Bite Me, Your Grace

Twenty-two


“My suspicions were correct!” the vampire hunter cried in elation. “The Duke of Burnrath is a vampire. But how did you come upon this knowledge, miss?”

Rosetta feigned a tragic sigh as she huddled in a dark corner so the lamplight would not reveal her pallor. “He bit me once when I worked as a maid in his household.”

His eyes widened. “How ever did you escape?”

“My husband, the coachman, rescued me,” she said, shivering and trying not to scratch at her blonde wig. The monstrosity itched terribly. “I never saw him after that.”

The hunter reached to pat her hand in false sympathy, unable to hide the predatory look in his muddy eyes. Rosetta got up and began to pace, avoiding his touch. This was a dangerous game she was playing. If he discovered who he was dealing with, the tables would turn on her with deadly swiftness. And if the Lord of London found out about her scheme, God help her.

The hunter’s hand rested awkwardly on the table with nothing to grasp. “You need not fear for much longer, miss. I am experienced in these matters, and since his location is known, I do not need to waste time hunting him down. Certainly it will not take me long to dispatch him.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Now as much as I would gladly rid the world of these unholy monsters without receiving compensation, I do need to eat. Do you have my fee?”

Rosetta resisted the urge to snarl at this sanctimonious cretin. She wondered how deluded a man had to be to consider himself “holy.” She tossed him a purse full of coins. “Here is five hundred pounds. I will give you the rest after you slay him.”

After Flannigan departed, Rosetta heated water for a bath, hoping to cleanse herself of the filth his presence had left on her. She wondered if this corruption was worth such a loathsome price. She lifted her chin as she poured boiling water into the tub. For the safety of my love, anything is worth the effort! Still, she refrained from telling John. It wouldn’t do to worry him.

***

As June neared its conclusion, the social season rose to a furious peak. All of the nobility was awash with preparations for King George’s coronation, set for the nineteenth of July.

Angelica hardly noticed. She was engulfed in the plot of her novel. She worked night and day, dark smudges forming under her eyes from lack of sleep, and ink stains saturating her fingers. She declined all social invitations, not caring whether or not she offended anyone. Besides, all everyone talked about was the new act the King tried to have Parliament pass, which was in reality a petition to divorce from his wife, Caroline of Brunswick. Angelica was sick to death of the raging gossip, though she pitied the Queen. It was absolute hypocrisy that George—or Prinny, as he was so idiotically called—would accuse Queen Caroline of adultery when he flaunted his mistresses before the country and would likely mount anything that could accommodate his heavy form.

When Angelica took the carriage out, it was not for a new parasol or other such frippery, but to bookstores and libraries to research the time of King Henry VIII. She decided that such a setting for her book could be most potent without casting suspicion on her husband.

The Vampyre’s Bride was a tale in which a beautiful noblewoman sought an advantageous marriage to escape the king’s lustful advances. When she spied a tall, dark, and handsome man, recently given an earldom by the king, she decided that he was the perfect quarry. After she tricked him into compromising her and thus being obliged to wed her, she discovered that he was a vampire. At first she was afraid of him, but she quickly learned that though he drank blood, he was no less of a gentleman. Awash with guilt about her trickery and charmed by her husband, she fell in love with him, despite his subtle attempts to get rid of her.

Had this vampire also had numerous wives in the past? Angelica frowned and shook her head vehemently. No, she couldn’t bear the thought. This was her story and she would give it much more hope than her own.

Angelica poured out the lovers’ struggle onto numerous pages. Although the plot and characters came easily, the historical details were difficult to fit in, and the books she found only revealed so much.

“If only I could ask Ian,” she groaned, grinding out another cheroot. Many of the writers and women of the fast set she associated with smoked. It hadn’t been long before she picked up the habit.

She stood and stretched, wincing as her muscles screamed from being in the same position for hours. A wave of dizziness struck her, and she realized that she’d not only missed lunch, but teatime as well. As if to confirm her conclusion, her stomach growled. As much as she longed to continue writing, she needed to take a break and eat something. She cast one last mournful look at the pages of her work, resplendent in the lamplight, and left the smoky room.

The stairs made her dizzy again, and she swayed, clutching the banister.

“Are you all right, Angel?” Ian’s voice, low and gentle, stirred her heart anew.

“I am quite all right,” she said, the hold on her composure around him turning more brittle every day. “I just had a small dizzy spell. I was so busy working on this story that I completely forgot luncheon.” She managed a self-deprecating smile.

He took her arm and helped her down the stairs. Angelica shivered at the contact even as her heart bled. If only we could go back to how we were before. If only he really cared.

“Burke!” Ian roared, eyes glowing inhumanly.

The butler scurried in immediately. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Why didn’t you inform the duchess that it was time for her luncheon?” His tone promised horrible retribution if the answer was not to his satisfaction.

Burke opened his mouth to answer, but Angelica interjected, “I was informed. I just ignored the notification.”

The duke seemed to calm a bit, though he still growled with suppressed rage. “Still, you should not have allowed her to neglect herself.”

She squeezed his arm. “Please, Your Grace, do not be upset with the servants. My orders were very firm that I was not to be disturbed. In fact, I was a veritable dragon about the whole thing. This book has captured all my attention. There is no one to blame for this but myself and my imagination.”

Ian nodded curtly. “Very well. I will join you for dinner.”

At first the meal was more awkward than usual. She hadn’t dined with her husband in weeks and he was overly solicitous, insisting that she eat every bite. His paranoia that she would waste away before his eyes eventually became too much for her and she began to laugh.

“If I eat any more of this pudding, you’ll have to roll me out of the room, Your Grace.” Her lips twitched in suppressed mirth. “The servants shall start calling us “the Sprats” behind our backs.”

He laughed. “We certainly cannot have that, for our notoriety would spread through the servants’ chain of gossip. I can see the White’s betting book now: ‘One hundred twenty pounds with two-to-one odds that the Duchess of Burnrath will outweigh her husband by Christmas.’”

“‘Three hundred pounds, five-to-one odds that Her Grace will crash through the floor of the Countess of Pembroke’s drawing room,’” she chimed in, giddy with cheer.

Angelica hadn’t felt this lighthearted since her ball. Laughing with her husband once more felt so wonderful. When the servants cleared away the dishes, Ian stood up and approached her, eyes smoldering with unmistakable desire.

“We must see if I can still manage to carry you up the stairs,” he whispered.

As they made their way up to their bedchamber, Ian held her with infinite gentleness. His fingers were whisper soft as he removed her dress and underclothes, covering each newly bared section of her flesh with tantalizing kisses. By the time they were naked, Angelica was panting with a half-mad need for him to take her.

But Ian was merciless, kissing and caressing every inch of her form until she practically sobbed to feel him inside her. Then, he entered her with torturous slowness, his thrusts timed perfectly to their mingled heartbeats.

As her passion rose to a furious peak, Angelica mouthed the words, “I love you.” She nearly said the words aloud but then Ian’s climax hit, drowning the words to a muffled cry as her orgasm intensified.

“Good God,” Ian gasped as he gathered her into his arms.

She snuggled against his chest and wondered if she should tell him about the novel and perhaps declare her love. I will wait until the story is finished, and then I shall tell him, she decided. Angelica had always been superstitious about sharing her unfinished work, but in this case her sense of caution was doubled. She didn’t want to somehow curse the possibility of reconciliation. Her eyes closed and a contented smile played across her lips as she dreamed of him reading her story and falling in love with her, desiring a happy ending like her hero would receive.