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“We’ll share mine,” said Lord Riven firmly, “and won’t require any more assistance for quite some time. Thank you.”

“Very good, my lord.” Looking more contemptuous than ever, the waiter left and twitched the curtains shut behind him.

Margaret buried her hot face in her hands. “Good Lord, I am hopeless! How am I meant to investigate all these upcoming royal balls when I can’t even act the part of a proper lady for half an hour in a coffee house?”

“Oh, my love.” Lord Riven’s voice was warm and rueful as he rose and circled the table to lean over her, one big hand stroking gently across her hair. “Don’t distress yourself, I beg you. If it helps, I am certain you’ve been behaving in a far more proper manner than that waiter has witnessed in months.”

“What do you mean?” Margaret lifted her head just enough to peer up at him but not dislodge his warm fingers.

“We-ell...” He tilted his head towards the closed curtains behind him, his mouth quirking. “What do you suppose is usually happening when an Imperial archduke escorts an elegant lady to this table and pulls those curtains shut for privacy?”

“How should I—? Oh. Really?” Straightening with a jerk, she stared at the closed curtains. “But we’re in the first district of the city. This is meant to be a respectable establishment!”

“And yet...” Her husband shrugged gently as his hand dropped to his side. “Remember, my dear, we’re not in England any longer...even if the two of us were too well-trained to ever act with such continental freedom.”

“My goodness.” Margaret blinked multiple times as she imagined the scandalous scenario. All of a sudden, she felt the closeness of their velvet-guarded space in a whole new way. A flicker of heat curled tantalizingly through her stomach, replacing her earlier embarrassment with something infinitely more intriguing.

With those curtains fully closed, no one could see anything they did here, no matter how improper it might be. More than that, as the low din of conversation mingled with the music of the small string orchestra nearby, no small, telltale sounds were likely to be overheard.

So if they actually chose...

Her speculative gaze rose to meet her husband’s once more—and he sucked in a harsh breath as red sheened over his eyes. “Far too well-trained,” he said tightly, and took a quick step back to his own seat. “Have no fear, my dear. As a British gentleman, I would never give in to temptation and dishonor you in such a way.”

“Hmm,” said Margaret thoughtfully.

Travel was meant to broaden one’s mind and scholarly store of experiences, was it not?

As he sank into his seat with rather less than his usual grace, Lord Riven knocked back a hasty sip of his glass of blood—and then winced.

“Not quite so fresh as promised?” Margaret inquired.

Strain tightened his expression as he closed his eyes against her. “It...is as fresh as could be hoped when served in this way. It only suffers by comparison.”

...Comparison to her, he meant. The warmth in Margaret’s stomach gave an answering throb at that, and she ran her tongue over her upper lip. Having published an internationally renowned article on the physical effects of a lover’s vampiric bite, she knew exactly how marvelous that would feel.

Their curtains were so very tightly closed...

“You needn’t bother to restrain yourself for me,” she murmured. “After all, no one else would ever know if we⁠—”

“No.” Lord Riven’s throat flexed above his cravat, but he opened his eyes to meet her gaze full-on with an erotically telltale shimmer of red veiling his light brown irises. “I’ve spent centuries restoring my tarnished honor. I won’t discard it now.”

Straightening his broad shoulders, he lifted his glass once more, this time as if making a toast. “My love, your curiosity and courage will always be an inspiration, but remember: you have saved me from my solitude and given me the world. No matter how desperately I may wish to give in on this matter, I cannot respond to your generosity by treating you with anything but the greatest of respect—regardless of any witnesses.”

“Hmm.” This time, Margaret’s tone was decidedly displeased...but before she could launch into a full academic debate upon the matter, she was struck by an unfortunate pang of remembered obligation.

Honeymoon or not, she had been set upon a task tonight. Every delay in fulfilling it would mean less time left afterwards for them to spend in the Black Forest, where they were happiest, before their own nation’s harsh deadline drew them unwillingly home.

“If we do solve this mystery for the king, I shall give him a stern lecture on the necessity of seeing that law around vampiric property abolished,” she grumbled. “He could at least make some attempt in thanks for all our efforts!”

It might have seemed a non sequitur, but Lord Riven gave a sympathetic rumble as he took another sip of his drink, and Margaret turned her own attention to her pot of waiting tea.

Alas, its lack of flavor made her suspect that whoever brewed the tea at this coffee house shared their waiter’s contempt for the beverage as a whole. Fortunately, the tall and complex slice of creamy cake, made up of a full dozen exquisite layers, was delicious enough to almost make up for her disappointing drink. As she speared through all the delicate layers with her fork, she pondered the various and sundry pieces of information she’d gathered from the king earlier, despite his general incoherence.

“Chronologically,” she began, sorting it through her head, “it only started two weeks ago.”

“When the first of the formal balls was held,” her husband agreed. “That one was hosted by the emperor, I believe?”

“They’re all essentially hosted by the emperor, one way or the other, regardless of formalities,” Margaret retorted. “King Thomas said they’re all held in the Habsburgs’ Hofburg palace, no matter which country’s ruler officially acts as host in this monthlong round robin.”