The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein (16 page)

However, now that she had met the toplofty earl, she decided he was a dog of a different color.

“The oldest game besides ‘hunt or be hunted’ is much the same—the game between man and woman. Woman and man. The same game I’m playing now. I want you,” Asher stated boldly, his chilly blue eyes appraising Clair hungrily.

“Then you’re a muttonhead, even if you are an earl and one of your supercilious few. I know you’re quite accustomed to getting everything your heart desires, but this time you’re off the mark.”

Asher shook his head, a lazy grin on his face. “Nothing is beyond my grasp, nothing in this whole bloody world.” Amusement was clear on his cold but magnificent visage. He knew he had scored a hit or two with his poisoned-dart comments on Hunstley He had also enraged Clair Frankenstein enough to make sure the fiery lady would remember and think of him.

“I am,” she remarked adamantly. Then she strode off regally, leaving him to his own company.

Clair Frankenstein was much more complex than he had first thought, Asher realized. She was also a stunningly beautiful woman with a voluptuous body and a spirit to match. A female who was indifferent to his regard, which set Asher’s predatory instincts into overload. And to make matters even more interesting, Huntsley owed him a lover, for stealing that opera singer out from underneath his nose. Yes, Huntsley owed him that dark debt.

Asher cursed under his breath. He would have Clair Frankenstein come hell or high water. And Huntsley be damned, if he wasn’t already.

Clair
was in a brown study. Despite her great expectations of her tale of two vampires in the city, she had ended up with an expected twist. It was a dickens of a dilemma. It seemed, she mused, that for a scientist who knew so much, as of late she often knew too little. She needed to reassess and reevaluate her work in order to learn how to proceed, although she knew she was right about the Earl of Wolverton being a werewolf.

Brooks’s announcement of Baron Huntsley interrupted her thoughts. Clair hid her smile as she saw him walk into the room. He made her heart do a funny little pitter-patter. He looked as if he had gotten little to no sleep last night. Good, he could join the club.

Clair was still angry with him for abruptly dragging her out of the garden the night before, and for his quick departure from the ball without a word to her. He needed to get into the spirit of things—which spirits were vampires and werewolves. She wouldn’t bend an inch. She would show Ian a thing or two— mainly that Frankensteins couldn’t be intimidated or dragged willy-nilly from gardens.

As Ian entered the room, he noted Clair’s posture and expression. Yes, she was still most definitely angry at him. The thought was irritating. She had no right to be peeved because he cared enough to try and stop her from getting Asher’s back up. But she was a female, and their reasoning wasn’t always reasonable, no matter how a man tried to interact with one.

Ian had come prepared to do penance. Seeing Clair sitting in the library, framed in bright sunlight from the huge bay window behind her, he caught his step, standing and staring at her. She was so very lovely and so very much alive, obviously enjoying life in all its complexity.

He smiled. Clair was a vision of everything that was spring, in a morning gown of mint green silk. She sat in a gilt-wood chair in front of her massive teak desk, across which books and yellowed papers were haphazardly piled. Ian hid a grin at the total chaos of her workspace, presuming there was somehow a method to her madness.

After several minutes of heavy persuasion, he finally got her to admit to having an encounter with the earl. His ugly suspicions of the night before were now unfortunately confirmed.

Ian sought damage control. “Don’t invite him into your house or your life.”

Clair stared in disbelief. Ian had done everything but draw her a picture on how the Earl of Wolverton could not be a werewolf or a vampire. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Ian had been trying to pull the proverbial wool over her eyes. “You stated last night—and most emphatically, I might add—that the earl wasn’t a werewolf or a vampire!”

Ian could almost see the steam coming from her ears. Defending himself, he cajoled, “I am almost positive that he’s not either. However, just to be on the safe side please do as I ask. Don’t let Asher enter here, and stay far away from him on the full moon. Even better, stay home all the time.”

Clair fumed. She had been up most of the night worrying about the earl’s mysterious comments warning her away from Ian. She knew Ian had the reputation as a rake of renown, yet since he had been wooing her, she was seeing a different side of his roguish tendencies, a side quite special. She had noted it recently, whenever Ian looked at her. Dare she call it love?

After hiding a yawn, Clair couldn’t help but return Ian’s smile. But what was she doing smiling? Her night had been filled with confusion. She had worried about how the earl found out about her interest in him as a werewolf. And how much exception would he take to the fact? If the earl was dangerous, just how much of a deep ditch had she dug for Ian and herself? At this rate of worry, she was going to have gray hair before she was thirty.

She began to worry that Ian was going to be killed because of her, and then she worried that if Ian was, would he ever forgive her? Then she worried if she could ever forgive him for dying. “It would appear that I have opened a Pandora’s box,” she said aloud to herself.

Ian crossed his arms, commenting gravely, “Clair, my love, you have no idea.”

Clair stood, traversing the room to where Ian stood, placing her hands in his. Imploring him with her smoky gray eyes, she begged, “Please, Ian, tell me truthfully. Is the Earl of Wolverton the Wolf man of London?”

“No.” He answered without a twinge of remorse. Lives hung in the balance. Bending, he bestowed a tender kiss upon Clair’s brow, then slowly moved away to the shelter of the bookshelves—away from her fresh, clean scent and luscious body, away from temptation.

Clair scrutinized him thoroughly, her analytic brain observing every nuance. “I would hate to call you a liar. However, going back to our earlier conversation, you did warn me not to invite him in. Why is that?”

Ian shrugged, schooling his expression. “I’m jealous.”

“In a pig’s eye,” she retorted.

“You told me you thought he was a handsome,” Ian reminded her, closing the distance back to her side, unable to help himself. He loved being near her, her smell, her laughter, the way the shadows of the room highlighted her heart-shaped cheeks.

“Handsome is as handsome does. Asher scares me a little, reminds me of a lofty king spider casting out his web and spinning it in little melodramas.”

Ian nodded gravely. “An apt description,” he remarked, knowing he would have to go to Plan B, since Plan A had been sent down in flames. Plan B was of a crafty sort, a Machiavellian plan. Brilliant, even if he did say so himself. It was a plan designed to keep Clair tilting at windmills. It was sure to guarantee that she would be kept safely away from the supposed Big Bad Wolf, the earl. He would call it the McGuffin, in honor of his friend Sir Albert Hitchcock, who had devised it for the war ministry. It was a plan where the real object of interest was replaced by another object in order to distract and confuse.

Ian tenderly squeezed Clair’s hands. “Clair, I have been thinking long and hard over your research. I know how important you think this project of yours is to your Frankensteinian destiny…”

Releasing his hands, she went to stand by the window, staring out at the vibrant landscape. “It isn’t just my destiny or my dreams, it’s every man’s or every woman’s. It seems to me that a man’s work will live beyond him, while his dreams, without substance, are only dust in the wind. Does that make sense to you?”

Ian nodded solemnly. “Yes. And that’s one of the reasons I stopped by today.”

“Yes?”

“Well, the other day I was remembering what you told me about the warlock or warlocks in a vampire nest. So I decided to do a little research on my own. I think I know who your warlock is.”

Her eyes shining brightly, Clair almost skipped back to where he stood. In spite of all of Ian’s dubious feelings on her work, he had decided to help her! He was interested enough in her to be interested enough in what she cared about. He had actually spent time and effort in searching out the warlock of the London nest, a feat she had tried at and failed.

She grinned, her eyes sparkling with happiness. Ian was her unsung hero. Although, she wasn’t dim enough not to know the reason behind Ian’s picking out a warlock to research instead of encouraging her hunt of the werewolf. Where werewolves were long and sharp of tooth, warlocks weren’t. One was danger with fangs, the other’s danger lay only in ancient spells. It was as simple and as complex as he thought her in less peril from magic. Yes, Ian cared more for her than he admitted. “Who?”

“The Duke of Ghent.”

“The Duke?” Clair repeated, surprised. “Are you sure? He seems like such a jolly old man. Aunt Mary knows him. And he’s a duke.”

“You believe Wolverton is a werewolf and he’s an earl,” Ian accused.

“True. I guess supernaturalism is an equal-opportunity employment.”

Ian studied her, a reluctant grin on his face. He knew she was going away again into that dizzy maze of her mind. Patiently he waited, wanting to kiss her silly.

“Okay, why this particular duke?” she asked.

His grin grew. The trap was sprung. He would now lead Clair off in a different direction. And though he regretted his false directions, at least this path wouldn’t plunge her to her death if she took a right turn.

“The duke is always mixing up spells and chanting while he cooks. He has a pentagram painted on his bedroom wall. He owns three black cats. Oh yes, and a black dog too,” he ad-libbed, making most of it up as he went.

Ian knew he should feel guiltier. He knew he should probably be more concerned, but he really didn’t see how Clair could break into the Duke of Ghent’s home. The duke was known for his paranoia due to years in the war. All he owned, most especially himself, was heavily guarded. “The duke also dresses in those long warlock robes,” he added, inspired.

“Warlock robes?” Clair hid her smile. Ian was so adorable trying to help her scientific quest. Of course, he didn’t have a clue at all about the work an actual hypothesis actually required. He had gotten lucky on his first try and she was proud of him, like a mother hen watching her chick leave the nest. How she wanted to hug the handsome dolt! At this moment in time, she discerned, she had never felt closer to another human being. It was almost frightening, her desire to be held by him and to hold him, to comfort and caress him for all the days of her life. If only Ian were the marrying kind, she would set her cap for him in a London minute.

In a pig’s eye, she thought in horror. Where had that last traitorous thought come from? She had decided long ago that she wasn’t the marrying kind, either. She had her science to pursue. She had the prestigious Scientific Discovery of the Decade award to pursue. She had Ian to pursue. Drat! She needed her attention focused on things that howled at the moon, not this magnificent man in front of her. Still, if anyone could make her dream of wedded bliss, it was Ian, mere mortal though he was.

“You know, those garments that devil worshipers wear,” he was saying.

“The cowls?” she asked, trying to suppress a grin but failing.

He scowled.

“I know. You’re not a fashion expert on the occult.”

“Clair, Clair. What am I going to do with you?” Ian took her into his arms.

“Kiss me?” she suggested.

Ian did as the lady requested, and their passion once again ignited. Unfortunately, before Ian could sample a taste of her forbidden virgin fruit, Lady Mary entered the library looking for her embroidery.

Fortunately for his status of single white baron, the kiss had only just begun. He broke away in haste, a silly grin plastered on his lips. He fled to his carriage still wearing the expression, causing his footman Tiger, who had been holding the horses, to give him an odd look. Inside, a flustered Clair and a flushed but smiling Lady Mary watched his leavetaking. The library hummed with anticipation. Lady Mary was delighted. Her Plan A, To Catch A Baron, was going so smoothly that she wanted to pat herself on the back. She could just see Clair in her wedding finery. She would be a true sight to behold.

Glancing at her niece from the corner of her eyes, Mary observed the pink flush upon Clair’s cheeks. Clair was in love with Ian; she just didn’t know it yet. Yes, it would be a splendid match. The match of the century, and Mary would have been an integral part of the wedding of the two great families. She did so love a good wedding.

“The baron is really a most intriguing man, quite the catch of this season or any season,” she remarked casually, carefully hiding her marital plot. She would see the baron all the way to the altar, or her name wasn’t Mary Frankenstein.

Clair reseated herself at her desk, interpreting the speculative gleam in her aunt’s eye. So that is the way the wind is blowing, she thought. She couldn’t really blame her aunt, since some of those same thoughts of church bells and wedding cakes had been intruding upon her own dreams.

Studying her niece out of the corner of her eye, Lady Mary picked up her embroidery, chuckling. Raising her head from her notes, Clair glanced at her. “Something amusing?”

Her aunt smiled a secretive smile. “Nothing really. Oh! I did receive a letter from Victor today.”

“Have they found Frederick?” Clair asked somberly, concerned for her adopted cousin, who was a like a big, big, big brother to her, even though his left arm and both ears were younger in origin.

Her aunt waved her hand in the air. “Yes. Nothing to be concerned about. Frederick came home, no worse the wear.”

“Does Uncle Victor know what caused him to run away?”

“It appears that a group of young men were running around impersonating poor Frederick. They are all wearing those sixteen-foot-long clodhopper boots he wears and sporting bolts in their necks,” Lady Mary explained patiently. “Frederick was quite upset about the whole impersonation thing at first. He thought they were making fun of him. Then Frederick learned they were imitating him because they admired him. You know, rather like all those young bucks in town imitate that Beau Brummell person.”