The Vampire Viscount

by Karen Harbaugh

“I promise, he will never do so again. And I swear I will never lift my hand to you, for as long as we are married.”

  Leonore looked at St. Vire, into his impossibly green eyes and thought she saw honesty there. Should she trust it? She thought of not having to constantly school her features so that an unguarded expression would not spark her father’s wrath. Glancing about the room, she noted the beautiful tapestries that hung on the walls and rubbed her feet upon the soft richness of the carpet. Here she would have some comfort and would be surrounded by beauty instead of ugliness. Perhaps, also, she could ask that Susan stay with her, for she knew her shy and sensitive sister had almost become a recluse in her own room in an attempt to escape their father’s drunken rages. St. Vire offered generous settlements; certainly a steady flow of money would keep her father’s rages under control most of the time, and thereby offer some peace to her mother and sister. Could going to St. Vire be any worse than returning home? No, it could not. A tendril of hope pushed through her resistance, and she let out a breath she did not realize she’d been holding.

  “Do you promise, then? Truly?” Leonore gazed at him intently.

  “Yes, I do. I swear it.” He looked straight and solemnly at her, then hesitated, glancing away briefly. “I hope to be a good husband to you. However, in all honesty, I must warn you that my habits are not those of other men.”

  Her brows rose in question, but her body tensed. The prospect of marrying St. Vire was so terribly tempting in many ways, and though she believed she could bear anything that resembled her father’s intoxicated outbursts, she was not sure if she could bear anything worse.

  “I cannot squire you in any daytime activities, although I can accompany you to all the society functions at night. I have a … condition that prohibits me from going out in the sunlight. I am very sensitive to it and will become quite ill.”

  Leonore wet her lips nervously. “Is … is it catching?”

  Wry humor suddenly sprang into St. Vire’s eyes. “No, I assure you, you will not catch it from me.”

  She smiled at him then and felt an odd regret. She had wondered what his hair would look like in the sun, and now she would never know. Regret turned to pity, and she extended her hand comfortingly to him.

  “Very well, then. I shall marry you.” The words came from her abruptly, rattling the brief silence between them. She surprised herself. She had not thought about it at all, but had spoken on impulse. It was a thing she rarely did; she was far more used to measuring her words carefully with people she did not know. Governesses did not keep their posts, else. But then, what did she have to lose? She would be away from her father and his drunkenness and be able to offer at least some support for her mother and sister. Marriage to St. Vire could be considered a form of employment, to be sure.

  There was silence again, while St. Vire watched her. “Do you say that willingly? Your father has not forced you to agree? And I have not put undue pressure upon you, I hope?”

  Leonore made sure to think carefully now. She thought of the advantages and looked at St. Vire’s pale, earnest face. Perhaps he was, indeed, quite ill, and the one year he had spoken of was the amount of time he had left to him. Her pity for him grew stronger, overcoming the resentment she had felt earlier. Regardless of the way he took advantage of her father’s debt to him, he still offered her more choices than she had ever had before. Though she was not so naive as to think he would tell her all, she felt that what he did tell her would be the truth. It was a thing she could sense about people, a skill she had built from sheer observation and from necessity. An urge to become free pressed from inside her, and the direction it pointed was away from her father’s house and from his influence. She would have a measure of freedom here, with Nicholas St. Vire, more so man she would at home, or as a governess. She closed her eyes briefly, then said: “Yes. I say it willingly. I agree to marry you.”

  This time it was St. Vire who sighed, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Thank you,” he said. “You have helped me immensely.” He took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips. “I shall do my best to make sure you will live in comfort.”

  “And I shall do all I can to be a good wife,” Leonore replied, letting out a breath as he released her hand. His touch was cool and soft, yet there seemed to be a controlled strength in his grasp. She almost shook her head, puzzled. Was he ill, or not? She gazed at his pale skin and decided on the side of illness.

  He smiled brilliantly at her, almost dazzling her. “I am sure you will,” he said.

  Chapter Three

  She was lovely,

  St. Vire had not expected it, for surely someone like Farleigh could not have sired anything except brutishness and vulgarity in his offspring. But Miss Leonore Farleigh was tall and slender, unlike her burly father. Indeed, he would have almost thought her one of the sidhe, rather than human, with her gray eyes set in an elfin face and her delicate hands.

  He contemplated the idea, as he put on his waistcoat. Perhaps it was her eyes that made him think strongly of the fairy folk, for though her expression had been neutral almost throughout their interview, her eyes had a wary, wild look in them. She belonged, not amongst the cobblestones and bricks of London, but in the wildwood, dancing beneath the moon.

  St. Vire shook his head and smiled at his fancy. He was too old to be enthralled by a pretty face. Yet, he had always loved and admired women, the way they looked, the way they talked and laughed and moved. It had been, in the end, his downfall. All that was past, however, and the remedy for his … condition was in the present, and he hoped in his future with Miss Farleigh.

  Taking a neckcloth from his valet, he wrapped it around his collar, keeping his eyes firmly on his hands reflected in the mirror. Glancing to the side, he noticed his young valet watching his actions carefully and almost smiled again. Edmonds was well on his way to becoming an excellent valet, for he was diligent, memorizing all he could about the tying of neckcloths, the polishing of boots, and the general care of clothes. He would definitely deserve a praise-filled reference when the time came to discharge him. It was too bad, but he could not afford to keep his personal servants for too long a time.

  The ton, thankfully, was less observant. He never went to social functions, preferring his own company, but now he was to be married, and it was necessary that he enter society once again. He should recompense Miss Farleigh in some way for becoming his wife, after all. Thinking of his betrothed brought her image to mind again, her soft white-blond hair and slender form—especially that slender, womanly form. He chuckled at himself. He was truly incorrigible.

  St. Vire turned away from the mirror with a last tug on his neckcloth. Lady Jersey, he had heard, would be at Lady Bremer’s card party tonight, to which he had been invited. He had won a bit of money from Lord Bremer. He smiled cynically. Lord Bremer had been all too eager to issue him an invitation in return for debt, as the man was known to live in fear of Lady Bremer’s stringent eye and sharp tongue. Once there, St. Vire would cultivate Lady Jersey’s acquaintance. He had known her father long ago, and was sure he could claim the acquaintance once again—obliquely, of course.

  He dismissed Edmonds, then changed his mind and stopped the young man with a raised finger. “Oh, by the way, I understand you did not request a clothing allowance when you were retained.”

  “No, my lord,” replied the valet. “The wages were generous enough, I thought.”

  St. Vire smiled. “You are an honest man, Edmonds. But I give all my servants a clothing allowance. I will write my solicitor later, but meanwhile, do take that yellow waistcoat from the wardrobe—I have taken a sudden dislike to it.”

  “Not … not for me?” stammered the man.

  “Yes, for you.” His smile grew wider. “The color offends me.”

  Edmonds grinned in return. “Thank you, my lord! I’ll take care not to wear it in your presence.”

  “Good. Is the carriage ready?”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.”

 
“Excellent.” He turned and left the room.

  St. Vire descended the stairs to the waiting carriage. Gaining entrance once again into the heart of the ton should be easy. He had the initial entrée through Lady Bremer’s card party, and he could employ the special talents he had gained so long ago if he had to. He would only need to be persuasive. There should be no trouble obtaining vouchers for Almack’s from Lady Jersey, after all.

  The lights from the Bremers’ town house shone almost as bright as day. But as the lights had nothing to do with the day, and everything to do with staving off the night, St. Vire did not mind it. A brief hush came over the room when he made his entrance, startling him, but he supposed it was because he was a stranger, and odd-looking. Lord Bremer greeted him as if he were an old friend and introduced him to his wife, a stern, aristocratic matron. St. Vire smiled his best smile for her, and she turned pink, fluttering her fan like a young girl. She, in turn, brought him to Lady Jersey.

  Sally Jersey. She had aged well. St. Vire could see the little girl he had once known in this mature and pretty lady. He bowed most gravely to her.

  “Do I know you?” she said after Lady Bremer introduced them. Lady Jersey had a puzzled, interested look on her face as if she were trying to recall him. “You seem familiar to me.”

  He smiled. “Yes, of course. I knew you when you were a little girl. I see you have not changed at all.”

  Lady Jersey looked as if she did not know whether to be affronted or amused. “Nonsense! You cannot be more than five and twenty, if that!”

  St. Vire put on a concerned expression. “Have I offended you? You did say I seemed familiar, and it seemed to please you. So, I decided to be even more familiar, to see if it would please you further.” He let his gaze linger avidly over each of her features as he bowed over her hand.

  She burst out laughing, lightly tapping his hand with her fan. “I see you are a rogue! Now I am certain I have seen you before! Tell me!”

  He smiled. “I think you may have seen my … father. He was acquainted with yours. Perhaps you might have seen him once or twice. I am said to resemble him greatly.”

  Lady Jersey’s face cleared. “Of course! I do remember your father! A most charming man, even to the child that I was. I never did hear of him since, though. Is he well?”

  St. Vire shook his head. “I am afraid he passed away years ago, when I was young. I hardly knew him.”

  “Ah! I am sorry. But you!” She gazed at him assessingly, and a determined light grew in her eye. “Why is it I have not seen you in London?”

  He took her hand, put it on his arm, and led her to the supper table. Another, older man—apparently Lady Jersey’s supper companion—gave him an angry glance and started forward, but St. Vire only smiled sweetly at him. The man stopped, and though he continued to glare, he did nothing. Lady Jersey did not seem to notice, for all her attention was on St. Vire.

  “Alas,” he said. “I did not know such beautiful ladies abounded in London, else I would have hurried here, hot-footed.” He was pouring the butter boat over her, and he was certain she knew it. He gave her a mischievous look, and she tapped his arm smartly with her fan again.

  “Double rogue! I do not know why I am even speaking with you, for you seem incapable of answering me straightly. Indeed, where is Colonel Stoneworth? He was to be my supper companion!”

  “Was he? He is a poor soldier, then! One glance from my fiery, jealous eye, and he was thoroughly routed, I assure you.” He brought her, unresisting, to a table.

  Lady Jersey burst into laughter again and tried to stifle it beneath her hand. “Oh, dear! You really must come out more often, St. Vire!”

  “I would, Lady Jersey, but I have been so secluded on my estates, that I know no one, other than poor Lord Bremer and his most charming wife.”

  She gazed at him, her lips pursed in consideration. “I could give you a voucher for Almack’s, but I suspect that is why you cultivated my acquaintance.”

  “No!” He put a hand over his heart. “You wound me, saying such a thing! Have I asked for one, after all?”

  Lady Jersey pressed her hand against her lips again to stifle her laughter and failed. “How vexatious you are! I am certain now you only wish entrée to Almack’s.” She gnawed her lower lip and considered him. He put a ludicrously expectant, hopeful look on his face, and she laughed again. “I vow, you look like a naughty boy with that expression! Oh, very well! But you must promise to be amusing, and no naughtiness.”

  St. Vire gave an exaggerated sigh of relief and gazed soulfully into her eyes. “I can but try, my lady.”

  The patroness of Almack’s tried to look stern but failed. “You are incorrigible!”

  “Yes, my lady,” St. Vire said obediently and grinned.

  It would be two months until they married. Leonore fingered the delicate lace of the dress she had laid upon her bed. She did not know whether the time before her wedding was too long or too short. She dreaded the marriage, as anyone would dread the unknown, but she dreaded more staying much longer with her family, wondering when the next violent outburst would happen. At least her father was all smiles now and his temper well in check; St. Vire had advanced him some money from the settlements.

  Leonore stroked the fine silk gown she had bought. The cloth was pink and shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight, one of the few bright spots in her drab and faded bedroom. She was not to be shabbily attired, it seemed. St. Vire had sent her a note, recommending a particular dressmaker, Madame Etoile in New Bond Street. When she had gone there with her mother, the dressmaker had looked upon her drab clothes with some disdain. But then her mother had timidly announced their names, and the woman had become eager to do business with them. Apparently, St. Vire had sent a note to Madame, saying all purchases Leonore and her mother made would be charged to his account.

  There were more dresses coming in the next week, but Leonore wanted the pink silk one soon, even though she knew she would have no occasion to wear it. The dress was lovely, lovelier than anything else she had ever owned, and she was content to look at it, letting its smooth folds slide through her hands. She felt daring at the indulgence and would put the dress away again, only to pull it out not a few hours later.

  A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts.

  “Who is it?”

  “It is I, Leo,” came her sister’s voice.

  “You know you can come in, Susie. You need not wait.” Leonore rose from the bed and opened the door, smiling affectionately at her sister. The girl was seven years younger than Leonore, her parents’ last attempt at siring a boy after years of stillbirths. Perhaps it was fortunate that her father generally ignored Susan’s existence after his initial disappointed rage.

  Susan smiled eagerly at Leonore. “I came to see your new dress. Mama said you had brought one home, and I did so want to see it.” She hesitated. “It is permitted, isn’t it? For me to see it, I mean.”

  Leonore laughed. “Of course, silly! I was just looking at it myself.” She picked up the dress from her bed and held it up against her. “See?”

  “Ohhh …” Susan’s eyes were round with awe. “May … may I touch it?”

  “Here.” Leonore held out the dress to her. “Indeed, you may even try it on.”

  The girl stared at Leonore, then broke out in laughter. “Oh, you are such a tease, Leo! You know it would never fit me! You are so tall and pretty, and I am just a little squab of a thing.”

  Leonore looked at her sister’s golden blond hair and large, beautiful blue eyes. True, Susan was six inches shorter than herself, and very slight of frame, but she was very pretty.

  “Nonsense, Susie! You are just turned seventeen, and I did not reach my height until I was nineteen. You shall undoubtedly be as tall as I, and beautiful, besides.”

  Susan shook her head, blushing, and Leonore smiled. She turned to a chair at the side of her bed and picked up a package from it. “And this, my dear sister, is for you.” She held it toward S
usan.

  The girl did not touch it, but looked uncertainly at Leonore. “Is it allowed? For me to have it, that is?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” Leonore leaned toward her. “I bought it, do you see? St. Vire wishes me to buy whatever dresses I like, and for you, too.” Her sister still hesitated. “Open it, Susie!”

  Susan looked once more at Leonore, then took the package. She unwrapped it and let out a long, awe-filled sigh. “Ohhh. Is this really for me?” Pulling out the blue round-gown, she gazed at it with wide eyes.

  “Have I not said it?” Leonore said. “Do try it on! I want to see if it fits you properly.”

  Hastily, the girl pulled off her clothes and put on the blue gown while Leonore lit a branch of candles, the better to see in the growing dimness. She tied the ribbon at the back of the dress, then pushed her sister in front of a mirror. “Now look!” she said.

  Susan stared at herself in the mirror. “This is mine,” she whispered. “This is truly mine.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she turned to Leonore. “Oh, Leo, thank you! I don’t know … I’ve never had— Ohh!” The girl cast herself into her sister’s arms and hugged her fiercely. “You are the best of sisters! You should be sainted!”

  Leonore burst out laughing. “Hardly that, silly! Now, don’t cry, please! You will stain your very pretty dress, and I shall then regret giving it to you.”

  Wiping away her tears with her fingers, Susan smiled mistily at her sister. “Well, I think you should be sainted. I am sure you cannot love St. Vire in such a short time, so I know you are sacrificing yourself for our family.”

  Leonore glanced away. “Oh, it is hardly a sacrifice! St. Vire is a gentleman and seems kind besides. And I shall be living in luxury, to be sure! Why, if you could only see his house! It is full of the richest draperies, and the furniture is of the finest. Not only that, but—”

  “But you don’t love him.”

  “What has that to say to anything?” She glanced impatiently at Susan. “People marry for many other reasons than love.”