He sighed theatrically. “I suppose my poor wife will now have to bear the brunt of my attentions.” Suddenly he seized her around the waist and pulled her to him.
“Nicholas! Really!” she hissed, her face flaming hot. Nicholas wiggled his eyebrows at the guests like a villain in a bad farce, and their chuckles turned to laughter. “For heaven’s sake! Do let me go!” she protested, half laughing and pushing her hands against his chest.
“A kiss first,” he said.
“I— No, stop, oh surely you— Nicholas—”
“A kiss, a kiss!” cried the guests, laughing.
She looked helplessly at them, and then at Nicholas. “Oh, very well then!” She primly pursed her lips.
He grinned at her. “None of that, my lady,” he said, and his lips came down over hers, kissing her until she gave in and kissed him in return.
Cheers came from the gentlemen, and Leonore could hear envious sighs from the ladies as well. She broke away at last, covering her heated cheeks with her hands, unable to look at anything but her feet. She felt a hand caress her chin, and she gazed up into Nicholas’s amused eyes.
“Come, my dear. Surely it was not so bad.”
She eyed him sternly. “You, my lord, are a shameless rogue.”
“Yes, I know. I depend on you to reform me.”
“I think it may be far beyond my powers to do so,” she retorted.
“You can but try,” he said and put on an innocent, hopeful look. The guests broke out in laughter again, and Leonore gave a reluctant smile. She wanted to laugh along with the others, but a heaviness in her chest weighed her down every time she looked at Nicholas. He smiled at her, then his attention was taken by another guest. She felt suddenly cold and alone, despite the smile she kept on her face.
Leonore did not want him to die. The heaviness became an ache, and she drew in a slow breath. When he died, she would be alone, more so than she had ever been in her life. In the short space of time she’d come to know him, her days had been filled; filled with his laughter, his touch, his kisses. When he held her, she felt comforted of much of the pain of her life, the loneliness.
She understood, suddenly, that she had been lonely all her life. There was Susan, but Leonore was the older sister and Susan’s support, the strong one. She rarely revealed her thoughts and feelings to anyone, including her sister. No one really knew her, knew what was inside of her. She’d taken pride in her invulnerability; it was a thing that protected her heart, like a hothouse sheltering a rare rose. And yet, Nicholas had encouraged her to talk and listened to her, had opened a door and let in the wind. Sometimes the wind was warm, and sometimes it was chillingly cold; Leonore did not know if her heart would survive being exposed to such extremes. She had protected it so very carefully.
But now her gaze followed Nicholas around the room; she noted how he chuckled at a guest’s gibe, how he looked mischievously into a lady’s eyes as he kissed her hand. Should she close the door and protect herself once again?
He may die in a year. Leonore closed her eyes briefly, then made herself smile and nod at a gentleman who congratulated her on her marriage. What would she have after Nicholas was gone?—a title, and if he continued to be generous, funds enough so that she might live in luxury. A shudder went through her, a cold current of grief. These things seemed meaningless somehow. Nicholas looked up from his conversation with Lord Eldon and smiled at her from across the room. Leonore smiled in return, then bit her lip, for bleak desolation threatened to overwhelm her. She would give up the title and all the riches in the world if it would keep him alive.
She loved him. The thought startled her. Impossible! she said to herself. Her father had sold her to Nicholas; it was a marriage of convenience. But that argument and the resentment that had always accompanied it were long expired. A rising panic made Leonore’s hands clench in her lap. What would she do? What could she do? She felt exposed and vulnerable and weak.
It came to her then, that her weakness was none of Nicholas’s doing. It was she, herself, who had caused it. Protecting her heart from all the pain in the world had weakened it, for she had risked nothing, had not become strong from the exercise of risk. She’d never let herself receive any tender gesture, denied she had need of it. She had even refused to acknowledge the hopeful and proper approach of a gentleman at a student’s house, and she had known at the time he would have meant honorably by her. But she could have been wrong, was her thought at the time, and it was not proper that a governess marry any man of the house in which she taught.
There had been nothing proper about Nicholas’s advances toward her, however, though they had occurred within the bounds of their betrothal. He had wanted her, and he had made it clear that it was herself alone he wanted. He had spoken no word of love, and she’d not expected it. But he had treated her with—yes—respect. Her wishes had some value to him. Even his improper caresses had ceased when she had said no. And when she had inadvertently shown distress at his illness, he had taken her in his arms to comfort her. She was sure, in his own way, in some slight way, that he cared for her.
And all this would be taken away from her in a year. The pain of it almost made her groan aloud, but she swallowed it down. No, no, surely it was not “would” but only “could.”
The sound of music startled Leonore from her thoughts. She looked for the source of it and found to her surprise that Susan had come to the pianoforte and was playing a dance tune. Some guests were already standing up for a set. She felt a touch on her shoulder and looked up to see Nicholas at her side.
“Dance with me,” he said, an echo of his words that time they danced in the moonlit garden at the Benningtons’ house. Wordlessly, she took his hand and stood up.
She had no occasion to dwell on her feelings, for the country dance was a sprightly one, and it took all her breath and attention to keep up. Even when she was not looking at him, she could feel Nicholas’s eyes upon her, and even when the figures of the dance caused them to part. He looked at her as if studying her, as if he was trying to make a decision. Of course she could not ask him, for the dance kept them apart too much of the time. Later, she thought. Later I will ask.
The dancing continued, and even Susan blushingly agreed to dance while her mother or another lady played the piano. A quadrille came to an end, and a few yawns were suppressed here and there amongst the company, and Leonore looked at the ormolu clock upon the mantelpiece. It was not very late according to the hours society generally kept—only eleven o’clock. She looked at a few of the people who had yawned and caught laughing looks from them. Heat rose in her cheeks, for she suspected they had some notions about leaving the newlywed couple alone.
The room became thin of company then, for the guests began to leave. Leonore’s family was the last to depart, and she dutifully allowed her mother to kiss her cheek and shook her father’s hand. Then she smiled and held out her hands to Susan, who rushed into her arms and gave her a fierce hug.
“Oh, Leonore, I am so glad for you! Lord St. Vire has been so kind to us all! I am convinced you cannot be anything but happy you have married him.”
“Of course I am happy,” she replied and swallowed a small lump in her throat. “How can I not be?” Nicholas moved closer to her side and placed his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and gave him a slight, uncertain smile. Turning back to Susan, she said, “I would like you to visit me often—promise me, now!”
Susan looked uncertainly at Nicholas. “I … if it is permitted …”
“Of course, Miss Susan, you are always welcome here,” Nicholas said. “You may visit your sister whenever you wish.”
Susan blushed shyly. “You are too good, my lord.”
Nicholas grinned at her. “You must call me Nicholas, as you are my sister now, are you not?” He bent and kissed Susan briefly on her cheek. The girl’s face blushed fiery red, and she put her hands to her cheeks.
“Yes, sir … that is, Nicholas.” Susan looked shyly down at her
feet.
Leonore gave her a hug and whispered loudly in her ear—loudly enough for Nicholas to hear. “You must not heed him, Susan, for he is a terrible flirt and delights in discomposing everyone about him.”
Susan looked up and grinned. “That is true, isn’t it? He did kiss you in front of everyone, didn’t he?”
This time it was Leonore’s turn to blush, and Nicholas laughed. “Touché! Leonore, your sister catches you out!”
Leonore turned an ironic eye to him. “I think it was you she caught out, not I!”
“Susan!” Mr. Farleigh called from the doorway. Susan looked hurriedly back at her father.
“I must go! But I will see you soon!” She gave Leonore one last hug and left.
The door shut behind her, and Leonore breathed out a long breath. It echoed in the now empty room … empty except for herself and Nicholas. His hand was still upon her shoulder, and now his thumb was caressing the skin of her neck. She gave him a tentative look.
“Are you glad, Leonore?” he asked, gazing at her intently.
“Glad of what?”
“That you married me.” His thumb continued tracing a line up and down her shoulder and throat. She swallowed and looked away from him.
“Of course I am,” she said. “You have been all that is kind to me.” There was silence, and she glanced up at him. He was watching her, his eyes speculative.
“Shall we retire, then?”
She nodded and turned toward the door. Then she stopped and looked at him. “But you sleep only during the day.”
“True.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, ‘oh!’ ” His smile turned into a grin, and he kissed her. She could not help kissing him in return for a moment, then gently pushed him away from her. She felt suddenly afraid, for what her mother had told her—in a vague, furtive manner—seemed a terribly intimate thing, and her emotions were almost too raw this evening to consider it. She gazed at his face, serious now, and touched the pale skin of his cheek, then let her fingers brush his lips. He has perhaps a year to live, she thought. He took her hand and kissed it.
“You are frightened, yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I will be gentle with you, Leonore, I promise it.”
She looked at him, surprised, then realized that he meant he would be so to her in the marriage bed. Her mother had told her it would hurt and that she should think of the clothes she would buy when next she went to the dressmaker’s shop. But she did not want to think of clothes, for she knew the pain she’d feel when he was gone would be woven in with regret if she did not let herself know him fully. Then she could always remember and never wonder “if” later. She did not want to regret anything.
Abruptly, Leonore tugged his hand, and pulled him toward the door. His brows rose, but he said nothing, and only followed her.
They went up the stairs, and Leonore finally stopped in front of a chamber door, which earlier a maid had told her was her own room. She turned to Nicholas then and put her hands behind his neck to pull him down in a kiss, fierce and passionate. He was still for an instant, then brought her close to him. After a moment, she pushed him from her and stared into his eyes.
“Come to me. Soon.” Her face flamed red in the candlelight at her brazenness. She turned, went into her room, and quickly shut the door.
Chapter Eight
St. Vire stared at the closed door, then let out a quiet, triumphant laugh. She was willing—more than willing. Leonore wanted him. Everything was in place now; he needed only to take action.
He went next door to his room, where the conscientious but yawning Edmonds waited to help him remove his clothes. Perhaps his valet thought he had to help his master to bed this night. St. Vire gave him a quick smile and waved him away after removing his jacket. “You need not change your routine, Edmonds. I will not need you this evening.”
“Very well, your lordship.” Edmonds gave him a grateful look, bowed, and left.
Taking off his waistcoat, St. Vire glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost eleven o’clock, midsummer night. He smiled in satisfaction. Each part of his plan had fallen into place, all on the schedule the spell indicated. He frowned. That was the thing … the spell indicated, but rarely stated. Then, too, the spell book was old and the words faded. He had abstained from both blood and whores prior to his wedding, enticed a virgin to the point of desiring his embrace, and married her in a church on midsummer night. Now he would bed her. The sign that he had succeeded so far was that he had survived in the church. The next step, however, told of releasing the maiden’s blood … and this could either mean taking her virginity or her lifeblood, or even both.
To his surprise, his hand clenched into a fist. His whole body had tensed. He made himself relax and smiled wryly. He was acting as if he were the virgin, not Leonore.
But what if it was indeed her lifeblood that he needed to take? One would think, after all the austerities the spell had demanded, that it meant the lesser of the two, the taking of her maidenhead. What would happen, then, if it were not? What if he must draw her blood from her veins? Oh, God. If he did not do the right one, he would have no other chance to avoid the madness that was sure to come. He had already stepped upon the path by marrying Leonore. There was no going back.
And would she come to hate him if he drank her blood?
Why should he care if she did? She was just the means to cease the march toward insanity, after all. He could drink of her blood every week, and she would have no power to refuse, for Leonore was his wife. An image of her came to his mind’s eye, her face filled with revulsion, flinching from his touch where she had sought it before. His breath left him suddenly. No, no, she had to be willing—that was what the spell required. It would ruin everything if she were not, and he much preferred her willing. Yes, that was it. It was better that way, it would be awkward otherwise, and he always did prefer finesse in all things.
His fingers became suddenly clumsy, and his neckcloth tangled in his hands; he tore it off and threw it on the floor. He was tired of this dance, this mincing around and about the spell. It made him feel things he did not want to feel, made him think he wanted Leonore’s regard, made him obsessed with her. Why look at him! He’d been wondering if and when and how about the marriage bed as if he’d never eased his lust upon a woman before. He sneered. How stupid he’d become, all because of a spell … and a woman. He was more than eighty years old now. Perhaps he was coming into senility. What was more repulsive was that he, as old as he was, lusted after a woman sixty years younger than himself.
A laugh broke from him, at once exhilarated and angry. But he was not old, was he, after all? His mirror could show him that. He turned, thrust aside the curtain he had put over it, and stared at himself—stared at the face smooth of any sign of aging. Not even laugh lines showed around his eyes, though he laughed much. God, he was still young. He’d seen his friends die of old age—no, only noted they had died when he read their obituaries, for he could not let them see him after the years had scored their faces with lines but had left his alone. No one was still alive who knew him when he first was turned into a vampire. No one knew what he was, who the real Nicholas St. Vire was.
He knew, of course. He could see it in the old eyes that stared back at him, the colorless skin, the canine teeth long and sharp. And why could not anyone else see it? What did he, in truth, look like to others? He let out an impatient breath. He should be dead, for what was the use of living when all who once knew you were dead?
Stupid, stupid! This was old ground—he had walked this path before in his thoughts. A fire heated his mind, and he paced the floor, glancing at the mirror from time to time. He shouldn’t have a mirror in his room, not at all. What he saw was all a lie, anyway. His whole damned, immortal life was a lie. Why should his mirror tell him anything different? He stopped before the mirror and laughed again, angrily. What was truth, after all, and what was reality? His fist shot out, and the sound
of shattering glass and the crash of the mirror upon the floor pierced the night’s silence.
He stared at the pieces of glass scattered upon the rug, his breath still coming quick and harsh. The fiery mist receded from his mind, leaving him feeling dull and slow. The scent of his own blood came to his nose. It sharpened his senses, and pain spread across the knuckles of his hand. He sighed and shook his head. He had broken another mirror. Really, he should not have put one in his room to begin with. And yet, how was he to tie his neckcloth properly without one?
“Nicholas! Nicholas, what has happened?”
Leonore … her voice sounded frantic with worry. St. Vire stared bleakly at the connecting door he usually kept locked, at the mirror, and then at his hand. His hand was oozing blood … he should do something about it. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the fog that had settled in it.
“Nicholas! Open this door!”
She cared for him. He could tell by the anxiety in her voice, and she had said she cared if he lived or died.
“Nicholas!” The doorknob rattled, and he could hear Leonore pounding her hand on the door.
He blinked and shook his head again. He had broken the mirror. He let out a shuddering breath. What a fool he was. The madness had not seized him for a while, and he thought perhaps he had controlled it totally. Of course, he had not. He supposed he should be glad he had not gone on to destroying other furniture, as he had done before. Or destroying people, for that matter, as he’d seen that other vampire do long ago. He took another deep breath, and it seemed to clear his mind.
“Please, Nicholas, open the door, or I shall call for Edmonds!”
Abruptly, he strode to the door and opened it. There Leonore stood, her hair disheveled and her eyes wild. “Yes?” he said calmly.
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