One Bite Per Night

by Brooklyn Ann

  Vincent studied her face a moment. “I know that look. You are curious about something, and reluctant to ask me. Speak up, Lydia. You should know by now you have freedom with me.”

  She bit her lip, then said, “I realize you have been greatly inconvenienced by my presence here.”

  His eyes widened. Was she aware of his desire for her? “Whatever do you mean?”

  She sighed. “I mean…everything. I’ve observed you enjoy your privacy, yet since I’ve arrived, your home has been inundated with people. Now you must prepare for the London Season alongside me, though I know you wouldn’t go if I hadn’t been placed in your care.”

  The sweetness of her words warmed his soul. He forced a teasing tone. “Are you apologizing for being a burden to me?”

  Plucking a wild rose blossom from a nearby bush, she avoided his gaze. “Yes, and I also want to know why you did this thing. What made you agree to become my guardian, to open your home to me when my own family would not have me? Why did you sacrifice your peace for a stranger?” She yanked the petals from the flower, allowing them to drift to the ground. “Miss Hobson told me there is an alliance between our families, though she didn’t speak further on it.”

  Vincent met her gaze. He hadn’t spoken of his friendship with Joseph or its tragic ending to anyone. But Lydia was his old friend’s kin, and as such, she deserved to hear the tale—at least some of it. “In 1651, I…er, my ancestor was stationed alongside yours, Joseph Price, third Earl of Morley, in the army of Charles II. During the battle of Worcester, Joseph saved my…ancestor’s life. A vow of eternal friendship was made. While the King was in exile, the two earls aided each other in avoiding Cromwell’s spies and concealing their royalist leanings.”

  Vincent shook his head. Those had been dangerous times, with imprisonment and possible execution only a hairbreadth away. “The alliance was to be cemented further with the betrothal of the Earl of Deveril to Joseph’s sister. Alas, there was an accident.”

  Vincent closed his eyes, remembering being drunk in celebration of his betrothal and the return of King Charles. He’d foolishly indulged in his favorite hobby of climbing, and tumbled from the cliffs near his castle, his body shattered on the rocks below. A dark figure had appeared over him. He’d thought it was the angel of death. The being knelt down and whispered to him in Gaelic: “I have killed many Englishmen. I atone for it by leaving you with eternal life.” Twin daggers pierced his throat. Then all was blackness punctuated by moments of extreme pain and a savage, alien thirst.

  Lydia interrupted his thoughts. “What sort of accident?”

  “I do not know,” Vincent lied. “Only that it left the earl horribly disfigured.”

  He’d awakened as the tide came in. His body was perfectly healed, and with obscene strength, he climbed up the cliff, aware of nothing except a burning thirst. The gamekeeper found him, shouting in alarm at his tattered clothes. Vincent tore the man’s throat open and satisfied the hellish hunger. As the corpse dropped at his feet, he realized he’d become a monster.

  “The betrothal was broken,” Vincent said flatly. Seeing Mary again had been out of the question. “Though Joseph visited his friend’s bedside every month the first year after the accident, and twice a year thereafter.”

  His throat tightened at Joseph’s loyalty as guilt crippled him at the times he’d covered himself in bandages and pretended to be an invalid so Joseph wouldn’t see what he’d become.

  “How very sad,” Lydia whispered achingly. “The alliance lasted all these years?”

  Vincent nodded. “So it has, though I did not know until Lady Morley arrived, brandishing those ancient papers.”

  Her eyes widened in the realization that it had been a forgotten alliance. She managed a shaky smile. “So there is friendship between our families once more.”

  “Well, between you and me, at least.” He chucked her under the chin. “As for your grandmother, I do not believe I can ever abide that harpy.”

  “Thank you for that,” Lydia said quietly. “When I learned she did not want me, I’d thought there was something wrong with me…perhaps I was cursed.”

  He kissed her brow, savoring the taste and feel of her silken skin. “You are blessed, Lydia, and I intend to see you remain so.”

  For the first time since he’d been Changed, Vincent did not regret lacking the courage to end his existence as a new purpose made itself clear. As they walked back to the castle, he made a silent vow to Joseph’s spirit, wherever it was. “I will see her safe and happy, old friend.”

  Eleven

  “This is the worst torture I’ve been subjected to in my life,” Lydia groaned as Emma helped her regain her feet. “What diabolical person devised such a horrid custom?”

  She scowled at her new court dress, displayed in the solar as incentive for learning how to walk in it. The Sidwell sisters had created a masterpiece of gleaming white satin overlaid with petticoats adorned with hundreds of seed pearls, and embroidered with gold rosettes and wreaths. Miss Hobson remained in awe over the sisters’ perfection and their speed in sewing it.

  Not daring to risk ruining the elaborate creation, Emma had fastened a tablecloth to the back of Lydia’s gown. With that, Miss Hobson bade her to practice walking…backwards. One was not allowed to turn her back on the monarch, yet one’s court dress was required to have a long train—which made obedience to such a rule damn near impossible.

  Miss Hobson was completely unsympathetic. “In my day, I had to wear a gown with enormous hoops and stiff panniers, as well as a train that was twice as wide.”

  Lydia frowned at the mitigation of her plight. “Was your headdress this cumbersome?”

  “No, those seem to have grown over the years.”

  In truth, Lydia liked the elaborate confection of pearls and white ostrich plumes. It reminded her of a voodoo priestess’s crown, or perhaps the headdress of an Indian chief. Unfortunately, the damned thing persisted in falling off whenever she bowed.

  “May we be finished for the afternoon?” she pleaded. “I will be mortified if Lord Deveril sees me wearing a tablecloth.”

  Miss Hobson looked as if she was about to argue, then she glanced out the window at the sun sinking behind the west hill. “The hour is late. Emma, bring the court gown upstairs so we may put it on Miss Price before the earl arrives. I assume he would like to see the picture she presents.”

  The gown was like a complex piece of machinery. Even with the aid of Emma and Miss Hobson, the ordeal of dressing Lydia took nearly an hour. Emma had barely arranged Lydia’s hair when Aubert informed them that the earl was downstairs.

  Assuming what she hoped was a stately air, Lydia carefully made her way down the stairs as Emma carried her train, and they both prayed she wouldn’t fall. When she made it to the solar, Vincent’s eyes widened. Her heart lodged in her throat. Did he find her beautiful? Then his features settled into what looked like boredom.

  “No hoops?” he asked with a raised brow.

  Lydia’s heart sank. He was concerned with the dress, not her.

  “The custom has been abandoned since the Regent was crowned,” Miss Hobson told him.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “It will do, then.”

  As Emma and Miss Hobson helped her back upstairs to her chamber, Lydia bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from shrieking. After all the hard work it had taken to dress, all he could say was, “No hoops?” and “It will do”?

  While Emma removed the elaborate gown, Miss Hobson attempted to soothe her. “Men are ignorant of the complexity of ladies’ fashions. You cannot expect them to appreciate such delicate nuances.”

  When they joined him for supper, it seemed Vincent had an inkling of her trial.

  “Have you mastered the art of walking backwards yet?” he asked as the soup was served.

  Lydia opened her mouth to deliver a crushing set down. Then her pr
ide stopped her from showing her hurt. She forced a light tone. “Not quite yet, my lord, and it is cruel of you to tease me about it.”

  He sighed and toyed with the food on his plate. “My apologies if I have wounded you. The gown is exquisite, fitting for a prize such as yourself. It is the sycophantic ritual it symbolizes that vexes me.”

  As Lydia met Vincent’s gaze, it seemed they shared a deep kinship. She now understood why he avoided London. Both were outcasts, not meant for the pomp and ceremony of High Society. Why could he not see that? Why was he determined to place her in such a role? Why wouldn’t he permit her to remain here…with him?

  Lydia could not resist a bit of retaliation for his callous dismissal of her efforts, or of his obliviousness to her feelings. After the meal concluded and they adjourned to the solar, she said, “I understand you are to help me practice proper conduct with my suitors.”

  “Well, I am rather busy…”

  Before he could continue his protest, she warned, “Or in recompense for your earlier mockery, Emma could pin a tablecloth to your back, and you may demonstrate your skill in walking backwards with a train.”

  “You have me there, Miss Price.” Vincent gave her a wink, acknowledging her victory just as he did when she managed a clever move in their chess games. He turned to Miss Hobson. “Who shall I be first? Lord Struttingcock or Viscount Mealymouth?”

  Miss Hobson looked down her nose at him and refused to participate in the humor. “We shall start off simply. You may be an earl who wishes an introduction to Miss Price. I shall pretend to be you, her guardian.”

  Despite the chaperone’s attempt to maintain a formal air of instruction with the playacting, it was all Lydia could do to hold in her laughter as she and Vincent competed with each other on who could fabricate the most ridiculous names for her imaginary suitors. For now it was as if they were playing another game.

  “You must also know how to respond when a suitor behaves in an ungentlemanly manner. Now, Baron…er…Stuffedshirt, say something improper to Miss Price,” Miss Hobson instructed.

  Vincent lifted an imaginary quizzing glass and looked down insolently, as if perusing her bosom. “I say, Miss Price, do your garters match your gown?”

  Lydia felt herself blush at his heated gaze and intimate allusion to her undergarments. She nearly answered in the affirmative before Miss Hobson told her to rap his arm with her fan.

  “Now turn away and never acknowledge him again.” The chaperone had them act out various scenarios until the novelty had long since worn thin.

  “Would you care to stroll through the garden, Miss Price?” Vincent asked with exaggerated formality.

  Lydia nodded with relief. This farcical play was becoming tedious. She donned her cloak and took his arm. The night air was chilly yet tranquil, redolent with the scent of the newly bloomed spring.

  “You look very lovely this evening.” Vincent swept her with a glance that warmed her from her toes up. His hair fell about his shoulders, making him look deliciously rakish.

  Slowly, his hand crept down to take hers. Shivers broke out on her flesh as his thumb caressed her wrist and the back of her hand. He had such long fingers, she mused.

  “I read a poem today that reminded me of you.” He gave her another sideways glance, as if confessing something naughty. “Would you like to hear it?”

  Her knees quivered beneath her skirts. Perhaps he did feel something for her. Perhaps he is now going to declare himself! “Yes, I would.”

  “Your chaperone is watching us from the parapets. It would be better for me to recite it more privately.” With gentle force, he guided her behind a tall hedge.

  Lydia’s belly fluttered as Deveril took both her hands. His hair gleamed like an angel’s wing. Would he tell her he couldn’t let her go, that they didn’t have to go to London? That instead they could remain here…together?

  “She walks in beauty, like the night,” he whispered.

  “Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

  Thus mellowed to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”

  Vincent’s eyes were like a turbulent sea in a moonlit storm. He gazed at her as though she was something precious. Lydia sighed as his long fingers removed a pin from her hair.

  “One shade the more, one ray the less,

  Had half impaired the nameless grace

  Which waves in every raven tress,”

  Her breath caught as he twirled a lock of her hair.

  “Or softly lightens o’er her face;

  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.”

  His hand crept up to caress her cheek, his intent gaze never wavering.

  “And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,”

  His lips curved in a sensual smile as he concluded.

  “But tell of days in goodness spent,

  A mind at peace with all below,

  A heart whose love is innocent!”

  For an eternity, they stared as if peering into each other’s souls. His fingers slid past her cheek and threaded once more through her hair, sending the remaining pins scattering into the grass.

  “Lydia,” he whispered.

  Then his lips were on hers, warm, silken, teasing. Her limbs melted. Intoxicating heat unfurled low in her body. Lydia reached up to pull him closer, to demand more.

  Vincent pulled back before she could grasp him. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “And that is your most important lesson in courtship, Lydia. Never allow a man to get you off alone, especially if he desires to recite poetry, and particularly Lord Byron’s verses.”

  A strangled gasp caught in her throat at his duplicity. It had all been part of the game! “You…you…”

  He held up a hand. “Now slap me with your fan in retaliation for taking such liberties.”

  Reeling in outrage, she fumbled in the pockets of her cloak for the ineffectual weapon.

  Vincent shrugged, undaunted at her ire. “That is why you should keep your fan at the ready.”

  Seizing the bundle of cloth-covered sticks, she smacked him soundly on the arm, much harder than Miss Hobson had instructed.

  “You are lucky I did not have my gun,” she hissed. How could he?

  To her vexation, he chuckled. “No, a kiss such as that, indiscreet as it was, is hardly a dueling offense.” His eyes narrowed, and he stalked closer. Lydia thought of the time he’d told her the story of the wolf. Vincent looked just as predatory as he had that night. “However, if a man kisses you like this…”

  With lightning speed, he seized her, pulling her against his body as his lips came down on hers with brutal force. One hand ruthlessly gripped the nape of her neck, while the other grasped her bottom, urging her hips against his. Though it was still part of the game, Lydia was unable to prevent herself from responding. Molten desire flooded her body, flaring brightest within her core. His mouth ravaged hers, his tongue darted in, sliding across hers, coaxing it to tangle with his in a primal dance.

  A low moan escaped her throat as she ground her body against him. His hardness pressed, insistent upon her most secret place, making her ache for something only he could give.

  With a low growl, he broke away and thrust her from him. His breath came in harsh gasps. “If a man kisses you…like that,” he said roughly, “then I shall see him dead.”

  Panting with need, Lydia met his savage gaze in challenge. “What if I want him to?”

  Vincent moved forward. Her lips parted in anticipation. Then he stopped and sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You must save such things for the marriage bed,
else you’ll be ruined.”

  “But, Vincent, I want—” He stopped her before she could say, “you.”

  “This must not happen again.” His voice was firm, containing an edge of a growl. “I will escort you back to the castle, and then I must go for my walk.”

  As they walked back, Lydia felt his arm vibrate with tension beneath her hand. Those kisses had affected him as deeply as they had her. She knew it! Why would he not admit the fact? Her thighs trembled with unfulfilled desire as her mind raced with the truth of her heart.

  Not only did she want Vincent’s kisses, she wanted his heart. She did not want or need to go to London to find the man she would love and marry. She’d already found him.

  ***

  With a smile, Miss Hobson watched Lydia flee up the stairs. At first, as she’d observed Deveril’s stiff stride and turbulent countenance, she’d thought the two had quarreled. Then one glance at Lydia’s flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and swollen lips confirmed the earl had finally given in to temptation and stolen a kiss.

  She looked back out the window. Her smile deepened at the sight of Deveril stalking off angrily into the night. Miss Hobson would have wagered a guinea that he was cursing himself for his lapse in propriety.

  Ah, yes. Things were progressing along quite nicely.

  Twelve

  Vincent walked among the vampires gathered within the stone circle. A full smuggler’s moon gleamed on the tall gray rocks and moist emerald grass. When all seventy-six were accounted for, he motioned for silence.

  “As you all know, I am leaving for London tomorrow. Emrys will be in charge in my absence, and Bronn will act as his second.” Giving the younger and more unruly vampires a stern look, he added, “I will also be coming back frequently to check on you.”

  The blood drinkers under his care bowed deeply. However, Kenan and Daveth, two younglings of about a quarter century, exchanged glances smacking of mischief. Vincent made a mental note to tell Emrys to keep an eye on that pair. The Siddons sisters stood together under Bronn’s subtle guard. Vincent was pleased to see that they’d lost much of their wariness. It seemed their time working with Lydia was helping them readjust to social interaction.