The huge chandeliers glittered like diamonds, casting a soft glow over the brightly colored assemblage. The women were dressed in their most vivid colors, flitting about the room like butterflies in the wind. The men, not to be outdone in attire, also glided this way and that, leading their partners in dance. On the edges of the ballroom floor, members of the ton—the upper, upper crust of British society—stood talking and waiting for scandal to erupt.
Ian took it all in stride, searching for Clair as he entered the throng. She had mentioned the day before on their ride home from the park that she would be attending this, the Faltisek Ball, the next night.
As he strode past a large marble column, Ian was halted with a touch on the arm by the Honorable Christopher Wilder. "Huntsley, good to see you," the blond, curly-haired man commented, his brown eyes narrowed.
Ian nodded warily. Christopher Wilder was a force unto himself. His affections were all reputedly feigned, his eyes cruel, his debauches legend. "Wilder," Ian acknowledged coolly.
"I heard you were escorting the younger Frankenstein female yesterday."
Ian scowled, recognizing that the only thing in London more pathetic than the ton's affinity for gossip was its limited attention span and even more limited ability to tell truth from fiction. "This concerns you how?" he growled.
Wilder's smile was anything but friendly. "What maggot's in your head? It was only an innocent comment. I had just remarked upon it because she's not your usual fare."
The man glanced over to where Ian saw Clair holding court with two elderly gentleman, one slender and silver-haired, the other balding and plump of both pocket and figure. Ian also noted that Clair was dressed in a dark green gown, so dark it almost appeared black, over a tawny golden slip. Tiny puffed sleeves decorated in gold were attached to a décolletage which showed off bare shoulders and much of her pale breasts. Too much of her breasts for a public place, Ian noted darkly.
Watching Ian watch Clair, Wilder commented slyly, "Although she is a delicious piece of womanhood."
"I've killed men for less," Ian snapped, his fists clenched, his eyes flashing green fire.
"My, my, how territorial you've become, and in so short a time. Cupid's arrow must be sharp indeed."
Bowing, Wilder turned and blended back into the rapacious crowd, a sneer twisting his lips.
A scowl marred Ian's austere features. He didn't want Clair conversing with just anyone, not with that neckline cut practically down to her navel. Peevishly, he began making his way through the thickening crowd to where she conversed with the two men, a false smile plastered on her face.
Clair didn't much care for places where the general conversation was insipid and uninspired; she still remembered her years as a debutante, where the most common focal point of conversations had been the chance of rain. She had been a radical, turning the talk to explanations of condensation and transpiration in the rain cycle. She had added the carbon cycles as well. The memory caused her to grin. Yes, she had been a true rebel, so much so that the younger men of the ton remembered to this day, and were even now leaving her alone. The pig incident of eight months before hadn't helped much either. She was now a social pariah to most of the ton.
Viscount Evans interrupted her musings. "My dear Miss Frankenstein, is it true what they say about the monster?"
The viscount reminded her of a fat owl, Clair decided, cocking her head and regarding him intently. But he was certainly not wise. She was irritated by his reference to her cousin as "the monster." "His name is Frederick," she chided gently.
Lord Price and Viscount Evans both raised their brows. Still, Clair continued trying to explain the unexplainable. "We do not think of him as a monster. He is much like any man, with a tad more stuffing than most."
Clair couldn't resist glancing at Viscount Evans's paunchy waistline.
"But that is just the point, my dear," Lord Price laughed.
The laugh caused goosebumps on her arms. Clair had always wondered how such a thin, harmless man could have such a haunting laugh. But, then, Lord Vince Price's laugh was rather his signature, in a town where signatures were worth their weight in gold, if one could be designated a nonpareil or an original.
"He is not just a man. Why, I heard that he is rather… well endowed in some aspects," Viscount Evans finished with a speculative leer to his eye.
Clair blushed, knowing exactly to what he was referring. It was true that Frederick was rather massive in all areas. And knowing Uncle Victor, it was possible, just possible, that a nip and snip here and there… She blushed even brighter as she remembered the rumored affair with the Countess of Deville, and that her own favorite stallion Pegasus had become a gelding after the great electrical storm of 1819 and Frederick's creation.
"By the deuce, Evans!" Lord Price admonished. "What a rum-cursed thing to say to this lovely young lady. You forget yourself."
"Indeed you do," Ian broke in with a clipped, icy tone, which matched his frigid countenance. "Miss Frankenstein is a lady in the strictest sense."
Viscount Evans's face was pale. He stammered, "I-I meant no disrespect. I know Miss Frankenstein is… a lady of the… ut-utmost quality, but she is also a lady of science. Ladies of scientific study enjoy a bit m-more freedom in both speech and thinking."
Ian stepped closer to Clair, partially blocking her.
But Clair knew the truth when she heard it; Evans had meant no harm. She had been given much free rein while growing up, in a day and age where other young ladies were put on pedestals and left there to mold. She lived in a time when to have a brain was manly, and absurd for a woman. Yet Clair not only used her intelligence, she spoke earnestly and brightly about subjects upon which many men were less than informed. Older men found that fascinating. Younger ones found her daunting, while women found her peculiar.
Gracefully, Clair placed a restraining arm on Ian's wrist. "I know the viscount meant no offense. He and I have discussed matters of scientific import before. He has an inquiring mind." Then she added for Ian's ears only, "I sometimes fear it overrules his tongue and brain."
Ian narrowed his gaze on Viscount Evans. "I don't think this particular question has much to do with science, but more to do with a morbid curiosity of the titillating."
The viscount bowed to Clair. "Again, I… I beg pardon," he squeaked. The viscount knew better than to pull the tail of a tiger. Baron Huntsley was infamous for being dangerous and easily provoked.
"I accept your gracious apology." Clair didn't particularly care for the viscount, but every once in a great while he did contribute something to her knowledge of the natural world. Upon her absolution, he scurried away, Lord Price following in his wake, both men glancing nervously over their shoulders.
Ian leaned over and whispered, "I must admit he has aroused my curiosity as well."
Clair glanced up, a question in her eyes.
"Is Frederick hung like a stallion?" Ian's eyes twinkled with mischief.
"And to think I thought you were a knight in shining armor riding to my rescue." She tapped him soundly on the arm with her fan. "You are a scoundrel."
"Alas, my lady, my steed is as black as my deeds."
"And I see you have left both your armor and your lance at home."
Ian snorted. If the little innocent only realized what she did to him. His lance was fair to bursting with need and he had hardly left it at home. He had been in torment from the moment he noticed Clair's display of her rather abundant charms. Charms which he and every gentleman in the kingdom were getting a chance to gawk at.
"Is your aunt Mary here tonight?" he asked, his tone curt.
Clair nodded, trying to reason out why he was suddenly in a bad mood. He was a most curious man. He fascinated her thoroughly, more so than any man she had ever met. He was certainly of a different mettle, a man among boys, making her insides go all shivery and liquid. Her reaction was a dilemma to be systematically evaluated. She hoped the process took years.
Thoughtful, Clair subconsciously bit her lip, a nervous habit she'd had since she was small. She was suddenly wondering how she had ever managed to hide her licentious nature for twenty-five years, especially from herself. She was becoming a wanton. Who would have ever guessed that underneath her guise of devoted scientist, she'd harbored such a penchant for lurid matters of the flesh? Especially when they were not matters for the microscope in her uncle Victor's lab.
Distracted from his thoughts, Ian was mesmerized by Clair's cleavage, so amply displayed in her form-fitting bodice. She must be freezing, he thought sourly. He had visions of warming her, carting her off to have his wicked way. He had visions of other men seeing what should not be seen by eyes other than his own. "Does your aunt approve of this gown?"
Clair glanced down at herself, embarrassed and stung. She had dressed carefully, hoping Ian would notice and think her one of the loveliest ladies at the ball. In fact, the only reason she had come to this dratted ball was to see him. And he had the nerve to complain? "You don't like my gown?"
Before Ian could answer, Lady Mary Frankenstein approached, almost bouncing along, curls jiggling atop her head. She was decked out in a deep blue gown with silver trimming on the sleeves and bodice. A striking set of sapphires hung around her neck.
"Baron Huntsley, how nice to see you again," Lady Mary said, her smile warm as she held up her hand for Ian to kiss. "How handsome you look tonight." Shooting a quick glance at her niece, she added, "Clair, don't you agree?"
"Most assuredly," Clair responded, thinking Ian did look divine. His starched cravat was tied neatly, and he was dressed all in black, his elegant evening clothes fitting him like a glove. Fitting him exceptionally well everywhere, showing off his broad shoulders and strong thighs. Suddenly she had the most urgent need to run her hands up and down the baron's rock-solid legs. She wanted to feel those muscular appendages for herself.
Quickly she glanced away, hoping her aunt hadn't noticed her ogling the baron and her rapid descent down the road to perdition. Milton was right. Paradise would indeed be lost if all gentlemen looked like Ian in their evening clothes.
Watching the interaction of the two young people, Lady Mary's eyes twinkled with mirth. She was not one to let the grass grow under her feet. She knew when two people were physically attracted to one another, and it was glaringly obvious that her niece and the baron's desires were screaming like harridans to be indulged. She smiled a secret smile. Another baron in the family was just what the Frankenstein family needed. She would wear blue to the wedding—nothing too fancy, but of elegant design. Perhaps Belgian lace would decorate her décolletage, with a tiny smattering of seed pearls.
"I was wondering, my lord, if you would care to dine with us tomorrow night. Nothing formal, just some family friends," Lady Mary said coyly.
"What an intriguing suggestion," Ian managed to say with a straight face. The old bat was playing matchmaker, he would bet a monkey. He grinned. He was too old to be ensnared by such a flimsy plot, but he wasn't too old to enjoy the challenge of skimming its edges. Besides, it fit perfectly well with his Plan A, The Seduction of Clair Frankenstein. "I would be delighted."
Before Lady Mary could say more, Lady Delia Channey, in a pink confection of a gown, maneuvered her way into their midst, her eyes devouring Ian. "Lady Mary, Miss Frankenstein, how nice to see you here," she commented, her voice breathy as she turned her big brown eyes on the Baron.
Clair grimaced. Lady Delia reminded of her a toothy shark, just waiting in the depths to rise up and snatch whatever she wanted. Unfortunately for Clair, Ian was a prime catch in the marriage mart. Still, manners demanded she introduce the little schemer—but that didn't mean Clair had to like it.
Stiffly, she made the introductions, her eyes narrowing as Lady Delia batted her eyelashes at Ian. Before she could stop herself, Clair blurted, "Lady Delia, do you have something in your eye? Perhaps I can help?"
Ian coughed into his hand to cover a snicker. It appeared that Clair was jealous! A good sign for his Plan A.
Ian coughed again as Lady Delia gave Clair a look that would have melted iron. "I am fine, Clair. And you? I have not seen you in many weeks. I take it you have been doing your usual manly deliberations in and outside of your dusty lab?" Her voice was sugar-sweet, her fan batting in a mating signal at Ian.
It was a classic Delia move, this opening gambit, the game being to embarrass Clair before a fresh audience. Clair responded coldly. "Yes. You know my work keeps me extremely busy."
"I am always so impressed with your studies. But they are beyond me. I can't imagine researching what you do. I have always heard that science is a field for gentleman scholars, not delicate females. Why, I can't imagine little old me knowing what to do in those laboratory places." She spoke the word "laboratory" as if it were a den of iniquity.
Yes, Clair surmised, Delia was in her prime. "I'm surprised to find that you even know the word 'scientific,'" she responded archly. Check! she thought proudly; she had countered with a bold move.
"Oh dear," Delia mused. "I fear my association with you must be rubbing off. Whatever shall I do? I don't want to be a bluestocking like you who never lets anything keep her from her research. People talk about how unladylike it is. But then, everyone knows you are a lady." Her eyes were fixed on Clair, a slight smile on her lips as she finished, "At least I think they do. They did before that unfortunate pig incident."
Damn! Checkmate. She was going to have to concede the game, Clair thought bitterly, a taste like ashes in her mouth. Clair blushed, both embarrassed and angry at the same time. How like Lady Delia to bring up that little unfortunate misunderstanding in front of Ian!
"That was much ado about nothing." Her reply was firm, her bearing haughty. She would show Delia. She had been mocked by the best and the worst, Delia being both.
Ian, amused, watched the battle raging between the two titans. What pig incident? He knew without being told that the tale would be a whopper.
Observing Clair and her aunt, Ian recognized immediately that neither wanted to talk of it. Clair was staring with desperate interest at the Venetian chandeliers high above. Her aunt Mary had joined her in wonder at the lights. Ian wondered what mischief Clair had gotten into. His curiosity barely contained, he raised a questioning brow at Lady Delia.
With great relish, in her breathy little voice, Lady Delia spoke. "Why, our dear Clair was researching the ghostly disturbances at Murray Manor. It appeared that the cemetery had ghosts residing there. Clair went to investigate the apparitions."
Clair wanted desperately to sew Lady Delia's mouth shut, and Clair did so hate sewing. Lady Delia certainly wasn't her dear anything. This was war!
Glaring at the woman's smug expression, Clair reminded herself that Delia, the daughter of the Earl of Lon, was a woman of a thousand faces, all of them false. Drawing herself up to her full five foot three, Clair engaged in battle. She could still try to save her king.
"I was requested by the marquis himself to help stop the nightly visitations," she said. "The marquis was concerned because his guests had been complaining for quite some time about the noises in the cemetery." She said each word with distinct and stately decorum. "It certainly sounded like ghosts. It could have been ghosts. Ghosts have an affinity for the cemetery. They feel comfortable there. You could say they feel very much at home in the cemetery," she said a bit desperately.
"Dear," Lady Mary said, patting Clair's arm in sympathy. "You couldn't have known that it wasn't a ghost. It could have been. Quite easily indeed. Easily."
Ian stared at all three women, his amusement obvious. "I am agog with curiosity. If it wasn't ghosts haunting the cemetery, what could it have been? Let me see," he teased. "Was it a goblin? No. Goblins aren't real, I recall being told only recently."
Clair pursed her lips, her eyes twinkling.
"Could it have been that dreaded v-word? A vampire?" He gave Clair such a devilish smile that she almost melted on the spot, her embarrassment easing greatly.
But Ian's look had not gone unnoticed by either Lady Mary or Lady Delia. Carefully, Lady Delia composed her features and remarked sweetly, "No, it was pigs. Smelly pigs, rooting around the headstones at night."
Clair glanced down, hoping the ballroom floor would open up and swallow her, but knowing in her rational mind that it wouldn't. She had been the butt of these jokes too many times, and it still hurt.
In spite of himself, Ian caught himself chuckling. Lady Delia giggled. However, Aunt Mary, a veteran of Clair's debacles, kept her grin to herself. It wasn't every niece who could cast for pearly ghosts and end up with swine.
Yes, Lady Mary remembered the ghostbusting mission at Murray Manor had caused her niece quite a bit of old-fashioned embarrassment, not to mention that it had set her back several months in her observations of ghostly spectrals.
Loyally, Lady Mary patted her niece's arm. "It was a mistake anyone could make, dear. I'm sure ghosts sound just like pigs rooting about on their nightly haunts." It really had been naughty, she thought, for Delia to bring the subject up.
Clair wanted to roll her eyes. "Thank you, Aunt," she managed, a rueful smile on her face. Her aunt always meant well, but if Mary wasn't putting her foot in her mouth then she was somehow maneuvering to place Clair's there as well.
Lady Delia wiped a corner of her eye, her mirth still obvious. The shrew was always at her best when making sport of someone else, Clair thought sourly. It wasn't fair, she argued with herself. Delia looked all pink innocence but had the heart of a killer. She'd flesh out a person's weakness and then go full steam for the jugular.
"By the by, did you ever manage to find any evidence of ghosts at all?" Lady Delia asked.
"No. However, I am now working on something altogether different. Much more spectacular than spectrals. It's important. Really, really important research."
"It wouldn't take much to outdo pigs," Delia said.
Glaring, Clair wished just once that she hadn't been born a lady. What she wouldn't do to the black-haired witch. She took a step forward.
Ian, sensing that the battle of wits was moving into a physical reclaim, quickly placed a restraining hand on her arm. "My lady, it is the waltz you promised me." Bowing to both Lady Mary and Lady Delia he said, "If you will excuse us, please."
Lady Delia frowned and Lady Mary smiled. Chalk one up for the baron, Lady Mary thought. The handsome devil had extracted Clair with hautton finesse, diverting a scene, escaping Lady Delia's clutches, and bringing a smile to her niece's lips. Yes, he would do quite nicely for a husband. She watched Ian gracefully sweep Clair into the waltz.
On the dance floor, Ian had to keep reminding himself not to hold Clair too tightly. She felt so incredible in his arms, and light as an angel. Her gaze narrowed on him, making him feel he just might be the devil.
"You're scowling at me," he remarked calmly.
"Ladies don't scowl," she replied stiffly.
"Ladies don't get caught up in catfights in the middle of balls," he responded dryly.
He was right; he had her there. Still, his amusement at her pig disaster rankled. "How clever you are. Yet gentlemen don't make sport of ladies or insult their gowns," Clair said.
Her earlier hurt had turned into chagrin at Ian's utter lack of compliments on her attire. He should at the least have been stunned by her appearance. She knew she was in good looks. She had to be. She had spent three cursed hours getting ready for this cursed ball only to have the cursed baron insult her ballgown, when she could have been plodding ahead with her investigative work. She had another vampire suspect to study; perhaps she should be off studying him.
Ian eyed Clair's gown, his gaze lingering on her abundant charms. A spark of anger filled his eyes. "There is not enough of that gown to insult."
"Really, my lord, you go too far! Madame Le Fronge said it was the latest in Parisian fashion."
Ian knew that Madame Le Fronge was one of the foremost dressmakers in London. But obviously the woman was an idiot.
"Clair, don't get yourself in a tiff. The gown is lovely on you. What there is of it. I can't take my eyes off you—and neither can the other so-called gentlemen of the ton. And I use the word 'gentlemen' lightly."
"I would accuse you of having a screw loose, if my uncle Victor had created you." Clair glanced around. "No one is paying attention to me."
"In that case…" Ian trailed off as he danced her out the open balcony doors. The terrace was awash in soft moonlight that gilded Clair's face and hair.
Releasing his grip on her arm, he moved a step back, staring down at her. "You're wrong, Clair. Men do look at you, and often. If you would just get your head out of your books, you'd see that."
"Balderdash," she replied. He was embarrassing her.
"You need to quit reading so much about life and live it," he advised gently as he led her over to a corner on the terrace deep in shadow. "Take time out from your studies and endeavors and just live."
"I would expect that kind of rakish comment from a rogue."
"I'll show you rakish," he said. Giving a wolfish grin, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly against his heated body. Ignoring her gasp of surprise, he kissed her. Clair returned the kiss shyly at first and then with a vigor that was startling. The friction of his mouth working against hers was delicious. His tongue entering her mouth was incendiary. She could feel his body heat envelop her, and she could feel something pressing against her stomach.
His arms were strong against her back, his hands questing. She felt the pull of his gravity thoroughly. A long, drawn-out moan escaped her.
With that soft sound from Clair, Ian's kiss took on a will of its own. White hot heat flooded him as he explored the depths of her mouth. All Ian could think was how he wanted to devour the honeyed sweetness of Clair.
Their kisses quickly heated his blood to the boiling point. He pushed his tongue inside her mouth again. She was like an electrical storm flashing through his system, jolting him back to life. His member was hard and throbbing, heavy with need. She arched back, the movement pressing her ample breasts against his chest. He could feel the nipples pebbling.
Growling, he trailed kisses down her neck to her daring décolletage. His tongue flicked out, causing Clair to gasp and grab his hair. He nipped her nipple and she shivered. It was almost more than Ian could bear. His hunger for her was sharp-set. He wanted to throw her to the ground and bury himself so deep it would take a week to pull himself free. Somewhere deep inside Clair, she knew that she should stop Ian. Ladies did not do this. Ladies did not feel passion, they only read about it. Ladies did not go out on balconies and then go up in flames. To hell with ladies! She grabbed his hair and pulled him closer.
Unexpectedly, they heard the sound of footsteps in the garden directly below. Ian broke apart from Clair, his nostrils flaring. Looking down at her, he arrogantly noted Clair's dazed expression and red lips, bruised by passion.
"I-I…" she stammered. She tried again, her breathing almost back to normal. "I should apologize to you." My God, she fretted. It was worse than she'd thought. She had become a salivating strumpet. She was losing her dedication to duty along with her moral fibre. She hadn't thought about the vampire nest since Ian arrived in the ballroom. What would Uncle Victor think?
Ian shook his head. Once again Clair had shocked him. "I should be the one offering an apology," he said. His voice was husky with unfulfilled lust.
"No, I acted very unlike myself—more like I imagine a woman of the street would act in a similar circumstance." Ian tried to interrupt, but Clair waved him off. "I know a lady should not act the wanton, and I am after all a lady by birth and degree, but I am also a Frankenstein. And Frankensteins have a fierce passion for scientific inquiry."
Ian smiled. "Yes, I know."
"Then you do understand."
"Understand what?" Ian was at a complete loss.
"My response to your kiss was inevitable. You see, we seem to have some kind of electrical current, a spark, so to speak. This spark intrigues me. I feel it must be quite similar to Oersted's theory on magnetism, where two opposing poles attract one another. I had so wondered what caused poets to write such passionate sonnets as I have read. Now I know," she remarked. She turned and began walking away.
Suddenly she stopped and looked back over her creamy white shoulder. "After experiencing passion myself, this centripetal force, I wonder that there is not more poetry in the world. A veritable deluge of it."
Ian sighed, frustrated. He was giving her his best kiss and she was thinking of magnets? Still, he couldn't keep his eyes off her as she strolled away, her shimmering green gown a beacon of light. She had done it again: stunned him. Clair Frankenstein was like the unfettered ocean rushing off in ceaseless journey toward distant shores. And how could he resist her pull? She stopped once and looked back, smiling at him, a smile for him alone.
Grimacing, he studied her. So she thought him an experiment. He had been many things to many people in his life; however, an instrument of scientific inquiry was not one of them.
Then all at once he smiled wickedly. Just wait until the next time he kissed her. He would give her a charge that would knock her garters off!
And just what in the bloody hell was centripetal force?