Angelica fought to see past the white spots of agony pulsing up from her ankle. Her vision cleared, revealing the Duke of Burnrath poised above her. His silver eyes reflected the brilliant flame of the gas lamp, making him resemble an unholy specter. She opened her mouth to scream, but his hand clamped over her mouth. Her senses swam as his masculine scent enveloped her. She tried to struggle, but she was too weak from blood loss to manage more than a feeble squirm.
“Please, do not scream, Angel,” he said in an unbelievably gentle tone. “I promise not to hurt you. Now, if I let you go, will you be calm and explain what you were doing in my home?”
She nodded, believing him for now. Perhaps it was the sincerity in his voice, or the fact that he called her such a sweet endearment as “Angel.” After all, she could always scream later.
He held up his other hand and fixed her with an intense stare. “I will know if you lie.”
She believed that, too. He released her and she sat up. Her head swam with dizziness, but she remained upright, clinging to the arm of the sofa for support.
“You bit me!” she cried in frightened outrage. “You drank my blood!” She placed a hand against her neck, her eyes widening when she realized there was no wound.
To her disbelief, he looked ashamed. That put her at ease more than anything.
“I thought you were a burglar.” He ran his hand through his coal black hair, appearing nervous. “And I am hungry when I wake. Please believe me when I tell you, I never would have drunk from you if I had known your identity.” His brows drew together sternly. “Your clothing did not help matters. Would you be inclined to explain why you were in my house dressed as a male?”
Perhaps her mind was still fuzzy from the blood loss, or perhaps it was the way he’d changed from a frightening monster to a gentleman in mere moments. Her fear abated. As Angelica searched for the right words, the situation suddenly seemed comical and she erupted into giggles. Ian’s perplexed expression made her laugh harder.
When she at last composed herself, she said, “You will probably find this to be amusing.”
“I am certain I will be delighted,” he said dryly.
The sight of him lounging back against the sofa cushion with his shirt open sobered her. She had never seen a man’s bare chest before, and this glimpse of Burnrath’s made her breath catch. Vampire or not, he appeared even more handsome barefoot and disheveled, his lips curved in casual humor.
Fighting to maintain her composure, she explained, “As I told you at the Wentworth ball, I have always wanted to be a writer.”
“Ah, so I am looking at the next Duchess of Devonshire?” His indulgent tone seemed mocking.
Angelica bristled at the assumption. “Just because I am female does not mean I write thinly veiled gossip like The Sylph. I desire to be a gothic authoress, like Mary Shelley.”
His brow rose. “I imagine your mother doesn’t approve.”
She was about to retort, but there seemed to be a glint of sympathetic understanding in his eyes. “Yes, I have to hide my stories from her. However,” she added with a lift to her chin, “my father does not object and Liza, my maid, is my most faithful reader.”
“Have you been published yet?” the duke asked with what seemed to be genuine interest.
Angelica nodded. “Yes, though that at first posed a trifle of a challenge, for ‘Angelica Winthrop’ was laughed out of the offices of The New Monthly Magazine. However, they were quick to welcome ‘Allan Winthrop.’” She smoothed the lapels of her waistcoat and laughed, though she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her feigned mirth.
“Ah, so the reason behind your disguise is becoming clear.” The vampire nodded, eyeing her intently. “But what were you doing in my home?”
Angelica grinned. “Now we come to the amusing part of my tale, Your Grace. I have been fascinated with Burnrath House for many years. With all the odd sounds and coming and goings in the night, as well as the conspicuous absence of servants at such hours, I could only reach one conclusion.”
The duke leaned forward, silver eyes glittering ominously. “And that conclusion was?”
“I believed your house was haunted,” she explained with burning cheeks. “I never imagined this place was haven to a vampire.”
Burnrath’s sharp crack of laughter resounded through the chamber.
“So,” Angelica continued, chuckling. “When Colburn offered me double if I could finish another story, I was determined to write one about this house.”
For some reason she left out the part about needing the money to run away to avoid marriage. Though Burnrath was a vampire, he was still a nobleman and would no doubt disapprove of her shirking what he would see as her duty. “And when your maid left the front door ajar,” she explained, “I thought it was the only opportunity I would receive to see the inside of the famous Burnrath House.”
The duke’s brow rose. “Your interest in my tomb of a home and things that stalk the night is peculiar. I should think a pretty young thing such as you would be more suited to picking flowers in a sunny meadow.”
Angelica smiled and quoted,
“Sing to me no songs of daylight
For the sun is the enemy of lovers.
Sing instead of shadows and darkness
And memories of midnight.”
“That was Sappho, correct?” he asked.