Blood Marriage

by Regina Richards

  He climbed up on the bed and knelt facing her, downed his wine and tossed the glass to the floor. "I've always preferred long seductions, to tease a skirt slowly over weeks, even months, into the game. P'haps I've been missing something. Blackmail works much faster and is just as titillating. You'll enjoy this, Eliz'beth. I promise. And Devlin need never know. It will be our sss-secret."

  Randall planted both palms on the coverlet, pursed his lips, and leaned forward for a kiss. Elizabeth jerked the dress up by the hem and dropped it over his head, yanking it down hard, wedging his narrow shoulders tight into the waist. Startled eyes peered dish-round from the neck hole. Shrieking curses were muffled by the wool bodice.

  Elizabeth scrambled off the bed and limped for the door, sliding and teetering through the wine spill. Haste made her fumble with the knob. She glanced back. Randall's arms were pinned at his sides to the elbows by the dress. His forearms and hands flailed wildly from beneath the skirt, giving him the look of a creature from a comic nightmare. The awkward lurching took him close to the edge of the bed. He teetered there for an instant, eyes round and darting above the dress's neckline. Then the coverlet slipped beneath him and he toppled to the floor with a satisfying thud.

  Elizabeth wrenched open the door and fled, neither stopping nor looking back until she reached her mother's bedroom. She burst into the room, locked the door behind her and leaned, panting, against it. She smiled at her mother's astonished nurse.

  "A nightmare," she explained.

  Chapter Ten

  Elizabeth sat in Countess Glenbury's parlor tapping her foot with impatience, her baggage stacked near the door. It had been two weeks since the incident with Randall. She'd moved a cot into her mother's sickroom the following day and been careful never again to be alone. But to her immense relief Randall had pointedly avoided her. Whether it was out of belated remorse, humiliation at having been bested by a woman, or, if once sober, he'd seen the perils of offending the heir to a dukedom, Elizabeth didn't know. Or care. Whatever his reasons, Elizabeth was grateful. She'd had no more trouble with the Earl of Glenbury. Nevertheless, she was eager to put him and this house behind her.

  "Why you need to go alone when Harriet and I could so easily accompany you, I don't understand." The countess paced in her morning dress and voluminous shawl, pausing often to peer through the multi-paned glass of the large bay windows. For the past twenty minutes she'd been dividing her attention between lecturing Elizabeth, who sat perched in a chair close to the couch where her mother lay sleeping, and watching the darkened street outside her London townhouse.

  "After all, Harriet and I are practically family. It would only be proper for us to travel with you."

  Elizabeth didn't respond. She'd grown tired of repeating to the dowager what the woman already knew. Their invitations for Lord Devlin's house party had arrived separately. The one for Elizabeth and her mother had requested their presence at Heaven's Edge, the Duke of Marlbourne's country home, immediately. A carriage would pick up the Smith ladies before dawn today. The invitation for Countess Glenbury and Harriet had also included the courtesy of traveling in the duke's own carriage, but they were to follow in a week's time. The countess had not been pleased.

  Elizabeth understood the feeling. It had been two weeks since Lord Devlin had arrogantly rearranged everyone's lives in Mrs. Huntington's parlor. The banns for both couples had been read, and announcements published in the London paper two days later. Mr. Fosse had wed Amanda by special license the following week in Mrs. Huntington's white rose garden before the newly restored arbor. Amanda had looked like a bespectacled angel with the morning sun sparkling in her blonde hair and her white lace dress dazzling like pure sunlight amidst the clouds of white flowers. Remembering the way Mr. Fosse had looked at his bride throughout the ceremony and the wedding luncheon that followed, still filled Elizabeth with longing. What would it feel like to have a man care for her like that?

  "I must say, if Lord Devlin were anything less than the heir to a dukedom, I wouldn't put up with his high-handed ways," the countess declared.

  For the first time since she'd entered the dowager's employ, Elizabeth agreed with the woman. Devlin was worse than high-handed. He was positively selfish. Other than at the Fosse's wedding ceremony, where she'd been unable to speak with him alone for even a single moment, Elizabeth had not laid eyes on her husband-to-be since the Huntington's ball. Though he'd sent the invitations to the house party, he hadn't bothered to reply to the message she'd sent him.

  At least not to the second one.

  The first she'd sent the morning following the ball, offering him the opportunity to cry off, to rescind his offer of marriage. The reply had been a single word printed on heavy vellum stationary: No.

  Her second message hadn't been answered at all and of the two it had been, in Elizabeth's mind, the more urgent. She'd sent it two days ago, the same day she'd received the invitation to the house party. It was a long essay on her mother's fragile condition and the need to make any journey that must be made as short and easy as possible. Though she'd made no mention of her own condition, Elizabeth had ended the letter with a second offer to allow Lord Devlin to change his mind. There had been no reply.

  Now she sat in Countess Glenbury's parlor with her hands gripped in her lap, watching her mother move restlessly in her sleep, and waiting for the stranger who was her fiancé to collect them. Carriage wheels rattled on the cobblestones outside.

  "He's here." The countess hurried to a wall mirror, patted her hair, and arranged her face into a pleasant social mask.

  Elizabeth said a final prayer that the journey would not be too much for her mother, stood, and followed the dowager out onto the town house's wide stoop. The countess waited at the top of the stairs, pulling her shawl tight against the pre-dawn chill, while her footman opened the carriage door and let down the steps. Elizabeth hugged the satchel containing her mother's medications and other travel necessities close to her chest, straightened her spine, and descended the stairs to meet her fiancé.

  He was swathed from neck to boot in a dark wool coat. His unfashionably wide-brimmed hat deflected the dim light of the street lamps, casting his face in sinister shadow. He turned away just as she reached him, bending back into the carriage without even acknowledging her. The man was unbearably rude.

  Elizabeth thought of her mother and the toll this journey would take on her. She thought of the way Devlin had rearranged their lives on a whim. She'd poured her heart out to him in that last message, practically begged him for reassurance her mother's needs would be provided for, that she would survive the journey without unnecessary suffering. Elizabeth had promised herself she would hold her tongue. No matter how insufferably high-handed Lord Devlin might be, she and her mother were both now dependent on his generosity. It was important to court his good will.

  "You sir, are a bloated, odious toad!" Elizabeth hissed at the back of his head.

  She glanced over her shoulder to reassure herself the countess had not heard her. When she turned back, she forgot to breathe. White teeth gleamed in the lamplight, the prominent incisors exposed in an amused smile. Pale blue eyes twinkled from a ruggedly handsome face. But it was not the face she was expecting.

  "You must be Miss Smith." Though his accent was not heavy, it was obvious he was not an Englishman. "I am Doctor Bergen. Lord Devlin sent me to escort you and your mother to his home."

  Elizabeth stared open-mouthed at the physician's bag he'd pulled from the carriage and pressed a cold palm to the blush creeping up her face. The doctor motioned to the driver who stopped loading the women's baggage, grabbed a lantern and illuminated the interior of the carriage.

  A feather bed had been installed across the far side of the carriage, blocking the adjacent door. Two narrow seats faced each other on either side of the open door, one at the head of the bed and one at its foot. It was obvious great care had been taken to assure her mother would be as comfortable as possible. Elizabeth started to spe
ak, but the doctor politely cut off her apology.

  "May I see the patient?"

  Dr. Bergen moved past her, removing his hat as he ascended the townhouse steps to bow over Countess Glenbury's hand. Black hair, so like Lord Devlin's, curled and twisted at the edge of his collar. Elizabeth followed meekly in his wake and stood silent in the parlor as the doctor examined her mother with gentle hands. He motioned her forward and she held her mother's head up while the doctor administered a drug. Almost at once, the tension Elizabeth was accustomed to seeing in her mother, even when she slept, seemed to leave her. For the first time in weeks Amelia Smith relaxed completely. A footman carried her from the house.

  As the carriage rolled out of London, Elizabeth's mother lay peacefully cocooned in the feather bed, protected from the bumps and jolts inevitable in even a carriage as finely sprung as the duke's. Elizabeth's eyes stung with gratitude and relief. Dr. Bergen, having settled into the seat opposite Elizabeth, opened a book and began to read. Elizabeth opened the window curtains, wanting a last look at the city she would likely never see again.

  London was shrouded in pre-dawn darkness, quiet save for the rattle of their carriage wheels upon the cobblestones. A waxing moon hung dull above the rooftops, providing only enough light to outline the coal smoke that snaked from the chimneys. Dogs barked as the carriage rolled by. A cat, slinking along a low wall on stealthy paws, paused to stare with yellow eyes. Its disinterested gaze pierced Elizabeth, awakening a deep loneliness. Over the years, as one death in her family had followed the next and their straitened means had forced them to move to a series of increasingly humbler lodgings, Elizabeth had lost touch with what friends she'd once possessed. Her time and energy had been completely consumed with the urgencies of surviving, of protecting and providing for her loved ones. Now she was leaving behind the city that had for so long been her home, and like the cat, no one in London would care that she had ever lived here at all.

  The close-set buildings of London gave way to the cottages of the suburbs. When those melted into the open fields and deafening quiet of the countryside, Elizabeth turned away from the window.

  "Is something wrong?" The doctor's accented voice startled Elizabeth. He'd been still for so long that she'd almost forgotten his presence. She'd been frowning down at her mother's peaceful form, but her mind had been on Lord Devlin and how he'd managed to avoid her once again.

  "No, nothing is wrong," she said.

  "Would you like to talk about it?" The doctor closed his book.

  Explaining to the handsome doctor that her fiancé seemed to go to great lengths to avoid her was not something Elizabeth wanted to do, but she'd already been rude to the man and didn't wish to offend him again. She pretended interest in the book that lay in his lap.

  "What are you reading?"

  Doctor Bergen held the brown leather volume up so Elizabeth could see the gold lettering on its cover.

  "Vampires and Other Hideous Beings of the British Empire," she read aloud. Her surprise must have been evident because the doctor chuckled.

  "You were expecting something more serious? A book on setting broken limbs or curing palsy?"

  "Well, yes," Elizabeth answered truthfully.

  The doctor lifted his brows and shrugged, mischief in his eyes. Elizabeth knew he was waiting for her to ask. She smiled, charmed by his polite, but playful manner. "Very well then. What does the book say about monsters?"

  He tapped the title with one elegant finger. "Hideous beings," he corrected. Elizabeth's smile widened.

  "The ones in this book are disappointingly ordinary sorts -- banshees, leprechauns, faeries, and such," he said.

  "Which is your favorite?"

  "Vampires."

  "Vampires? Those are your favorite?"

  "Yes. I confess I feel a certain affinity for them, being a doctor." His face was serious. His eyes were not.

  He was playing with her, leading her, but it was amusing, so she allowed herself to be led. "How so?"

  "We share common names...bloodsuckers...leeches."

  Elizabeth muffled her laughter with one hand, afraid to disturb her mother. Doctor Bergen grinned.

  "What does it truly say, Doctor?"

  "It describes the vampire clans found in the various regions of the British Empire, though not very accurately."

  "Not accurately?" Elizabeth repeated. "How does one accurately describe monsters that don't exist?"

  "Vampires are not monsters." His voice was light, but some of the twinkle left his eyes.

  "But they are evil beasts. Isn't that what a monster is?"

  "Not all monsters are evil -- not all beasts are monsters -- some are more humane than humans themselves. Regardless, vampires are neither monsters nor beasts."

  "Then what are they?"

  "Human. Different, but human. At least most. There are exceptions. But those exceptions are evil beyond human imagining."

  Elizabeth felt suddenly chilled; her amusement with the topic gone. But something in her couldn't allow the doctor's strange notions to go unchallenged.

  "Vampires are human? You're teasing me, Doctor. Vampires are the dead come back to feed on the blood of the living. They are horrifying monsters."

  "No, Elizabeth Smith. Vampires are humans with an inherited craving, a disorder of a sort, that only the blood of their fellow man can ease. Fortunately, the amount of blood required is not enough to be missed by the donor -- any more than a flower misses the sip of nectar taken by the bee."

  "You're not seriously defending vampirism? How could you be? And why? Vampires are not real."

  "Have you ever met a cannibal, Miss Smith?"

  "What? No, of course not."

  "But you believe they exist, or did at one time?"

  "Yes, of course. There are records of such people, reported by English sailors visiting distant…" Elizabeth frowned. "It's not the same. Vampires have special powers and weaknesses that aren't human. They can't bear sunlight, they have the power to mesmerize their victims, they have extraordinary strength and eyesight, they can fly."

  "Do all Englishmen drink tea, Miss Smith?"

  "Most."

  "But not all?"

  Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. If the doctor was playing with her, she no longer liked this game. He continued to smile, but there was something in the way he spoke, the way he looked at her, that made her wish they did not travel alone.

  "No. Some prefer coffee," she conceded.

  "But the rest of the world is certain all Englishmen drink tea. And all Americans are brash and rowdy. All Irish are sentimental. All Scotsmen thrifty."

  "You're saying some vampires may not fly?"

  "Or avoid daylight. Or fail to reflect in mirrors. Like Englishmen and Americans and Irishmen, vampires from different regions might be different. And some monsters who appear to be vampires, who mimic the ways and covet the abilities of the Clans, may not be true vampires at all, but something evil and, much, much more hideous." The doctor smiled and tapped the book again with his finger, this time pointing to the author's name. "If Mr. Arthur Wellborn is to be believed."

  "And what does Mr. Wellborn say about faeries? Are they misunderstood as well?" Elizabeth wanted to end this talk of vampires. The back of her neck was tingling. Doctor Bergen's smile suddenly seemed too broad, too sharp.

  "Of course, but unlike vampires, faeries aren’t real." The doctor winked at Elizabeth, pulled the carriage curtains tight against the dawn light, then closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the padded backrest, ending the conversation.

  "Vampires aren't real," Elizabeth insisted.

  "Umhum," he agreed, but didn't open his eyes.

  He slept the morning away. Elizabeth resisted the urge to pry the book from his hands and have a look. By the time he woke, he seemed to have forgotten the topic altogether. But it lingered in Elizabeth's mind for the rest of the journey.

  Chapter Eleven

  The feeling was as misty as the fabric he
carried in the package at his side. And yet just as real. Nicholas scanned the street of expensive London shops. In another hour this lane would be crowded with carts and hackneys, shoppers and strollers, but at this early hour no more than a handful of people were about. He lifted his head and breathed deep, seeking the source of the alarm crawling over his skin, that faint odor of corruption. But the street was quiet, save for the retreating clip-clop of the hackney that had dropped him off and the rattle of a flower seller's cart as a woman positioned it in a shady spot a few doors down. She lifted a daisy at him, her cat green eyes inviting him to buy.

  Nicholas declined with a shake of his head and shifted the package from one arm to the other to reach for the doorknob of the dressmaker's shop. The view through the shop window arrested his hand. He turned away. When Mrs. Huntington had assured him that Madame Nanette was the best seamstress in London, she'd failed to mention Madame's pretty shop attendant kissed the male customers with admirable abandon.

  The flush-faced man who exited the shop moments later stopped short. His eyes raked over Nicholas. He frowned and his head swung toward the window. Dawning realization carved angry lines at the corners of his mouth. Nicholas tamped down the nip of rising hunger as the man's blood pounded more fiercely through his veins, the scent as pleasant as oven-fresh bread.

  "Going in there, are you?" The fellow's fists clenched. He jerked his head at the window where the shop girl, her back to the men, arranged bolts of cloth on a table. "She's spoken for and soon to be married," the man growled. He stomped his foot and the toe of his worn leather boot scuffed a marring streak on Nicholas's polished Hessian. The man's chin jutted forward, exposing his neck. The pulse beat strong, the jugular bulging beneath ruddy young flesh.

  Nicholas's tongue passed over the sharp tip of one incisor as the siren scent of angry blood danced around him. They were on a public street. Nicholas reached deep, stilling the beast within. The man tapped his fist twice against Nicholas's lapel.