Taken by Darkness

And worse, Juliet was currently under the protection of a powerful mage, Justin, Lord Hawthorne.

He hated mages as thoroughly as he hated witches. Especially arrogant, pompous mages who didn’t possess the sense to defer to their betters.

So why was he growingly consumed with the savage need to claim Miss Lawrence as his own?

Victor had tried to accept that it was nothing more than the fact that Juliet stubbornly refused to succumb to his seduction. It had been centuries since a woman had pretended indifference to his charms. What was more enticing than a prey that was clever enough to put up a struggle?

He had even traveled to Venice to prove that his enthrallment with the female was nothing more than a passing bit of insanity that was easily dismissed.

Unfortunately, all he had managed to prove was that Miss Juliet Lawrence was destined to plague him regardless of the distance between them.

He had filled his nights with the most alluring females and lavish amusements, but he could not rid himself of the aching need to return to London.

And Juliet.

His lips twisted as he watched her stiffen and slowly turn in his direction, belatedly sensing his presence. A predictable expression of dismay rippled over her beautiful features before she was covertly edging through the crowd, clearly preparing to bolt.

He moved forward, a flare of anticipation jolting through him. The chase was on and she was not going to escape.

Beginning tonight, Juliet was going to pay for reducing him to little more than a eunuch.

“My lord…” Unaware how close he came to a swift, bloody death, Lord Treadwell stepped directly in Victor’s path and grasped his arm. “We never expected…such a delight…”

Victor leashed his violent urge to rip out the throat of his host. Even if Juliet managed to slip away, there was nowhere she could hide.

Instead, he peered down at the pudgy fingers that were crushing the fall of Brussels lace that peeked from the hem of his jacket sleeve.

“So I perceive,” he drawled, his voice cold. “My dear Charles, have a care for my lace if not for my poor, abused arm.”

Treadwell jerked back his hand, reaching beneath his puce jacket for a handkerchief to mop the sweat from his flushed face.

“A thousand apologies.” The nobleman nervously cleared his throat, his customary air of smug superiority notably absent. “Please, allow me to introduce my wife.” He waved an absent hand toward the plump blonde less than half his age who stood behind him. “Letty, this is Marquis DeRosa. DeRosa, my wife, Lady Treadwell.”

Victor offered a graceful bow. “Enchanted.”

“Oh.” The woman rapidly waved her fan, her eyes wide and her lips parted in feminine awe. “Oh.”

Treadwell gave a bluff laugh, clapping Victor on the shoulder as if he had every right to touch the most powerful demon in England.

“I say, you quite overwhelmed the poor gal.” He winked at Victor, indifferent to his wife’s sudden embarrassment. “Let me escort you round the back way to the card room. That way, you won’t be bothered with the giggling petticoats. Give a man an ache in the head. Always best to avoid ’em when you can, eh?”

“Which only proves just how little you know me, Treadwell.” Victor’s tone was edged with a warning that made the fat idiot pale in fear. “Remain with your wife. I am capable of determining my own destination.”

“Oh…, I say. Of course. Certainly.”

Dismissing the idiot from his mind, Victor turned toward the dance floor, parting the thick crowd with a wave of his slender hand. Distantly, he was aware of the avid gazes following his slow, elegant stride and the whispers of excitement that rippled through the room, but his attention was focused on the scent of sweet peaches.

At last leaving behind the gawking crowd, Victor made his way along the dimly lit corridor, bypassing the various salons and antechambers until he reached the narrow door leading onto the back terrace.

Stepping into the chilled night air, Victor paused, his senses instinctively searching the garden and shadowed mews for any hint of danger. At the same moment his gaze was busily savoring the sight of Juliet leaning against the stone railing.

As a vampire, Victor had no need for the moonlight to reveal the pure, delicate lines of her profile or the fire in her curls that were currently pulled into a knot at the back of her head. He did, however, fully appreciate the wash of silver light that shimmered over alabaster skin and added a hint of mystery to the pale emerald eyes.

His gaze lowered to her gown, which was a delicate white lace over a gold sheath and cut in Grecian lines to emphasize the tempting mounds of her breasts. Then slowly his gaze lifted, lingering on the long, bare curve of her throat.

Victor’s fangs ached with a swift, brutal hunger.