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March 22 - March 30, 2025
Standing below it was a man, stripped to the waist, his naked torso covered in sweat and streaked with black, the smoky soot mingling with a collection of tattoos that spread across his back and down his arms.
“What would you prefer? Pistols at dawn?” he mocked. “If it would persuade you,” I replied stoutly. “Although, if I am honest, I would prefer swords.”
“You will be my newly wedded bride whose family do not approve.
Ooo fake dating!
You may address me as Stoker or husband, I care not which.” “What about Lucifer?” I muttered under my breath.
The banter! Love
had done my best to achieve a semblance of order—not from any misplaced domesticity but simply because I found I could think better if comfort and tidiness had been achieved.
“An excellent notion. Is there anything I ought to do to prepare?” His smile was thoroughly nasty. “Yes. Paint a bull’s-eye on your chest. I shall be throwing knives at you and I should hate to miss.”
Ha!
Mr. Stoker’s gaze rested on mine, then moved down to my lips and back again. His lips parted, slowly, so slowly, and he spoke. “We can’t repeat it, Veronica,” he said, his voice oddly thick.
Woah
“I do wish I shared your optimism.” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, and I turned to him sharply. “What is the matter with you? We have now agreed upon something. Furthermore, I said something courteous to you and you have not cursed at me in a full five minutes. Have you a fever? Are you delirious?” I put a hand to his brow and he slapped it away. “That is better,” I said, satisfied.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Stoker. You will have to do better than that if you mean to make me afraid of you. I have been menaced more effectively by poodles.” “God, you have a vicious tongue,” he retorted. “But I am no more afraid of you than you are of me. I have little doubt your bark is worse than your bite.” “How do you know, Mr. Stoker? I haven’t bitten you yet.” I
Then I gave him a level look. “Why do they believe you to be a murderer?” He did not flinch. “Because I am.”
Aside from your expert medical care of me—involving a situation for which you were at least in part responsible—you have been churlish and impatient, quick to anger, impulsive, suspicious, and frequently rude.” “Well, thank God I am not the sensitive sort,” he said lightly. “Else I might think you didn’t like me.” “I like you in spite of those qualities,” I assured him. “I do not like people who are easy to get along with. I would far rather keep company with the hedgehog than the squirrel.”
“Pity if it scars,” he said lightly. “The bastard would wound me on my good side.” “I don’t know about that,” I replied deliberately. “Both sides look entirely appealing to me.” His hand stilled, his expression inscrutable. “Veronica,” he began. But I put up a hand.
I am a spinster reared in a collection of uninteresting villages scattered across England. I write papers about natural history and I collect butterflies and I indulge in harmless love affairs with unattached foreign gentlemen. I know no one; I am no one. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity,” I added helpfully.
I expected he would drop my hand once we left the property, but he kept it clasped in his, even as we eased out of the gate and through the darkened streets.
Once, when we heard the sharp step of a constable upon his rounds, Stoker whisked me into the dark corner of a tradesman’s yard, pushing me up against the brick wall as his arms came firmly about me. I hitched my leg around his waist and twined my arms about his neck, knotting my fingers in his hair as he pressed his face into my neck, nuzzling the delicate skin of my ear. The bobby’s light flashed our way, illuminating a stocking-clad leg and a glimpse of thigh tight in Stoker’s grip. The bobby chuckled, no doubt taking us for a wayward maidservant and her panting swain, and went about his
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“I wish you and I had met as children,” I told him suddenly. “I don’t. You would have dragged me behind the nearest hedgerow and had your way with me before I sprouted hairs on my chin.” I smiled at him and he almost, very nearly, smiled back. “I think I should like to sleep now,” I told him.
“Miss Speedwell is a lepidopterist.”
Butterfly woman
It had also been, I thought sadly, far too long since my last erotic indulgence. I began to count backward on my fingers to my last journey, but the task soon proved depressing. To say that I longed for a little male companionship would be an understatement so extreme as to be criminal. I fairly vibrated with need, and I knew from experience that my body’s demands would only grow more urgent unless they were slaked. And while Stoker might be a little lacking in finesse, I had little doubt he could employ his admirably nimble hands and well-proportioned frame to great effect. He also had the
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Omg veronica!
“It occurs to me, Stoker, I have made no secret of the fact that I am accustomed to a certain amount of regular and health-giving exercise of the intimate variety whilst abroad,” I began. “And I think I must arrange a trip abroad soon if my health is not to suffer the consequences. It has been too long.” I tipped my head as I looked him over from tousled hair to scuffed boots. “How long has it been for you?” He turned a shocked face to me. “That is bloody well none of your business!”
Wow
“You must engage in horizontal refreshment. It isn’t healthy to congest oneself like that.” “I am not congested,” he retorted.
Ha!
Give me a flawed woman with warm blood in her veins instead of ice water any day.”
“It is my birth certificate,” I breathed. “It details the birth of a baby girl in Ireland on 21 June 1862—my birthdate. The mother is Lily Ashbourne.” I stopped speaking abruptly, the words stuck in my throat. “And the father?” Stoker asked. I could not speak. I handed him the paper. “Yes, here is the date and the mother, just as you said, and the father—” He looked at me, nearly dropping the paper. “This cannot be.” I swallowed hard. “But it is.” “‘Mother, Lily Ashbourne,’” he read slowly. I held up a hand. “Don’t,” I commanded, my voice sharp. But he did not stop. “‘Father, His Royal
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And the one thing a sailor does not do is desert his comrades under fire. If we stay, we go down together, and we go down fighting.” I put out my hand. “There is no one I would rather have at my back. To the end, then.” He grasped my hand and shook it. “To the end.” • • •
Awwww
