The Vampire Who Loved Me

by Teresa Medeiros

  By the time the carriage rolled to a halt, the tension between them had grown so thick Portia was almost grateful when one of the grooms appeared to swing open the carriage door.

  “Leave us,” Julian commanded, jerking the door shut in the man’s startled face.

  He turned to her, the carriage lamp casting an ominous shadow over his features. “I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  “Surely you jest!” she exclaimed, clapping a hand to her breast in mock horror. Beneath her palm, she could feel her heart double its rhythm.

  He ignored her sarcasm. “There’s something you should know before we go in. Despite their love of inflicting chaos on mortals, vampires delight in adhering to a very rigid hierarchy when among their own kind.” He captured her hand in his, the broad pad of his thumb caressing her sensitive palm as if to soften the impact of his words. “If we’re to make them believe that you surrendered your soul to me willingly, I won’t just be your lover tonight. I’ll be your master.”

  His primal words sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. She was besieged by a provocative vision of herself on her knees at his feet, breathlessly eager to surrender her will and obey his every command because she knew instinctively that pleasing him would only result in unspeakable delights for herself.

  Appalled by her rioting imagination, she said, “Does this mean I should address you as ‘His Majesty’ or as the ‘Great Most Munificent Ruler of My Universe?’”

  His lips twitched against their will. “‘My lord’ should suffice. But I’m afraid the vampires will require more visible evidence of your…submission.” Freeing her hand, he reached into his coat and withdrew a broad gold circlet attached to a length of dangling chain.

  She frowned. “I do believe that’s a bit large for my finger.”

  “That’s because it was designed to fit your throat.”

  She blinked at him in disbelief. “You expect me to wear a collar? Like one of the king’s pugs?”

  “Try not to think of it as a collar. Think of it as a—a—”

  She arched one eyebrow. “—ball and chain?”

  His patience plainly waning, he snapped, “If so, it’s hardly any different from the one that binds most mortal couples.”

  “It’s gratifying to know you have such a sentimental view of matrimony.”

  He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “Why don’t you think of it as sort of a vampire chastity belt? As long as you’re wearing it and I have the only key, no other vampire can nibble on your neck.”

  “I’m sure that will be a tremendous comfort to me.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Weren’t you the one who so glibly informed me that there were other places that a vampire might drink from? What about that juicy little artery on a woman’s thigh, just below—”

  Julian stilled her lips with two of his fingers, his narrowed gaze encouraging her to proceed only at her own risk. She glared at him for a moment, then reached up and tugged off her velvet choker. Flouncing around on the seat, she lifted her hair to expose her neck.

  Julian’s stillness was so absolute she briefly entertained the notion that he had slipped out of the carriage while her back was turned. She glanced over her shoulder to find him eyeing the naked curve of her throat, his face hard but his eyes softened by an inexpressible longing. She realized in that moment that as challenging as this was for her, it must be doubly difficult for him.

  As she averted her face, drawing in a shaky breath, she half expected to feel the warm velvet of his lips brush her skin…right before his fangs sank deep into her tender flesh. But he simply slipped the circlet of gold around her throat and secured it.

  When she lowered her hair and turned, he was dropping the tiny gold key into his waistcoat pocket. “Do you always keep one of those on hand,” she asked, “just in case you run across a woman you’d like to enslave?”

  He gave her a dark look. “I procured it this evening as soon as the sun went down. You’d be amazed at what you can purchase from the Chinese vendors down at the docks.”

  She touched a hand to her new piece of jewelry. Although the gold had been beaten until it was as thin and delicate as a piece of parchment, it felt as heavy as iron to her. Especially when Julian took up the end of the chain and looped it around his wrist.

  “Are you ready?” he asked gently.

  “Yes, master,” she replied, shooting him a sullen glance.

  He peered into her face. “You don’t look the least bit adoring at the moment.”

  She fluttered her lashes and made calf’s eyes at him.

  “Now you look as if you’re going to be sick.”

  “I think I am,” she muttered as he swept open the carriage door and offered her his hand.

  She slipped her hand into his, knowing she couldn’t very well confess that the collar and chain felt like visible evidence of the invisible chain that had bound her heart to his from the first moment she had laid eyes on him quoting Byron in his brother’s drawing room. As all-consuming as a young girl’s fancies were, she was quickly discovering that a woman’s desires could be twice as dangerous.

  The aptly named Chillingsworth Manor loomed up out of the night, a crumbling heap of slate and stone. Judging from the air of decay hanging over the formerly imposing estate, its family’s fortunes had been collapsing long before some reckless second cousin had gambled the house away in a drunken wager with a vampire.

  A tattered veil of clouds dashed across the moon, parting just long enough to reveal a row of chimneys silhouetted against the night sky like an old man’s crooked teeth. Every window in the house, even the cracked ones, had been draped in black crepe, making it look as if the house itself was mourning its lost grandeur and reproaching those who had been foolish enough to squander it. It seemed only fitting that it had been abandoned by the living and claimed by the undead.

  As Julian escorted Portia up the walk, the hem of her mantle snagged on the frost-encrusted weeds that had been allowed to grow up through the paving stones.

  “I should warn you,” he said, “that vampires don’t always communicate in the same manner as humans. Growling, hissing and nipping are perfectly acceptable ways of expressing affection for one’s mate.”

  “How sweet,” she murmured, clutching his arm even tighter. “Just like a litter of baby badgers.”

  They were nearly to the door when he tugged her to a halt. “From this point on,” he suggested, “it would probably be best if you walked a few paces behind me.”

  She gazed at him flatly for a few seconds before sweetly intoning, “As you wish, my lord.”

  A devilish grin crooked the corner of his mouth. “I could get used to that.”

  “Don’t,” she warned.

  He took a few steps, but she remained frozen in place until he gave the chain a gentle tug. Sighing, she fell into step behind him.

  The front door of the house creaked open beneath the urging of his hand. As its murky interior swallowed him whole, she hastened to follow, keenly missing his imposing presence beside her. Matching him step for step, she peered through the shadows, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  She nearly screamed aloud when a hollow-eyed chap popped out of nowhere to take her mantle and muff.

  “I didn’t know vampires had footmen,” she whispered as he carried the garments away, his pale hands stroking her mink muff as if it were a cherished cat.

  “They don’t,” Julian whispered back.

  Portia opened her mouth to protest but the fellow had already whisked her mantle around his bony shoulders, darted out the door and disappeared into the night.

  As Julian led her through an archway and into a long, deep hall that must have once served as the manor’s ballroom, she hugged herself, praying the dim light would hide the only too human gooseflesh prickling her arms.

  She inched closer to Julian, whispering, “For creatures who can be destroyed by fire, vampires seem to be extraordinarily fond of
candles.”

  Wax tapers burned throughout the cavernous room in every manner of stick and branched candelabrum. Their flames danced in the invisible drafts and cast a flickering web of light and shadow over the ballroom’s three dozen or so occupants. Portia was surprised to find most of the vampires simply standing around chatting or gathered around tables playing cards. Many of them appeared rather bored with both the night and themselves. At the far end of the ballroom, a set of broad marble stairs swept upward to the second-floor gallery that ringed the chamber.

  A ragged quartet of vampires sprawled on chairs in the corner, fitfully tuning their instruments, while a particularly pale fellow with an aquiline nose, artfully curled forelock, and boldly cleft chin stood with one foot on the dusty marble hearth, regaling his companions with some sort of recitation. His sonorous voice carried throughout the ballroom:

  “Though the night was made for loving,

  And the day returns too soon,

  Yet we’ll go no more a-roving

  By the light of the moon.”

  Portia stumbled right into Julian’s back, gaping. “But isn’t that Lord B-B-B-…”

  “Hello, Georgie,” Julian called out.

  As the vampire returned the greeting with a slightly effeminate wiggle of his fingers, Portia’s eyes widened. “Do you mean to tell me that the rumors were true? Lord Byron really is a v-v-v-”

  “—vapid narcissistic hack? Yes, I’m afraid so. And although I would have thought it impossible, he’s even more boring in death than he was in life. Try to imagine the horror of listening to him blather on like that for all eternity. It’s enough to make one want to drive a stake through one’s own heart. Or through his.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Julian shouldered his way through Byron’s rapt audience. Portia stood gawking at the legendary poet until Julian gave the chain a pointed tug.

  Hurrying to catch up with him, she murmured, “I have to confess that this gathering isn’t at all what I expected. I pictured more of a Bacchanalian revel of debauchery with virgins and kittens being sacrificed on some blood-soaked altar.”

  He swung around to face her, his voice low but ripe with emotion. “You needn’t sound so disappointed. Vampires hardly have a monopoly on evil, you know. If you want to see acts truly worthy of eternal damnation, you should join His Majesty’s army or visit one of the hellfire clubs in Pall Mall where screaming virgins are routinely sacrificed to the lusts of unscrupulous noblemen with too much money and too little mercy. Vampires only destroy and kill so they can survive. Mortals do it for the sheer giddy pleasure of it.”

  She took a wary step backward, thrown off balance by the force of his passion.

  “Lover’s quarrel?” The melodic voice poured over them both like liquid silk.

  A vampire had materialized out of the shadows. He was dressed in the style of a century ago in knee-breeches and a dark blue habit à la française with gleaming gold frog-and-button fastenings and a flared skirt. Extravagant falls of lace cascaded from the collar and cuffs of the elegant coat. Although he wasn’t wearing a powdered wig, his long, sleek golden hair had been gathered at his nape in a velvet queue. His angelic features and bright blue eyes would have looked equally at home painted on the ceiling of some Florentine cathedral.

  Julian executed a deep bow. “My dear, this is Raphael—our host for the evening. He was kind enough to extend his hospitality to me when I first returned from the Continent.”

  “Lovely place you’ve got here,” she murmured awkwardly, trying not to look directly at Raphael or at the silk hangings peeling in ribbons from the walls, the cascades of melted wax dripping from the candelabrums, the cobwebs festooning the crystal chandeliers, the dead leaves drifting about the floor, the sparrows darting among the exposed ceiling beams, or the shattered mirrors that hung between each window.

  “Even more lovely now that it has been graced with your presence, my lady.” Raphael captured her hand and brought it to his mouth. Instead of kissing her knuckles, his moist lips flowered over the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. From the corner of her eye, Portia saw Julian’s mouth tighten with displeasure.

  “Why, thank you,” she replied shortly, offering him a thin-lipped smile. As she felt one of his fangs graze her flesh, she jerked her hand out of his grip, terrified he would feel her racing pulse.

  He peered into her face, a moue of concern softening the sensual cut of his lips. “You look a trifle bit pale, my dear. Can I offer you someone to eat?”

  She swallowed, but before she could choke out a reply, Julian slipped an arm around her waist. “That won’t be necessary. We dined before we came.”

  Raphael was still staring at her, his narrowed gaze slightly less benevolent than before. “I never forget a beautiful face, you know, and I would almost swear I’d seen yours before.”

  Julian cast a furtive look about them as if to make sure that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation, then leaned down and whispered something in Raphael’s ear.

  “No!” the vampire exclaimed, his eyes widening to shocked pools of blue.

  “Indeed,” Julian said in a voice just loud enough to carry to the vampires lounging around the baize-covered card table in the corner. “And you can imagine my brother’s chagrin when she willingly surrendered both her body and her soul to me.”

  Raphael clapped his beautifully manicured hands, all but chortling with delight. “Stole her right out from under the vampire hunter’s nose, did you? What an amazing coup! Why, you’re sure to be the talk of every nest in England!”

  Julian ducked his head modestly.

  Raphael’s gaze lingered on the creamy swell of her breasts as revealed by the low-cut décolletage of her gown. “Given her history, how can you be sure she’s not still hiding a stake or a crucifix in there?”

  “Oh, I can promise you she’s been thoroughly searched. I’ll be the only one doing the staking tonight.” As Julian stroked her nape just above the collar, Portia could only hope that the heavy layer of powder would mask her scalding blush.

  Raphael smiled and chucked her under the chin as if she were a particularly delightful puppy. “She’s very quiet, isn’t she? I do so love a woman who knows how to keep her mouth shut and her legs open.”

  Portia lunged at him, her snapping teeth barely missing his fingers. He recoiled in surprise.

  Wrapping the chain around his fist, Julian jerked her around until they were nose to nose. “Mind your manners,” he hissed, baring his own fangs. “I’d hate to have to discipline you in front of the others.”

  Portia had forgotten what it was like to be at the mercy of all of that tightly coiled power. Before she could stop it, a growl had escaped her own lips. Something more primal than lightning arced between them, jolting every pulse in her body to throbbing life. Suddenly it was as if they were the only two creatures in the room, perhaps in the entire world.

  She didn’t know what might have happened if the musicians hadn’t chosen that precise moment to strike up their instruments.

  As several couples eagerly took to the floor, Julian slowly released the tension on the chain. “Shall we dance?”

  “As you wish, my lord,” she replied, lowering her lashes to veil her mutinous expression.

  Splaying his hand at the small of her back, he swept her away from Raphael and into the waltz, leaving their host and everyone else within earshot watching with open-mouthed fascination.

  As they whirled around the floor to the soaring strains of one of Mozart’s more joyous pieces, Portia held herself as stiff as his possessive embrace would allow. “How could you allow him to say such horrid things to me?”

  “What did you expect me to do? Challenge him to a duel to the death?”

  “How could you say such horrid things? I hadn’t realized you’d be playing your role as villain with such conviction.”

  “Me? What about you? I am a villain. You’ve only been pretending to be one for a few minutes and you’re already sn
apping and snarling like some sort of rabid wolverine.”

  She tossed her head, sending her mane of curls rippling down her back. “I thought you vampires liked that in a woman.”

  He urged her closer—so close that there was no escaping the hard, hungry press of his hips against hers—before growling in her ear, “We do.”

  He swept her into a dizzying turn, leaving her with no choice but to surrender to his mastery. On the very night Duvalier had abducted her, she had dreamed of dancing in his arms exactly like this. In her innocence, she had believed such a dance might lead to a whispered exchange of endearments or perhaps a chaste kiss in a moonlit garden. She had never anticipated this wild abandon coursing through her veins, this irresistible temptation to succumb to an even more dangerous dance—one that had been luring women to both rapture and ruin since the beginning of time.

  She lifted her chin and met his gaze boldly, gaining in confidence with each step. Perhaps they were more alike than either of them would care to admit. They both lived for the thrill of the game, the exhilarating rush that came when the fragile sphere of their fates was precariously balanced in their own hands.

  “We shouldn’t have to remain much longer,” he murmured beneath the guise of nuzzling her ear. “Raphael is a shameless gossip without an ounce of discretion. It’s been whispered that he was the one who informed Henry VIII that Anne Boleyn was dallying with four lovers who were plotting to dethrone him. It wasn’t true, of course, but the rumor still cost poor Anne her head.”

  As he straightened, Portia followed the direction of his gaze. Their host was wending his way among the various groups, recounting what he’d just learned with a relish that left the men smirking and the women whispering behind their fans. Apparently, vampires loved a juicy morsel of scandal every bit as much as mortals did. Soon every gaze in the ballroom was riveted on them. Portia didn’t need a mirror to know what a striking couple they must make.