by Nancy Morse
Her blood was sweeter than any he had tasted over the centuries. Was it because of this insane physical desire he had for her that made him imagine it to be different? Were his preternatural senses playing tricks on him? The cause of it did not matter. What mattered was now that he had tasted it, he knew he could not go through the rest of eternity without ever tasting it again.
He pondered his choices. He could drain her and make her into a creature like himself, but once done, there would be no more of her sugared blood from which to partake. Or, he could mesmerize her like he had done tonight until she eventually rebelled and exerted the strong will she herself was unaware she possessed. The answer lay in the way she had responded to him, with neither fear nor virtuous denials, but with a wanton abandonment that had surprised him, yes, even him, who had seen so much of the world that very little shocked him. She was as lustful for life as he was for taking it. He would make her dependent upon him for her pleasure. She would never bleed her virgin blood again, but once under his spell, a little nick here and there, just to taste, would be enough to satisfy him. And then, when he was ready, he would use her again, as bait to lure that accursed de Vere to his doom.
CHAPTER 6
In the small windowless room at the rear of the shop Edmund de Vere sat hunched over his business records, spectacles perched on his nose, scrutinizing the inventory of his stock and itemizing the sales and loans of pewter ware to his customers.
He had begun his trade in sadware, casting the metal in flat pieces, rolling it into sheets and hammering it into shape. The middling class had need of such items, and for a while his business in trenchers, platters and large flat ware enabled him to pay his quit to the landlord. But as Edmund’s aspiration exceeded beyond his station, and having taken into his employ a journeyman and an apprentice whose wages he was obliged to pay, he had expanded his production to hollowware, casting the pewter into molds and fashioning it with hand tools into the mugs, pitchers, basins and porringers for the tables of the wealthier classes. For export to the American colonies he made pear-shaped teapots, creamers and sugar bowls. These days he had more customers than he could want and business was thriving.
For those who could least afford his wares he used black metal, a nearly even division of tin and lead, to cheapen the pewter. It was through his use of lead that he came into contact with Simon Cavendish, an alchemist in Clapham, a solitary, squirrelly little man for whom he made pewter bottles of exact measures of drams, quarts and pints, each carefully stamped with his touchmark.
The alchemist had recently requisitioned an unusually large number of bottles, to what purpose Edmund had not the slightest clue since, when questioned, the man had become quite agitated until, running out of evasions, he had run right out of the shop. Well, that was all right, Edmund supposed, giving it as his view that everyone was entitled to their little secrets. God knew he had a secret of his own, a secret born out of a bloodbath of terror and which dwelt amidst the murky shadows of the unthinkable.
What would sweet Prudence think if she knew of his nocturnal pursuits? Prudence. Ah, now there was a dilemma. She came with no wealth or power or anything that might enhance his position in the world. Nevertheless, he’d been fortunate enough to find a young woman whose meekness posed no questions and whose mild manners demanded no answers. She was so utterly malleable to suit his purposes in a wife to perfection, except for the display of appallingly bad manners she exhibited on the subject of their wedding. He had not known her to be quite so, well, outspoken, and hoped it was not a sign of things to come.
There was nothing but ill to be gained from announcing the banns. If the evil monster he was hunting was indeed prowling the streets of London, any public announcement of the de Vere name would surely drive him away, so he took care not to needlessly divulge his identity. Not even the sign above the door to his shop bore his name. Pewterer was sufficient to draw clientele. Nor did he use his full name as a mark, but rather a three-touch mark common amongst pewterers consisting of the city to indicate the place of origin, his initials E de V, and the symbol of an angel or a crowned rose, depending upon the quality of the piece.
Seven years he had served as apprentice to a master pewterer. Seven years worth of daytimes devoted to erstwhile occupation and nighttimes committed to hunting the undead. Before he was allowed to strike his own touch mark he’d been presented to the court of the Pewterer's Company to show an example of his work. After providing proof that he had sufficient capital to start a business of his own, he was permitted to strike his mark. Once he had hung the wooden sign above the door of his shop, he was free to pursue his vendetta against the undead, and in particular, the green-eyed demon his family had been tracking for the past two hundred and fifty years which he had reason to believe was now walking the streets of London.
This was a dangerous secret he could not share with anyone, certainly not with the woman who was to become his wife. The alchemist, perhaps, at a future time, if the need arose. But not Prudence. Never Prudence.
He looked up from his ledgers when his apprentice entered the room.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but this here piece is full o’ chatter marks.”
Removing the wire-rimmed spectacles from his nose, Edmund appraised the young man standing before him. He was a good lad, hard working and honest despite the nasty, brutish life from which he’d been plucked. And though he showed potential in the trade, he was still too inexperienced to work the lathe on his own, as evidenced by the coarse lines extending outward from the center on the bottom of the tankard he held in his hand. Skimmed on a lathe with wooden bearings, it would take time for the lad to become accustomed to the vibrations of the skimming tool.
Edmund heaved a sigh of displeasure and rose from behind the desk. His intolerance for anything that did not suit him was evident in his tone. “We’ll have to include this piece among those we export next month and hope the American colonists will not notice the defect.” The tankard bearing the chatter marks was placed with other pieces of cheap black metal.
He dismissed the apprentice with an impatient wave of the hand, for he was suddenly reminded that he was running low on lead. It was time to pay a visit to the Simon Cavendish with whom he had arranged a neat barter to obtain the alchemist’s unused lead in return for finished bottles and flagons. He gathered up the gill bottles he had made, grabbed his tricorn off a peg and had just slapped it on his head when the door opened again.
“Good morning, Edmund,” Pru said as she entered. The black silk bonnet she wore framed her face like a shadow. The only color that radiated from beneath its stiffened brim was the blue of her eyes which, this morning, were looking very solemn.
She made a great effort not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of garlic that hung in the air. Edmund did have a propensity for the pungent bulb, hanging it in wreaths above all his doors. Early in their courtship, when she had questioned him about the need to surround himself with the strong, unpleasant odor, he had explained it was family tradition whose roots went back to sixteenth century France, although more than that he would not say.
She removed her short cloak and placed it neatly over a ladder back chair, revealing a dress of sober gray which hung freely from her shoulders front and back, its only adornment the poufed trim of the same hue that ran from the robbing to the waist. The tucker of white lace at the neckline concealed her cleavage and threw the tiniest bit of light upwards to her face which did not bear its usual deferential smile.
“Why, Prudence, I’m delighted to see you this morning,” he said
From the dour look upon his face, she judged that less truthful words had never been spoken. “Forgive me, Edmund. I did not mean to disturb you.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” he said in that fatherly tone that made her feel like less of an equal. “What brings you here?”
“I was out walking and…” she began. No, no, those were not the words she had rehearsed all morning. Courage, she said to herself, but it f
ailed to bolster her composure. She had hoped to find a polite way to avoid an unpleasant scene, but her resolve was rapidly fading when his eyes were planted so firmly upon her face, the expression in them one of expectation. She managed a half-smile. “I have come to tell you of a…a…development. Yes, that’s it, a development.” Her words sounded completely witless to her ears. “Well, not a development exactly. More of a favor to ask.”
He stood without moving, the tricorn askew on his head, a questioning look on his face.
“I realize I have no right to ask this of you. There is the contract, after all.”
He arched a dark brow at that. “Have you done something?”
Good God, yes, she wanted to scream. Last night. The music. The power. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It somehow just did.
She was not entirely sure of the events of last evening, only that she had returned home, undressed and gone directly to bed, only to be awakened before dawn by the ache in every muscle in her body. A glance in the mirror had revealed the most shocking marks, long red scratches along her back, livid traces along her arms of having been grasped in too strong a grip, discolorations on her buttocks, of all places, and most mysterious of all, what appeared to be bite marks on her neck, although the flesh showed no sign of having been broken. A quick examination of her clothing revealed similar trauma, rent seams, broken cane and tattered lace.
Oh, if only she could recall fully what had happened. But even for someone with such limited knowledge of seduction, there could be no doubt that she had been utterly and irrevocably ravished. Her first impulse had been revulsion, then fury so intense it turned her mortified cheeks scarlet, and then hatred. What a sinister man he was to have betrayed her in such a fashion by taking undue advantage of her. She had stalked about her room in a rage, fists balled at her sides, venting her anger and frustration on her green-eyed seducer. But then something happened. The first faint traces of dawn broke over the treetops, bringing with it a sense of something more than betrayal. Her head began to swim with other thoughts, these more distinct although no less rational.
She remembered the music and the sensations it had aroused in her. The beauty of it had been so terrible it had reduced her to tears. She had a vague recollection of something stirring deep within, something that went past her mind and her heart, to her loins. The pulsing. Yes, she remembered the pulsing and the flush of warmth and wetness that came from the private spot between her legs, how at first it had startled her and then grew to a tumultuous pitch as the music had soared to a deafening crescendo, as if she and the music were one. Through the distant and murky memories that washed over her she heard a voice, soft, smooth, hypnotic, asking if she wanted to leave. It was answered by another voice, familiar and yet not familiar. It was her own tremulous voice uttering one word and one word alone. “No.” With the memory of that single utterance she had known in a heartbeat what had happened last night. She was no longer chaste.
Even if she had not determined to call off her betrothal to Edmund de Vere on the grounds that she did not love him, she could not, in all conscience, offer herself to him now when he would not be getting a virtuous wife. She felt ashamed and yet not ashamed. As her bedroom had filled with light, a new revelation burst upon her. She was aware of herself in a way she had heretofore never known. Her body may have been bruised, but it felt alive for the first time in her life. Her memory of last night may have been muddled, but she clung to this new awareness as if it were a lifeline to her innermost self. She had picked up from the floor the gown purchased at the Mayfair shop and shoved it to the very back of her wardrobe, hiding all outward evidence of last night’s events. This was her very own secret, one not to be shared with anyone, not even with Aunt Vivienne.
As for Nicolae Tedescu, she was not at all certain what her feelings for him were. She could hardly be thankful for the way he had used her for his own devilish pleasure, but neither could she completely hate him for it. Surely, it was not his doing that she had only hazy recollections of last night’s events. And he had, after all, given her the opportunity leave, hadn’t he?
She hardly fancied herself in love with the wicked man, yet she could not help but make mental comparisons of the two men. Edmund’s hands were fleshy, the fingers thick. Nicolae’s were elegant and finely shaped. Edmund was certainly not what one would call a handsome man. His eyes were close-set and a dull gray, strikingly similar to the sadware he produced. His nose was too large for his face, and his mouth was fixed in what seemed to be a perpetual state of displeasure, with lips thinly pursed as though he were harboring some secret determination, although what that could be, she could not fathom. Neither was Nicolae a handsome man in the strictest sense of the word. Still, there was something about his features that caught the gaze and held it, an almost ethereal quality that transcended true beauty. His mouth, upon which she must have only imagined a cruel smile, was full and expressive, his nose perfectly aquiline, and his eyes, those magnificent eyes, seemed to possess a will of their own. Edmund hid his natural hair beneath a wig of white, tightly curled about the face, and never went anywhere without his tricorn. Nicolae, on the other hand, flaunted convention by not wearing a wig or bothering to push back the dark locks that fell across his brow. Edmund’s stature was that of a mild man very much of the modern time. Nicolae, although slender, imparted an impression of strength and power, steadfast qualities that seemed to come from a bygone era.
She looked up from her dark thoughts to find Edmund’s expectant gaze upon her. “No, I have not done something,” she lied.
“You mentioned a favor.”
From his tone she could tell he was annoyed by her evasion. He had a tendency toward impatience when matters did not go his way. Is that what his lovemaking would be like? She dared to wonder. No matter. It was something she would never find out.
Pru moistened her lips. It seemed outrageously unfair to lie to him, but she could not give him a true explanation when she was not certain of it herself. She hung her head, speaking now to the floor. “I would ask you to relieve me of our marriage contract.” She did not have to see his face to know his shock was genuine. She heard it in the awful, deafening silence that filled the room. “I know this must come as a surprise to you, Edmund, but I have given it much thought and have come to the conclusion that a marriage between us would be most ill advised.” For him, she thought wretchedly, who would be getting damaged goods, and for herself, for relegating herself to a life with a man she did not love. She lifted her head, and after a long agonizing pause, said, “Oh, Edmund, please do say something.”
He locked his fists behind his back, much like a teacher about to deliver a stern lecture to a recalcitrant pupil. “I daresay you have considered the consequences. You are not well endowed financially. And you are—how can I put it tactfully--beyond marriageable age.” His meaning was clear. She would be hard pressed to find a man to marry her.
Pru’s back stiffened. “Cruelty does not become you, Edmund.”
“Nor does prevarication become you,” he said sourly.
She could have told him that he was a humorless person, an overbearing and pompous man, and pointed out all the other flaws in his character. But as it was not in her nature to be cruel, she said instead, “Edmund, you cannot profess to love me.”
“Of course, I do,” he exclaimed. “Would I have proposed marriage otherwise?”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “Now, who is the prevaricator?”
“Love is vastly overrated,” he said. “I hold you in the highest esteem and have the greatest affection for you. In time love will come. That’s the way of things.”
Esteem. Affection. The words rattled like sabers in Pru’s brain, each one cutting her to the quick. “Fine words they are,” she said sullenly, “except when used in place of the only word that matters…love.” She drew in a deep, supportive breath, and said, “No, Edmund, I cannot settle for anything less.”
“There is someone else.” It was
more of a demand than a question, as thought there had to be another, more plausible, explanation than the one she stated.
Maybe. Possibly. It was still too soon to tell. But no, wait; what foolish notion was she entertaining? After the way she’d been treated by Nicolae, if she thought that he was that someone else, she was ready for Bedlam. With all the confidence she could muster, she looked him in the eyes and said, “There is no one else.”
In a tightly controlled voice, he asked, “Your father is aware of your decision?”
“Yes. Papa has given me his blessing to do what I must.”
He smiled, but the tight little line across his mouth failed to reach his eyes. “Then I shall call upon him and relieve him of your obligation to marry me.”
A profound silence fell over the room like a heavy woolen cloak as the unfolding events sank into his brain. The floorboard creaked as he shifted from foot to foot. “I can think of a score of reasons why you should not do this,” he muttered at length. “But I would be bloody hell wasting my breath on a crazy woman who thinks she can find God-knows-what elsewhere.”
Pru drew in her breath. “Only God knows what fate He has in mind for me,” she hissed, a blazing flush rising to her face and a ferocious look in her eyes that he had never seen before. “Until it is made known to me, I must follow my own conscience.” And my heart, she thought defiantly. “Perhaps it is all for the best, now that your true colors have been revealed to me.” Tossing her chin up, she snatched her cloak from the back of the chair and threw it over her shoulders. “Good day, Edmund. I’ll tell Papa you will be calling on him.” She stormed to the door and reached for the handle. Shooting a glance back at him, she said, “And do remove that ridiculous hat from your head.”
So furious was she that she did not hear the bell atop the shop door jingle, nor was she even aware of the strange-looking little man who entered past her as she left the shop.