jumped on him. Of course he would never consider hunting with a mere woman by choice.
“Hurry—” It was Lord Sommersby, holding open the drapery.
Mr. Swift gallantly offered his arm, but she ignored it to dart up the stairs, holding up the trailing hem of the oversized robe.
The gallery was empty, shadowed. The dangling chandelier that should illuminate the salon below was unlit, but the crystal caught golden light from wall sconces below and dazzled. Urbane laughter welled up, as did the strains of cultured music and feminine giggles.
She’d expected wildness, rowdy sounds, mayhem—like an uproar in a theatre pit.
“The exit must be there—shielded by those curtains,” Lord Summersby directed. His domino cloak flapped around him as he strode across to where the railing reached the wall, beside crimson curtains. His long legs crossed the space in seconds.
“Wait.” Mr. Swift kept his voice low as he prowled to the gallery’s edge. “We should see if we can spot Miss Lark’s captors in that crowd.”
“Even if we do, we aren’t attacking here,” Sommersby warned.
Her library—and Dracul’s journal—were so close. Serena moved to the gallery’s edge to look down on the ballroom. She wanted a glimpse into the vampire’s world. If she was truly a vampire, she wanted to know…
How could she be a vampire yet not drink blood? Not be undead? She didn’t understand—and she was determined to make Ashcroft tell her.
The brass rail around the gallery was smooth, cool beneath her touch—her hands were still bare. She needed a moment to plan. How was she going to retrieve the Vlad Dracul book without Lord Sommersby discovering what it was? He’d take it from her, likely by force. He might be known for heroism, but it was known that if he wanted something, he took it.
How could she find it and hide it?
She heard the click of boot heels behind her, Sommersby approaching her. Drake Swift was scanning the crowd below. Blinking, Serena looked down on the scene. Everywhere she saw women. Courtesans, high-flyers, jades, lightskirts—but all were voluptuous, lovely, fascinating.
Many were young, with long silky hair that reached their bared bottoms, but they were of all ages, all coloring, all sizes and shapes, and most wore the same costume. They wore corsets of black with scarlet strings, dyed black stockings and heeled shoes.
It was scandalous, but it also seemed so freeing to be unafraid to parade around in such clothes—certainly wearing just a robe made her feel both courageous and nerve-wracked.
There were men below, of course, dozens of men. In the center of the salon was a raised dais, a large one, like a stage. It was empty. Around it, many of the men strolled. Men in evening dress, in capes, in robes. So many men on the move it was almost impossible to search them for her vampire captors. All were surrounded by women—women fawning on them, touching them, whispering to them.
It still startled Serena to see the lusty smiles on the women’s faces—women who should be terrified. It was like watching rabbits leap into foxes’ jaws.
Serena glanced up. On her left, Drake Swift was slowly scanning the crowd. On her other Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 24
side, Lord Sommersby did the same.
Did she see Roman? No. To Serena’s astonishment, one dark-haired man, wearing a cape, tossed a blond woman onto the stage. The woman giggled, and her expression was a blend of lust, excitement, and playfulness. She was delighted to be a vampire’s plaything. The man pushed her back and she flopped back, on the stage, arms outstretched. Her breasts were exposed, her waist cinched impossibly small by the corset, her nether hair exposed. The man shoved her legs apart—
wider, wider, until the woman let her head fall back. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the woman’s quim.
Applause and cheers abounded.
Serena knew what that act felt like. William Bridgewater had
“Hurry—” It was Lord Sommersby, holding open the drapery.
Mr. Swift gallantly offered his arm, but she ignored it to dart up the stairs, holding up the trailing hem of the oversized robe.
The gallery was empty, shadowed. The dangling chandelier that should illuminate the salon below was unlit, but the crystal caught golden light from wall sconces below and dazzled. Urbane laughter welled up, as did the strains of cultured music and feminine giggles.
She’d expected wildness, rowdy sounds, mayhem—like an uproar in a theatre pit.
“The exit must be there—shielded by those curtains,” Lord Summersby directed. His domino cloak flapped around him as he strode across to where the railing reached the wall, beside crimson curtains. His long legs crossed the space in seconds.
“Wait.” Mr. Swift kept his voice low as he prowled to the gallery’s edge. “We should see if we can spot Miss Lark’s captors in that crowd.”
“Even if we do, we aren’t attacking here,” Sommersby warned.
Her library—and Dracul’s journal—were so close. Serena moved to the gallery’s edge to look down on the ballroom. She wanted a glimpse into the vampire’s world. If she was truly a vampire, she wanted to know…
How could she be a vampire yet not drink blood? Not be undead? She didn’t understand—and she was determined to make Ashcroft tell her.
The brass rail around the gallery was smooth, cool beneath her touch—her hands were still bare. She needed a moment to plan. How was she going to retrieve the Vlad Dracul book without Lord Sommersby discovering what it was? He’d take it from her, likely by force. He might be known for heroism, but it was known that if he wanted something, he took it.
How could she find it and hide it?
She heard the click of boot heels behind her, Sommersby approaching her. Drake Swift was scanning the crowd below. Blinking, Serena looked down on the scene. Everywhere she saw women. Courtesans, high-flyers, jades, lightskirts—but all were voluptuous, lovely, fascinating.
Many were young, with long silky hair that reached their bared bottoms, but they were of all ages, all coloring, all sizes and shapes, and most wore the same costume. They wore corsets of black with scarlet strings, dyed black stockings and heeled shoes.
It was scandalous, but it also seemed so freeing to be unafraid to parade around in such clothes—certainly wearing just a robe made her feel both courageous and nerve-wracked.
There were men below, of course, dozens of men. In the center of the salon was a raised dais, a large one, like a stage. It was empty. Around it, many of the men strolled. Men in evening dress, in capes, in robes. So many men on the move it was almost impossible to search them for her vampire captors. All were surrounded by women—women fawning on them, touching them, whispering to them.
It still startled Serena to see the lusty smiles on the women’s faces—women who should be terrified. It was like watching rabbits leap into foxes’ jaws.
Serena glanced up. On her left, Drake Swift was slowly scanning the crowd. On her other Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 24
side, Lord Sommersby did the same.
Did she see Roman? No. To Serena’s astonishment, one dark-haired man, wearing a cape, tossed a blond woman onto the stage. The woman giggled, and her expression was a blend of lust, excitement, and playfulness. She was delighted to be a vampire’s plaything. The man pushed her back and she flopped back, on the stage, arms outstretched. Her breasts were exposed, her waist cinched impossibly small by the corset, her nether hair exposed. The man shoved her legs apart—
wider, wider, until the woman let her head fall back. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the woman’s quim.
Applause and cheers abounded.
Serena knew what that act felt like. William Bridgewater had
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