“I’ve changed,” I pointed out, looking him in the eye.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Just like that. Whatever could have . . . oh!” He grinned. “It’s Lydia, isn’t it? Once again following in my footsteps, brother. Everything I have you just want. Like Katherine.”
“I never loved Katherine. Not the way you did.”
I was attracted to her, of course—who wouldn’t have been? She was beautiful, charming, and a terrible flirt. Damon hadn’t minded her dark side, and in fact seemed to appreciate it. But when I was with her under her heady spell, I just wanted to ignore her vampire side. And when the vervain cleared my thoughts I was repelled by what she was. All of my feelings, deep feelings, for her, had been the stuff of glamour. For Damon, it was all real.
“And I don’t love Lydia,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see her—or anyone—hurt.”
“Then you do exactly as I say, brother, and everyone will be fine. But if you step out of line, even once . . .” Damon dragged a finger across his throat. “Then their blood will be on your hands.”
For a long moment, all was silent as Damon and I glared at each other. I had vowed to never harm a human again, to never allow a human to come to harm because of me. I was trapped as neatly and as permanently as if I were still a sideshow vampire at a circus, tied with vervain ropes—and Damon knew it.
I heaved a sigh. “What do you want me to do?”
Chapter 9
Fifteen minutes later I stood next to my brother at the outskirts of the dance, waiting for the music to stop. Everyone twirled around, their skirts swishing in perfect synchronicity to the music, all of them oblivious to the fact that two dangerous murderers stood among them.
“Follow my lead,” Damon said out the side of his mouth.
“Go to hell,” I said out the corner of mine, smiling at Margaret as she passed.
“Been there. Not to my liking,” he answered, taking two glasses of champagne off a tray and handing one to me.
“There you are,” Bridget squealed, running up to me. She bounced up and down with excitement, causing all of the flounces on her dress to rise and fall like a giant stinging jellyfish. She grabbed my arm. “What were you talking about all this time? Me?”
I turned and looked at her. She was beautiful and completely off-putting—self-centered, immature, always vying for attention. But Bridget Sutherland didn’t deserve to die. I had been responsible for enough deaths in my short time as a vampire. I could never put to right the wrongs I’d committed in those early days, but saving this family from Damon’s vengeance was my responsibility. I would not have their blood on my conscience.
“Yes. Yes I was,” I answered, and then I drained my drink and motioned for the waiter to bring me another.
“Attention please,” Damon called out, tapping on his glass with a silver spoon. The master of the dance, Reginald Chester, squinted at Damon curiously. The orchestra, looking confused, put down their instruments. Mrs. Chester first seemed put out that someone else was taking charge of the dance—but when she saw who it was, she began to beam like Damon was her own son.
The murmuring crowd turned to us: young, old, with feathers, with gems, in wide lace shawls and massive silk dresses, like a flock of tropical birds at a zoo awaiting the keeper who would scatter grain for their supper.
They whispered to one another and nodded, trying to claim connection to him:
“I had dinner with him last week.”
“He was having drinks with the Knoxes, that’s where I met him.”
“I recommended my best tailor to him.”
It was difficult to tell if the crowd had been charmed by Damon’s natural charisma, or if there was powerful compelling at work. But I wondered again how a vampire as young as Damon could command such Power.
“My new friend and I have an announcement to make,” Damon called out, assuming his fake Italian accent once more. Lydia quietly slipped to the front of the crowd, coming to stand near Damon.
“Many of you know the story of the night Miss Sutherland and I first met . . . I, a stranger to your shores, and she, a beautiful damsel in distress . . .”
The crowd smiled adoringly. Hilda and one of her girlfriends exchanged envious looks.
“And in a shocking coincidence, my friend here, Stefan Salvatore, rescued her sister, the equally beautiful and charming Bridget Sutherland, just last night. I can’t speak for him,” he said, drawing close to Lydia, his glass still raised, his attention still on the crowd, “but for me, it was love at first sight. I’ve already spoken to her father, and so before anyone else can grab her away from me, I, Count Damon DeSangue, beg Lydia for the honor of her hand in marriage, though I have nothing to offer her beyond my good name and lifelong devotion.”
He got down on one knee and whispered, “Lydia?”
Lydia’s face flushed prettily. She was taken off guard. Though she was not the sort of girl who really looked forward to being asked to wed in front of a large crowd, she beamed.
“Of course, Damon, with all my heart!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.
The Sutherland family stood together at the front of the crowd. The look on Margaret’s face wasn’t so much a scowl as disgusted shock and sheer confusion. I knew how she felt, but wondered at her response. Wasn’t she under Damon’s compulsion to accept him—and me—completely?
Bridget’s reaction was equally human, and far more horrible. Her eyes burned with pure, searing jealousy. Maybe there was a tiny bit of relief that her older sister was getting married, which meant that now in turn she could. But it was obvious that the youngest Sutherland had been dreaming her whole life of exactly how her perfect suitor would propose, and that it involved being done in public, in front of all her friends and an admiring audience.