Page 7 of A Betrothal So Bloody

I steel myself and take a step onto the landing. My foot is still hovering over the next stair when a strong hand grips my upper arm. The iron grasp bites into my skin—a command, not a request—and reels me back so quickly, my shoes scrape against the stones. The candlestick flies from my hand, gold clanging on the ground as the tiny flame is ousted.

I step away sharply from D’Agonisto, flinching when cold tile hits my back. Where the hell had he come from? He’s alone, but I’m all but corralled against the wall. Before I even process, my hand is moving toward the fold in my gown that conceals a silver dagger. My fingers brush the fabric, stopping just short of the hidden slit.

“Do you make it a habit of rifling through all your hosts’ estates?” he asks, his honeyed voice now flinty and hard.

My heart is fluttering. If he’s a vampire, he certainly hears it. But D’Agonisto doesn’t look ravenous. Just irritated. I almost find myself missing that insufferable smirk, which is absent now.

“I-I was just…” Holding his piercing stare, so much of my preparation flees my mind. “I thought I might save the servants the trouble of replenishing the wine. Perhaps a spiced bottle for celebration. It’s kept down here, isn’t it?”

The corners of his eyes tighten as he gives me a quick once-over.. “And your former suitors… did they fall for that shit?”

My indignance is only half performative this time.

“Excuse me?” I jerk my head back so fast that it bumps against the stone wall behind me.

“Look, you’re already poking around places you don’t belong. You don’t need to insult my intelligence on top of that.”

I gape at him for a moment. That derisive tone! He’d been rather informal for a host thus far and certainly eccentric, but this took it to new heights. Who the hell speaks to a guest like that, let alone a supposed well-bred lady?

“I… I was curious,” I say, blinking placating doe-eyes up at him. “Maybe a little frightened. If this match is set, I don’t know what kind of man you are.”

He’s quiet for a moment, mulling this over. The silence is charged, and I measure the space between our bodies—which isn’t much. He’s a head taller than me, forcing my chin to lift to hold his gaze. Honesty is sold through the eyes, after all.

D’Agonisto nods at my hands. “How’s your wound?”

Shit. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought.” I hold up my hand, showing how the bleeding has already subsided beneath my balled-up handkerchief.

I swear I catch him rolling his eyes.

“Give it here,” he says, motioning.

I extend my hand out palm up—it wouldn’t be very meek and mewling of me to refuse him now. D’Agonisto’s hands cradle mine, and a little spark runs through me at the contact. His palms are surprisingly calloused for someone born into a life of luxury, and I can feel the silent strength in them. Fascination grips me for a beat, staring at how his hands nearly swallow mine by comparison as he brushes a thumb near my wound. I’ve never felt so dainty.

“Where is my aunt?” I ask.

“Exactly where I told her to stay, unless your ardent curiosity is hereditary.”

He snatches up my crumpled kerchief and straightens it out before winding it over my cut. The cloth is wrapped firmly, contouring to my palm efficiently and quickly. He’s not being ostentatious—this is the expertise of someone who has dressed surface wounds many times before.

But when he ties it off in a knot…

“You’re trembling,” I murmur. I lift my gaze from the quake in his fingers to observe his face carefully, but his eyes are still a stormy blue.

“I don’t like seeing my guests hurt.” He lets my hand drop with no decorum. “Even the rude ones.”

He tilts his head, a few strands of his chin-length blonde hair shifting like an unkempt curtain. “Call me crazy, but I get the sense that you’re not as refined as your aunt would like me to believe.”

To a proper lady, this would be an unforgivable insult. All I hear is my cover becoming paper-thin.

I can still fix this.

“Signore, I—”

“I’m relieved for it, actually,” he lays over me. He flashes a conspiratorial smile, dipping his head. “Means you’re not boring.”

I loose a shaky chuckle. “Even still, I humbly beg your forgiveness, Signore D’Agonisto.”

He gives a soft snort of laughter. “If I wanted you to beg, darling, I would just tell you. And I told you already—call me Dante.”