One Bite Per Night (11 page)

Lydia stood rapt in awe at her first sight of Somerset House. Illuminated by gas lamps, the “house,” a sprawling neoclassical quadrangle, was one of the largest structures she'd ever seen. The Thames lapped against the south wing, and boats actually rowed inside the building under its massive arches.

“Lydia.” Vincent's voice brought her back to awareness. “If you want to see the paintings, we had better go inside now or we'll be late to the opera.”

She blushed at being caught gaping. “I am sorry, my lord. It is so…” She spread her arms helplessly, at a loss for words. She wished they could have come during the day, but Vincent's headaches prevented it.

“You do not have anything like this in America?” A hint of pride for her home country warmed Miss Hobson's voice.

Lydia shook her head. “The president's home is dainty by comparison.”

Both her guardian and her chaperone laughed at the candid remark.

“Is
all
of this home to the Royal Academy?” she asked, reeling in amazement as they made their way up the large paved drive.

Miss Hobson shook her head. “The Society of Antiquaries, the University of London, and countless public offices hold accommodations here.”

Bewigged officials opened the doors for them, and after taking Vincent's card, they led them up a wide, curving staircase to the apartments of the Royal Academy of Arts. When they entered the cavernous receiving room, Lydia immediately wanted to examine the myriad gold-framed paintings adorning the walls. However, there was a man waiting.

“Lord Deveril, I presume?” he inquired mildly.

Vincent nodded. “I apologize for the late hour and thank you for your willingness to give us a tour.” He turned to Lydia. “This is Sir Thomas Lawrence, president of the Royal Academy and one of the finest portrait artists to have lived. Sir Thomas, this is my ward, Miss Lydia Price, daughter of the late Earl of Morley, and a skilled painter in her own right.” He gestured to Miss Hobson. “This is Miss Sarah Hobson, the most vigilant chaperone in England.”

Lydia hid her astonished gasp with her fan as Vincent gave her a wink. She'd known they'd be visiting the Academy, but he hadn't told her they would be meeting Sir Thomas. She quickly curtsied, trying not to ogle the painter she idolized.

He was fairly tall, though much shorter than Vincent. Deep blue eyes, noble Roman features, and rich golden hair fringing his balding head proved that he had once been a handsome man. Was he truly a despoiler of innocents, as the Sidwell sisters had claimed?

“Miss Price, you have your father's unique eyes. He sat for me once, you know.” His lips curved in a warm smile. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Overwhelmed that he knew who she was, Lydia's curtsy was shaky. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I have the portrait you painted of my father. May I see more of your work?”

“Of course.” He extended his arm. “Shall we begin the tour?”

Lydia took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the paintings. He pointed out works by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Thomas Gainsborough, and Benjamin West.

She stopped in front of West's roundel,
The
Graces
Unveiling
Nature.
“The texture of their hair is amazing. It appears he used many different-sized brushes.”

“You have an astute eye for detail,” Lawrence said, eyeing her more intently as he proceeded to show her his own paintings.

His skill with light and shadow was extraordinary. Lydia was also impressed with the romantic, almost melancholy quality of his portraits. She studied each, trying to identify a unifying technique to explain the effect, but could not. A portrait of a young woman caught her eye. There was something familiar about her dark, wavy tresses and pensive gray eyes.

“I've seen her before,” she whispered aloud.

Vincent shook his head, expression unreadable.

“Impossible.” Sir Thomas's voice turned suddenly melancholy. “That is Sally Siddons, daughter of the renowned actress, Sarah Siddons, who was like a mother to me.” He gestured to a portrait of Sarah Siddons, an actress so famous even Lydia had heard of her, before once more regarding the painting of the daughter. “Sally, who was my dearest love, died before you could have been born.” Moisture rimmed his blue eyes, and a look of pure agony sliced across his features before he cleared his throat. “Would you like to see the classrooms now?”

“Oh, very much!” she exclaimed, feeling terrible for upsetting him. He must have loved that woman dearly…unless she was one of the “innocents” that Maria had said he'd despoiled.

The unpleasantness was quickly forgotten as the painter showed them the classrooms. “We take on around thirty students a year. First they learn to imitate the old masters, and then they learn to develop their own original techniques.”

Lydia's gaze devoured the sight of easels, canvases, paints, and brushes. The acrid odors of turpentine and linseed oil filled her with longing. “It has long been my dream to study here.”

Sir Thomas chuckled. “Such enthusiasm. Unfortunately, only males are permitted to attend the Academy.”

The offhand statement was like an unexpected slap…as it always was when her gender barred her from something desirable. Every time Lydia thought she was accustomed to such irrational restrictions, a new one would rear its head. This one stung more than others. Why should her sex prevent her from becoming a better painter?

Her fists clenched at her sides. She wished she could rage at his unfairness, like Angelica. “But two of the founders of the Academy were women!” she burst out. Lydia shocked herself at arguing with her hero, yet she could not hold back. “Mary Moser
and
Angelica Kauffman!”

The painter blinked. “I see you are knowledgeable in the history of our beloved establishment. In that case, you
must
know that though both were exceptional artists in their own right, neither studied at the school.”

“Perhaps we could discuss arranging some private lessons. Would you at least come dine with us Thursday evening so you may assess Lydia's work?” Vincent asked suddenly. Lydia longed to throw her arms around him and kiss him all over.

Sir Thomas's gaze grew speculative, doubtless at the prospect of dining with a member of the peerage rather than at viewing Lydia's amateur work. “Very well.”

Turning back to Lydia, Sir Thomas's smile turned falsely indulgent. Her heart sank.

“Do you paint with watercolors, Miss Price?”

She lifted her chin and tried not to sound impertinent. “Oils.”

His grin broadened while his eyes at last gleamed with honest interest. “Female oil painters are rare. I would indeed like to see your work.”

“Oh, it is nothing compared to yours,” she replied, suddenly shy. What were her paintings compared to those of a master?

Vincent cleared his throat. “It is time we were off. We have another engagement. I look forward to speaking with you again, Sir Thomas.”

As they made their way back to the town house, Lydia's heart swelled with gratitude. Boldly, she placed her hand on Vincent's. “Thank you, my lord.”

He hesitated a moment before patting her hand. “Do not thank me yet. He may refuse to teach you.”

“Your kindness in asking him is enough.” With painful reluctance, she withdrew her hand before her touch lingered into impropriety.

***

Vincent smiled as his valet helped him dress for the opera. Lydia's delight in the visit to the Royal Academy had been a palpable thing, a sojourn back to the hopes of youth. The opportunity to look in on the painter for the Siddons sisters merely gilded the evening.

He hadn't intended on offering to hire Sir Thomas. Lydia had been so crestfallen at hearing that females were barred from the Academy that he'd been overtaken by the urge to bring back her smile. Besides, he told himself, ladies of the
ton
were expected to take lessons in art or music. No harm would be done as long as the old lecher behaved himself.

Just as Ian and Angelica arrived to take them to the theater, Lydia descended in a white satin opera gown that did little to conceal her opulent curves. His fists clenched at his sides. Hell,
he
had better behave himself.

Vincent held back a groan of arousal as he slid into the Burnrath coach next to Lydia. The heat of her proximity was sweet torture. If only Miss Hobson could have come along to dull the mood. With the duke and duchess serving as chaperones for the opera, there was no need.

He frowned once more as they arrived at the opera house.
A
vampire
play?
Was Her Grace insane? Ian's countenance was rigid with annoyance while the men exchanged pained looks as they helped the women from the carriage. What if Lydia grew suspicious of them?

Stares and whispers interrupted Vincent's thoughts, bringing his awareness back to their surroundings. The people of London were receiving their first glimpse of Lydia. Several males gazed at her like love-struck swains, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and stake his claim. He gritted his teeth. The more suitors she had, the better. His muscles tensed with the need to tear the fops to shreds. Lydia's hand squeezed his bicep as he led her down the walk, and he resisted the urge to bare his fangs in triumph.

Once they were settled in the duke's box and the curtains lifted, Vincent's earlier worries returned. Thankfully, it soon became clear that he had no cause for concern. The production was the silliest thing he'd witnessed in his lifetime, full of painful melodrama, ludicrous magic ceremonies, and an overly sinister corpse-like actor who bore no resemblance to a vampire at all. At least the singing was good.

Worry quickly turned to amusement, though it was nothing compared to Angelica's response. The duchess had both hands clapped over her mouth as she struggled to contain gales of laughter. Ian gazed heavenward as if praying for divine assistance in removing him from this silliness. Lydia smiled at the performance and frowned in puzzlement at the others' reactions.

Vincent tapped Ian's shoulder in warning. If the ducal vampires did not contain themselves, they would elicit Lydia's suspicion faster than the folderol on stage.

His gaze wandered from the stage to the cheap seats below the boxes. Two bonneted heads were averted from the stage, looking up at one of the boxes. Studying them more closely, Vincent recognized the profiles of Sally and Maria Siddons. Though they were thoroughly disguised with wigs and face paint, unease gnawed at his gut at their solemn expressions, out of place with the farce on the stage.

He followed the direction of the vampires' tremulous gazes to the private box of Sarah Siddons. Though age had taken its toll on their mother's once-beautiful face, her noble stature and vivacity remained. Sarah observed the play, oblivious to the presence of her daughters. Her lip curled in sublime scorn for the atrocious performance before her. Vincent could well imagine how painful a sight it was for one of the greatest actresses ever to have walked the boards.

Heaving a sigh that should have been felt through the rafters, Sarah Siddons stood and departed her box in a disgusted huff.

Sally and Maria immediately rose to follow. Then their pleading gazes met Vincent's.

Feeling like the cruelest of tyrants, he firmly shook his head. Tears poured down their cheeks as they obeyed and sat back down.

“Miss Lydia Price, daughter of the seventh Earl of Morley!” the Lord Chamberlain announced.

Lydia's vision blurred, and dizziness threatened to topple her. Then her gaze locked on Angelica's, and she seemed to gain strength.
You
can
do
this.
It was as if she could hear the duchess's voice in her mind, encouraging her to place one foot in front of the other.

Ignoring the hushed whispers of the surrounding crowd, Lydia made her way to the throne with demure grace. It helped to pretend she was walking to Miss Hobson with the tablecloth pinned to her back. Even so, she nearly faltered when she caught her first glimpse of King George IV.

His Majesty was a formidable sight indeed, a corpulent mass of flesh dripping in jewels. Thankfully, her concentration on her curtsy allowed her to recover from her shock, and she was able to kiss the pudgy royal hand with rehearsed dignity. The monarch's heavy lids barely lifted, and she could smell the stench of sweat and strong spirits emanating from him. Lydia struggled not to stare like a half-wit. King George did not at all resemble his magnificent portrayal in paintings she'd seen. Was this common for rulers of great nations? Perhaps the etchings of President Monroe were also misrepresentations.

The King muttered something unintelligible. Lydia grasped for a proper response. English monarchs had been known to imprison—or behead—those who invoked their displeasure.

“I am honored, Your Highness,” she replied as demurely as possible.

George's eyes widened, and he blinked at her in startled awareness. A stone of terror dropped in Lydia's belly. She had said the wrong thing!

Then he smiled. “Your accent is delightful, Miss Price…” He shook his head and wiped a film of sweat from his brow. “Miss Price, ah yes, I remember your father. Brilliant chap! And a lucky bastard for having the courage to marry the one he chose.”

Blinking once more, he gave her the formal nod of approval, and thankfully she was able to neatly catch her train from a nearby servant and walk backwards from the throne room without missing a step. From the corner of her eye she caught Vincent's smile of approval before she was flanked by Angelica and Miss Hobson. His regard warmed her from her toes up, until the Chamberlain announced, “Miss Georgiana Price, daughter of the eighth Earl of Morley!”

The breath fled Lydia's body in a rush.
My
cousin!
Eyes wide, she watched the young girl make her way to the throne. Though she had to be at least eighteen, Georgiana looked to be about sixteen, with her blushing cheeks, doll-like blonde curls, and large blue eyes. Her youth seemed further magnified as she trembled before the King. Unlike Lydia, her gown was more old-fashioned and had hoops. That proved to be unfortunate, for she stumbled backward when she was dismissed. A servant caught her before she fell, and the King dozed on, oblivious. The poor girl quavered as she was chastised by her grandmother…

My
grandmother! Lydia gasped at her first sight of the Dowager Countess of Morley. Her father's mother, whom he had defied, and who had exiled him. Gazing upon a countenance more severe than those adorning cathedral walls, Lydia could no longer be shocked at such treatment.

Her attention shifted to the man who was dabbing Georgiana's tears away with a handkerchief. With the same pale hair and eyes, he had to be the girl's father…which meant the man was her uncle. This was her father's younger brother. Lydia could see little resemblance.

Where her father had been tall and dark, her uncle was short and fair. Her father's features had been broad and strong. This man's face was thin, and he had almost no chin to speak of. Her father had been bold as red wine. This man had the appeal of lukewarm tea. Yet he'd inherited her father's title. The world made no sense.

Vincent touched her arm, pulling her from her thoughts and into physical awareness. “It is time to adjourn to the drawing room.” His breath on her ear sent tremors through her being.

Lydia grasped him, savoring his nearness. Unfortunately, the duchess drew her away the moment they'd reached an elegant woman with bright red curls and a stern countenance.

“Miss Price, this is my mother, Lady Margaret,” Angelica said with unusual formality.

Lydia curtsied.

“Miss Price.” Lady Margaret nodded. “I am honored to meet my daughter's first protégée. Your gown is exquisite, and your manners are better than I've seen in ages.” She darted a pointed glance at Angelica. “I look forward to your debut ball at Burnrath House tonight.”

“Mother helped me with the preparations,” Angelica supplied.

“Her Grace required the aid,” Margaret said with narrowed eyes, “as she was once more engrossed in her hobby and neglecting her
duties
.”

Angelica flinched at the words. Obviously the mother and daughter had a disagreement about something more significant than her ball.

“I see Princess Lieven,” Angelica said stiffly. “I must speak to her about Miss Price's voucher to Almack's. You've met Miss Hobson before, yes?”

Before Lady Margaret could reply, Angelica took Lydia's hand and pulled her away. “Now all have noted that you have Lady Margaret's favor.”

Lydia glanced back, seeing that Miss Hobson and Angelica's mother were speaking as if they were the best of friends. It was apparent that Angelica and Lady Margaret had conflicting personalities. Lydia sensed there were heavy implications in her mother's reference to “duties.”

As if reading her mind, Angelica raised her fan to whisper, “Mother thinks because I have not produced an heir, that I am refusing to bed my husband.” An impish giggle escaped her lips, and she inclined her head toward the duke. “Who in their right mind would refuse
that
?”

Lydia nodded in appreciation of Ian's dark, handsome features before her gaze strayed from the duke to Vincent, and she imagined
him
in her bed. Her thighs trembled as she studied the strong line of his jaw and the sculpted curves of his lips, lips that had claimed her own in reckless abandon only weeks ago. “Who indeed?”

The duchess followed her gaze and laughed. “I've seen you giving Lord Deveril calf-eyes of late. You must abandon such a habit, else people will assume your relationship is improper… Bloody hell, I sound just like my mother.”

Oh, how Lydia longed for an improper relationship with Vincent. She wanted more stolen kisses, more embraces, and other forbidden things. Hiding such feelings would require every bit of her rigid training. Her face burned at being caught. “Please, Your Grace, do not—”

“Your secret is safe with me.” Angelica winked before turning away to exclaim, “Princess Lieven! How wonderful it is to see you!”

An astonishingly beautiful woman glided forward to kiss the duchess's cheek. “It is a joy to see you as well, Your Grace.” Her accent was heady and exotic, like spiced rum.

Angelica wasted no time. “I would like to discuss a voucher to Almack's.”

The princess shook her head. “Your Grace, as much as I would like to have you back within our hallowed halls, I cannot. Once a voucher is revoked, it cannot be reinstated.”

With a trilling laugh, the duchess shook her head. “I am not referring to
my
voucher. You remember I am sponsoring Miss Lydia Price.”

Warm brown eyes shifted to consider Lydia, who curtsied obediently. “Ah, yes, the daughter of the late Earl of Morley. I am not certain…”

“She has Miss Hobson as a chaperone,” Angelica offered. “It would be difficult for Miss Price to attempt to follow in my footsteps under her vigilance.”

The princess smirked. “Yes, I suppose so. I shall see what may be done.”

Lydia's eyes widened at the realization that she was looking at a real princess. Life was taking on a surreal quality.

Things became even stranger when her cousin approached her, pale and trembling.

“It is a joy to meet you, Cousin,” Georgiana murmured. “Your dress is very pretty.”

Lydia could detect no hostility in the girl's tone, so she bobbed a polite curtsy. “Thank you. Yours is lovely as well.” A pang of sympathy struck her at the sight of the hoops straining beneath the skirts of her elaborate gown.

Georgiana didn't seem to hear. She darted a timid glance at their grandmother and scurried away as fast as she could in her cumbersome court dress.

“What a whey-faced coward,” Angelica whispered behind her fan.

“I think she was rather brave to risk our grandmother's wrath,” Lydia defended, oddly vexed at the insult to her cousin, who'd been nonexistent only moments ago.

Angelica's brows rose as she peered over her shoulder. “It seems she is not the only brave one.” She turned away to fetch a glass of champagne from a passing footman as Georgiana's father approached.

Lydia regarded him mutely as he bowed over her hand. This man was her father's younger brother. Her own
uncle
! He was the one who should have taken care of her after her father died. When he did not, she had supposed he was as cruel as her grandmother. Now, as she studied his limpid eyes and hunched shoulders, she knew he was merely weak.

“It is an honor to meet you at last, Lydia,” the new Earl of Morley stammered. “You look so much like my brother.” He swallowed as if fighting tears. “I missed him terribly when he left. Tell me, was he happy in America?”

Lydia swallowed her own tears at the memory of her father. “Very happy.”

“Did he speak of me?” His eyes turned pleading.

Without thinking, she lied. “Oh yes, my lord. Very often.” In truth, her father had almost never spoken of his family, and when Lydia had finally discovered they had cast him out, she could not blame him.

“Is Lord Deveril treating you well?” he asked suddenly.

A thousand accusations threatened to burst forth. For all he knew, Vincent could have been the frightening madman he'd been rumored to be, rather than a guardian angel. Instead, she nodded. “Very well, thank you.”

He must have seen the anger at his betrayal in her eyes, for his expression swam with guilt. “Lydia, I truly wish I could have taken you in, but Mother—”

“I understand, Uncle.” The words came out colder than she intended, and the earl flinched as if she had slapped him.

“I must go now,” he said in a strange tone, as if he were afraid.

She followed his gaze and saw Lady Morley's fierce glare. Doubtless he wasn't supposed to speak to her. In muted rebellion, he patted her hand before fleeing back to his matriarch.

Lydia sighed. She wanted to hate him and her sweet, frail cousin, but she couldn't. Pity was the only emotion she could muster on their behalf. Pity, and a complete lack of respect for their weakness. It was no wonder that her father had not seemed to miss them.

“Are you all right, Lydia?” Vincent's welcome voice sounded behind her like a soothing balm. She longed to lean back against his chest.

Though he hadn't wanted her, Vincent had made her feel more welcome than her family had.

To her embarrassment, tears threatened once more. “May we go home now?”

Like a whisper, his hand stroked her back, hidden from view. A covert offering of comfort. Selfish wretch that she was, Lydia wanted more.

***

Vincent watched Lydia descend the spiral staircase to the ballroom. In her pale blue gown of shimmering silk, she was like a wildflower, a symbol of fragile perfection. Her eyes sparkled like jewels…and they were just as cold. Other than that, no sign remained of the emotional turmoil she'd faced at her presentation. Vincent cursed himself for not anticipating Lydia's inevitable encounter with those who'd cast her aside. He should have prepared her better.

Pride filled him at her courage in facing her traitorous relations. And now she was facing the majority of the
ton
with quiet dignity.

He watched her smile at the guests, engaging in cheerful conversation as if nothing was amiss. Dozens of besotted males lined up to fill her dance card as more gathered near, like bees to a rose…or a gardenia. His fangs ached.

All was going as planned. So why did he feel like striding to the dance floor, yanking Lydia from the arms of her suitor, and snapping the fop's neck?

“Lord Deveril, how wonderful it is to see you again!” Another matron interrupted his murderous thoughts.

It was all Vincent could do not to mouth her next words, the same words he'd heard with annoying frequency since Lydia's presentation. “I would like to introduce you to my daughter, as you did not have an opportunity last Season.”

Before he could protest, another simpering girl was thrust before him. Vincent struggled to convey polite disinterest and gently disengage her. His irritation and the scent and sound of so much prey made the blood roar in his ears. As if sensing his predatory nature, the girl stammered an excuse and scurried away, to her mother's chagrin.

“I see the
ton
presumes you're on the market as well,” Ian noted behind him with a chuckle. “You shall have a
delightful
time at Almack's next Wednesday.”

Vincent turned and bared his fangs at the duke. “This is not a matter for amusement.”

“You are correct,” Ian replied as his gaze narrowed to a point over Vincent's shoulder. “I see my second in command is contemplating your ward. This could be a hazard.”

Vincent whipped around with wide eyes. The sight of Lydia in the same room with Rafael Villar made his heart race in panic. He was uncertain of Ian's judgment in choosing Rafe as his successor. Vincent had never met a more foul-tempered vampire. All of London's vampires were terrified of the Spaniard. And there was Lydia, mere yards away from him.

A low growl built in his throat as he strode across the ballroom.