"Tanya Huff - To Each His Own Kind" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huff Tanya)

would allow him to cross the threshold.
Two steps into the foyer, March turned with his perpetual smile. "Well, come in, Count. No need to
wait for an engraved invitation."
"No, of course not." He joined the American in removing his hat, coat, and gloves, handing them into
the care of a liveried footman.
"I expect you'll want to meet His Highness first?"
"It would be proper to pay my immediate respects to the prince."
"Proper to pay your immediate respects," March repeated shaking his head. "Didn't I say you lot have
lovely manners. Where would His Highness be then?" he asked the footman.
"The green salon, sir."
"Of course he is, the evening's young. I should have known. This way then." He took hold of the
Count's arm to turn him toward the stairs. "Say, there's not a lot of meat on your bones is there? Now
me, I think a little stoutness shows a man's place in the world."
"Indeed." He stared down at the fleshy fingers wrapped just above his elbow, too astonished at being
so held to be enraged.
Fortunately, he was released before the astonishment faded, for it would have been the height of
rudeness to kill the man while they were both guests in another's home.
At the top of the stairs they crossed a broad landing toward an open doorway through which spilled
the sounds of men… and women? He paused. He would not be anonymous in this crowd. He would be
introduced and be expected to take part in social discourse. While he looked forward to the opportunity
of testing his ability to walk unknown and unseen amongst the living, he also found himself strangely
afraid. It had been a very, very long time since he had been a member of such a party and it would have
been so much easier had the women not been there.
He had always had a weakness—no, say rather a fondness, for he did not admit weakness—for a
pretty face.
"Problem, Count?" March paused in the doorway and beamed back at him.
On the other hand, if this man can move amongst the powerful of London and they do not see
him for what he is… "No, not at all, Mr. March. Lead on."
 There had been little imagination involved in the naming of the green salon, for the walls were covered
in a brocaded green wallpaper that would have been overwhelming had it not been covered in turn by
dozens of paintings. A few were surprisingly good, most were indifferent, and all had been placed within
remarkably ugly frames. The furniture had been upholstered in a variety of green and gold and cream
patterns and underfoot was a carpet predominantly consisting of green cabbage roses. Everything that
could be gilded, had been. Suppressing a shudder, he was almost overcome by a sudden wave of longing
for the bare stone and dark, heavy oak of home.
Small groups of people were clustered about the room, but his eyes were instantly drawn to the pair
of facing settees where half a dozen beautiful women sat talking together, creamy shoulders and bare
arms rising from silks and satins heavily corseted around impossibly tiny waists. How was it his
newspapers had described the women to be found circling around the prince? Ah yes, as "a flotilla of
white swans, their long necks supporting delicate jeweled heads." He had thought it excessively
fanciful when he read it but now, now he saw that it was only beautifully accurate.
"We'll introduce you to the ladies later," March murmured, leading the way across the center of the
room. "That's His Highness by the window."
Although he would have much preferred to take the less obvious route around the edges, the Count
followed. As they passed the ladies, he glanced down. Most were so obviously looking away they could
only have been staring at him the moment before, but one met his gaze. Her eyes widened and her lips
parted but she did not look away. He could see the pulse beating in the soft column of her throat. Later,
he promised, and moved on.
"Your Royal Highness, may I present a recent acquaintance of mine, Count Dracula."
Even before March spoke, he had identified which of the stout, whiskered men smoking cigars by the