It didn’t take long for Wayren to appear. This time, she wasn’t holding a book, although she had her spectacles on.

“Dimitri of Corvindale. I was suspecting you might return.” She looked at him closely, and all at once, he wondered what madness had brought him here. She knew nothing that could help him.

He found himself momentarily at a loss for words, anger and confusion churning like sludge in his gut.

Wayren cocked her head, watching him like an interested sparrow. “I’ve acquired something I think you might find interesting, and I’ve been saving it for you.” She turned toward a shelf next to her and plucked out a bound pamphlet from between two other much thicker books and handed it to him.

Dimitri took the slender packet, which could be no more than a hundred pages, and didn’t attempt to hide his distaste. “La Belle et la Bête? What is this—a fairy tale?”

She smiled benevolently. “Indeed. Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve is quite an entertaining writer.”

He frowned. “I don’t see how a fairy tale will be of assistance to me.”

“And yet you study Faustian legend?” she said delicately. “You must see something of yourself in Doktor Faust’s character. Perhaps you will find something different to relate to in Madame de Villeneuve’s tale about the beauty and her beast.”

Dimitri took the pamphlet and tucked it in his inside coat pocket, unwilling to offend the woman. “Very well. Bill my account for whatever it’s worth.”

From behind her spectacles, she watched him with a considering gaze. “Is there aught else I can do for you?”

She waited patiently.

“There is a way,” he said at last, a hint of desperation making its way into his voice, “to break the covenant.”

Why was he telling this colorless, quiet woman? What did he think she could do for him? Did he truly think she had some writ that would spell it out neatly and clearly; one that she’d kept from him during his previous visits?

“You must find a way yourself, Dimitri,” she said, in an echo of his unspoken question. “Just as Voss did.”

Dully he realized he wasn’t surprised that she knew of Voss, and what had happened to him. That was what had drawn Dimitri here. Some deep-seated reason had brought him to this librarian of sorts.

“I don’t know how he did it,” he said, his voice thick. “He’s neither pious nor has he ever denied himself anything. How could…”

“How could he have done it when you’ve spent so much of your life denying yourself everything in an effort to do the same?”

“Yes,” he exploded. But his voice didn’t shake the rafters. It merely settled there, a pained affirmation that hardly stirred the dust. “I always do what is right. I always have.” He remembered those years of study, of Puritan starkness, of maintaining his honor even in the face of difficulty, when Royalists were hated during Cromwell’s reign. Of rushing into a burning house to save the man.

Anger rushed through him. I did. Perhaps not so well now, but I did then. Before.

“But that is why he chose you, Dimitri. Do you not understand that? To have turned such a man to him—a man who sees in black-and-white, and who lived in the light and the right—was the greatest of successes for the Fiend. It’s much easier to tempt and lure one who exists in the gray. Someone, perhaps, like Voss. Like Giordan. But you…you were different. You tried to live in the light.”

“And the one time someone meant something to me…” His voice trailed off, for he simply couldn’t put the disconcerting thought into words. Meg.

“Aye. The one time you allowed yourself to open and love, when you were desperate, he used that very power against you. You were very vulnerable and that was how he convinced you.” She was nodding, her eyes serene pools of fog-laced blue. “He found your soft underbelly. That is the way he works.”

“I accepted it. And he branded me for eternity,” Dimitri said bitterly. So bitterly. He pinched the upper part of his nose, just above his eye sockets, as hard as he could. He wanted to make it go away.

Wayren was nodding. “Because of that, he’ll not release you easily.”

“But it’s possible?” For the first time, he felt a real glimmer of hope.

“Anything is indeed possible. But it’s not without trial and tribulation. You, too, have to change.”

Dimitri looked at her, frustration simmering. “Change? I don’t know what you mean. Change how? I’m honest. I give to those in need. I don’t take, I don’t feed. I’ve taken in Mirabella when she had no one. I’ve—”

“Certainly. You’ve done that…but have you given anything of yourself, Dimitri? Any care, any affection or love or even any time? Or has your generosity been only that of material things? Those things which remain behind in this world?”

Terror seized him. “I can’t.” His response came out in a heartfelt groan. “I cannot.”

Wayren looked at him for a long moment, sadness lingering in her eyes. “Then you still aren’t ready, Dimitri.”

What precisely did one do?

“Turn, please, miss.”

Maia turned obediently, feeling the tug of her skirt as the seamstress’s assistant folded it just-so and pinned it. Behind her, another assistant adjusted her bodice, carefully inserting another pin along the seam in the back.

What did one do when one’s fiancé’s kiss had lost its attraction?

When one would rather be removing a splinter than meeting his lips?

Maia opened her eyes and found herself staring at the image of a lovely bride. Golden-coppery-brown hair shone in a shaft of light from the window, and the beam filtered over the pale pink silk of her gown. Over it lay an icy-lemon layer of lace, which gave the frock a shiny, pearlescent appearance.

“You look beautiful, miss. He will be unable to take his eyes off you,” said the seamstress. Satisfaction colored her voice, and she stepped forward to adjust the short puff of a sleeve. It was made from twisted swatches of pale pink, lemon and blue silk, loosely braided and sewn stuffed with padding to hold their shapes.

Maia scanned herself. She did indeed look beautiful—mostly due to the dress, she conceded. Though the bodice was low, and in a new neckline called a sweetheart shape, the little scratch on the top of her breast was no longer visible. It had healed weeks ago.

Since Angelica’s escape from Cezar Moldavi and her return from Paris, both Chas and Corvindale had agreed that the danger from Moldavi had eased. The villain was now aware of Corvindale’s far-reaching protection of the Woodmore sisters, and in light of his recent failure to use Angelica to bring her brother to heel, it was deemed unlikely that Moldavi would make another attempt so soon after.

Thus, the earl had eased his restrictions on the Woodmore sisters, although Chas assured Maia that they were still being protected, even if they weren’t aware of it. Maia had, of course, noticed the extra footmen that always accompanied or followed their carriage, and the unusual number of shadows hulking about on the street from sundown to sunrise. She assumed that most of them were what Corvindale would term “good vampires,” since they were obviously in his employ.

Meanwhile, Chas, to Maia’s immense frustration and concern, had disappeared shortly after Angelica’s return, leaving them once again in Corvindale’s care.

Yet…since she’d fled Corvindale’s study the morning after the incident in the carriage, his mocking words ringing in her ears—you were never enthralled—she hadn’t seen more than the flutter of his coat hem around a corner. It had been more than a month and they’d managed to avoid each other.

Or at least, she’d avoided him. Whether he was doing the same, Maia wasn’t certain. And since Angelica had returned with nary a scratch, and had announced her intention to wed Viscount Dewhurst, Corvindale hadn’t been seen at all.

She’d heard the deep rumble of his voice, and noticed the closed door to his study. And, fortunately, she’d had no reason to disturb the earl.

But Alexander had been to Blackmont Hall often.

And he always seemed to want to walk in the garden, and to stop in that shady pergola.

But kissing him had become as interesting as kissing her own hand. Maia knew—for she’d tried it.

And what had once been a tingling anticipation for his arrival was now a heavy leaden ball in her middle.

She didn’t love him.

One doesn’t marry for love. One marries for money or prestige or position. Or even for good family, as long as it is a good match.

She’d often given such a lecture to Angelica, who, for a time, had thought herself in love with the very untenable Mr. Ferring-Dulles. Love doesn’t factor into it. It might come later if one is compatible with one’s husband. Or if one is very lucky, it might also be there from the beginning.

But one doesn’t expect or seek love in marriage.

Maia knew better, for there was a time when she thought she’d loved Mr. Virgil. She’d thought they were eloping to marry on that night when she dressed in men’s breeches and sneaked out of the house.

But instead, the night had turned out to be a horror, the details of which she’d long forgotten. Or otherwise suppressed. She shivered now, as a wisp of memory flitted through her mind. Corvindale. In the carriage. She in her breeches, hair tucked beneath a sagging cap.

Why could she not remember?

She sighed. No, love definitely could not and should not factor into one’s choice of husband.

And that was why, in three days, Maia would be marrying Alexander Bradington. In the very lovely dress she was now wearing.

Dimitri looked down at the note, glad for the distraction.

The house was filled with energy and activity. Miss Woodmore was to wed Bradington in three days, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, everyone related to the nuptials seemed to be coming and going from Blackmont Hall today. It was as if the walls were swollen to bursting.

Angelica Woodmore’s wedding plans were also progressing, if one were to judge by the number of appointments with flower-keepers and seamstresses and other entities, not to mention the swatches of material, scraps of notes and drawings, that had littered the parlor table yesterday. Couldn’t the blasted chits wait until their brother was back to attend to these things?