The Vampire Viscount

by Karen Harbaugh

  Fear and anger burned in her eyes, and she thumped his chest with her fist. “Is this all you can say? I thought you were ill again, and you would not answer! For all I know you could have died, and then what would I have done?”

  He smiled slightly. “Why, then you would have been a rich woman and could choose another husband at your leisure.”

  She pushed at him, and he caught her hands. “I do not want to be rich!” Her breath caught in a sob. “I want you, Nicholas, only you, and— Oh, heavens, your hand is bleeding!” He saw her bite her lip to control its trembling.

  “Never mind … it is nothing.” He drew her close and kissed her, but she pushed him away again.

  “Nonsense! You must tell me what happened.”

  “I … tripped and grasped the mirror—it fell and broke upon my hand.”

  Shooting him a skeptical look, she pulled him to her turned-down bed and made him sit.

  “I was not ill again, Leonore.”

  “Hmm,” she said. He watched her while she wet a handkerchief from the washstand. She wore a thin white wrap drawn over her breasts and tied with a single ribbon. The cloth shifted, outlining her limbs as she moved, and he could see her form, lithe and graceful, as she passed in front of the candles and the fireplace. His breath quickened. He wanted to touch her then, untie the ribbon and push away the bodice of her gown. He put out his hand toward her, but stopped himself, for it was yet another obsession, a little madness like the one he’d experienced just minutes ago, and he was not sure he was fully in control of himself yet.

  She brought a brace of candles and set it upon the table next to the bed. A smooth spiral of her hair dropped forward from her shoulder as she leaned over his hand, and his other hand closed tight against the feeling that he must follow the line of the curl to where it lay upon her breast. She pulled with care a fragment of glass from between his knuckles and wiped away the blood. She began to wrap the handkerchief around his hand, but he stopped her.

  “You need not bind it. It is but a small cut, after all.”

  She looked at his hand and raised her brows; it had indeed stopped oozing blood. She brought his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss upon it, then gave him a wavering smile. “There, then. Perhaps that will help if you do not want me to bind it.”

  “Yes, I am sure it will.” He returned her smile and drew her to him, down to the bedsheets.

  Now, now he pulled the ribbon and the robe fell open, now he slipped the gown from her shoulders, now he kissed her lips softly, tasting them. A salty tang was upon her lips, the faint residue of his own blood from when she kissed his hand, and he drew in his breath at the desire that rose in him, hot and feral.

  “The candles—” She struggled up and reached toward them.

  He grasped her hand and brought it down again. “No. I want to see you. All of you.” His gaze went over what he had exposed so far: her shoulders and her breasts, round and full. He sighed deeply at the sight of it. He had been very good, bearing his abstinence with great fortitude, he believed. Damned saintly, in fact. He pulled the robe from her. Slowly he unbuttoned her gown from bodice to hem, kissing the skin he exposed as each button came undone. A glance at her when he released the last fastening made him smile. Her face was blushing, and her eyes were squeezed shut.

  “Look at me, Leonore.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him.

  “You need not be afraid. You are familiar already with some of what I will do with you,” he said and slid his hand up to her breast. She let out a long sigh, and he felt her body relax a little.

  “I suppose I should think of the clothes I shall buy.”

  St. Vire let out a soft chuckle. “Is that what your mother told you?”

  She smiled a little at him. “Yes.”

  He shifted atop her and kissed her. “Sweet one, very soon you will not be able to think of clothes at all,” he murmured against her lips.

  It was true. Leonore could not think of anything except his hands caressing her as they had before in the moonlit garden, in the Holland-covered room at the Rothwicks’ house, in the many secluded places he had found to draw her close to him. She did not want to think of anything but how his lips tasted of wine and how his hands stroked her. She had thought too much already of his illness, the possibility that he would be gone from her someday. A fierce grief and tenderness overcame her, and she pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her emotions. The feelings almost banished the tingling that coursed over her body, but they merged with the sensation into a bitter longing, an aching passion to give him whatever he wished, whatever she could give him.

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him as he had taught her all those times, wanting to please him, but Nicholas’s caresses caused her to moan and close her eyes, kissing him as she pleased—wildly, and with all the love she had and all the heat that rose in her body. Briefly, he parted from her, and then she felt him unclothed against her. She dared run her hand upon his bare flesh, her eyes still closed, feeling now the coolness of his skin warmed under her touch. His breath came short and she was glad, for perhaps he also felt as she did.

  “I can make you … feel, as well,” she whispered.

  His lips slanted across her cheek and down her neck where his tongue touched her throat. “Yes. God, yes.”

  His touch brought a trembling upon her body that caused her to press herself to him, and his words brought an exhilaration that burned in her soul. She could give him back touch for touch, kiss for kiss, give him the heat and the joy she herself felt.

  I love you. I love you, she said to him in her mind and her heart, said it with the passion she put into her kiss. She could not say it aloud, not now. Those words would die if she spoke them, for they were brief things that would hang between them only a moment. Better than she impress her love through her body’s movements upon his body and her lips upon his lips, for these things were real and not mere breaths upon the air. Then, she was sure, he would remember it until the end. I love you, Nicholas, she murmured in her heart, and the pain of silence made her moan and kiss him fiercely. She slid her hands along his body. He gasped and kissed her cheek, then moved his lips and teeth against her neck.

  He was on the edge of the bloodthirst, of the urge to drink of her from where his tongue lay against the pulse on her neck. He did not, relying on the practiced control he had exercised each time he had kissed and touched her before. Relief washed over him. He was not in the madness now, for the thirst’s acute sensitivity brought him alive once again. The smooth contours of her shoulders and breasts were like silk to his fingers; her lips were sweet and hot against his own. Her hair flowed over his hands like a pale gold river, and her eyes were the color of slate. He breathed in her woman’s scent and the silvery scent of lavender.

  The onslaught of sensation at first overwhelmed him, but he controlled it, just pressing his mouth to her neck, and drawing back to put his tongue against the faint blue line that pulsed just under her skin. He pushed down the desire for blood, and it resurfaced as desire for her, as it had before. This desire was a common thing, he told himself. It was allowed, they could do this, and he would make another step away from the madness. He wanted to sink another part of himself into her and take her warmth into himself. But he could not hurry her, for he needed her to be willing.

  Yet, he did not need to slow his pace at all. Leonore pressed herself against him without hesitation or shame and kissed him with passion. He parted from her to gaze into her eyes and threaded his fingers through her hair. She said nothing, but stared back at him, a soft smile upon her lips, her eyes tender and warm. Her hand came up, and she traced his brow and his cheek with her fingers until they rested upon his lips. A tightness in his chest made him draw in his breath.

  “Do you … care for me?” he could not help asking. He felt as if the words had been pulled from him, as if she had put a glamour upon him and willed him to say it. Say no, he pleaded inside of himself, then, say yes.
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  Leonore’s smile grew wider, and she put her hand behind his neck and drew him down to her. She kissed him full on the mouth, and he felt afire as her lips moved upon him, as her body moved beneath him.

  “Yes,” she said, parting from him for a moment. “Yes, and yes, and yes.” Nicholas felt her hands slide down his back, and he pressed himself between her thighs in response. Her eyes widened, and she released her breath in a rush.

  His laugh had a hint of triumph in it. It was as before, during all the times when they had been private together. He could make her respond as he wished, make her want him. Moving his lips across her cheek to her ear, he whispered, “Do you remember, at the musicale, what I told you?” He moved a little aside and brushed his fingers along her hip. Leonore shivered, but did not reply. “I said that I shall do all I have done to you so far, until you cry out with the delight of it. Do you remember?” Her head nodded slowly next to his, and a sighing moan came from her when he moved his hand between her legs.

  “I lied,” he said, sliding his lips from her neck to between her breasts and then to her belly. “I will do … so … much … more.”

  She closed her eyes and clutched at his shoulders, and her breath came short. The sound of it made him feel wild. Nicholas kissed and stroked her until he could not stand it, could not stand her sinuous movements beneath him without release. He thought he’d be in control, but that was a lie, also, for he was not. A madness descended upon him, a fine madness of the flesh instead of the mind, and he wanted to feel all of her, inside and out.

  “Nicholas—” Leonore sobbed, and he could hear the dawn of heaven in her voice. She wants me, he thought, she cares for me. The knowledge was the thrust of a knife into him; he groaned as if on the edge of death, closing his eyes as he pushed inside of her. Her cry of mingled pain and ecstasy, the pulse within her, made him breathe in sharply.

  The scent of blood—the maiden’s blood. It seized him and shook him and rattled him until his soul was no longer his. She cried out in pure pleasure again, and it was music and torture for him. He thrust into her until his mind and body burst into a flash of light and darkness, then sighed and sank his teeth into the fine skin of her neck.

  No. No. No. The pain was fierce as he drank of her, the pain of a man dying of thirst in a desert and given his first mouthful of water. A flood of power came into him, and his senses surged into a keen, tingling receptivity.

  No. The word echoed in his mind more strongly, forced a semblance of rationality into him. His mouth was against Leonore’s neck, the metallic taste of blood upon his tongue. She was tense beneath him, he could feel it. No. A leaden feeling pressed into his chest, pushing an abrupt groan from him. Quickly he cast a glamour upon her. “Forget,” he whispered in her ear. “Forget the pain, and the … bite.”

  She put her arms around him then, and Nicholas drew her to him so that they lay on their sides. He closed his eyes and stroked her hair, then moved his fingers to the small wound upon her neck. He remembered a spell for speedy healing he had learned decades ago. Only a bruise would show in the morning.

  He felt her fingers upon his cheek, and he opened his eyes. Leonore was gazing at him, a sleepy smile on her face.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You are welcome. At any time, in fact.” Nicholas made himself grin in return and kissed her forehead, then rested his chin on her hair. His smile faded. The heaviness was still within him, an unfamiliar emotion. He did not know what made him want to name it instead of pushing it away. Perhaps it was the oddly comforting sensation of Leonore pressed against him and the even sound of her sleeping breath that lulled him into it.

  He had never been an introspective man. His mind had always delved into things outside himself, esoteric though these things might be. It had led him into rituals and practices both light and dark, but never had he been touched by them. He had even been amused by the fervor of others and was usually the onlooker, sometimes a detached participant. The most satanic of meetings and the most sublime of angel invocations had not moved him, for they were of only intellectual interest to him, and made him want to seek further and strip away yet another veil between himself and the essence of all magics.

  But now the heaviness within him felt close to regret—he who regretted little or nothing in his life. More than regret, in fact, for as Leonore moved to curl herself into him in her sleep, the heaviness became an ache only somewhat assuaged when he held her close to him. He breathed in the scent of lavender that emanated from her, and the faint scent of roses came to him as well. He glanced up and saw a vase of roses near the bed. He had not noticed them when he had entered Leonore’s room, for all his attention had been on her alone.

  He remembered he had asked his servants to put flowers in her room, for she seemed to like them that time they had danced in Lord and Lady Bennington’s garden. He had done it on impulse; all his actions regarding Leonore these days seemed to be sudden and without thought, he reflected wryly. He examined the impulse the way he examined ancient texts for hidden meanings—turning it over and over in his mind, seeking patterns. The patterns were there: He desired Leonore, whether she was near or not; he enjoyed her presence; she seemed … real to him, more so than other people seemed. What man would not feel so? She was a lovely woman, after all. And yet, he felt dissatisfaction with his conclusion.

  What else was there? He acknowledged that he felt regret. He wished he had not taken the blood from Leonore, but he had no choice about it if he were to keep the madness away. Then, too, the thirst had caught him suddenly; it was at present his nature to take blood after all. It was no use regretting it. Would it have been different had it been another woman? He let out a quick breath. He wished it had not been Leonore—anyone else, but not Leonore. He had not thought she’d come to care for him, wished she hadn’t, but would not have her change now that she did.

  Fully asleep now, Leonore moved a little apart and onto her back, and Nicholas gazed at her profile. She had a sweet countenance, kind and a little sad when she slept. It was different from the careful neutrality of expression she usually wore. A small quiver went through her. She woke and turned toward him again, her smile sleepy and warm.

  Nicholas could not help himself. He moved over her again, kissing her softly, and then with more heat. The heaviness within him made his chest feel tight; he felt as if he were breaking. It was no use searching his thoughts for the reasons behind the things he wished to do for Leonore, for the answer was not in his mind.

  He feared it was in his heart.

  Chapter Nine

  Warmth stroked Leonore’s face, and she fancied it was Nicholas’s fingers upon her until she opened her eyes and admitted to herself it was only the morning sun. She ran her hand across the sheets next to her, then rolled into the slight depression there, as if she could take that last evidence of his presence into herself somehow.

  It was all foolishness, of course. He would not be in the bed beside her, for he could not have the sun upon him. Still, she burrowed into the sheets that had been under him and breathed the faint scent of bay rum from the pillow. The warm summer sun was persistent, however, and conspired with her growling stomach to move her from the bed.

  “Oh, very well, then!” she said in a cross voice. She pulled on her robe, pushed aside the bed curtains, and went to the washstand. To her surprise, the water in the pitcher was lukewarm, probably from standing in the sun. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Good heavens! It was already past noon. She had never slept so late in her life. An image came to her of Nicholas smiling down at her in bed. Well, she supposed she had a good reason for her late awakening. He had been intimate with her three times last night. Her face grew hot. She’d been wanton, totally uncontrolled. His touch had done that to her.

  No, she had to take the blame as well. She had not cared to exert any control upon her behavior, had touched and kissed and opened herself to him. Leonore pressed a wet cloth against her face, hoping to cool her blu
shes. It did, a little, but did nothing to cool the heat that stirred in the pit of her stomach at the thought of Nicholas. She bit her lip at the sensation, trying to quash it, but the memory of his touch and his kisses were too sharp and clear for her to banish.

  For goodness sake, she could not forever be thinking of him; other things needed to be done. She must dress, put away all thoughts of him, and try to occupy herself until she saw him again. Leonore pulled the bell rope to summon a maid. First, she would speak with the servants and learn their names and their function. Then she would look about the house and see if she might do something to while away her time. Perhaps she might be useful, and when next she saw Nicholas, he would be pleased with her, pleased enough to take her in his arms and—

  She groaned, despising herself for thinking such slavish thoughts. Never would she be like her mother, cringing or cautiously happy at whatever glance Father cared to throw her way. Leonore had never shrunk from her father, no matter that he raised his hand to her. She had taken pride in that.

  But she could not stop thinking of Nicholas and wished he were here now so that she might curl herself into him and hold him close. It was what she craved most of all: the way he held her, stroked her hair, and soothed her after the almost unbearable shock of heat and light that came upon her at the end of their joining. The loneliness she’d always had within her would disappear then, and the sensation was like the warmth of the sun after a long, hard winter.

  Her mother had not told her of this, that she would feel such things for Nicholas. She thought over the rage and the fear that was ever-present between her parents, and thought perhaps her mother could not tell what she did not know. Her observations of her parents’ marriage did her, Leonore, little good, however. They gave her no clue to what she must do about it, if what she felt for Nicholas—both in her body and her heart—were what she should feel, and if it were proper.

  A knock at the door startled her.

  “It’s me, Betty, my lady.”