The great hall blazed with victory. Candlelight struck crystal and silver until the air itself seemed molten. Musicians coaxed bright notes from strings while servants glided between guests with wine that caught the light like liquid rubies.
Alistair's arm anchored mine as we moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations with practiced grace.
"Lord Pemberton looks ready to expire from envy," Alistair murmured against my ear, his breath warm and startlingly human. "His new future wife keeps staring at your sapphires."
"Let them stare." I pressed closer to his side, feeling the solid strength of him. "You're magnificent tonight."
"The animal blood helps." His voice carried that dry humor I'd missed desperately. "Three deer this afternoon. Enough to keep your scent from driving me to madness in close quarters."
"Such romance in your words, husband."
"Would you prefer poetry?" He turned us smoothly to avoid a dowager's approach. "Your eyes outshine these candles, your skin makes silk jealous, your growing belly carries the future of—"
"Stop." But I laughed, and God help me, it felt real. This was the Alistair who'd courted me with wit sharp, who'd danced until dawn at our wedding, who'd once traced sonnets on my bare shoulders with reverent fingers.
"The Blackwood heir grows strong," announced Lord Harrington, raising his glass as we passed. "To the continuation of noble blood!"
"To the future," Alistair responded, lifting his own glass though he didn't drink. The irony of celebrating bloodlines with a vampire should have chilled me. Instead, his performance warmed something I'd thought dead.
"Helena, you glow with maternal beauty," Lady Harrington gushed. "When shall we expect the blessed arrival?"
"Summer," I replied. "The physicians predict late July."
"Perfect timing. The estate will bloom with new life."
More guests pressed close, offering felicitations that Alistair deflected with smooth authority. His hand never left my waist, thumb tracing small circles through silk—a gesture so familiar my heart clenched.
"Gentlemen." Lord Ashworth materialized with three other landowners. "A word about the northern drainage disputes? The spring thaw threatens another flood if we don't coordinate repairs."
Alistair's jaw tightened fractionally. "Of course." He bent to my ear. "Can you manage without me?"
"I've survived worse deprivations."
His laugh rumbled through me. "Don't let Mother corner you about nursery preparations. She's been eyeing fabric samples all week."
He kissed my temple—a public gesture of affection that sent whispers rippling through nearby guests—then allowed himself to be drawn into discussions of levees and water rights.
I scanned the crowd and spotted salvation. Lady Maeve Carrow stood beside her parents near the wine table, wearing emerald silk and an expression of barely contained rebellion.
"Lord and Lady Carrow," I said, approaching with my best hostess smile. "How wonderful you could attend."
"Lady Blackwood!" Lady Carrow's fingers fluttered like dying moths. "Such exciting news. A child! You're the perfect example of feminine accomplishment."
"Indeed," Lord Carrow added, his voice thick with wine. "Married well, managing a great estate, and now providing an heir. Everything a woman should aspire to achieve."
Maeve's eyes met mine over her mother's shoulder, sharp with irony.
"You're too kind," I said smoothly. "Might I borrow Maeve? My husband's occupied with business, and I could use companionship."
"Oh, how thoughtful!" Lady Carrow practically pushed her daughter forward. "Maeve needs exposure to proper society. Perhaps your influence will help her understand a woman's true calling."
"She keeps refusing Lord Pemberton," Lord Carrow grumbled. "Third proposal this month. The girl lacks sense."
"Or perhaps she has too much sense," I suggested lightly. "Lord Pemberton's wives do have that troublesome habit of dying."
Lord Carrow's face purpled, but his wife intervened. "Take her, please. Show her how a true lady conducts herself."
I linked arms with Maeve and steered her toward the archway. Once we'd cleared earshot, she exhaled explosively.
"Christ, I thought they'd never stop."
"Your mother means well."
"My mother wants me married to anyone with a title and income." Maeve's voice carried venom. "Lord Pemberton could be Jack the Ripper and she'd still push me toward his bed."
"I won't lecture you on propriety, if that's what you're dreading."
"Thank God." She studied me sideways. "Though you played the perfect wife remarkably well back there."
"Practice makes perfect." The hall's heat pressed against my skin like wet wool. My stomach roiled. "I need air. Join me?"
"Lead the way."
We escaped through a side door into a corridor where winter still held court. Stone walls radiated cold that cut through my silk dress immediately. Better than the suffocating warmth behind us.
"You look green," Maeve observed. "Morning sickness?"
"All-day sickness." I pressed my palm to the wall, letting frost seep through my gloves. "The pregnancy books failed to mention that particular delight."
"The books fail to mention most of reality." She moved toward an open window where February wind stirred the tapestries. "Shall I close this?"
"Please." I joined her at the casement, breathing deep of air that tasted like snow and chimney smoke. "The cold helps with nausea."
Maeve reached for the iron latch just as a scream ripped through the darkness outside—raw, human, and absolutely wrong for a celebration. It cut off abruptly, leaving silence that pressed against our ears like water.