Once he was clean and his hunger was sated, John was afraid he’d have to fight the drowsy languor. But when Rosetta opened her mouth to reveal pearly white fangs as she told her story, he was stunned. Despite the fantastical creations that spilled from his pen, he was a realist. A physician and scientist had no room for fantasy in his beliefs. He never imagined that the creatures of myth that fired his imagination and populated his stories could possibly be real.
But another thing stirred him more than her amazing story. Rosetta loved him. The fact was clear with every word she spoke, and the way her eyes glowed with adoration whenever they rested upon him. The revelation struck a chord within him that he’d long since tried to kill. Though he had often loved, no one had ever truly loved him in return. Oh, George Gordon, Lord Byron, had claimed to, but it wasn’t until John’s heart was lost to the poet that he learned that Byron loved a new person every week.
Indeed, Lord Byron had been the man he sought to represent as the vampire, Lord Ruthven, not the Duke of Burnrath, who apparently was the Vampire Lord of London! The situation would be quite ridiculous if his life were not in such grave danger.
He stood up and walked across the carpeted floor toward Rosetta. Ah, his beautiful savior Rosetta! Already, he was losing his heart to her dark passion more than he had to her tender beauty four years ago. “I see that my thanks are necessary.”
“Not at all, John, I would save you all over again if I had to.” Those delicate cheeks pinkened once more as he drew near. “Besides, it was my fault that you published that story. If I had not whispered my encouragement to you every night, your life would not be at risk.”
“Still, you have put your life in danger to save mine,” he whispered, caressing her hair. “‘No poet’s dream e’er show’d a form so fair; no heav’nly gleam of prophet’s fire could paint e’en Virtue’s grace with hues so chaste, though bright, as deck’d her face.’ I wrote that about you after we met.”
Rosetta’s lips parted in awe. “You did? That poem is one of my favorites.”
He leaned closer to her. “Rosetta, I offer you my blood, my body, my life.”
His mouth slanted across hers as passion consumed them. The candles flickered as they collapsed onto the bed.
After the most passionate bout of lovemaking either had ever experienced, the pair lay entwined in each other’s arms, still panting for breath as they talked. Sometimes their laughter mingled like a beautiful dream as they discovered things they had in common. Other times they fell into a blissful silence as their gazes locked, overcome with emotions too potent for words. They spoke of everything from vampires to poetry to medicine. They spoke of anything but the danger they were in.
Tonight was not for fearful thoughts. Tonight was for the rosy glow and vivid light of new love. For each had found the other half of their souls.
***
Ian stared in disbelief at the latest entry in White’s betting book. “The bet paid off?”
The duke of Wentworth nodded. “Well, of course the bet paid off. Lady Cavendish heard it from her maid who heard it from your coachman. Everyone knows you’ve had her.” He toyed with his quizzing glass, eyes narrowed against the smoke saturating the club.
Ian shook his head as Wentworth narrated the week’s gossip. His fists clenched in desire to strangle the coachman. Albert would be dismissed at the earliest opportunity.
“Of course, I must say I don’t at all approve, Burnrath,” Wentworth continued, oblivious to Ian’s rage as they returned to their table. “The girl and her family will not be able to show their faces in society again after tonight. Speaking of, I must depart for the Cavendish ball.”
“Why tonight?” Ian snapped, resisting the urge to bare his fangs. “Did I not ‘have’ her last week?”
His friend sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well, the girl was safely ensconced in her home with an injured ankle, so nobody has had the chance to cut her yet. You know how traditionally vicious we are. It must be made official, tonight, as I understand the Winthrops will be attending the ball. Lady Cavendish will reserve first right, I suppose.”
More than ever, Ian was sickened at the cruelty the ton seemed to thrive on. All of his predatory instincts raged at him to fly to Cavendish House and turn the ball into a massacre. He fought to keep his voice level. “I do not suppose anyone would believe I didn’t touch her?”
Wentworth shook his head and sipped his glass of aged bourbon. “Not for a moment. The gossip even says you were partially undressed. Are you saying you didn’t bed her?”
“I was barefoot, not undressed.” Ian paused as the severity of the matter became clear. “And no, I did not bed her.” Guilt and self-loathing sucked at his soul. Damn it. Because of him, the poor girl’s life was ruined.