One Bite Per Night (10 page)

Vincent walked among the vampires gathered within the stone circle. A full smuggler's moon gleamed on the tall gray rocks and moist emerald grass. When all seventy-six were accounted for, he motioned for silence.

“As you all know, I am leaving for London tomorrow. Emrys will be in charge in my absence, and Bronn will act as his second.” Giving the younger and more unruly vampires a stern look, he added, “I will also be coming back frequently to check on you.”

The blood drinkers under his care bowed deeply. However, Kenan and Daveth, two younglings of about a quarter century, exchanged glances smacking of mischief. Vincent made a mental note to tell Emrys to keep an eye on that pair. The Siddons sisters stood together under Bronn's subtle guard. Vincent was pleased to see that they'd lost much of their wariness. It seemed their time working with Lydia was helping them readjust to social interaction.

“Are there any concerns or grievances before we adjourn?”

A few vampires raised their hands, and Vincent spent the next half hour patiently settling disputes on hunting territories and giving advice on land purchases. When all was at peace, he adjourned the meeting, confident that Emrys and Bronn would take good care of his people.

As the vampires departed the circle to return to their homes, Sally Siddons stepped out from the shadows, her lower lip quivering with uncertainty. “Is all in readiness for our journey as well?”

“Yes, I will be bringing horses shortly after dusk to fetch you, so be sure to feed quickly. And the Lords of Exeter and Bath have kindly offered you and Maria hospitality for your day rest. You should arrive at the town house I leased for you within four nights.”

Maria strode forward, visibly trembling in eagerness to set off. “How long shall we be in Town?”

“As long as it takes to see my ward wed, which shouldn't be too long, given her beauty and the magnificent way you've dressed her,” he told her sincerely even as he prayed the pair wouldn't cause mischief once they arrived. “Again I must thank you for all your hard work.”

“It was an honor as well as a pleasure,” Maria said, walking up ahead of her sister. “Miss Price is a delightful young lady and a
fine
painter.”

Vincent regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Ah yes, I am well aware of your scheme to throw her in the path of Sir Thomas Lawrence.”

Sally shook her head vigorously. “It is not like that, my lord. We do not want him seducing her. We wanted to place him in
your
path so you may tell us how he fares, since we aren't allowed to see for ourselves.”

“
And
so she may receive the guidance she desires for her portraits,” Maria chimed in. “She is very talented for one of such youth and inexperience and—”

He held up a hand. “I know what your intentions are. And I am not overly worried about the painter toying with her heart. He has to be past fifty by now—”

“Fifty-three,” they both interrupted.

“And balding and gout-ridden if your wishes have come true. At any rate, I would not permit her to be alone with the man for a second, and neither will her chaperone.”

Maria nodded. “That woman is a dragon if I've ever seen the like.”

“So will you take her to see him then?” Sally persisted.

He rubbed his temples. “Since she is so delighted at the prospect of meeting a master painter, I can hardly refuse. What if the man is rich, handsome as ever, and happy with a young, beautiful wife?”

They remained silent a moment before Maria said quietly, “We shall gnash our teeth and pity the wife. He doesn't deserve happiness.”

Vincent sighed. That was the best he could expect. “Well, I had better return home and see to Lydia. Remember, if you need anything, do not hesitate to write or send Emrys.”

“You care for her very much, don't you?” Sally's large eyes brimmed with sympathy.

“More than is good for me,” he answered and left before they could pry further.

By the time he arrived home, it was past midnight, and the castle was dark and silent. It took every bit of his restraint not to go to Lydia's chamber. Instead, he trudged up to his study and poured a glass of brandy. Tomorrow they would be off to London.

As if by mutual agreement, Vincent and Lydia had avoided all talk of London and suitors for their last days in Cornwall. Instead, they savored their time together, lingering for hours in the game room. Though a measure of their easy friendship remained, it was irrevocably changed after he kissed her.

Vincent could not bring himself to regret those stolen kisses. Lydia had tasted of decadent confections and felt like heaven in his arms. He would cherish the memory until his cursed existence was at last snuffed out.

And he could not suppress a rush of anticipation when Lydia slipped into his study long past the time the household had retired.

“Lydia, what are you doing up at this hour?” he demanded, trying not to notice how delectable her bare toes looked, peeking from beneath her dressing gown.

“I have a present for you, my lord,” she said with such cheer he couldn't help smiling.

“A present?” he echoed like a slack-jawed idiot.

She nodded and took his hand. “Come, it is in the library.”

As Vincent walked with her, his heart clenched with the bittersweet awareness that it had been centuries since he'd received a gift.

Lydia opened the door with a dramatic flourish, revealing a painting displayed within a circle of lanterns and candles.

“My God,” Vincent breathed, stepping forward.

It was a sunrise. Brilliant in its array of colors, the dawn glowed on the branches of the trees, lit up the green grass, and was duplicated within a reflection on the surface of the lake. Unbidden, he reached forward as if he could feel the warmth of the dawn on his skin. How could she possibly know what this meant to him?

“Do you like it?” Lydia asked with aching humility.

“Very much,” Vincent spoke past the tightness in his throat. “I feel I could dive into the water, it looks so real.” Overcome with piercing emotion, he could not stop himself from pulling her into his arms any more than he could halt the tides.

“Thank you, Lydia.” The words were unworthy of her gift, just as he was unworthy to enjoy the warmth of her embrace. “We shall bring it to London with the rest of your paintings.”

“We're bringing my paintings?” Her voice was like velvet against his chest.

“Yes, I've had them crated up and loaded onto the baggage cart.” He cursed his words the moment he spoke. Awareness of their imminent departure hung like mourning crepe.

“I cannot believe we are going tomorrow,” Lydia whispered, peering up at him with wide, bright eyes. “Though I am anxious to see the famed city, part of me longs to stay here.”

Every
part
of
me
wishes
you
could
stay
forever
. Vincent held her tighter. “I will treasure your gift forever,” he whispered.

Her proximity tempted him to madness. Those silken lips seemed to beckon him closer. Alas, she was not his and never could be.

“Vincent,
please
,” she whispered, eyes half-closed and imploring.

One
last
time.
Slowly, giving her ample time to pull away, he brushed his mouth across hers, featherlight, yet rife with longing. The smell of gardenias rose heavy in the air, along with the intoxicating scent of her arousal. Lydia made a small sound against his lips and pulled him closer. He hardened immediately.

It took every vestige of his will to break away before things went further. “You must return to your bed. You have a long journey tomorrow.”

She looked up at him like a wounded doe and curtsied shakily. “Yes, my lord.”

As she left, Vincent licked his lips, savoring her taste for the last time. “Never again,” he whispered.

The words were like a death knell.
Never
again.

***

Burnrath House, London

“Good God, man,” Ian said as he admitted Vincent into his study. “What is so urgent that you had to fly here from Cornwall?”

Vincent gave him a dry stare. “As you well know, I do not fly, I merely…move fast. Where is your wife?”

“She is in her writing room. Do not disturb her.” Ian poured him a glass of port. “She
will
bite. She instructed me to assure you that she received a reply in the affirmative from the Lord Chamberlain to her application. Miss Price's presentation to our sovereign will be on Thursday, the sixth, at ten o'clock in the evening, so thankfully we shall all be able to attend and lend our support.”

Vincent could not suppress his sigh of relief. “So she has agreed to sponsor Lydia?”

Ian nodded. “Yes, though she remains reluctant.”

“I am certain that will change when she meets Lydia.” Vincent frowned, recalling another important detail. “What of securing a subscription to Almack's? Miss Hobson informed me such a thing is imperative for a debutante.”

Ian studied his glass of port as if it were of paramount importance. “There is a bit of a problem with that matter. Angelica was banned from Almack's only last year. If it were not for our high status and income, her reputation would have been blackened beyond redemption.” He laughed. “It was a goal she fervently pursued and nearly achieved, until I unwittingly thwarted her efforts.”

“Why
did
you wed her?” Vincent asked without thinking.

Ian chuckled. “It is quite a long story. I originally married her to preserve my reputation. Now I know it is because she is the other half of my heart.” He coughed in embarrassment and pointedly changed the subject. “I congratulate you on finding a town house so near to here. Do you think it will be ready in time for Miss Price's arrival?”

“It had better be,” Vincent replied. “I've spent more coin than I have in five decades to secure the lease and hire extra servants. Aubert and Cook should arrive with the baggage cart in six days, Lydia and her maid and chaperone are due in seven.”

Ian leaned back in his chair, regarding him with half-lidded eyes. “And meanwhile, you will be dashing back and forth across the English countryside to ensure your ward is not set upon by highwaymen during her journey.”

Vincent nodded. “I vowed to protect her.”

“You cannot protect her during the day,” Ian warned. “Soon you must see her safe in the hands of one who can.”

“Tonight?” Lydia groaned. The embossed black-and-silver invitation to dine at Burnrath House made her sore muscles protest. “I had greatly hoped to sleep for the next three days. Every part of my being aches so badly that I vow my soul was battered during that journey.”

Miss Hobson sniffed. “Such melodrama is unbecoming, as close to the truth as it may be. However, you cannot decline an invitation from a duchess.” She rubbed her back, as ill-affected from the trek as Lydia was. “We are not expected for several hours yet. Send a footman with a reply in the affirmative, and we may have a nap.”

Lydia's shoulders relaxed at the welcome suggestion. Yet once she was tucked in her luxuriously soft bed, sleep remained elusive. London was an assault on the senses. Her ears rang from the cacophony of noise. Her eyes blurred from the bustling crowds of people, carriages, and stray dogs. And the stench…dear Lord, she did not know if she would ever recover from it. New Orleans had been a busy place as well. However, after months of tranquillity in Cornwall, the English capital was unbearable.

She sighed, knowing she could not lie to herself. The real source of her ill humor was that she missed Vincent. Because of his headaches, he'd been unable to ride with them in the carriage. Instead, he'd traveled ahead on horseback, arriving in time to ensure the town house was outfitted to be a perfect haven for her.

And a haven it was. Flowers and scented candles kept the reek of the city at bay. A walled garden provided a barrier from the noise. Her paintings adorned nearly every room in the house, the sunrise dominating the sitting room, accented by candles infused with lemon verbena. Servants waited to indulge her with the mere ring of a bell.

Vincent was like a guardian angel, transforming her from an unwanted orphan to a pampered princess. Yet Lydia did not want his pampering. She wanted his company, his embrace…his kisses.
And
his
love.

If only her painting had been enough to sway him from his decision to marry her to another. At first, she'd thought it was forbidden for a guardian to marry his ward. It would be more bearable if the law kept him from her, for then perhaps she could convince him to take her back to America. Miss Hobson had crushed that hope when Lydia tentatively broached the subject during the carriage ride.

“Unless they are kin, there is no legal impediment against a guardian marrying his ward, though it would raise eyebrows among Society.” Miss Hobson had regarded her strangely. “Has Lord Deveril given you reason to believe he would be amenable to such a match?”

Quickly, Lydia had shaken her head, hoping her pain was not obvious. “No, I am merely curious about England's customs.”

The suspicious glint failed to dim in the chaperone's eyes, though she had nodded. “Well, his lordship seems to be resigned to remaining a bachelor. It is a bit of a shame, for I believe he is the last of his line.” In an offhand tone, she added, “Though that may change this Season when everyone realizes what a catch he is. I daresay many young ladies will be vying to become the next Countess of Deveril. The earl will have to be clever to evade their clutches.”

Sick envy had roiled through Lydia at the thought of Vincent with another woman. Only her pride kept her from reacting. Unable to continue the conversation, she'd hidden her face in a novel until they arrived in London.

Now, gazing up at the intricately woven canopy above her bed, Lydia vowed she wouldn't let Vincent's rejection of her affection hurt her any longer. She would not be affected by the other debutantes simpering over him, for she would be too busy with her own suitors.

With that inner promise, sleep enveloped her in its welcome solace, wherein she did not dream of suitors. Instead, her imagination conjured Vincent's lips upon hers, her hands in his hair, the feel of his hardness against her body.

When she awoke, Lydia's mood was improved. Whether from the prospect of meeting a duchess who wrote ghost stories, or because it was nightfall and Vincent was soon to arrive, she could not say. Either way, her heart pounded when she met him downstairs.

Though she did her best not to look at him on the ride to Burnrath House, her few brief glances in Vincent's direction were enough to determine he was in a sullen humor. Was he perhaps nervous? Lydia certainly was, especially once the carriage halted and she caught her first sight of the imposing Elizabethan manor. The monstrosity was nearly the size of Castle Deveril.

A liveried butler greeted them with a low bow. A footman took their hats and cloaks with equal formality before they were escorted to a richly furnished drawing room, decadently illuminated with modern gas lamps that lit the chamber as brightly as day. Lydia couldn't stop staring at Vincent's hair. His gleaming strands shone with molten silver and gold.

“I am so pleased you are here!” A playful voice brought back her attention.

The Duchess of Burnrath was not what Lydia had expected. Besides the lack of a coronet or a regal stiffness like Miss Hobson's, Her Grace was tiny in stature and had an air of mischievousness displayed in her every movement. She looked to be younger than Lydia, yet her exotic black eyes gleamed with astonishing intelligence.

Lydia curtsied low. “Your Grace, I am honored by your invitation.”

The duchess returned the curtsy as a black cat wove in and out under her skirts. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Price.” Turning to Lydia's chaperone, she added, “Miss Hobson, you have trained her well. All the same, I am thankful my mother was unable to afford your expertise.”

Miss Hobson inclined her head. “You flatter me, Your Grace, though it seems you have done well without my tutoring.”

The duchess laughed merrily and picked up her cat. “This is Loki, the fiercest rat catcher in all of London.”

The duke descended the stairs and bowed to the ladies before clapping Vincent on the shoulder. “Deveril, old chap, I am pleased you came. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

To Lydia's dismay, she realized that her supposition about aristocratic dining was correct, for the duchess ate as little as Vincent and the duke. It was a shame, for the food was delicious, and it took every vestige of her will to be ladylike and only sample a few morsels of each dish.

Their hosts inquired politely about the journey to London, as well as Lydia's life in America. Lydia observed that they and Vincent frequently exchanged intent gazes and odd frowns. It was as if they were having a conversation without her.

“Tell me, Miss Price.” The duchess set down her wineglass and fed her cat a bit of fish. “Are you eager to be presented to the most eligible gentlemen in England?”

I
loathe
the
idea!
Lydia longed to shout.
But
it
is
preferable
to
remaining
with
a
man
who
does
not
want
me.
Instead, she straightened her spine and fixed the duchess with a placid smile. “Nothing delights me more, Your Grace.”

“And what of love?”

Lydia blinked at the unexpected question.
I
love
Vincent.
“One may always hope. My parents married for love.”

“Ah, yes.” The duchess smiled at Lydia. “Your father was the scandalous Earl of Morley, who ran off to America with a merchant's daughter. Tell me, did they remain in love?”

Lydia spoke past a sudden lump in her throat. “Until they drew their last breath.”

Her Grace gave her a long, considering look, and Lydia feared she had said the wrong thing. Then she replied, “Perhaps my parents should have moved to America.”

Burnrath chuckled. “Then you would not have met me.”

“That is true.” She returned his smile.

His Grace moved on to the next subject. “I gave Miss Price one of your novels.”

“Did you enjoy it?” The duchess leaned forward.

“Very much, Your Grace.”

Those dark eyes gleamed with warmth. “Please, call me Angelica. I abhor such formality in my home. Tell me, what other authors do you admire?”

The remainder of the meal passed cordially, as Angelica and Lydia discussed literature. They were delighted to realize their tastes were so similar. After the dishes were carried away, Angelica seized Lydia's hand, and they hurried up to the library. Loki scurried after them.

The vast chamber took Lydia's breath away. A cheery fireplace and ornate lamps illuminated the plush burgundy rugs, the inviting overstuffed chairs, and wall-to-wall mahogany shelves holding hundreds of books. Her lips parted in awe. She could spend hours here.

Angelica retrieved a well-worn volume and handed it to her. “You must read this book.”

Lydia's pulse quickened at the title:
A
Vindication
of
the
Rights
of
Women
by Mary Wollstonecraft. Just holding the book felt like an act of rebellion. Angelica's eyes met hers, and they exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Lydia knew then that she had made a true friend.

“Do you agree to sponsor Miss Price for the Season, then?” Vincent interrupted the exchange as he regarded them from the doorway.

“Yes, I will. Though I suppose that means I shall have to once more transport myself to the realm of respectability.” Angelica looked so dismayed at the prospect that Lydia couldn't hold back her laughter.

“We would like to take you both to the opera tomorrow,” the duke said, joining his wife. “It is a way Miss Price can glimpse Society before the Season begins.”

“Oh, we should see
The
Vampyre, or The Bride of the Isles
!” Angelica exclaimed.

“A vampire opera?” Lydia grinned. “That sounds delightful!”

Vincent, however, glowered at the suggestion of the play.
He
must
despise
gothic
tales
, thought Lydia.
Perhaps
that
comes
with
living
in
a
real
castle.

***

“Just what do you think you are about, Angel, loaning her that book?” Ian demanded the moment Vincent left with his charge and the chaperone. “The last thing Vincent needs is for that young lady's head to be filled with seditious ideas.”

Angelica's eyes narrowed, flickering with preternatural flame. “You don't believe in female equality?”

Ian raised his gaze to the ceiling, as if to seek divine aid. “You know that I do. I lived through Queen Elizabeth's reign. You also know that a number of Lord Vampires are female. The issue is about Miss Price. She needs to be happily wed and safely out from beneath Vincent's roof before she discovers what he is.” He fixed her with an icy stare. “As for that subject, what in God's name would possess you to suggest a vampire opera? Have you gone mad? You may as well bare your fangs at her!”

“And would that be such a terrible thing?” Angelica said softly. “Did you not observe Lydia closely, Ian? She is in love with Lord Deveril.”

“What makes you think he would return the sentiment? He hardly acknowledged her presence tonight.”

Angelica laughed. “Precisely. He took extra pains with that, as if had he touched her, he would be unable to stop.” She shook her head. “It is beyond comprehension why he would throw away an opportunity for happiness.”

“The only way he could keep her is to seek permission to make her one of us. I attempted to broach the subject with Deveril during my visit to his castle.” He waved off Angelica's hopeful grin. “He is adamantly opposed to the idea.”

“Why? You remember how he was at our wedding reception and during my first ball. He was obviously lonely, and Lydia is perfect for him. One would have to be blind not to see it.” Angelica reached up to caress her husband's face. “Surely you can persuade him to see reason.”

Ian locked his arms around her. “Have patience, Angel. You forget we have eternity. If Vincent truly loves her, he won't let her go. I'll wager you two hundred pounds he'll submit a request to the Elders to Change Miss Price by the end of the Season. You must not meddle.”

Angelica answered as honestly as she could. “I shall endeavor to do so as little as possible.”