by Brooklyn Ann
Her attention shifted to the man who was dabbing Georgiana’s tears away with a handkerchief. With the same pale hair and eyes, he had to be the girl’s father…which meant the man was her uncle. This was her father’s younger brother. Lydia could see little resemblance.
Where her father had been tall and dark, her uncle was short and fair. Her father’s features had been broad and strong. This man’s face was thin, and he had almost no chin to speak of. Her father had been bold as red wine. This man had the appeal of lukewarm tea. Yet he’d inherited her father’s title. The world made no sense.
Vincent touched her arm, pulling her from her thoughts and into physical awareness. “It is time to adjourn to the drawing room.” His breath on her ear sent tremors through her being.
Lydia grasped him, savoring his nearness. Unfortunately, the duchess drew her away the moment they’d reached an elegant woman with bright red curls and a stern countenance.
“Miss Price, this is my mother, Lady Margaret,” Angelica said with unusual formality.
Lydia curtsied.
“Miss Price.” Lady Margaret nodded. “I am honored to meet my daughter’s first protégée. Your gown is exquisite, and your manners are better than I’ve seen in ages.” She darted a pointed glance at Angelica. “I look forward to your debut ball at Burnrath House tonight.”
“Mother helped me with the preparations,” Angelica supplied.
“Her Grace required the aid,” Margaret said with narrowed eyes, “as she was once more engrossed in her hobby and neglecting her duties.”
Angelica flinched at the words. Obviously the mother and daughter had a disagreement about something more significant than her ball.
“I see Princess Lieven,” Angelica said stiffly. “I must speak to her about Miss Price’s voucher to Almack’s. You’ve met Miss Hobson before, yes?”
Before Lady Margaret could reply, Angelica took Lydia’s hand and pulled her away. “Now all have noted that you have Lady Margaret’s favor.”
Lydia glanced back, seeing that Miss Hobson and Angelica’s mother were speaking as if they were the best of friends. It was apparent that Angelica and Lady Margaret had conflicting personalities. Lydia sensed there were heavy implications in her mother’s reference to “duties.”
As if reading her mind, Angelica raised her fan to whisper, “Mother thinks because I have not produced an heir, that I am refusing to bed my husband.” An impish giggle escaped her lips, and she inclined her head toward the duke. “Who in their right mind would refuse that?”
Lydia nodded in appreciation of Ian’s dark, handsome features before her gaze strayed from the duke to Vincent, and she imagined him in her bed. Her thighs trembled as she studied the strong line of his jaw and the sculpted curves of his lips, lips that had claimed her own in reckless abandon only weeks ago. “Who indeed?”
The duchess followed her gaze and laughed. “I’ve seen you giving Lord Deveril calf-eyes of late. You must abandon such a habit, else people will assume your relationship is improper… Bloody hell, I sound just like my mother.”
Oh, how Lydia longed for an improper relationship with Vincent. She wanted more stolen kisses, more embraces, and other forbidden things. Hiding such feelings would require every bit of her rigid training. Her face burned at being caught. “Please, Your Grace, do not—”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Angelica winked before turning away to exclaim, “Princess Lieven! How wonderful it is to see you!”
An astonishingly beautiful woman glided forward to kiss the duchess’s cheek. “It is a joy to see you as well, Your Grace.” Her accent was heady and exotic, like spiced rum.
Angelica wasted no time. “I would like to discuss a voucher to Almack’s.”
The princess shook her head. “Your Grace, as much as I would like to have you back within our hallowed halls, I cannot. Once a voucher is revoked, it cannot be reinstated.”
With a trilling laugh, the duchess shook her head. “I am not referring to my voucher. You remember I am sponsoring Miss Lydia Price.”
Warm brown eyes shifted to consider Lydia, who curtsied obediently. “Ah, yes, the daughter of the late Earl of Morley. I am not certain…”
“She has Miss Hobson as a chaperone,” Angelica offered. “It would be difficult for Miss Price to attempt to follow in my footsteps under her vigilance.”
The princess smirked. “Yes, I suppose so. I shall see what may be done.”
Lydia’s eyes widened at the realization that she was looking at a real princess. Life was taking on a surreal quality.
Things became even stranger when her cousin approached her, pale and trembling.
“It is a joy to meet you, Cousin,” Georgiana murmured. “Your dress is very pretty.”
Lydia could detect no hostility in the girl’s tone, so she bobbed a polite curtsy. “Thank you. Yours is lovely as well.” A pang of sympathy struck her at the sight of the hoops straining beneath the skirts of her elaborate gown.
Georgiana didn’t seem to hear. She darted a timid glance at their grandmother and scurried away as fast as she could in her cumbersome court dress.
“What a whey-faced coward,” Angelica whispered behind her fan.
“I think she was rather brave to risk our grandmother’s wrath,” Lydia defended, oddly vexed at the insult to her cousin, who’d been nonexistent only moments ago.
Angelica’s brows rose as she peered over her shoulder. “It seems she is not the only brave one.” She turned away to fetch a glass of champagne from a passing footman as Georgiana’s father approached.
Lydia regarded him mutely as he bowed over her hand. This man was her father’s younger brother. Her own uncle! He was the one who should have taken care of her after her father died. When he did not, she had supposed he was as cruel as her grandmother. Now, as she studied his limpid eyes and hunched shoulders, she knew he was merely weak.
“It is an honor to meet you at last, Lydia,” the new Earl of Morley stammered. “You look so much like my brother.” He swallowed as if fighting tears. “I missed him terribly when he left. Tell me, was he happy in America?”
Lydia swallowed her own tears at the memory of her father. “Very happy.”
“Did he speak of me?” His eyes turned pleading.
Without thinking, she lied. “Oh yes, my lord. Very often.” In truth, her father had almost never spoken of his family, and when Lydia had finally discovered they had cast him out, she could not blame him.
“Is Lord Deveril treating you well?” he asked suddenly.
A thousand accusations threatened to burst forth. For all he knew, Vincent could have been the frightening madman he’d been rumored to be, rather than a guardian angel. Instead, she nodded. “Very well, thank you.”
He must have seen the anger at his betrayal in her eyes, for his expression swam with guilt. “Lydia, I truly wish I could have taken you in, but Mother—”
“I understand, Uncle.” The words came out colder than she intended, and the earl flinched as if she had slapped him.
“I must go now,” he said in a strange tone, as if he were afraid.
She followed his gaze and saw Lady Morley’s fierce glare. Doubtless he wasn’t supposed to speak to her. In muted rebellion, he patted her hand before fleeing back to his matriarch.
Lydia sighed. She wanted to hate him and her sweet, frail cousin, but she couldn’t. Pity was the only emotion she could muster on their behalf. Pity, and a complete lack of respect for their weakness. It was no wonder that her father had not seemed to miss them.
“Are you all right, Lydia?” Vincent’s welcome voice sounded behind her like a soothing balm. She longed to lean back against his chest.
Though he hadn’t wanted her, Vincent had made her feel more welcome than her family had.
To her embarrassment, tears threatened once more. “May we go home now?
”
Like a whisper, his hand stroked her back, hidden from view. A covert offering of comfort. Selfish wretch that she was, Lydia wanted more.
***
Vincent watched Lydia descend the spiral staircase to the ballroom. In her pale blue gown of shimmering silk, she was like a wildflower, a symbol of fragile perfection. Her eyes sparkled like jewels…and they were just as cold. Other than that, no sign remained of the emotional turmoil she’d faced at her presentation. Vincent cursed himself for not anticipating Lydia’s inevitable encounter with those who’d cast her aside. He should have prepared her better.
Pride filled him at her courage in facing her traitorous relations. And now she was facing the majority of the ton with quiet dignity.
He watched her smile at the guests, engaging in cheerful conversation as if nothing was amiss. Dozens of besotted males lined up to fill her dance card as more gathered near, like bees to a rose…or a gardenia. His fangs ached.
All was going as planned. So why did he feel like striding to the dance floor, yanking Lydia from the arms of her suitor, and snapping the fop’s neck?
“Lord Deveril, how wonderful it is to see you again!” Another matron interrupted his murderous thoughts.
It was all Vincent could do not to mouth her next words, the same words he’d heard with annoying frequency since Lydia’s presentation. “I would like to introduce you to my daughter, as you did not have an opportunity last Season.”
Before he could protest, another simpering girl was thrust before him. Vincent struggled to convey polite disinterest and gently disengage her. His irritation and the scent and sound of so much prey made the blood roar in his ears. As if sensing his predatory nature, the girl stammered an excuse and scurried away, to her mother’s chagrin.
“I see the ton presumes you’re on the market as well,” Ian noted behind him with a chuckle. “You shall have a delightful time at Almack’s next Wednesday.”
Vincent turned and bared his fangs at the duke. “This is not a matter for amusement.”
“You are correct,” Ian replied as his gaze narrowed to a point over Vincent’s shoulder. “I see my second in command is contemplating your ward. This could be a hazard.”
Vincent whipped around with wide eyes. The sight of Lydia in the same room with Rafael Villar made his heart race in panic. He was uncertain of Ian’s judgment in choosing Rafe as his successor. Vincent had never met a more foul-tempered vampire. All of London’s vampires were terrified of the Spaniard. And there was Lydia, mere yards away from him.
A low growl built in his throat as he strode across the ballroom.
***
Lydia sighed in relief as she leaned against a pillar, resting her sore feet. Her slippers pinched like the devil, and her face ached from forcing smiles at her inane suitors’ compliments. She longed to escape to the library and curl up with a novel. Even more, she longed to take Vincent’s hand and run back to Cornwall. Alas, Miss Hobson would bring the roof down on her head if she left this party held in her honor.
To her dismay, a group of pastel-draped debutantes invaded her solitude. Lydia fought the urge to yawn as they chattered on about Lord So-and-So and Baron Whatnot.
“Who is that ugly man by the pillar?” a young blonde asked.
Her friend giggled, and Lydia only just overheard her reply. “That is Don Rafael Villar, a hidalgo from Spain and an infamous pugilist.”
“A pugilist?” the other repeated quizzically. “How can that be? Look at his arm!”
Lydia turned to peer over her fan at this latest topic of gossip. The man was not ugly, though she could understand why sheltered young girls would think so. His skin was an intriguing shade of cinnamon; his hair fell past his shoulders, an inky black that rivaled the duke’s, and his eyes were the color of Vincent’s brandy. If that wasn’t enough to set him apart from the pale, gilded crowd surrounding him, the left side of his face bore rippled scars, as if he’d been burned.
At last she saw what was amiss with his arm. It hung limp and awkward, damaged from the same burns. It was a wonder he could box with such a disadvantage, albeit believable when one observed his muscled form, thinly disguised under his simple, unadorned attire.
No, this man was not ugly; he was striking with his savagely chiseled features and intent, amber eyes. She would love to render him in charcoals.
The debutante’s voice intruded on her speculation. “He is looking right at us!”
“Let us make haste to the retiring room before he attempts to speak to us.”
Lydia fought back a gasp, for the man was not looking at them. He was looking at her. His amber eyes pierced hers, and his mouth twisted in a fearsome scowl. So she did what she felt was right under the circumstances. She lifted her chin, flicked open her fan, and approached him.
“Don Villar.” She took care to sound cheery as she curtsied. “I am honored that you attended my coming out.”
His scowl deepened. “I believe you are not supposed to speak to me unless we are formally introduced.” His voice was gravelly, yet rich with his Spanish accent.
Lydia refused to step back and gave him a wry smile. “Would anyone introduce us?”
He blinked as if startled by her humor. “Probably not.”
When he didn’t say more, she sighed. “Are you always this taciturn?”
He nodded curtly then flicked his gaze around the room. “Señorita Price, you should return to your party before your fragile reputation is ruined.”
Lydia frowned. These days her reputation felt more like a burden than an asset. Before she could reply, a firm hand grasped her arm.
“Don Villar,” Vincent said with a painfully slight incline of his head.
Rafael did not bow at all. “Lord Deveril.”
They stared at each other with far more intensity than the sullen looks exchanged by Lydia’s suitors when they argued about who would dance with her first.
Vincent behaved as if Rafael had committed a crime in speaking to her. He pulled her away, refusing to acknowledge the Spaniard any more. “Come, you look like you need fresh air,” he said tersely.
Lydia refused to tremble as he led her out of the French doors and into the spring night. It took all of her effort to hide her alarm. She’d never seen him this angry.
“I don’t want to see you speaking with that man again.” His tone was rife with command.
Lydia bristled at his autocratic behavior. “Why ever not?”
Vincent gripped her shoulders and brought his face down close to hers. “I don’t want you near him, because he is dangerous. Even the greenest chits here know that.”
Senses electrified at his nearness, she leaned forward until her mouth was inches from his. “Why is he dangerous?”
A low growl escaped his throat, sending shivers up her spine. “It is not fit for an innocent young lady to know.”
“Perhaps I don’t want to be innocent,” she whispered against his lips. Vincent shivered under her touch, and Lydia felt a moment of triumph before he gently pushed her away.
“We must return to the ballroom before people begin to talk.”
Flinching at his stiff tone, she lifted her chin and followed him back to the crushing noise of her party. Immediately, several young men flocked to her side, begging for a dance. It took a few minutes for her polite refusal to be heard over the barrage of music and loud conversation.
“I must thank the fine ladies who have attended this night.” She seized upon the excuse, seeing a handsome woman seated at the far end of the room, wearing a mauve half-mourning gown that clashed with her auburn hair. Unable to dance, she must be bored senseless.
The woman smiled when Lydia sat next to her.
Lydia returned the smile. “I am honored that you are here, Lady…Rosslyn.” She blushed at her difficulty in remembering everyone’s names. At least she had
remembered this lady was a countess.
“It is my pleasure, Miss Price,” the woman replied. “Are you enjoying your come out?”
“It is lovely, thank you.” Honesty compelled her to add, “Though it is overwhelming. I have met so many people, and it is difficult to keep all the names straight.”
Lady Rosslyn smiled sympathetically. “I felt the same way when I had my come out. Miss Hobson was my chaperone then. I have full confidence she will help you sort everyone out.”
“She was?” Lydia asked, feeling an instant kinship with the other woman.
The countess nodded. “I found her intimidating beyond measure at first. Eventually, I learned that she has a warm heart under her frigid exterior.” Her blue-green eyes held a momentary twinge of sadness. Had they been close?
Reluctant to pry, Lydia changed the subject. “What do you know of Don Villar?”
Lady Rosslyn peered over her fan at the sullen Spaniard. “Only that he is a close friend of the Duke of Burnrath. I’ve seen him here occasionally when I attend the duchess’s literary circles, but he’s never been receptive to conversation.” A faint blush colored her cheeks.
Lydia concealed a smile. It appeared she wasn’t the only one intrigued by Villar. However, this lady’s fascination looked to be of a far more dangerous sort. Risking a glance at her guardian, Lydia shivered as she recalled his touch.
Ignoring her petulant suitors, Lydia spent the rest of the evening talking with Lady Rosslyn. It was much more difficult to pretend indifference to Vincent’s burning gaze.
Sixteen
As the hour drew near for Sir Thomas Lawrence’s arrival for supper, Vincent hid a smile while he watched Lydia pace the length of the drawing room. If she kept at it much longer, she was liable to wear a path in the carpet.
“What if he does not like my paintings?” she asked for the seventh time.
“Then he has no taste,” he repeated, trying not to notice the curve of her rear as she continued her pacing.
“What if he refuses to teach me?”