Regardless, she had to be handled carefully. She was dangerous, both to him and to Leonore—to anyone who came in her path, for that matter. Even now, as she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, he saw the subtle madness in her eyes, an almost animal cunning.
He grasped her arms and moved her away from him. “I thought you said you would try persuading me tomorrow.”
Mercia looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh, I suppose I could try persuading you now.”
Nicholas gauged his words. “You have no sense of finesse, my dear. Everything must be ‘now,’ and ‘soon,’ and ‘tonight’ with you. Where is your sense of anticipation?”
“There is nothing wrong with doing what I want.”
“There is, when more pleasure can be had when one waits.”
Lady Lazlo seemed to consider this. “Very well. But don’t bring your wife. I saw her inside earlier colliding with a Harlequin.” She shook her head. “A clumsy wench. How you came to wed her, I do not know. You are so graceful yourself.”
Biting back angry words, Nicholas shrugged. “It was convenient. I grew tired of hunting. I am a lazy fellow, after all.”
She looked at him slyly. “Or, you could bring her and perhaps we might have some sport with her.”
Hot rage and loathing shot through him, and it took all his control to keep from killing her where she stood. He made himself smile and shrug again, feeling ill from the effort. “Perhaps,” he said. Even to himself his voice sounded strained. “But I am afraid it would shock the poor creature quite horribly, and she’d be useless for a long time afterward. She is a very good housekeeper. Finding a replacement would be tedious.”
“Very well, then. We do not need her.” She shot him an indecipherable look. “But you must rid yourself of her at some time, you know. Otherwise I will suspect you are not wholly committed to me.”
St. Vire sighed in a bored fashion. “How you harp on that! So you said during our dance at Lady Russell’s ball. I will rid myself of Leonore when I am tired of her. I am not tired of her yet. Besides, I am not as indiscreet as you—Ido not care to have Bow Street snapping at my heels. Do try to be a little more civilized, Mercia.”
“How stupidly particular you are, Nicholas!” she said pettishly. “All these little concerns of yours.” She took his face in her hands and pulled him down to a hard kiss. “There! That’s to remember me by … and remember that if you do not get rid of her in a reasonable amount of time, I’ll do it for you.”
Fear for Leonore nearly caused him to shudder, but he made himself grin boyishly instead. “But I like my little pet! Can I not keep her a bit longer?”
Mercia burst out laughing. “Oh, very well! But mind what I have said!” She turned and took a few steps away from him, then paused to throw him a kiss before she left the terrace. For one minute he stared at the doorway through which she had gone.
The sharp sound of broken pottery cracked the air. His knuckles hurt, and he looked down at the dirt and shattered clay before him. He’d hit a large plant pot that had been sitting in a niche in the wall, but at least his emotions had calmed a little. For just one moment, it was Mercia who had been in front of him. For just one moment, he had rid the world of her.
St. Vire sighed. He had better look for Leonore. He’d seen her on the balcony. She must have heard most of the conversation between Mercia and himself. It was necessary, he told himself. Better Leonore hate him now. Mercia would then be more easily convinced that the marriage was merely one of convenience.
He entered the assembly room again, but did not find Leonore. Fear shot through him. Had Mercia—no, she couldn’t have, not after their conversation. He wished he had never brought Leonore here, but he knew she’d question his absence, and he had not wanted to lie to her in this, at least. He had not realized the sort of people who would be here until after he had stepped into the house. He knew Harlowe was a bit of a rake, but he did not know Lady Harlowe and had assumed it would be a different sort of masquerade because of her presence. He had almost taken Leonore home, but then thought about what he must do. It was better she begin to hate him from tonight; postponing it was futile, for it would make no difference in the end.
Discreetly he questioned a few of the guests he knew and found to his profound relief that Leonore had left with Lord Eldon. He knew he had nothing to fear from his friend, as Eldon was a remarkably kind-hearted young man. He made a mental note to warn him away from Mercia. His friend did not deserve a liaison with her.
His carriage took him swiftly home. When he entered the house, his feet took him up the stairs two at a time. He realized what he was doing and stopped. Of course Leonore must be here; he could trust Eldon to bring her home safely. And yet … and yet …
Nicholas’s hand shook as he opened Leonore’s chamber door. The silence in the room was almost unbearable to him … surely she was sleeping. He went to her bed. The moon streamed through the window, outlining Leonore’s sleeping form. She lay on her side, curled into a tight ball, her knees up to her stomach, her hands crossed over her chest.
A now familiar leaden sensation pressed into him, and the breath that came from him was almost a groan. He had seen people curled in this position before—in Paris when the victims of the Reign of Terror tried to escape the beatings of the mob, in the slums of London when poor drabs tried to protect themselves from a winter’s night. He had made Leonore miserable, had hurt her—he who loved her.
St. Vire turned from her, gazing out the window to the moon-silvered street below. It was necessary, he told himself, not for him, but for Leonore. But who had gotten her into this situation in the first place? He had no one to blame but himself.
God, how I despise myself! He almost laughed aloud, bitterly. Leonore had not turned him into a saint, but she had shown him all his sins, shattering his image of himself. He’d been an arrogant fool to think he could simply pluck her from her family and use her for his spell—as if she were some herb in a dish served up for his liking.
“Nicholas …”
Turning swiftly, he saw she was still asleep. Even in her dreams she thought of him—no doubt now with misery and grief. He wished he could comfort her. He put out his hand and stroked the hair from her face. She breathed a soft sigh and turned her head so that her cheek fit into the palm of his hand. An ache grew in his chest. Even with the way he had treated her, some part of her seemed to seek his touch.
He removed his coat and neckcloth, draping them over a chair. Just this once he would hold her in his arms and not make love to her. She would not know, for she slept heavily, and he could always move softly on the bed and never rouse her.
The mattress was soft beneath him, and Leonore’s form softer still against him. He gathered her to him, her back to his chest, his cheek upon her hair. She sighed, and her body seemed to relax, uncurling slightly from her earlier position.
“I love you, Leonore,” he whispered softly, knowing she could not hear him. “You don’t know it, but I do.” His breath caught in his throat. He wished he could have said it in a clever, witty way … but it did not matter, for she was asleep. “Your lovely face and form, your laugh and even the way you tell me I am vain. But God, I must hurt you, and I wish I need not.”
He drew her closer, kissing the nape of her neck. She sighed again and nestled into him, and he wished he could weep. But he could not, for vampires had no tears.
“I love you, Leonore …”
She turned and reached for Nicholas, but he was not there in the bed beside her, and she knew it had been only a dream. Leonore opened her eyes. The sunlight that streamed into her room told her it was day; of course he could not be here.
The events of the night before rushed into her then, and she closed her eyes, gasping as if in pain. He would be with Lady Lazlo, most certainly. He had kissed her. Leonore had seen it.
With a low groan she rolled over in her bed and into a depression in the mattress. The faint scent of bay rum aros
e from the pillow beside her. It was the scent Nicholas always wore, and she was familiar with it.
Why had he come to her last night? He was enamored of Lady Lazlo, she was sure. And yet, he had certainly been in her room. He had not made love to her, but simply lain beside her.
She reached into her memories of last night, hoping to catch perhaps one moment she might have wakened during the night. All she remembered were turbulent dreams that faded into a vague, odd sense of comfort.
And Nicholas’s soft whisper, “I love you, Leonore …”
Leonore shook her head fiercely. No. No, he did not love her. She would not believe it, for she had shored up her heart again, and to let the thought in would surely tear her apart.
Pulling on her dressing gown, she rose and rang for her maid. Hers was a marriage of convenience. She had forgotten it and allowed herself to fall in love with Nicholas. It was too late to stop the emotion, but at least she would not let it show.
Betty entered the room and helped Leonore dress. She pushed down the shadows of rage and grief that had obscured her thoughts the night before. A proper wife turned her eyes away from her husband’s indiscretions; her own mother had told her that. She would heed the advice, and her marriage would be as any other.
And yet, the soft dreamlike whisper she had remembered entered and nestled in one corner of her heart and stubbornly refused to leave.
Chapter Fourteen
Leonore sat at the window seat, looking down at the London traffic below, her hand folding and unfolding the portion of her skirt she held between her fingers. She was hungry, but she had no appetite; she was thirsty, but she did not care to drink. She did not care about much these days, for a dullness had descended upon her mind, and her heart had frozen into ice.
The March sun shone brightly, doing its best to tempt her into going out. She closed her eyes against the light. She wished Nicholas was with her now, then pushed the wish away. It was daylight, and of course he would not appear. And when the night arrived, he would not be at her side, but would leave her to be with Lady Lazlo. Leonore had tried to bear it for months now.
It would have been bearable if she did not receive speculatives looks and sly questions from those who resented St. Vire’s earlier infatuation with her.
The ice around her heart threatened to break, but she would not let it. She would weep if it disappeared. She sighed and rose from her seat at the window. There were things to do about the house, and then she would call upon her sister, Susan.
Leonore busied herself with various tasks, but knew she got in the servants’ way. Well, she would go to see Susan and her mother. Her heart lifted, for she was sure of her sister’s affectionate reception, and at least a smile from her mother.
She had not even reached the steps to her parents’ house when the door burst open and Susan ran to her with her hands outstretched and a beaming smile upon her face.
“Oh, Leo! You must come and look! We have got a new pianoforte!”
Leonore laughed and gave her sister a brief, warm hug. “Only for a pianoforte would you be so excited as to rush out into the cold air without your pelisse.” Her sister was beautiful, her guinea gold curls thick and healthy instead of lank and dull as they had been before Leonore had married. The girl’s cheeks bloomed with health, no doubt because she had more food and less worry than in the past. “Is Mama in?”
“Oh, how you fuss, Leo! It is only a few steps into the house. And Mama is out shopping for a ribbon. Can you imagine? Her headaches have not been as bad as they used to be.”
Susan’s blue eyes danced, and she shook her head, making her curls float about her head like a halo. A passing gentleman stopped and stared at her sister before he collected himself and walked by reluctantly. She smiled with pride. Her sister had been attracting several eligible gentlemen’s attention lately. Susan had bloomed under the approval she had received from those to whom Leonore had introduced her. Her painful shyness had faded; it became a sweet, innocent manner that, combined with her beauty, gained her popularity even from the sternest of dowagers.
“Do come look, Leo! It’s beautiful.” Susan seized Leonore’s hand and pulled her into the house. Leonore laughed. It warmed her to see Susan so happy. For this, at least, Leonore was glad she had married Nicholas. The thought of him damped her spirits a little, but she dismissed it. No, she had married well. She now only needed to see Susan wed.
The pianoforte was indeed beautiful. It was imported; the workmanship marked it as from one of the finest instrument makers in Germany. Leonore ran her hand over the smooth, lacquered surface, admiring the way some artist had painted intricate gold designs on the edges and singing cherubs and angels on the inside surface of the lid. She looked at Susan’s expectant face.
“Well?” Susan said, her voice eager. “What do you think?”
“Beautiful! Have you tried it yet?”
“Yes, of course! I had it tuned immediately when it arrived.” Susan sat down upon the bench and laid her hands on the keyboard. A lilting melody—a waltz—sang sweet and pure from the instrument. “When we go to the ball tonight, I must thank Nicholas for buying it for me.”
“Nicholas?”
Susan glanced at Leonore, her eyes laughing. “Of course, silly Leo! Who else would have been so generous? Father detests music and would never think of it, and Mama would not know how to go about ordering one.”
“Of course,” Leonore replied, giving a short laugh. “I suppose I am still not used to Nicholas’s generosity.” Two months ago she had mentioned in passing that she thought it a pity Susan had to play upon such a poor instrument. St. Vire had nodded absently, and they had talked of other things. And now here was the pianoforte in her parents’ home.
Susan had stopped her playing and was looking at her sister anxiously. “Is there something wrong, Leo?”
Leonore shook her head. “No, not at all. I have been gadding about too much, is all, and I am a little tired. I would, however, like to rest and listen to you play a while.” The girl smiled and began a sonata.
Leonore listened, but her mind turned to Nicholas again. She did not understand him. Each time they went to a ball or other social function, he would spend a large amount of time with Lady Lazlo if she was there. His attentions were just within the bounds of propriety. And though he was discreet, she noticed they’d disappear together for a short while each time.
Yet, he spent almost equal time with her, Leonore, and would also find time to be private with her. He never initiated conversation about Lady Lazlo. When Leonore would say her name, his lips would harden, and an angry, fearful light would flash in his eyes. Then he would turn the conversation to other things.
And still he would come to her bed at night when she retired, sometimes making love to her. Even when he kept to his room or had gone out with his friends, she could tell the next morning that he had lain at her side for a while. At first she did not want him in her bed at all. Yet, two weeks of his absence had set a yearning fire in her belly, and when he kissed her one evening she had abandoned herself to it and had given him back every kiss and caress. She despised herself for her weakness.
And now this, the gift of the pianoforte to Susan. He still showered gifts upon her and her family, though she told him it was not necessary. She needed only to wish it, and it would appear for her, however whimsical her wish. Once she had told him of a sweet lamb she had seen at a market, and the next day a toy lamb had appeared on her bed. She could almost think he cared for her, for when they were at home, he looked at her as if he desired her. Yet, the whispering about him and Lady Lazlo grew—and with it her own jealousy. She hated herself for it. It made her feel powerless, without control over herself.
The music had stopped, and she looked at Susan to find that her sister was gazing at her with concern.
“What is it, Susie?”
“There is something wrong, I know it. Tell me what it is.”
Leonore made herself smile. “Nonsense, Susan!
Do continue playing.”
Susan frowned and rose from the pianoforte. She sat down next to Leonore and took her hand.
“Leo, there is something wrong. You never call me ‘Susan’ unless there is. Tell me.” She hesitated. “I know you are my older sister, and I have confided everything in you since I was a baby. But I am your sister also, and it is not fair that you should carry all the burdens and tell no one.”
“Oh, heavens, Susan, there is nothing—”
“Stop, Leonore! I have grown up—can you not see that?” Susan squeezed her hand. “I have always wanted to be like you, strong, brave, and loving. How can I do that if you don’t let me? I cannot be protected forever. I do not say much, but I always listen and watch. And since my come-out, I have had many chances to learn.” She nodded her head wisely, and Leonore almost wept to see the old look on her young face.
Years of watching for signs of her father’s rages had put it there, she was sure.
“You have always been so good to me, Leo,” Susan continued. “Perhaps I cannot help you directly, but at least let me know why you are so often sad these days.” She gave Leonore a hug. “Please tell me.”
A lump in Leonore’s throat almost choked her, and she swallowed. She managed to put a smile on her face. “It is nothing … I … I, oh Susie, I’m in love with Nicholas, and he is in love with Lady Lazlo!” she blurted. Horrified at her outburst, she covered her mouth with her hand, rose, and walked to the windows. She stared blindly out at the street, trying to control herself and not blather on. She failed. “Oh heavens! Never mind, Susan, it is nothing after all. We have a marriage of convenience. I am content, truly, and I am sure Nicholas is quite satisfied with the way things are. I … I am being stupid, for there is nothing anyone can do about it, surely—” She felt Susan’s arm come around her in a hug.
“Yes, Leo, I think you are being stupid,” Susan said gently.
“Susan!”
“Oh, Leonore, you need not look so … so older sisterish!” she said with a touch of impatience. “I am not ten years old any longer, but eighteen! I have eyes in my head, after all. I can see for myself that Nicholas is in love with you.”
The Vampire Viscount Page 17