"What are you afraid of?"
"I have never loved anyone before." He ran his knuckles back and forth across her cheek. "I am trusting that I can control the hunger, that I can keep you close and keep you safe. If I am wrong, if I hurt you, it will destroy me as surely as the touch of the sun."
"We must be very careful, then," she said solemnly.
"You are not afraid to stay?"
"I am more afraid of being without you."
He gazed deep into her eyes, charmed by her innocence, captivated by her beauty. Though he knew she could not be his forever, it was enough that she was here now, that, for a short time, he would have the company, the comfort, only a mortal woman could give.
"If you ever wish to leave, you have only to tell Mrs. Thornfield. She will see you safely gone."
"Are we to be"—her cheeks turned scarlet—"lovers?"
He laughed softly. "No, my sweet Analisa, it is enough that I take your blood. I would not steal your virginity, as well. You must save that for the man you will someday wed."
"You don't want to marry me?" she asked, confused. "But I thought… you said you loved me."
"I do."
"But—"
"It is because I love you that I will not defile you. Your virginity is a prize you must save for the man who will be your husband. We can have no lasting future together, Analisa, you must realize that. In six months, a year perhaps, I shall send you away."
"What if I don't want to go?"
"We will burn that bridge when we come to it. For now, let us be happy together."
She smiled up at him, her thoughts as familiar to him as his own. She would not argue with him now. She would bide her time, certain that eventually she could convince him to change his mind.
Their new life together began the following evening.
He appeared at dusk clad in black broadcloth. His shirt was snowy white, his boots polished. A black cloak fell from his broad shoulders.
"Good evening, my sweet Analisa," he murmured, and bowed low over her hand. "Alesandro. How handsome you look." He smiled his pleasure. "You must change quickly, my sweet one. We are going to the opera."
Her eyes widened. "We are? Where?"
"At the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden."
"Covent Garden! London!" She had heard of it, but never dreamed she would go there. "But it will take hours to get there." She glanced down at her dress. "I've never been to London, or the opera. I don't have anything to wear."
"It will not take hours," he assured her. "And a new gown awaits you upstairs."
The dress was the most beautiful creation Analisa had ever seen. Made of mauve-colored silk, it had long sleeves, a square neck, and a modest train. Looking in her mirror, she felt quite elegant, though she felt she was looking at a stranger. Sally had done her hair up in a loose coil, leaving one long curl to fall over her left shoulder. Sally had insisted on adding a bit of rouge and a touch of powder to her cheeks.
Analisa sighed. Her mother would have fainted if she could have seen her daughter now. Ann Matthews had considered paint and powder to be tools of the devil.
Alesandro was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. Heat flared in the depths of his eyes when he saw her, flowed between them until her cheeks grew warm beneath his gaze.
He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. "You are more beautiful than sunlight," he murmured. The sight of it, the feel of it, was something he had almost forgotten, until now. Had the sun glowed as brightly as Analisa's smile, or warmed him as much?
He placed her shawl around her shoulders. "Are you ready?"
She had no sooner nodded than she felt herself swept into the same vortex she had experienced once before. It was a sensation beyond words, a feeling of being swept through time and space that left her momentarily disoriented.
When she opened her eyes, she was in a box at the opera house with Alesandro. She sat down, waiting for her breathing to return to normal, and then leaned forward, her eyes wide. There was so much to see. Men in stylish evening attire, women in elegant gowns, the musicians tuning up in the pit, the conductor, the theater itself with its lavish scrollwork, plush carpets, expensive murals and paintings, the fresco on the ceiling. The prevailing colors were a rich dark red and gold. The pillars of the proscenium were made of veined marble. Alesandro told her that the first theater, built in 1732, had burned down in 1808. It had been built again, and burned again in 1856. The current theater had been built in 1858.
No sooner had he finished speaking than the curtain went up and the opera began.
She tried to take it all in, the singers on the stage, the costumes, the sets, the music. She had never heard an orchestra before, never heard such singing. It brought tears to her eyes; she tried to wipe them away without letting Alesandro see, and failed. He leaned toward her, his thumb catching a tear, and then he handed her his handkerchief.
She applauded wildly when the curtain came down.
"I take it you enjoyed the production?" Alesandro said dryly.
"Oh, yes, it was wonderful. Thank you so much."
"I shall bring you again, just to see you smile."
"Really?"
"Really. Are you ready to go home?"
She hesitated before nodding.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I've never been to London before."
"It is a grand city. I wish I could show it to you."
"Couldn't we see it tonight?"
"Would you not rather come during the day with Mrs. Thornfield?"
She laid her hand on his arm. "I'd rather see it with you."
Her words warmed him. "As you wish, my sweet one."
He was as good as his word. He hired a carriage and they spent the rest of the night driving through London. They saw Buckingham Palace, which had been built in 1703 by John Sheffield, the first Duke of Buckingham.
"Have you ever seen the Queen?" Analisa asked as she gazed at the palace.
Alesandro shook his head. Victoria had been in seclusion ever since her husband died in 1861. She no longer resided at Buckingham Palace, but lived at Windsor or Balmoral instead.
They drove around Hyde Park. Alesandro told her it had been a royal deer park during the reign of Henry VIII. He told her that the famous bridle path known as Rotten Row was located there.
They went to London Bridge, which, until the Westminster Bridge had been built in 1760, had been the only thoroughfare across the Thames River. He told her there had been houses, shops, and a church built on the original bridge, but they had been removed in 1763. He even described them to her. In 1831 the old bridge had been replaced by a granite one designed by John Rennie.
They drove past Newgate Prison. It had been destroyed in the great fire of 1666 and rebuilt, he told her, and then destroyed again during the Gordon Riots of 1780, and rebuilt.
They stopped at St. Paul's Cathedral and she stared up at it, enthralled by its age and beauty.
"It was built by Christopher Wren," Alesandro remarked. "Before St. Paul's, there was an old Gothic church here, but it too was burned in the fire of 1666. It took thirty-six years to build St. Paul's."
"It was time well spent," Analisa murmured. She glanced up at Alesandro. He had been alive when the original church burned down.
It was near dawn when they returned to the carriage.
She was better prepared for the journey home. When Alesandro took her arm, she closed her eyes and held her breath, and when she opened her eyes again, she was in her own bedroom.
* * *
Chapter Nine
The next month passed in a blur. Analisa had thought living at Blackbriar Hall to be the epitome of elegance and luxury, but Alesandro showed her a world of opulence and grandeur she had never dreamed existed. They went to the ballet, and to the opera again. The music never failed to sweep her away, and Alesandro was there to interpret the words for her, to explain what she did not understand. They saw Le Siege de Corinth by Rossini, La Muette de
Portici by Auber, Robert Le Diable by Meyerbeer, Faust, of course, and Le Prophete, which to her utter amazement featured roller skating. They dined in the finest restaurants in London and Paris.
One night after the opera he took her to a small private club that was frequented by actors and singers. Analisa could only stare as the tenor she had seen on stage earlier that evening rose to his feet and began to sing. Alesandro asked if she would like to meet him, but she shook her head.
He took her to Westminster Abbey. She looked at him askance as they entered the Gothic style church.
"Never fear, my sweet," he had said with quiet reassurance. "I will not go up in a puff of smoke."
It was a place that inspired awe. She had knelt in a pew, her eyes wide as she looked around. Kings had been crowned here. Notables were buried here.
One night they passed through Covent Garden, which was the main fruit and vegetable market in London. Located near Charing Cross, not far from the theater district, it was also a favorite haunt of prostitutes, a few of whom were plying their trade that night, their skirts tucked up.
"It is the badge of their calling," Alesandro told her.
Analisa saw a heavily painted prostitute approach a well-dressed young man. Eyes wide with the curiosity that chaste women always had for their fallen sisters, Analisa watched the prostitute and the young man strike a bargain, and then the prostitute went off, arm in arm, with her "escort" for the evening. It was a life Analisa could not imagine, being intimate with a complete stranger for a few shillings, especially when Alesandro told her that many of the women were mistreated, or died of diseases that decent folk did not discuss.
As time passed, Analisa found herself adapting her life to Alesandro's, sleeping far into the afternoon so she could stay up with him late at night. If Mrs. Thornfield and the rest of the household found the sudden change in her hours odd, they refrained from making any comment. She was the mistress of the house, after all.
As much as she loved seeing the sights, she especially liked the nights they stayed at home.
One evening after supper, Alesandro took her into the ballroom. At his look, the candles in the crystal candelabra overhead sprang to life. Another look, and the music box on a small octagon table in one corner began to play, filling the air with the strains of "Greensleeves." Making a courtly bow, he offered her his hand. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
"I can't… I don't know how…"
"Then it shall be my pleasure to teach you," he said.
Her body seemed to pulse with new life as he drew her into the circle of his arms. Lost in the depths of his eyes, every fiber of her being aware of his nearness, she found it difficult to concentrate on the steps of the waltz.
He smiled down at her, as if he knew perfectly well the devastating effect he was having on her senses.
"Relax, Lisa. Listen to the music. Follow my lead."
Follow his lead, she thought dreamily. She would have followed him anywhere.
He sang along with the music. His voice was deep and rich, as entrancing as his gaze. He held her close, his body brushing against hers in a most scandalous manner as he whirled her around the floor.
"To make it easier for you to follow my lead," he murmured, amused by her shocked expression.
She loved waltzing with him. It was exhilarating, being held so close in his arms, being twirled around the floor. He was so light on his feet, so graceful, she felt like a clumsy child in comparison, and yet they danced together perfectly, dipping and swaying and turning as if they had waltzed together for years.
Once she gained a little confidence, she had time to notice her surroundings. Placed at intervals around the room, were a number of chairs and settees covered in a rich green and gold damask stripe, as well as several low tables made of rich dark wood. Heavy velvet drapes hung at the windows. A delicate crystal chandelier hung from a thick silver chain. For softer light, there were candles in silver wall sconces. Mirrored panels set in the walls reflected the candlelight.
She smiled when she saw her image in one of the mirrors as they twirled about the room. Her gown swirled around her ankles. Her hair gleamed in the light of the fire. Her eyes were shining with pleasure… she felt her smile wilt when she realized that he cast no reflection.
She stopped abruptly, staring at the mirror.
"What is it?" Alesandro asked with a faint smile. "Have I made you dizzy?"
"No." She pointed at the single image reflected in the glass. "I… you… you don't…"
He followed her gaze, his smile fading.
She glanced at him, at the mirror, at him again. "Why?"
"Did no one ever tell you? Vampires cast no reflection."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "Some say it is because vampires have no soul."
She stared up at him. Vampire. Sometimes she forgot what he was. She saw the pain in his eyes, and even though he made no move, she felt him withdraw into himself.
Not wanting to spoil the mood of the evening, she placed her hand on his arm and said, "Shall we finish our dance?"
One evening, sitting on the sofa in front of the hearth in the parlor, she asked him about the collection in the cabinet. "Are they things from your childhood?"
"In a way." He glanced over his shoulder. "The jade animals belonged to my mother. The books belonged to my father. My sister gave me the bird's nest. The seashell and the stone are souvenirs of home."
"And the heather?"
"It was given to me by a witch in Scotland. She said it would bring me luck." He gazed into her eyes. "I did not believe her at the time, but now…" He brushed a kiss over her lips. "Perhaps she was right, after all."
Several times during the month, Alesandro was called away from the house by those needing aid. She worried each time he was called away, knowing that he was going out to treat those who had been attacked by the other vampire, afraid that he might be attacked again, that he would be destroyed.
And late one night the constable came calling again.
Analisa followed Mrs. Thornfield to the door, listened quietly as the housekeeper informed the constable that Dr. Avallone had been called away on an emergency.
"Bit of a coincidence, don't you think? His being absent every time I arrive?"
"I wouldn't know, sir," Mrs. Thornfield answered, her voice cool.
"And who might this be?" the constable asked. Removing his hat, he turned his attention to Analisa.
"This is Analisa Matthews," Mrs. Thornfield replied in the same cool tone. "She is a friend of the doctor's, recently come to stay with us."
The constable's gaze moved over Analisa, missing nothing. Clad in a gray uniform and a brown overcoat, he was of medium height, with sharp brown eyes, a bald pate, thin lips, and a nose that was too large for his face.
"I don't suppose you would be knowing where the good doctor might be found this evening?" the constable asked.
Clenching her hands to still their trembling, Analisa shook her head.
The constable nodded. "I believe I'll just wait for his return."
"He may not be back for quite some time," Mrs. Thornfield remarked, her tone and expression making it clear the man was not welcome in the house.
"That's quite all right," the constable said. "I'll wait."
"Very well," Mrs. Thornfield said, a note of exasperation in her voice. "You may wait in the library. Come along, I'll show you the way."
Analisa waited in the parlor while the constable followed Mrs. Thornfield into the library.
"What do they want with Alesandro?" she asked when the housekeeper returned.
"They suspect he is guilty of the murders in the village."
"But why?"
"He keeps strange hours, is never seen during the day. There have always been rumors about him. The villagers fear him."
"But I don't understand. If they're afraid of him, why do they come to him for help?"
"They only come to him when they've nowhere else to turn."
<
br /> "Alesandro told me there was another vampire in the area, that he was the one responsible for the deaths."
Mrs. Thornfield nodded, her expression somber. "His name is Rodrigo. He is a wicked, evil creature, as old as Lord Alesandro. He is a very powerful being."
Analisa's eyes widened. "You know him?"
"I only know of him."
"Is Alesandro in danger from this other vampire?" Analisa asked, and even as she did so, she remembered that night in the rain. Alesandro had been hurting then, in desperate need of blood because of Rodrigo's attack.
Mrs. Thornfield nodded. "They have been enemies for four hundred years."
"Why?"
"Lord Alesandro has never seen fit to confide in me. Perhaps—"
"Mrs. Thornfield, perhaps you should take some tea in to our guest."
Analisa's heart seemed to skip a beat at the sound of his voice. Turning, she saw him striding across the floor, his long black cloak billowing behind him.
"Yes, doctor," Mrs. Thornfield said. "Analisa, would you care for a cup?"
"No, thank you." Analisa smiled at Alesandro. "Good evening, my lord."
"Lisa." He brushed a kiss across her lips, then turned his attention to the housekeeper once more. "What does the constable want now?"
"There's been another murder," she replied.
"Yes," he replied curtly. "I have seen the body."
"You couldn't help?"
"No, I arrived too late." Removing his cloak, he handed it to the housekeeper. "Thank you, Mrs. Thornfield, that will be all."
With a nod, the housekeeper left the room.
Analisa looked up at Alesandro, her gaze searching his. "Was it Rodrigo?"
"Yes, damn him!"
"That night you were hurt, did he… ?"
He nodded. "Yes, he attacked me."
"Has it happened before?"
"Many times. Do not worry, Lisa, you are safe here." A dark shadow passed behind his eyes. "As safe as you can be with a vampire in the house."
"I'm not worried about myself," she said.
You should be. She heard the words as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud.
His hand caressed her cheek. "Go have some tea with Mrs. Thornfield while I speak to the constable."
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