Page 2 of Too Brazen to Bite (Gothic Love Stories #5)

The steps of country-dances led him to one, then another, then yet another, leaving them all flushed and breathless and smitten, panting and clawing for the chance to tumble into his embrace once again, as if addicted to his scent.

It was horrifying and appalling and... more than a little exciting.

Every time he chose a pastel angel from the adoring crowd, Ellie’s flesh tingled as if it had been her hand he had touched. Every time he spun an enraptured young miss out of his arms for a beat or two, Ellie felt the loss of contact down to her bones.

It was as if she could feel what they felt, both the delicious sense of vulnerability as one wide-eyed innocent after another let herself be trapped in his arms, as well as the darker thrill of possession, of mastery, of control over everyone who fell within his line of vision.

Although, as expected, Ellie had seen no signs whatsoever of the handsome Lord Lovenip’s being tempted by blood rather than by the ladies themselves, he was certainly dangerous in his own right, and a volatile addition to any throng. Not to mention provocative.

“Miss Breckenridge—” Ellie sucked in a breath, shocked to have heard a stammer in her voice.

One would think this man had cast a spell over the ballroom.

“Miss Breckenridge,” she began again, once she had regained her command over both voice and body.

“Presumably, the man who has enraptured the entire party without uttering a single word is the infamous Lord Lovenip. I see him dancing with those he should and those he should not, but nothing more untoward than that. I thought you said he... bites?”

“Not all of them.” With obvious difficulty, Miss Breckenridge tore her eyes from the man in question.

She turned toward Ellie, her movements sluggish, as if she yearned to tilt back toward Macane.

“And not all the time. That’s what makes him harder to catch.

” Her shoulders lifted with a sigh. “And it’s why nobody believes me.

” Miss Breckenridge’s voice lowered. “He’s not playacting, Miss Ramsay. He’s a predator.”

Unconvinced of dark magic afoot, Ellie pursed her lips and considered. “What is he waiting for, then? A solicitation?”

“A temptation, rather.” Miss Breckenridge lifted one of her slender arms and gave a flick of the wrist at the teeming crush. “He’s bored. He’s danced with these women before, many times. Such is the burden of the Beau Monde—there are a limited set of us at any given party.”

“A trial, to be sure,” Ellie murmured.

“I have had a devil of a time catching him in the act,” Miss Breckenridge continued.

“My own sister doesn’t acknowledge the truth, which is what prompted me to hire a professional.

Nothing short of impartial corroboration will gain me her ear.

” She gave a sharp nod. “I shall now step aside and allow you your head.”

“Very well.” Ellie returned her gaze to the riveting Highlander who somehow made six-plus feet of controlled muscle seem elegant and graceful.

She strongly suspected the virginal misses swarming about were in danger of losing something far more irreplaceable than a ration of blood, but how on earth could Ellie prove it?

“Dance,” she suggested to her client. “Dance with him, and I promise to watch closely. I shan’t even blink.”

Miss Breckenridge recoiled as if Ellie had suggested eating spiders with tea. “Are you mad? I’ve no wish to be nibbled upon by Lord Lovenip, no matter how handsome the devil’s spawn might be. Dance with him yourself if you’d like to tempt him into action.”

Nibbled upon. Yes. That did sound—Ellie gave her head a violent shake.

No, rather. What bug was in her brain today?

She had no wish to be nibbled upon, by this charlatan or anyone else.

Furthermore, whilst Mr. Macane might be a rake of the first order, that hardly made him an undead creature bent on draining the blue blood from London’s finest.

Should she risk a dance to prove it? Certainly. Miss Elspeth Ramsay was more than willing to get her hands dirty in the name of science.

But how?

No one knew her. She was a dowdy spinster in outdated attire, hidden in a shadowy corner of the ballroom.

Anonymity was the crux of any covert investigation.

That’s why every time she infiltrated a crowd, she spent the first quarter hour mentally chanting, Don’t look at me, Don’t remember me, at everyone who passed her by.

It went well against the grain to wish for the opposite. And if the unthinkable happened and Lord Lovenip did happen to notice an unremarkable old maid flanking the third daughter of a viscount, he’d suppose her Miss Breckenridge’s chaperone before he thought her a viable partner.

Besides, did she even know how to dance? Ellie frowned, realizing for the first time that her ability to perform dance steps—or not—was one of the many maddening holes in her memory.

Her mother had cautioned against taking this assignment, as if Ellie might forget herself and never return home. Utter nonsense. What Ellie could not forget was how badly their pockets were to let. They could ill afford to turn down money, and this was just a simple ball.

Ellie would stick to the shadows, as always, and hopefully return home overlooked but a few pounds richer. And life would go on as always.

But she couldn’t stop the traitorous voice inside her head from whispering, Look at me; notice me as she stared at Mr. Macane’s devastatingly handsome form.

Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. His attention was on his simpering dance partner.

Chest tight with resentment and envy, Ellie shifted her gaze to the beautiful debutante in his arms, who had thrown herself into the arms of a man she believed deadly. The chit was wealthy and popular—everything Ellie was not.

I hope you fall.

The girl’s legs collapsed beneath her.

Ellie gasped in shock at the coincidence, unconsciously pressing her back against the uneven wall.

Macane extended a graceful hand to the trembling girl at his feet, but his dark gaze focused over her head, as if he could see through the throng and through the shadows, to the young lady trying desperately to melt into the wainscoting.

“You can’t see me. You can’t see me,” Ellie whispered, suddenly and unreasonably terrified.

“He can,” Miss Breckenridge corrected her, her voice faint. “I fear you’ve been marked.”

Ellie’s body fought to free itself from the wall, as if pulled toward him by a force more powerful than her self-control. Every sense, every pore, screamed danger. Her breathing faltered and her heartbeat sped until her only reality was herself... and him.

The melody ended, and a new one began. Without taking his eyes from Ellie, Macane handed the young girl off to her mother and strode forward, his step purposeful, his eyes determined.

Despite the crowd, despite the music, despite her own breath rasping loudly in her ears, from across the ballroom she could clearly hear him speak his first word of the evening.

“You.”

And then he pounced.