Bitten by Desire Read Online Free PDF Page B

was standing at the foot of the stairs in a completely strange house.
    â€œMy house,” Vaelen said.
    â€œHow on earth did we get here?”
    â€œCome.” Picking up a lamp from a small table, he led the way up the wide staircase which angled round on itself. The stairs were covered in a deep red carpet which muffled the sound of their steps. On the first floor a long hallway stretched out before them. All the doors were closed. The walls were panelled below the dado rail. Above it were hung a collection of paintings such as Imogen had not seen before, no matter how grand the house. Though she was no expert, she recognised several from the Dutch school, one she was sure was a Rembrandt.
    â€œYou like my paintings?” Vaelen paused, holding the lamp higher so that she could inspect the picture of a man in a blue velvet suit. “Van Dyke,” he said. “Much favoured by the king, but I told Charles many times that he was rather too stylised.”
    â€œKing Charles— You mean, the one who was executed?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou are teasing me. He died over a hundred and fifty years ago.”
    â€œOne hundred and sixty-six, to be precise.”
    â€œVaelen, you can’t mean…”
    He opened the door and ushered her into the room. Kindling a taper from the fire, he lit the candles which sat in heavy silver branches on either side of the marble mantel. The room revealed was opulent, something between a study and a sitting room, with a large desk facing out from one corner, intricately carved, inlaid and lacquered in a style Imogen had never seen. The walls were tempered a soft gold, the carpet into which her bare feet sank was silk, the scattering of comfortable chairs, sofas and little tables were of varying styles, some she recognised, some not. The overall effect was both exotic and comfortable. A large Chinese vase, the figures finely painted, took pride of place on a side table. A chess set of ivory was laid out by the fireside on another table, the game obviously nearing its end for white, as far as she could tell. Imogen picked up a small gold object, attracted by the winking of the emeralds embedded in it.
    â€œA scarab beetle, the symbol of rebirth. This one was buried with the Egyptian Pharaoh Akhenaten.”
    The beetle seemed to glow hot in her hand. Vaelen took it from her and put it back on the table, turning her round to face him. The heat from the fire made her feet tingle, sending a warm glow over her skin which the night had cooled, but Vaelen’s hands were still cold to touch. Only his eyes gleamed warm, almost she would call it tender, as he looked at her. Were they not tinged with a heartbreaking and anguished sadness?
    â€œAre you absolutely sure you want to know the truth?” he asked her. “Can you not trust me when I tell you it would be better for you to remain in ignorance and to let me be?”
    She shook her head. “I am already in too deep,” she said, eerily echoing his own thoughts. “I feel as if I am swimming out of my depth, but I need to know, even if the knowledge drowns me.”
    Vaelen sighed deeply. “Very well.” Upon the table beside the Chinese vase was a decanter. He poured himself a measure of brandy, swallowing it back in one gulp. It was the first time she had seen him drink. “What do you think of this painting?” he asked, returning to join her by the fireside.
    The picture hung over the mantel. A full-length portrait of a man in the same style of cavalier dress as that worn in the Van Dyke which hung in the hallway. A black velvet suit, wide-skirted coat and breeches. Gold-buckled shoes, a heavy fall of lace at his throat and wrists. The subject’s hair was long, silken black. He wore no beard. His face was pale, autocratic and strikingly handsome. The eyes were stormy green. “If it is an ancestor,” Imogen said, “he’s uncannily like you.”
    â€œIt is