Rosetta paced the underground chamber, fangs abrading her lower lip as she nibbled on it, a nervous habit left over from her mortal days. Sleep was impossible this day. She had deceived her lord last night, and he wasn’t merely any Lord Vampire. Ian Ashton was the Lord of London! Her punishment could be death, rather than banishment. Running a slim hand through her cropped jet hair, she approached the bed to gaze down at the cause of her folly.
John. She smoothed dark curls from his brooding face, noting with a soft smile that his color seemed better. She’d met Dr. John Polidori in Switzerland on her grand tour, which all new vampires took. Hers had been delayed a few years due to the execution of her maker, who’d Changed her without permission from the Elders. Lord Burnrath had sent her off with generous funds as soon as the ordeal was over, telling her that the trip would help her get over the pain of losing her maker. Rosetta took the money gratefully. In truth she was happy her maker was gone. He was an autocratic boor with no imagination or appreciation for the beauty of life. The bastard hadn’t even been able to read.
Rosetta enjoyed her travels like nothing else, and when she heard that there was to be a great gathering of writers at Lord Byron’s villa on Lake Geneva, she had dashed off to Switzerland as fast as her funds permitted.
On her first night there, she came upon a man wandering the ruins of an ancient castle. His rich voice murmured a delightful combination of words, forming a rhyming melody that tickled her senses in the most pleasing manner. Every once in a while, he’d frown and say the line again, replacing a word or two with others that made his verse sing. He was composing a poem. She smiled and silently climbed a stone parapet above him to hear him better. Rosetta loved poetry with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
When the man stepped into a shaft of moonlight, her breath caught as he came into view. From his rich dark curls and cinnamon-tinted skin to his ebony, slumberous eyes and lithe form, he was the most beautiful man she had beheld. Rosetta leaned forward, licked her lips—and a stone came loose under her hand. She lost her balance and tumbled down from the ruins with a startled shriek.
She struck the cobblestone surface of the remains of the bailey. Her leg broke with a sickening snap and she fainted.
When Rosetta awoke, she was lying in a sumptuous bedchamber and the man she had been spying on was poised over her leg, inspecting the injured limb with scholarly studiousness. He raised his head and their eyes met. A frisson of heat passed between them and left her breathless.
“That was quite the fall you took, miss.” His voice was like dark Swiss chocolate. “Whatever were you doing up in those ruins?”
“I was listening to your poem,” she confessed. Then, before he could ask more, she said, “My name is Rosetta. Who are you, my lord?”
He chuckled ruefully. “I am no lord, only a mere physician. Dr. John Polidori, at your service, dear Rosetta. I am here as companion to Lord Byron. And, speaking of my position, I must see to your leg.”
Polidori turned and removed a brown bottle and a spoon from his bag. He poured a thick liquid with the heavy aroma of poppies into the spoon and bade her to take the medicine with a stern expression that would not tolerate refusal.
He set her broken leg and recited his poetry to distract her from the pain. The dark odes he composed were like beautiful music to her ears. By the time he finished, dawn was creeping near.
“Now you must rest and I will see you home in the morning,” he said.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Rosetta countered. “I must go now!”
“But your leg!” he protested.
“I will survive,” she said as she struggled to get out of the bed.
Polidori helped her to her feet despite the mutinous expression marring his handsome features. Reluctantly, he handed her a crutch. “But when may I see you again?”
“I don’t know.” The words made her ache dreadfully, but no other answer was allowed. Getting too close to mortals was dangerous. “Really, sir, I must go!”
Somehow, the dear man understood the urgency in her voice and reluctantly summoned a servant to drive her to her inn. She had barely closed the wooden chest she slept in before the sun’s deadly rays streamed through the window. Her day sleep was filled with dreams of the handsome doctor, and when she awoke, she still couldn’t get him out of her mind. Though every instinct screamed at her not to, she limped off to Byron’s villa to spy upon him once more.