The Reinvented Miss Bluebeard (London Paranormal 03) (22 page)

"You presume too much. And my toes don't curl," she stated emphatically, her fingers crossed behind her back.

"Yes, they do. And, I imagine, much more," he replied, his voice husky. Leaning toward her, he couldn't help but place a brief but tender kiss upon Eve's lush pink lips. He definitely wanted more, but restrained himself. He understood implicitly that all good things came to those who wait, if they weren't stolen first. He intended to be victorious.

Adam's gentle kiss stirred Eve's senses, sending her into a tizzy.
Enough!
This impish Irish impostor had been playing the tender lover since their arrival over two hours ago, and it had to cease. "Stop being so familiar with me," she hissed.

"If you keep whispering in my ear like that, you little enchantress, I shall ravish you on the spot," he warned.

She quietly and inconspicuously kicked him in the shin.

"Come, now, my little admiral. You must pretend a modicum of civility. Dash it, Eve. A husband can never be too familiar with his wife. Look at Lord Asher and Lady Jane. They can barely keep their hands off each other. How would it look if I ignored you? Think of the scandal! And your funding—we must present a united and loving front as the most devoted of couples if you want it."

"Hmph."

"It's not just your reputation at stake, but my own," Adam continued. "Just because you won't allow me to take you to heaven doesn't mean people should think I can't. Like the Earl and Countess of Wolverton."

Inching back, Eve slowly shook her head, his audacity infuriating. But at the same time, the nearness of his body made her breath quicken. His kisses were addictive, lethal, and made her heart dance. He had the look of a Gypsy and the heart of a rogue. But she was a psychiatrist and made of sterner stuff; she would not be led down the garden path. At least, not while in Asher's private box.

"Why should I care what the earl thinks about you?" she asked.

"A wife knowledgeable about the paranormal world should always care if a master vampire thinks her husband is less than a man. I don't want to be shown to disadvantage," he remarked stubbornly. Before Eve could argue, he added, "Shush. Besides, as my wife you have an obligation to me."

She drew back, astonished. "Your pretending to be my absentee husband obligates me? How dare you, sirrah!"

No matter what she did, she couldn't seem to make a dent in his strategy to act as her spouse. "Surely you must be getting bored with this!"

He bit back a chuckle. "With you, my dear, I could never be bored. That's why I'm crazy about you, crazy for you, crazed to have you. And I must confess, I am ready, willing, and cleverly able to do crazy things to keep you by my side."

"Oh, go and sell your craziness somewhere else," Eve said. "I bought at the office." This bounder was forever teasing, testing, and tormenting her, and the worst thing was, she was never certain whether he was maddeningly sincere or a compulsive liar with lucre or lust in mind.

Adam chuckled. The time for action was here. He placed a hand under his chin and lifted her face to his, and with determination and tenderness he kissed her.

Eve would not be seduced so easily. With pure indignation she fought the feel of his lips, paying no heed to the small, secret place within her that rejoiced in triumph. But after a few moments passed, his lips caressing hers, his fervor had her opening her mouth to protest—only to be routed as Adam quickly took advantage, his tongue dueling with her own.

Heat flooded her system, and Eve felt tiny butterflies in her stomach. Deep, deep down, she felt the stirrings of a hunger long dormant. And good grief, she could feel her toes start to curl from the heat of the kiss. Why, oh, why, did this man stir her senses to insensibility?

Breathing harshly, Adam reluctantly ended the kiss, his bones aching to the very marrow as he leaned his forehead against hers. He had almost lost his head, the kiss affecting him to such a degree that he wished to lower her to the ground and make mad, passionate love to her here, in public. Yet his self-control had resurrected itself.

"No more. Please, no more," she beseeched him breathlessly.

Reluctantly he drew back, not trusting himself. Her lips were swollen, and she was staring at him in a bewitching manner. There was a candor in her eyes he had not seen before.

"You're much too dangerous to be my husband," she said. "Too unpredictable. I hate to admit it, but you run circles around me. It's quite disconcerting."

"I vow I'll be a wonderful husband," he said.

"No. You're too great a risk. Too much the rake, the adventurer. A lady could never risk her heart upon you."

"It's true that I'm drawn to adventure," he said. "But the only adventure I seek is in your bed. The risk for me is already taken, for I fear you have stolen my heart."

He sounded so sincere… but then, con men usually did. Yet, Eve heard at least a grain of truth in his words, which caused her to recognize a fundamental truth: the man in front of her—Adam Griffin—had been going through a change since he first opened his mouth—from nobody to somebody. How disturbing. Worse, she was coming to admire him. But how could she ever trust him? She had to remember that he was a clever conniver who could convince anyone of anything, even someone as grounded in rational thinking and the sciences as herself.

She sat back rather weakly in her chair, her sensibilities strained as she tried to articulate her feelings. "I don't trust you. You're too wild to be reliable. Too much the roving schemer."

"So, tame me. You're a special woman, capable of achieving the improbable—even the impossible. Cure my wanderlust and let me love you, be loved by you."

"Poppycock, pure wishful thinking."

"Is that a medical opinion?" Adam asked. He fought off surliness. He was revealing bits and pieces of himself, yet she refused to believe his sincere intentions. He had met hardheaded people before, ogres being notoriously so: even when hit over the head with a tree, they often failed to fall. But Eve was more stubborn than most.

"Adam, admit it—you don't really want me. You took this scheme for the gold." She stared at him, as if trying to guess his thoughts.

"It is true that wealth was the draw. The gold is the reason I became your husband—but my staying is your fault. I can't leave you."

"It's only your libido speaking. You desire me; that's all."

"Ah, libido. I love it when you talk doctor talk."

Eve couldn't help it; she found herself giggling like a schoolgirl. But before she could do something totally stupid, like kiss him, Lady Jane and Asher joined them and interrupted their conversation. She said, "I'm finding myself feeling quite silly, and I need to apologize. I've been a terrible hostess. It's just that Asher has been gone the past few nights, and I've missed him terribly."

"It's been a wonderful evening—truly," Eve replied.

"I'm sure you understand," Asher added. "You two have been apart much longer than a few nights. I must commend you, Adam, on your forbearance. I must admit I would miss my Jane too dreadfully to be without her for years."

"Sitting beside my lovely wife now, I can't imagine ever being without her again," Adam responded. Eve kicked his ankle with her dainty slippers, but that didn't stop his grin. Turning his eyes to the earl, Adam asked, "How did you meet?" He liked both the Wolvertons. They seemed such an unlikely pair.

"You might say our courtship was rather unusual," the earl admitted. "She doused me with brandy and tried to stake me. It's that Van Helsing blood. Rather a violent lot," he teased his wife, his blue eyes sparkling.

Jane snorted, and Asher's chuckle turned into a heartfelt laugh. Eve giggled.

"And I thought our courtship was strange," Adam remarked thoughtfully.

"How?" Lady Jane asked.

Taking a chance, Eve replied, "Adam can be so elusive. At times I felt I was being wooed by an invisible man."

She didn't have long to wait for Adam's reaction. He looked stunned, then barked out a laugh. Glancing at the earl, he remarked, "The little admiral likes to run a tight ship."

"Have to, in a lunatic asylum," Asher said.

"Quite so," Adam agreed.

Suddenly Lady Jane dropped her fan, her attention caught by something along one of Vauxhall's many scattered pathways. Eve and the rest turned to see.

"Why, it's Frederick," Eve said, watching as Frederick Frankenstein loped up to a tall woman with an extremely complex hairdo. She was rather attractive, with remarkably large, expressive gray eyes. The lady was with three female companions, and was surrounded by young bucks. Apparently she was enjoying her conversation with the young men. She was unaware of the monster who was hurtling her way, his greenish skin touched by pink.

"I do hope Frederick slows down. He can be so clumsy when besotted, and besotted he is!" Lady Jane worried. "I only wish I knew more about Miss Beal. She appears nice enough, however. Her father is the Marquess of Cleese."

Asher nodded. "Very high in the instep. Soul of propriety and that sort of thing. Might not look too kindly on a match between a Frankenstein and a Cleese."

From the earl's private box, they all watched in concern as Frederick approached Miss Beal, his grin wide. But as he made to bow before the cherished lady, his very big feet got in the way and he tripped. He knocked Miss Beal's hand—the hand holding her punch, which sprayed all over her white silk gown. Hissing at Frederick, she fled with two of her female companions, leaving only the young bucks laughing uproariously and mocking Frederick's courting technique. Their mockery was too much for the gentle giant. Frederick fled, his back hunched and his big heart breaking.

"We must find Frederick at once!" Eve exclaimed. "I can't believe this is happening to him." Knowing the severity of his inferiority complex, she knew she must soothe him before he had an extreme attack of nerves.

Lady Jane rose to her feet with alacrity. "Yes. Let's go at once. I don't understand why some people must hurt others to feel better about themselves. Why did they all have to laugh at him? Oh, I wish his cousin Clare were here."

"History repeats itself," Eve replied. Then, seeing Jane's distress, she added, "I never understood why some people kick dogs, gossip to no good, or make others cry. It's a defect in their character—or rather, lack of character. They are missing something vital within, and because of this, I fear they will never truly be happy."

"If I know Frederick, he'll try to drink himself under the table in some run-down tavern," Lady Jane stated.

"Can he find a table that big?" Adam asked.

"Let's just hurry. I must find Frederick," Eve said. "I imagine he is experiencing a rather abrupt case of melancholia." She hurried out of the box, urging Adam with her.

He caught up, handing her the shawl she had left behind. "Don't worry, Evie; we'll find him. How hard can it be to find a six-foot-eight monster?"

Their initial search for Frederick Frankenstein was to no avail, though they covered over a dozen paths in the gardens; they'd sent Lady Jane to start searching taverns. Far overhead, the stars were tiny diamonds, glittering. Wisps of smoke from the last of the fireworks still hung in the air, and the golden glow of lanterns and the moon above made the shadows mysterious and romantic. Any other time, Adam would attempt to ravish the lovely woman beside him. But rogue though he was, he also recognized Eve's concern for her patient.

Wearily Eve shook her head. "I fear Frederick has long left," she said. Her voice broke suddenly, and she lowered her head. "My feet hurt. If I had known I would be walking for hours on end, I would have worn my walking boots."

"I believe you're right. Frederick's not here," Adam agreed. "Why don't you send a note to Dr. Frankenstein?" He reassuringly patted Eve's hand.

"I will. And I'll let Dr. Frankenstein know that I must see Frederick as soon as possible. This debacle tonight has probably set back his treatment by months. If I had been able to see him straightaway, I might have been able to defuse some of his embarrassment. He has such a big heart. Unfortunately, his feet are bigger," she remarked.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Adam found himself smiling. "He's lucky to have you. You care quite deeply for your patients. You don't believe in unfair restraints, even for Hugo. You don't put your wards in pits or treat them harshly. So many fear those who are different, but you care for and about them."

Gazing into his eyes, Eve felt her breath hitch. He had such compelling eyes, which had suddenly had grown heavy-lidded with desire. His compliment might not fix everything, but it certainly lightened her load. "Thank you. I try so hard. Hours of therapy and evaluating—but I rarely am certain of the results."

Releasing her hand, he paced. "The point is, my dear, your patients can trust that you'll never give up on them."

Tilting her head, she studied him. It was as though a warm sea breeze trailed over her soul, and suddenly she needed to be held in his arms, to feel secure and warm… maybe even a tiny bit cherished. She nodded, feeling a marvelous sense of safety and comfort, knowing someone cared and understood.

"Yes, that's it exactly," she said. "And I must confess that you have been rather good with my patients, too."

"My aunt. She was a gentle lady with a loving soul. She lived with us. In her later years, she suffered delusions."

"I'm sorry," Eve responded, feeling more of a connection with Adam than she ever had. The man had befuddled, badgered, and butted heads with her, and now he was slowly bewitching her. The hint of true vulnerability beneath his charming façade had touched her soul. "What happened?"

The expression on his face showed that these memories came with a cost. Watching him, Eve felt the strongest urge to lay her head upon his breast and ease his pain—a most wifely thing to do, she noted absently, and most assuredly absurd.

"My aunt heard voices. It was not unusual to see her carrying on a conversation with no one, or with a tadpole in a pond, gesturing and grumbling. She would talk to a blank wall, or to a piece of lint on her sleeve. Her favorite conversationalist was a duck in our pond. She died when I was twelve. My mother—her sister—never gave up hope that she would become herself again. She combed my aunt's hair at night while listening to her complain about how the rocks shouted at her. Even after we lost my father, my mother was kindness itself."