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couldn’t hear how erratically her heart thudded against her breast. “I am who I have always been.”
    They parted, yet their eyes remained locked. When they once again faced each other his cynical glance incinerated her from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.
    “And who is that?” His question asked far more than the mere words uttered. “The same bewitching dancer you were three years ago?”
    She hadn’t been the same since the moment they had met.
    “I’m the Lady Harriet’s great-niece.”
    Again he clasped her fingers as they drew together. But this time he angled into her body, shockingly intimate, and his breath scorched her ear.
    “Lady Harriet has no great-niece. Don’t fuck with me, Morana.”
    Heat flooded her cheeks, pooled between the juncture of her thighs.
    “You’re mistaken, Your Grace.” Her voice was breathless, as though she were aroused. Of course she was aroused. No man had touched her since that night in the alley, since that night when everything she believed in, every certainty she had thought absolute, had crumbled.
    “I’m never mistaken, Miss Craven.”
    “Nor am I.” Except about him. Her greatest mistake of all.
    “Who is your protector?” He glanced around the room searching out the man in question. “Gods.” For a brief second he looked startled before returning his focus to her. “Your fiddler plays.”
    “Exceedingly well.” Again they parted but she could feel his eyes on her, burning her, branding her despite their separation.
    His gloved hand claimed hers. “I have a theory, Miss Craven.”
    “I’m eager to hear it, Your Grace.”
    Once again they faced each other. “The fiddler is not your pimp.”
    She understood why he might have assumed such a thing. Thanatos, a shadow in the darkness, had coaxed ethereal magic from his violin as she and the duke had reached shattering orgasm, but his remark still stung.
    She forced a brittle smile. “That’s correct.”
    He inclined his head in mocking appreciation. “He’s your lover.”
    “Is he?” She arched an eyebrow.
    “Although possibly he’s impotent.” The duke shrugged as if it made not the slightest difference. “Regardless, he is your protector and he enjoys watching you fuck other men.”
    She stumbled, caught herself, and flashed him a resentful glare when his fingers tightened around hers, steadying her.
    “You possess a vivid imagination.”
    Green eyes flayed her. “I possess an excellent memory.”
    So did she. The knowledge flared between them, volcanic and deadly. “And yet you are wrong.”
    “Then enlighten me. You fascinate me, Miss Craven, and I’m determined to discover exactly what you are.”
    If he ever discovered exactly what she was, he’d go insane. Vampires didn’t exist in polite society, and their immortal slayers were unheard of. Or perhaps he would merely think she was insane and attempt to have her locked away in an asylum. Either way, she had no intention of allowing him to unearth such devastating information.
    “And do you always get your way?” She challenged him with a haughty glance.
    “Always.” The dance concluded, yet he did not relinquish her hand nor acknowledge the musicians. His entire focus appeared centered upon her.
    “I fear this time you face disappointment.”
    He pulled her toward him in a most ungentlemanly manner. Desire quivered along her skin and spiraled around her sensitive nipples causing them to ache with need. She stared up into his eyes and tried to convince herself all she wanted from him was another mindless fuck in a darkened corner.
    “My dear Miss Craven.” His erotic whisper danced across her heated cheek. “I don’t take disappointment very well.”
    She attempted to pull her hand from his, but failed. But then, she didn’t try too hard.
    “I believe everyone is staring at us, Your Grace.” Not that she cared. Yet she should, for to draw attention to herself was foolhardy in the extreme.
    “Let them stare.”