The Vampire Viscount

by Karen Harbaugh

  He laughed again, amused that she let it slip that she knew this poem. “Such a good governess you are!” He kissed her again below her ear, then down her neck to the pulse beating wildly there. Carefully he let his teeth run against her skin. He was on the edge of letting his thirst overcome him again, but he could not resist the tantalizing possibility, even though he knew he would keep himself from piercing her flesh. “You cannot make me a saint, Leonore. Shall I make you a sinner?”

  “We are sinning now.”

  “Oh, no, only somewhat close to it. Trust me to know more of sin than you, sweet one.” He moved her backward until they came to a chaise longue and pushed her gently down upon it.

  “What … what are you going to do?”

  “Make us come closer to sinning than we have done before,” Nicholas replied and kissed her full and deeply on her mouth.

  Leonore moaned, a despairing sound. He parted from her, ready to stop, but a wild look came into her eyes. She seized his face with her hands and brought him down again, kissing him just as deeply as he had her.

  This time his husky laugh held a note of triumph. Her lips moved upon his as he had taught her; her tongue slipped within and touched his own as he had done to her before. Her fingers slid behind his head and pulled a little at his hair. The former governess was a good student, and he chuckled again at the thought. He dipped his hand between her breasts and freed the covered one from her bodice. One last time he kissed her deeply before descending to the skin of her neck, her shoulder, and then the tips of her breasts.

  Leonore felt hot and cold and hot again, and a fine tingling brushed across her skin. Sinning. He had called it that, or said what they were doing was close to it. He had said he was a bad man, and though she did not think this was entirely true, every touch upon her body told her he was a rake and a seducer. But if he were bad, then so was she, for she did not want his seduction to stop. Despair mixed with her desire; she was certainly her father’s daughter, for she drank of Nicholas’s lips as uncontrollably as a drunkard took wine. Where was her control? She had little; Nicholas had it all.

  His kisses were both sweet and fierce, his embraces tender, and because she received so little of either in her life, she had no head for them. Nicholas’s caresses were a fine liqueur upon her body, pouring over her breasts and belly and thighs. The scent of him, full of wildness and spice, made her feel dizzy. She opened her eyes wide when she felt his hand on her bare hip and realized with a shock he had pushed up the hem of her gown. Her eyes met his own, watching her; his smile was gentle, and his eyes full of warm desire.

  “Let me touch you here … and here …” His fingers played over her, and he kissed her throat and chin, then took her lips once again. We are betrothed, Leonore told herself. It is only two weeks until we are wed. It does not matter. But it did, for even she knew what they did was not right, most certainly not before they were married, however much it might be mitigated by their betrothal.

  For a moment she let him touch her as he willed, biting her lip as a shimmering heat rose from her secret places to course through the rest of her body. I must stop this, she told herself.

  “Stop,” she said aloud, but her voice came out as a whisper. But his caresses ceased, though he was still pressed against her, and he took one last long kiss.

  “I would not have taken you, Leonore, before our wedding night.” He moved from her, as if reluctant to do so.

  Slowly she pushed herself upright upon the chaise longue and breathed deeply. Her legs felt odd and shaky, so she did not rise immediately. She glanced at him in the dimness, glad he could not see the color rising in her face. “I thought you had taken me,” she blurted.

  A husky chuckle came from him. “Oh, no. That truly would have been sinning.”

  Leonore swallowed. “There is more?” she asked. She should not be talking of this with him at all, but she blurted the words before she could stop herself.

  Nicholas pulled her up from the chaise longue and drew her to him gently. “Yes, sweet one. Much more. Shall I tell you what will happen on our wedding night?”

  She did not answer him, for he kissed her deeply before she could reply.

  “I shall continue to do all I have done to your delectable body so far, until you cry out with the delight of it.” He bent to kiss her neck, her ear, and then her lips again.

  Drawing up all her resolve, she pushed against him and stared at his face. His gaze was still hot upon her, and she knew he would kiss her again if she let him. “I do not think I want to do that. It does not sound proper.” She felt foolish saying it, for she really did not know what was proper within the confines of marriage, but saying it brought a measure of control over herself. Putting on an air of briskness, she pulled up her bodice and adjusted it as well as she could.

  He laughed softly. “Oh, but you will. And it is not proper at all. I told you I was a bad man, did I not?”

  Chapter Seven

  He was becoming obsessed with Leonore.

  St. Vire did not know if this was a good thing. He had enough control over himself so that he did not take her blood, but each time he tamped down the urge, the sensitivity that came with it changed the bloodlust into a lust for the touch of her skin, the sound of her sighs, and the scent of her perfume.

  It was something he could not separate from his vampirism, and so seemed tainted somehow. Tainted. He smiled wryly to himself. Was she making him yearn for sainthood, turning him from being a contented sinner? He remembered their encounter at the Rothwicks’ musicale, how she had allowed him to touch her intimately and how she had pulled him down for a kiss. His smile turned into a wide grin. Oh, he doubted he’d become a saint.

  Looking in the mirror in his chambers, St. Vire adjusted his neckcloth with care, frowning a little until he achieved the precise folds he wished. He glanced up at his face and dared smile into the mirror, showing his sharp teeth. His reflection did not seem so repulsive to him now; he had refrained from drinking blood two months before the consummation of his wedding, as the spell required. Now it was his wedding day—or rather, wedding evening—and at least he could slake one kind of thirst. It had been, he admitted, somewhat frustrating seducing Leonore into willingness. His smile turned rueful. No, loin-twisting agony came closer to it. He could not even take any recourse with whores, either, for the spell did not allow it.

  He took the hat his valet held out to him, set it at a rakish angle, then descended the stairs from his room. Sometimes he wondered if all this saintly abstinence was worth the cure.

  Perhaps it was easier in ancient times to find a willing virgin who would give herself for a year. These days it was impossible without searching for one in a well-born family, woo the girl, and then marry her. The thought of being wed had almost made him give it up, for he’d always seen marriage as a nuisance. He remembered, however, the madness he’d seen long ago in another vampire’s eyes before St. Vire was forced to kill him. He shuddered at the memory, and he decided it was worth it.

  On the other hand, there was the church. St. Vire wondered how long he was going to be able to bear being inside one while he said his marriage vows. His mouth went dry at the thought. The spell in the grimoire had said if he had done everything correctly, he would survive it. But he’d seen what had happened when he had locked that other vampire into the church: It was how he had killed him. Thankfully, the church in which he was going to be wed was a different one, so he would not have to be reminded much of the unnerving incident while he said his vows.

  As he climbed into the coach that would take him to the church, St. Vire became aware of the tension in his body and made himself relax. Perhaps he could pretend his apprehension was merely wedding nerves. He rolled his eyes at the thought. He was the furthest thing from a trembling virgin he could think of. God, but he was becoming ridiculous over it all.

  The coach stopped in front of the church at last, and he hesitated before descending. He could sense the odor of sanctity emanating f
rom the church even from the carriage, a sweet and bitter scent. Go to it, man! he said to himself. I might die, said another part of his mind. But I am undead; what, after all, is the difference? he told himself wryly. It was that or madness—and he would never choose madness.

  He climbed up the steps to the church’s open doors. The wedding company was small, for only Leonore’s family would attend, and his few new friends. It was an odd thing to think of having friends; all the ones from his youth were dead. Thankfully, it was not the fashion now to have large weddings, and Leonore had not wanted a large one, either. St. Vire looked at the altar, at the lines of the beams and arches leading the eye upward to the cross near the roof. He took in a deep breath and stepped within.

  The sharp tingling that coursed through his body started as soon as he put his foot upon the marble floor of the church. He made himself ignore it and stared at the altar instead. The vicar there eyed him sourly, for an evening wedding was quite irregular. However, once he knew that Leonore’s family approved, and once the very large contribution from St. Vire’s bank was in his hands, the vicar had agreed to do it.

  His bride. St. Vire turned his gaze to the doorway at the sound of carriages. The tingling now became a slight sizzling pain, and in order to block it out he concentrated on the figures coming toward him. He wished he could better appreciate Leonore’s loveliness as she came up the aisle on her father’s arm. He could not feel the pleasure he normally would looking at her, for the pain increased with each minute he stood before the altar. Her sister, Susan, sat next to her mother in one of the pews, but he barely noticed. He spared one glance for her father, glad for her sake that he was sober for once.

  At last Leonore was beside him, and St. Vire turned to the vicar. “Hurry,” he whispered to the man and put a glamour upon him so that he would obey. Even so, the ceremony lasted longer than he ever thought it could, for the pain that seemed to burn his flesh seeped within until his lungs felt as if they were on fire. He wanted to cry out, but he did not have the breath to do so. His vision blurred, and he blinked to clear it.

  “I do,” he heard himself say, but he was not sure to what he agreed, for his mind now burned as well. God help me, he thought, I must stay upon my feet. But the red-streaked darkness descended upon him, and his knees hit the marble floor …

  A faint voice: “He needs air and quiet, I am sure. None of you need stay, for I will attend him. I am sure he will recover soon.” A door shut—too loudly.

  Cool air. Silk upon his cheek. Something wet upon his brow. The scent of lavender came to him. It reminded him of someone … Leonore. He opened his eyes, and it was indeed she. She drew in her breath, and the tight, tense look in her eyes faded.

  “Oh heavens, Nicholas! I thought … I thought …” A confused expression of anger and fear crossed her face, and she seized his face in her hands and kissed him fiercely. “Do not ever, ever do that again!”

  “I assure you. I did not do it on purpose,” he whispered when she released him, and closed his eyes. His lungs still burned a little, and coughing, he groped for the handkerchief he usually had in his coat pocket. His coat had disappeared, and he was in his shirtsleeves.

  “Here.” He felt a handkerchief thrust into his hand.

  He coughed fully into it, and the sharp tang of blood came to his tongue, but he felt too tired to do anything about it. A sharp gasp burst in the air above him. He opened his eyes again and shifted his head; smooth silk rubbed against his hair. It seemed his head was resting upon Leonore’s lap. How pleasant.

  A small, distressed moan came from Leonore. “You are ill, then! I had wondered … I shall call for a doctor immediately.” She eased herself from under his head, but he grasped her arm.

  “No. I am merely thirsty … water, please …”

  “Nicholas, you stained the handkerchief with blood when you coughed into it,” Leonore said, her voice impatient, but reached to a table beside her and poured him a glass from a ewer nearby. He drank it, washing the blood from his mouth.

  “I shall be well presently.” He pushed himself upright to prove it. He was in an unfamiliar room, plain and utilitarian. “Where is this place?”

  “They—the vicar and the curate—brought you to the vicar’s sitting room. You collapsed at the very end of our wedding ceremony.”

  “How embarrassing,” he said lightly. “We are, however, married?”

  A light blush suffused Leonore’s cheeks, and she smiled. “Yes.”

  “Good. I think we should proceed to the wedding supper—unless I have been unconscious for too long?”

  “No, it has been only a quarter of an hour—but you must let me find a doctor!”

  “Nonsense, my dear; you see I am quite recovered.” He stood up and was relieved to find he did not feel at all as weak as he had when he awakened. He looked about the room. “My coat?”

  She gave it to him reluctantly. “Nicholas … you have consumption, do you not?” Her voice was tense.

  He gazed at her face; it was as strained as her voice. He smiled crookedly. “No, not consumption. It is not something a doctor can cure, believe me.” He put on his coat and spied a mirror. His neckcloth was creased inappropriately, and he ran a thumb under a fold.

  He found his arm seized, and Leonore pulled him around to face her, her expression one of angry fear. “You vain, stupid man! You collapse at the altar, you cough blood, and now you say you are well and must adjust your neckcloth!”

  “I can hardly greet the wedding guests with a badly tied one, my dear.”

  “The devil take your neckcloth!” Her face flamed at her own words and at Nicholas’s raised eyebrows. “How long— How ill are you? How long will you live?” He heard aching desperation in her voice, and her words stumbled from her lips.

  Surprise and troubled tenderness curled around Nicholas’s heart. He touched her cheek softly. “You care how long I might live?”

  She turned her face and pressed her cheek against his hand, closing her eyes briefly. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “You are very sweet, Leonore.” He pulled her to him and kissed her softly.

  Her lips moved hungrily against his, then parted from him by only a hairsbreadth. “Tell me, Nicholas. How long?” she asked.

  “Mmm …” Nicholas could feel his strength returning steadily, and with it, desire. He kissed her again, deeply.

  Leonore pushed him away, gasping a little. “Tell me.”

  He gazed at the clear desperation and longing in her eyes, and a curious ache grew within him. “I do not know. A year … or I could live forever …”

  “A year!” The word came out from her in a sob, and she bit her lip.

  “Don’t—” He took her in his arms again. “Don’t cry.” He stroked her hair and pressed a kiss upon it.

  “I am not crying,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

  “Good.” He chuckled. “I mean what I say. I could live forever.” He thought about stopping the course of the spell and remaining a vampire, living forever. Leonore could even be by his side, also a vampire and his eternal consort. Just a very little he was tempted … The image of Leonore rose before his eyes, her face moon-pale and twisted with the bloodthirst, going slowly insane. God, no. He shuddered.

  “Nonsense! No one lives forever.” Leonore the governess was back again. She moved away from him, her lips pressed together in a disapproving line. He reached out and ran his thumb over her lips.

  “Smile for me, Leonore. Perhaps I will not live forever, but I could live for a very, very long time—as long as any man might. I shall know by the end of the year.”

  She grasped his hand and held it hard. “How will you know?”

  He felt his smile turn crooked. “I shall be alive,” he said simply.

  “That is not enough! A doctor—”

  “Can do nothing.” He made his voice stern. “Enough! We have wedding guests to attend to.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Another quarter hour has pass
ed while we argued. I have given our guests enough to think about for now. If we delay more, I am sure they will wonder if they should turn the wedding supper into a funeral feast.”

  A bitter smile came to Leonore’s lips. “A little early for that, I think.”

  “Much too early.” He kissed her once more. “Come, come, Leonore! It is not as bad as you think.” He caressed her cheek with his finger. “Besides, I am sure it is no less than I deserve. After a year, you may well wish to be rid of me. I am, no doubt, not at all easy to live with, with all my bad habits,” he said lightly.

  This time she gave a reluctant laugh. “No doubt!” was her dry reply before she took his hand and led him out of the vicar’s sitting room.

  How could anyone laugh and drink when the groom at a wedding party was to die in a year? Leonore made herself smile and nod cordially to another guest, then sipped her wine. It was acrid on her tongue, though she knew the wine was of the best vintage, for Nicholas prided himself on his cellar. She set down the glass with a snap on the table next to her. But of course, no one knew how ill Nicholas was, and she would not tell anyone.

  Everyone had retired to the large drawing room in Nicholas’s house after the wedding supper. It was a merry group, composed mostly of his friends, and of course Leonore’s family. Even Susan came out of her shell a little, smiling shyly at Nicholas’s jokes and the admiration she received from the gentlemen.

  Nicholas was clearly enjoying the company. Leonore smiled wryly. He liked to be in a crowd, preferably in the center of it. It would destroy all his pleasure if she were to let anyone know he was so ill. He made a joke of it; even now he grinned as someone twitted him about the incident at the ceremony.

  “I never thought you would come to the altar as nervous and fainting as a schoolroom chit, St. Vire,” said Lord Eldon, whom Leonore remembered was one of Nicholas’s friends.

  “Not I!” Nicholas replied. “It was the prospect of ending my bachelorhood and deserting all my dear … companions.” He eyed the ladies with exaggerated lasciviousness. They all blushed or hid their giggles behind their hands. As one they seemed to look at him with longing and regret, which made Leonore laugh in spite of herself. Incorrigible! She supposed he would never stop being a flirt.