fiercely wanted him to believe in himself.
Twisting on the stool to face the pianoforte, he touched the feather quill, rolling it across the leather folio in crisp crackles. “I have ever strived to be what others wish to see. And now it is too late to be myself. For soon this bloody moon will decide for me.”
“You are a good man, Leo. Beneath the frippery your heart is bold and brave, and I honestly believe that cannot be altered.”
His heavy sigh burrowed into her heart. So much troubled him.
“There is something I must tell you. About Leo.”
“You speak of yourself in the third person?”
He nodded, looking down. “Because Leo isn’t me.” He met her gaze and his eyes were wide with truth. “Leo is a creation.”
“I…don’t understand?”
“A disguise I have assumed in order to serve a higher purpose, if you can believe such a thing.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. He was not Leo, the foppish rake? “What higher purpose?”
“It’s to do with my fortune. I wish to disperse it to charity and yet my true identity has been stained by my family history. Please, I don’t wish to elaborate. I only wish I had been honest with you from the start. But I hadn’t the opportunity because I woke from the vampire’s bite after Toussaint had already firmly ensconced you in my lies.”
She stood and, fluffing out her skirts, strolled over to him and touched his jaw. Lingering there in his whiskey gaze she fell. Into hope. Into trust. “What is your name?”
“Gabriel Baptiste Renan. Vicomte.”
“A vicomte?” She gasped.
“My title changes nothing between us.”
She nodded. He was of the aristocracy. What had she been doing these past days? Staying under his roof? Speaking with him so casually?
“There is an us, Roxane. Can there be an us?” He slipped his fingers through hers. “I want the man beneath the surface to rise. The man who has ransomed hope for abandonment.”
“But you are a vicomte, and I…”
He tugged her to him and spread his fingers through her hair. The intensity in his gaze stifled all reluctance in her heart and Roxane nodded. Giving him her trust completely.
“I want us,” he said. “No matter what the moon brings.”
She felt so small, so overwhelmed at this moment. And then she was not, because she stood in the arms of Leo—Gabriel, a man who trusted her enough to share his secrets.
Perhaps you should share yours?
“I’ve stymied you,” he said.
“No. I want us, too, the moon be damned.”
“Look at me! I am the picture of health. Is it possible you could be wrong? That a mere bite will not render me a madman who howls for the moon?”
“I believe it is the loup garou that howls at the moon.”
“Indeed, the werewolf.” He tapped a finger on her nose. “You are far too knowledgeable of the occult for my comfort, Roxane. Where and why did you pick up such information? Why this compulsion to hunt a vampire?”
“I merely wish you to be well,” she murmured.
“And well I am. I have no hunger for blood, so do not worry your pretty head.”
She nodded, lowering her head quickly.
“What is it?You won’t meet my eyes. Mademoiselle?”
“I—I have spoken to him,” she blurt out.
“Him? The vampire?”
She shook her head no. “The man who survived. The one who succumbed to madness.”
“You did? When? Where is he?”
“He sits in a foul cell at Bicêtre, pounding the walls until his fists are bloody.”
She could not prevent the tears that slid down her cheeks. Shuddering in Gabriel’s embrace, she melted against his chest. A vicomte. Oh, but her world had toppled heel over head.
“You tell me true? Anjou’s other victim is in the asylum?”
She nodded against his shoulder and sniffled tears. “I visit a few times a week.”
“Take me to him.”
“What?”
Gabriel smoothed away tendrils of hair from the tears on her cheeks. “I want to talk to the man who survived the vampire’s bite.”
“No, you
Twisting on the stool to face the pianoforte, he touched the feather quill, rolling it across the leather folio in crisp crackles. “I have ever strived to be what others wish to see. And now it is too late to be myself. For soon this bloody moon will decide for me.”
“You are a good man, Leo. Beneath the frippery your heart is bold and brave, and I honestly believe that cannot be altered.”
His heavy sigh burrowed into her heart. So much troubled him.
“There is something I must tell you. About Leo.”
“You speak of yourself in the third person?”
He nodded, looking down. “Because Leo isn’t me.” He met her gaze and his eyes were wide with truth. “Leo is a creation.”
“I…don’t understand?”
“A disguise I have assumed in order to serve a higher purpose, if you can believe such a thing.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. He was not Leo, the foppish rake? “What higher purpose?”
“It’s to do with my fortune. I wish to disperse it to charity and yet my true identity has been stained by my family history. Please, I don’t wish to elaborate. I only wish I had been honest with you from the start. But I hadn’t the opportunity because I woke from the vampire’s bite after Toussaint had already firmly ensconced you in my lies.”
She stood and, fluffing out her skirts, strolled over to him and touched his jaw. Lingering there in his whiskey gaze she fell. Into hope. Into trust. “What is your name?”
“Gabriel Baptiste Renan. Vicomte.”
“A vicomte?” She gasped.
“My title changes nothing between us.”
She nodded. He was of the aristocracy. What had she been doing these past days? Staying under his roof? Speaking with him so casually?
“There is an us, Roxane. Can there be an us?” He slipped his fingers through hers. “I want the man beneath the surface to rise. The man who has ransomed hope for abandonment.”
“But you are a vicomte, and I…”
He tugged her to him and spread his fingers through her hair. The intensity in his gaze stifled all reluctance in her heart and Roxane nodded. Giving him her trust completely.
“I want us,” he said. “No matter what the moon brings.”
She felt so small, so overwhelmed at this moment. And then she was not, because she stood in the arms of Leo—Gabriel, a man who trusted her enough to share his secrets.
Perhaps you should share yours?
“I’ve stymied you,” he said.
“No. I want us, too, the moon be damned.”
“Look at me! I am the picture of health. Is it possible you could be wrong? That a mere bite will not render me a madman who howls for the moon?”
“I believe it is the loup garou that howls at the moon.”
“Indeed, the werewolf.” He tapped a finger on her nose. “You are far too knowledgeable of the occult for my comfort, Roxane. Where and why did you pick up such information? Why this compulsion to hunt a vampire?”
“I merely wish you to be well,” she murmured.
“And well I am. I have no hunger for blood, so do not worry your pretty head.”
She nodded, lowering her head quickly.
“What is it?You won’t meet my eyes. Mademoiselle?”
“I—I have spoken to him,” she blurt out.
“Him? The vampire?”
She shook her head no. “The man who survived. The one who succumbed to madness.”
“You did? When? Where is he?”
“He sits in a foul cell at Bicêtre, pounding the walls until his fists are bloody.”
She could not prevent the tears that slid down her cheeks. Shuddering in Gabriel’s embrace, she melted against his chest. A vicomte. Oh, but her world had toppled heel over head.
“You tell me true? Anjou’s other victim is in the asylum?”
She nodded against his shoulder and sniffled tears. “I visit a few times a week.”
“Take me to him.”
“What?”
Gabriel smoothed away tendrils of hair from the tears on her cheeks. “I want to talk to the man who survived the vampire’s bite.”
“No, you
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