are much more precious.” His large hand squeezed at her waist, the heat searing through the fabric of her gown, through her stays.
Determined to not be thrown off balance, or to at least have the appearance of a woman still in her right mind, she asked, “Why do you continue to call me ‘kitten’? It’s an insulting endearment. And the duke shouldn’t be calling the schoolteacher endearments at all.”
On the next turn, he pulled her close, till her breasts brushed his chest. The friction, as brief as it was, rasped her nipples. She gasped then quickly clamped her mouth shut, trying to put some distance between them. But he was in full control, his large frame engulfing her, his intimidating presence swallowing her with each turn.
“Your dress is quite beautiful on you.” He ignored her question entirely. “So much more appealing than your gray frocks.”
“What is wrong with my frocks?”
“They’re hideous.”
She gasped. “My frocks are entirely suitable to a woman of my role in society.”
“And what role is that? An old crone?”
She caught his mischievous smile. He was goading her. And it was working. “An unmarried woman. The town’s schoolteacher.”
He scoffed, slowing their waltz. “You think yourself a spinster at three and twenty? I think not. I’m going to burn every one of them when I get the chance.”
“Your Grace. You will do no such thing. You have no right to destroy any of my possessions.”
He grinned and slowed their forward movement to a stop, drawing her even closer.
She tried to step from his embrace, but he held her good. “Your Grace?”
“I’m not quite sure you know what’s happening between us, Miss Snow. But let me be clear. Those hideous rags are not worthy of your luscious body. Not worthy of you. You may try to hide your beauty behind drab colors and formless frocks and tight buns. But I see what’s beneath. And I want—no, I will have you in all your glory. Therefore, prepare yourself to be draped in silk quite soon.”
She saw the lion in the man, gazing down at her with steadfast calm and confidence. All of which was breathtaking and alluring. She spent the majority of her life trying to order and control her surroundings, only to find her world tilted at every turn. She wondered how the duke would feel to lose his control. “It must be very difficult,” she said.
“What must be difficult?” He swept her away from clumsy Mr. Powell, who nearly barreled into them with his dance partner.
“Believing that you own everyone you meet.”
“You wound me. I don’t believe that at all.”
“Really? You just stated as if it were a decree that I’d be draped in silk. What if I don’t like silk?”
His smoldering smile made her knees buckle. “Come now, Miss Snow.” He leaned close to her ear, his lip brushing the shell as he whispered on the turn, “If not a silk dress, how about silk sheets?”
She laughed, his naughty teasing bringing a heated flush to her face. “You’re most improper for a royal duke.”
“Thank you,” he said with a smirk. “I do my best.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“It most certainly was.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Well, whatever you may believe, I’d like to clarify that you do not own me, Your Grace.”
“I don’t want to own you, kitten. I want to possess you.”
“There is no difference.”
“Indeed. There is.”
Eyes darkening and hooded in shadow, she caught them drifting over her face before they landed on her mouth. His own parted slightly. “Your Grace,” she warned, “if you are making plans to kiss me on the dance floor, let me tell you that it will not be welcome.”
“All right. Will it be welcome in my carriage on the way home?”
She arched her brow. “Are you always so forward with ladies you’re trying to woo?”
“No. Indeed not. I’m usually much more charming, but you seem to bring out the beast in me, Miss Snow. I’d rather skip all the games and get straight to the prize.”
“You’re incorrigible—”
A sudden snarl and clamor of noise came from behind them. Someone screamed.
She was lifted bodily in his strong arms, moving lightning fast. Everything was a blur. When she was set on her feet, she was in the back of the room, standing before Grant, knees buckling.
“Guard her with your life.” Then the duke blurred toward the animal-like sounds.
The middle of the room had emptied, townspeople shoving back in a panic, running for the one exit. There, on the dance floor was a man Brenna didn’t recognize bent over the limp form of Marianne in his arms. He’d torn open her throat and was drinking her blood as it dripped and pooled on the wood floor, soaking into her pink satin purse.