Then Mercia looked away from her escort and saw him, and it was too late. She turned again to the young man at her side and laughed. St. Vire was conscious of her attention now, even though she did not look at him. He gave another glance at Leonore. The next dance was to be a waltz, and he preferred to dance it only with her, for she danced gracefully, and he liked the opportunity the dance gave him to touch her.
But to dance with Leonore would be a risk—perhaps even a risk to her life. He did not know why Mercia was in London, and he could not presume his presence would not attract her in some manner. She was unpredictable; she had told him she hated this town, but it had not prevented her from coming here. Until he knew Mercia’s purpose, he should stay away from Leonore until they could escape the house. He saw Lord Eldon speak to Leonore. Perhaps he could depend on his friend’s good nature to escort Leonore home while he, Nicholas, left the ball alone. Yet, he’d be a fool to think Mercia would never know that he had wed. He had no choice. Ignoring the hurt look in Leonore’s eyes, he made his way toward Mercia.
The desire he had felt for her was decades gone, but he smiled charmingly at her. He let his eyes linger upon her half-exposed breasts, obscenely white and firm like those of a nubile maiden, before he lifted his gaze to her face.
“Why, I do believe it is Nicholas St. Vire!” Mercia exclaimed in her lilting voice and put her hand on her chest in apparent surprise. The gentlemen around her eyed him with envy.
“How fortunate I am that you remember me, Miss Mercia …”
“Lazlo. I am Lady Lazlo now, can you believe it? But alas, my poor Constantin was not long for this world, and I am all alone in it now.” Her lip trembled dolefully. A murmur of sympathy arose from those within hearing, and the young man at her side patted her hand.
Nicholas looked at her fine, diaphanous gown, at the jewels at her neck and wrists. A rising nausea made him press his lips together. Perhaps she had married; it mattered little. She was conducting herself as she always had. He did not doubt that she had lured some rich man to her bed, put a glamour upon him so that he lavished upon her all his worldly goods, and then killed him. It was her way, and always had been.
He bowed, lifting her hand to his lips. “My poor Mercia. I hope he did not leave you in dire straits.”
She sighed and lifted a finger to her eye, as if to remove a tear. “Ah, my dear Constantin was always so generous! But I must have company, you know I must! I cannot bear to be lonely.”
St. Vire’s gaze passed innocuously over the group of gentlemen around her, then returned to her. “I cannot suppose you will be for long … as lovely as you are, my lady.”
A slow, satisfied smile formed on her lips, and she hid it with her fan. “Charming as always, eh, Nicholas?”
“For you, always, Mercia.” He still held her hand, and he put it on his arm, leading her away from the crowd she had gathered around her. “I see the musicians are starting up for the next dance. Dare I ask that you be my partner?”
A belated protest rose from the men behind him, and he grinned at them over his shoulder. Lady Lazlo tapped his arm with her fan.
“I should refuse …” she murmured, then cast a seductive look at him. “But I will not, this once.”
They stepped up to the line of dancers. Nicholas did not see Leonore amongst the guests sitting by the ballroom walls; he assumed she had also decided to dance. He hoped she would not approach them, that she would stay away after the dance, but it was a small hope, he knew.
Mercia was light in his arms, feather-light, as if she had little substance to her. He gazed into her eyes, wondering if the madness he had seen so long ago was still there. He did not see it now, but it meant nothing.
“I thought you did not like London, Mercia,” he said, smiling at her.
“Oh, one changes, over the years,” she said carelessly. “Perhaps I thought to renew some friendships … or make new ones. I grew bored with continental society.”
They grew suspicious, is what you mean. Still preying on the aristocracy, and indiscreet as ever. He grinned and pulled her a fraction of an inch closer. “I am sure you will not be bored here,” he said. He glanced at her escort, who was leaning against the wall, staring at them jealously. “Who is the young fire-eater who came with you?”
“Oh, that is Sir Adrian Hambly. Such a lovely boy, don’t you think? And so … passionate.” Mercia’s eyelids drifted half-closed, as if remembering how passionate the young man was. “I do love passionate men.” She gazed with wide eyes at Nicholas.
He almost grimaced, remembering how passionate he, himself, had been when she had first caught him in her web so long ago. The winter solstice was approaching, and he wondered whether she intended to turn Sir Adrian into a vampire at that time.
“But you know, my dear Nicholas, I came to London to see how you were faring.” She smiled gaily up at him. “Yes, it’s true! You didn’t think I would visit after our unfortunate disagreement so long ago, but I am not one to hold grudges, you see.”
“You don’t know how delighted I am,” he replied, even as his heart sank, leaden, to his shoes. It only needed this, he groaned inwardly. He’d have little chance of shaking her off now. The dance parted them for a moment, enough time for him to form a pleased smile upon his lips. “I am flattered, Mercia, but I cannot see the attraction, truly.”
“So modest!” she murmured and cast down her eyes. “But you see, I still need a consort.”
“There is young Sir Adrian, very willing, I am sure, to be at your side forever. As you said, he is so very passionate and, even better, is no doubt quite malleable.”
She raised her head, and a flame of anger sparked in her eyes. “But there is no guarantee he would last as long as you, dear Nicholas. He might be like poor, dead Henri. I think you owe me a little consideration, truly I do.”
Henri, who had gone mad, and whom he had killed. St. Vire placed a smug and gratified smile on his face. “You flatter my stamina, my dear.”
The anger grew hot in her eyes, and he was sure she would have slapped him if he had not held her hand tightly.
“Ah, ah!” he chided. “What a scandal we should cause if you should strike me now. It would never do, for it would put off your admirers, and you would not want that.”
The tension left her, and she gave him a resentful glance. “I can find more, I am sure.”
“But in such refined company? I think not.” The music ended with a flourish, and St. Vire released her hand and bowed. “A most … revealing … dance, Lady Lazlo. I thank you.” He breathed a sigh of relief. Now, now I will leave, and see what I can do about traveling to Avebury.
It was a foolish hope. Before St. Vire could turn away, he felt a hand upon his sleeve—Leonore’s hand. She smiled up at him uncertainly. He could not escape; St. Vire had no choice but to introduce them, especially with Lord Eldon at her side.
“My dear Leonore, and Lord Eldon, may I introduce you to Lady Lazlo? I met her long ago, when the Russian tsar came to visit England. Lady Lazlo, this is Lady St. Vire, my wife, and my friend, Lord Eldon.” He made his voice cordial, and he continued to smile. He knew he must measure his words and tread a fine line between de-emphasizing Leonore’s importance to him and letting Mercia know he would protect his wife.
The lady’s eyes scanned Leonore’s face and form, and she smiled lazily. “So Nicholas decided to wed! What a pretty little bride you have chosen, my dear. And quite young, too. I never would have thought it.”
“There was something very appealing about the idea of marital bliss, Mercia. A very convenient arrangement, as I am sure you know. I thought I should try it,” replied Nicholas. He stepped close to Leonore and put his hand upon her shoulder. Leonore gave him a puzzled smile.
Lady Lazlo’s gaze sharpened at the movement, then she turned and smiled at Lord Eldon. “And you, Lord Eldon? Have you thought of emulating your friend?”
Lord Eldon grinned. “Not I. I’ve not been so lucky as Nicholas here.”
He looked at her as if he hoped his luck would turn, and Lady Lazlo’s smile widened. Taking her hand, he bowed over it. “Dare I hope that I am the next gentleman to ask for a dance?”
“You need not hope at all,” Lady Lazlo said. “I would be very pleased to dance with you.” She glanced at Nicholas and nodded. “Another time, my dear.”
Nicholas’s hand tightened on Leonore’s shoulder, then he bowed. “Perhaps,” he replied. He watched Lady Lazlo leave, her hand on his friend’s arm, then let out a sigh and turned to Leonore.
“I hope you do not mind, but I believe we should leave. I think you said that you wished to return at eleven o’clock?”
“Yes, but if you wish to stay—”
“No,” he said and smiled at her. “No, you must not sacrifice your own wishes for me, Leonore. You must allow me some respite from my selfishness. Otherwise I shall become a dead bore, and that would be a terrible blow to my self-consequence.”
She smiled slightly. “Very well, then. I do wish to go home.”
“Thank you. You have saved my vanity from a severe downfall.”
Leonore chuckled—a reluctant one, it seemed to him. Nicholas was conscious of discontent, even disappointment. He had wanted her to laugh and realized he liked to make her do so. He took her hand; her body felt tense beside him, her hand tight upon his arm. Though she smiled and thanked Lady Russell very graciously, her eyes held no smile at all.
Leonore spoke little during the ride back to their home, replying cordially to any of his questions, but contributing almost nothing of her own. At last he gave it up, and they continued in silence until they stepped inside the house. She quickly moved past him in the direction of her sitting room. He hesitated, then followed. She pushed open the door, and he put his hand upon her arm, stopping her.
“Wait, Leonore.” He lifted her chin with his fingers. “You are unhappy, are you not? Tell me what is wrong.”
Her eyes were miserable. “I … I can’t. I am … I shouldn’t … Oh, Nicholas, I am despicable!” She turned from him, stumbling into the room in her haste. He went after her, shutting the door behind him.
“What is this? You, despicable?” Her back was to him, her head bent. He turned her around and took her in his arms. “What have you done? Nothing criminal, I hope. I refuse to harbor criminals in my house, especially ones who weep upon my cravat.”
“I am not weeping.”
“No, of course you are not. You never weep. I am sure it is a leak in the roof, which I have neglected to repair.” He led her to a sofa and sat down upon it. “Oddly enough, it seems to have followed us, even though we have moved.”
She laughed aloud then, and raised her tear-filled eyes to his. “Very well then, I did cry, since you insist.”
He kissed her gently. “Tell me why.”
“Oh, Nicholas!” She heaved a large sigh and covered her face with her hands. “I … I was jealous.” He opened his mouth to speak, but Leonore spoke hurriedly. “I know I should not be, for you looked at her—Lady Lazlo—and you danced with her, just as you would anyone else, but she looked at you in such a way, I thought she must have been—I should not have thought it, and after all, ours is a marriage of convenience, and I should expect at some time we would do as we pleased, whether apart or together, for people do …”
Patiently, he let her talk on until her voice faded, until the ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room. He had not thought that she would be jealous of the attention he might pay to any woman. He felt absurdly pleased at the idea.
“Well, you need not look so happy about it!” she exclaimed indignantly.
Nicholas kissed her soundly. “Silly Leonore. Yes, Lady Lazlo used to be my mistress, but that was many, many years ago. I do not like her and did not even like her then.”
“Do … do you like me?” Her voice became breathless as he kissed her just below the ear.
“Of course, sweet one,” he said and returned his lips to hers. He parted from her and sighed. “It is late for you, Leonore, and you need to rest after all your work today.”
“I don’t—”
“No, go. I will come upstairs later. I need to attend to some business I had forgotten in the library.”
She looked uncertainly at him, but nodded as they left her sitting room.
After they parted at her chamber door, St. Vire permitted himself to sigh deeply. While he had sat silent in the coach on the way home, he had thought of what he would do, now that Mercia had appeared. It was the middle of the Little Season in London, and he supposed he could remove Leonore and himself to Avebury. But now he was not sure it would be the wisest thing to do. He had implied to Mercia at the ball that he had married Leonore for the sake of convenience. Mercia, of course, would believe he had the same motives as hers—for riches, or at least an easy supply of blood. He sighed and pushed open the library door, and after lighting a fire in the fireplace, he sank into a chair.
To take Leonore away from London would show that she was not just a convenience to him, but rather a necessity. That would be dangerous, both to Leonore and to himself. Mercia wished him to be her consort once again, and she was a difficult woman to convince otherwise once her mind was set on anything. He supposed she still wanted him because he had not turned insane yet. It was useless to speculate on her reasons, for he knew she was insane herself, though her madness was subtle and cunning.
If Mercia knew why he had wed Leonore, how important his wife was to him, she would kill her. That was one of the few predictable things about Mercia. If someone was in her way, she thought nothing of killing and was extremely clever about it. She could even put a glamour upon people and convince them to do the work for her.
If, however, he could convince Mercia that Leonore meant little to him other than something from which he could slake his bloodthirst, that he was at least thinking of becoming Mercia’s consort, the chances were good that she would leave Leonore alone. It would give him time to think of how he could rid himself of Mercia forever and make sure she would never be a threat to anyone again.
He thought, then, of how he would go about convincing Mercia of his supposed willingness to become her mate. An ache grew in his chest, and he grimaced. He was becoming very good at identifying these feelings now. It was anger and despondency this time, for he knew he’d have to hurt Leonore, and he did not want to.
She might leave him. Nicholas rose abruptly and cursed under his breath. What would he do, then? Leonore had to stay with him for a year or else he would slide into madness. And yet, if Mercia received even a hint of Leonore’s importance to him, Leonore would surely die. He could not even put a glamour upon her to stay—he was riding over rough ground as it was when he used it to make her forget that he took her blood.
If he told her the truth, however … No, God no. She would leave him then, most certainly. He suppressed a groan. He’d worked for years trying to reverse his condition … and now it could be at the cost of Leonore’s life.
Damn Mercia! If she had not come to London, it would have gone smoothly, he was certain. But this excuse did not satisfy him. He pushed away the feelings that rose in him—his anger at Mercia, his fear for himself and Leonore—and forced himself to look at his situation logically.
This time his sigh was very close to the groan he had suppressed earlier. All his actions could turn Leonore away from him, whether from death at Mercia’s hand or from her own repugnance at his vampiric nature—if he told her the truth about himself—or because of his supposed infidelity. Regardless of what he did, she would become cold to him, he was sure.
He thought of the way Leonore had looked at him tonight, the way her eyes had told him she cared for him … perhaps even loved him, though she never said so. For a moment, he closed his eyes and swallowed. He did not want her to stop caring for him, for he had grown … used to it.
Abruptly, he strode from the library. He’d accomplish nothing here; he had only come here to think, and he hadn’t even done th
at well. He wanted … he wanted to be with Leonore. Quickly he went down the stairs.
The sound of slow breathing told him she was asleep. Nicholas watched her, the rise and fall of her breasts, her sweet face. The ache he’d felt earlier in his chest expanded, and he let out a long, shaking breath.
None of his gifts would hold her to him, for she did not value the trinkets and dresses he had given her, though she always thanked him gratefully. He had thought the drunkenness and brutishness of Leonore’s father would keep her from returning home … but he was not sure of that either, for her sister, Susan’s, presence gave her some solace.
And because he had to pretend to be enamored of Mercia, he could not even tell Leonore that he loved her.
He closed his eyes against the leaden sensation in his chest. God help him. He had not wanted to love her. It was an awkward emotion, a stumbling block to his plans, a thing that made men into fools. But she had crept into him like a thief in the night, and his heart was lost to her now. He did not even know when she had done it, when his desire for her blood and body had transmuted into desire for her regard, her respect, and her love.
God. Oh God. What was he to do now? If Leonore died, he felt he would die, too. He would go mad immediately, knowing it was because of him that she died, and he’d much prefer to expose himself to the sizzling agony the morning sun would bring than fall into insanity. And if she left him, he would go mad anyway, only perhaps slowly. But then she would be alive, and perhaps … perhaps he could find a way to rid himself of Mercia. He would still be a vampire, but Leonore would stay alive.
Nicholas gazed at his wife and touched her cheek gently. Her skin was soft and warm from sleep. He could feel it with more sensitivity than he’d ever had since the beginning of his life as a vampire. He had progressed this far, and now he’d have to give it all up.
He bent and kissed her, running his hand around the fullness of her breast. Slowly Leonore woke and sleepily smiled at him, then reached out her arms for him. Once more he would make love to her, give her everything he could give her of himself now—now that he’d have to give her up, as well.
The Vampire Viscount Page 15