girl
away and retreated to her room.
She had just returned to the warmth
of the bed when Jonathan joined her. He undressed quickly and put on a
nightshirt, then slipped into bed beside her. She pressed her back close to
his chest. The warmth of his body felt delicious, his arms so comforting as he
held her. "Were you sleeping?" he asked.
"Off
and on." She took one of his hands and kissed it. "I was waiting for
you."
She heard
him murmur something in a voice too low to be heard. His hand moved to her
breast. She rolled over and faced him,
willing
herself to be passive, to let him take his pleasure while thoughts of the
vampire and the passion he had aroused in her coursed through her, potent as
blood. "Jonathan," she whispered and, just for a moment, yielded to
the pleasure. Her body tightened. She kissed his chest, pulled his head down
to find his lips.
But it was
already over as suddenly as it had begun, with no fulfillment for her save in
her memories.
She could
sleep now that Jonathan was with her, his warmth and presence comforting her.
For the first time in days, she did not
dream. A new set of problems
had replaced the old. The present dispersed the past.
Mina woke
with Jonathan the next morning, to see him off on his first day at work as head
of the firm. She sat across from him at
the small table in the parlor, drinking tea and eating biscuits
Millicent had baked for them the night before. She tried to think of something
encouraging to say, but every attempt only seemed to make him more insecure.
Following a long silence, he
mentioned Millicent's concern about the sherry. "I couldn't tell her why
you needed it and I promised her that I would speak to you. Try to sleep
without it and, when you can't, put a bottle in the cabinet here so she doesn't
see you drinking it."
"Jonathan,
you make it sound as if a glass of sherry is a sickness. Besides, what business
is it of hers?"
"My
mother ... was very cruel to Aunt Millicent, especially when she drank too
much. Millicent tolerated her tirades, most likely
because she would not have
been allowed to care for me otherwise. Please, don't drink in front of Aunt Millicent
any longer."
He paused to
look at her face, her lips pressed together, her eyes soft with sorrow. "I
don't like to speak of what she and I
endured," he said,
pulled her to her feet and hugged her tightly. "We'll banish the past
together, I promise you."
SEVEN
I
Winston Gordon, Lord Gance, liked to
compare himself to Lord Byron, the distant uncle who shared his surname. Both
were poets, he was fond of asserting publicly, though only his close friends
were allowed to read his creations and they made little comment on his skill.
His intimate friends were more likely to agree that both were libertines. The
similarity ended there. While the poet had been short and somewhat fat, with a
sanguine complexion caused by a blend of heredity and drink, Gance was tall
and exceedingly pale, with eyes of such a pale gray that they often looked
colorless in bright light. In spite of an appetite for food to rival that for
sex, he was also slender to the point of emaciation. Only his profile, with its
classic nose and thin, delicately curled white-blond hair above the receding
hairline, and his direct, often insolent, stare, showed the blood tie between
the men born nearly a century apart.
In spite of his heritage, Gance was
a businessman, not a romantic, and revolutions held little interest for him.
Indeed, he was quite committed to the empire, for India, along with sundry
investments on the Continent, had made him wealthy beyond the dreams of his
ancestors.
His father had been the first noble
to employ the legal services of Peter Hawkins, noting to young Winston that
Hawkins had more honesty and skill than the advisors to the Queen. In the
years that followed, Hawkins had proven his worth, and Lord Gance saw no
reason to abandon a successor who seemed nothing more than a younger duplicate
of the scrupulously
away and retreated to her room.
She had just returned to the warmth
of the bed when Jonathan joined her. He undressed quickly and put on a
nightshirt, then slipped into bed beside her. She pressed her back close to
his chest. The warmth of his body felt delicious, his arms so comforting as he
held her. "Were you sleeping?" he asked.
"Off
and on." She took one of his hands and kissed it. "I was waiting for
you."
She heard
him murmur something in a voice too low to be heard. His hand moved to her
breast. She rolled over and faced him,
willing
herself to be passive, to let him take his pleasure while thoughts of the
vampire and the passion he had aroused in her coursed through her, potent as
blood. "Jonathan," she whispered and, just for a moment, yielded to
the pleasure. Her body tightened. She kissed his chest, pulled his head down
to find his lips.
But it was
already over as suddenly as it had begun, with no fulfillment for her save in
her memories.
She could
sleep now that Jonathan was with her, his warmth and presence comforting her.
For the first time in days, she did not
dream. A new set of problems
had replaced the old. The present dispersed the past.
Mina woke
with Jonathan the next morning, to see him off on his first day at work as head
of the firm. She sat across from him at
the small table in the parlor, drinking tea and eating biscuits
Millicent had baked for them the night before. She tried to think of something
encouraging to say, but every attempt only seemed to make him more insecure.
Following a long silence, he
mentioned Millicent's concern about the sherry. "I couldn't tell her why
you needed it and I promised her that I would speak to you. Try to sleep
without it and, when you can't, put a bottle in the cabinet here so she doesn't
see you drinking it."
"Jonathan,
you make it sound as if a glass of sherry is a sickness. Besides, what business
is it of hers?"
"My
mother ... was very cruel to Aunt Millicent, especially when she drank too
much. Millicent tolerated her tirades, most likely
because she would not have
been allowed to care for me otherwise. Please, don't drink in front of Aunt Millicent
any longer."
He paused to
look at her face, her lips pressed together, her eyes soft with sorrow. "I
don't like to speak of what she and I
endured," he said,
pulled her to her feet and hugged her tightly. "We'll banish the past
together, I promise you."
SEVEN
I
Winston Gordon, Lord Gance, liked to
compare himself to Lord Byron, the distant uncle who shared his surname. Both
were poets, he was fond of asserting publicly, though only his close friends
were allowed to read his creations and they made little comment on his skill.
His intimate friends were more likely to agree that both were libertines. The
similarity ended there. While the poet had been short and somewhat fat, with a
sanguine complexion caused by a blend of heredity and drink, Gance was tall
and exceedingly pale, with eyes of such a pale gray that they often looked
colorless in bright light. In spite of an appetite for food to rival that for
sex, he was also slender to the point of emaciation. Only his profile, with its
classic nose and thin, delicately curled white-blond hair above the receding
hairline, and his direct, often insolent, stare, showed the blood tie between
the men born nearly a century apart.
In spite of his heritage, Gance was
a businessman, not a romantic, and revolutions held little interest for him.
Indeed, he was quite committed to the empire, for India, along with sundry
investments on the Continent, had made him wealthy beyond the dreams of his
ancestors.
His father had been the first noble
to employ the legal services of Peter Hawkins, noting to young Winston that
Hawkins had more honesty and skill than the advisors to the Queen. In the
years that followed, Hawkins had proven his worth, and Lord Gance saw no
reason to abandon a successor who seemed nothing more than a younger duplicate
of the scrupulously
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