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them.
    Mademoiselle Perez, on the other hand, was a middle-aged female of considerable beauty, when she was in good spirits. Upon her arrival in France, she had quickly joined a private club notorious for its unbounded lechery—although they did not prey upon anyone outside the group, nor indulge in any sins other than lust. All of which made it one of the more disciplined clubs here at court.
    “Are you certain you’ve never been trained in rhetoric?” St. Just asked, his thumb rubbing sensually over her hand in a manner totally in contrast to his words. “The way you had the Royal Academy scientists in the palm of your hand, they’d have voted you a member.”
    Hélène blushed and laughed. “Truly, you are too kind. I simply read what Monsieur le marquis had written.”
    “You answered the questions, did you not?” His eyes lingered on her mouth.
    “True, but…” Somehow she couldn’t readily assemble her words into sentences. Perhaps if they stepped into one of the small alcoves in the labyrinth or found the center quickly. If they reached it before the other couples, surely they could steal a kiss or two.
    He yanked himself away, seeming to breathe a little faster.
    She frowned slightly. Surely she was starting to have an effect. All she had to do was continue to stay close…
    “Very detailed questions they were, too.” His voice seemed slightly breathless. “The one comparing the results of electrical ignition to lighting it with a standard slow match.” He shook his head. “None of that was in your husband’s paper.”
    “That was my specialty.” Despite her immediate goals, she beamed at the intellectual interest in his eyes. “ Monsieur le marquis thought fire was old-fashioned so he wasn’t interested in it, unlike electricity. I did all of the experimentation with slow matches.”
    “As well as laying powder trails…” Jean-Marie mused. He turned her hand over. “My deepest congratulations, madame. You are a very brave woman.”
    His thumb rubbed the inside of her wrist for a moment before he kissed it. The warmth of his lips, the slight brush with his strong teeth, all combined to send an electric shock jolting through her.
    Their gazes met. She was wide-eyed, breathing too fast—and he looked as unsettled.
    He all but dropped her hand before returning it to the previous very proper position on his arm. She flexed her fingers slightly, testing the strength of his muscles—and her own self-discipline.
    A moment passed before they began walking again. They rounded one more corner—and stopped in their tracks.
    Hélène took a second, long incredulous look at the labyrinth’s center. An octagon, it held the requisite marble statue, in this case, an obelisk rising from a smoothly carved rose granite block of shoulder height to most men. An equally traditional marble bench stood in the center. The occupants of the bench were, however, extremely untraditional.
    The vicomte de Saint-Gabriel—whom she’d always considered a foolish young cavalryman—was seated on the bench facing them, his head thrown back, his breeches around his ankles, and an expression of the utmost rapture upon his face. His coat was scattered across the grass, his shirt spread across his chest, and one arm free.
    Mademoiselle Perez sat beside and behind him, skillfully milking his cock like a dairymaid, and—drinking?—from his neck where he arched it over her arm, her cheeks hollowing and her throat muscles moving in unison with her hand. Echoed by his shuddering groans of delight.
    A pencil-thin line of crimson slowly trickled over his collarbone and down his chest to his nipple.
    Hélène could not believe her eyes. And yet she could not deny them.
    A vampire? Impossible.
    Hélène shrieked her denial, as scientific reasoning utterly failed her.
    St. Just clamped his hand over her mouth and stepped behind her, pulling her against him to control her with his body.
    Mademoiselle Perez promptly stopped and lifted