Bite Me, Your Grace

Three


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.

Rosetta had followed him everywhere since. She even kept the cast on her leg long after it healed in case he spotted her. The more she watched him, the deeper he crawled into her heart. His compassionate care for his patients fascinated her as well. He seemed to be too good to be a real person. Indeed, the man had a passion and capability for love that eclipsed that of the usual mortal man.

John Polidori never lacked bed partners, male and female, and he treated all with tenderness and regard from the beginning to the end of his affairs. Before she became fully aware of the fact, Rosetta found herself longing to be one of those who came into his arms. Unfortunately, his current lover was the tempestuous poet, Lord Byron. And when the arrogant bastard sent her dearest John fleeing back to London to nurse his broken heart, Rosetta’s urge to kill the poet was terrifying in its viciousness. But it was forbidden to kill a mortal in these times when modern science threatened to reveal her kind.

So she contented herself with watching over John like a dark guardian angel, aching with desire to comfort him as he plunged himself deeper and deeper into debt with his drinking and gambling, trying to drown his sorrow. While he slept, she’d slip into his room to stand over him and watch the lines of worry smooth from his handsome face. Every night she whispered words of love and encouragement to him, urging him to continue to write and support himself. After awhile, her will seemed to affect him, for he had pulled out his parchment at last. But this time, John did not pen another poem but a story—a story about a vampire.

Her heart thudded in her breast as she spied the story’s title page. Could he know? She gave his slumbering form a worried glance before scooping up his pages and fleeing to her lair to discover what secrets he’d gleaned of her kind.

Rosetta devoured Polidori’s tale in less than an hour. As she read, her terror dissolved into gales of surprised laughter. This wasn’t a story about her kind at all! The work was a satire, albeit a morbid sort of parody. The so-called “vampyre” was in truth a symbol for Lord Byron’s dissolute and sometimes perverse nature.

She hugged the pages to her chest, shoulders still shaking in mirth. Why, “The Vampyre” was a work of genius! And best of all, it was the perfect way for John to thumb his nose at Lord Byron. All of England would be laughing at the man who broke Polidori’s heart if they read the tale. The local vampires would have a good chuckle as well. Rosetta returned the story to John and whispered to him that he should publish it at once. Unfortunately, he heeded her words. And that was only the first thing to go wrong.

When Polidori anonymously published his story, vampires became Europe’s favorite trend. Nobody seemed to realize that the story was a satire. The local populace of blood drinkers were irritated, especially the Lord of London. He thought the story was about him! And to Rosetta’s everlasting fury, the tale was mistakenly accredited to Lord Byron. However, when the Duke of Burnrath made a trip to Italy to make discreet inquiries about the man, Rosetta was relieved, for he would be looking in the wrong direction. Though the Lord of London seemed more annoyed than enraged about the story, she was worried that it had attracted his notice at all.

Her heart clenched in agony with the knowledge that she wasn’t old enough to have the power to Mark the man she loved. If she were able, he would belong to her and all others of her kind would know that to harm him would incur her undying wrath. He could be her mortal companion and eventually she could petition her lord to Change John. Then they could be together forever, and her love would be safe. But after what she’d done, her hope for such an easy solution lay in tatters.

Her worries bore fruit when Lord Burnrath convened with all of his vampires one night. Not only had he discovered the identity of the author of “The Vampyre,” but he was furious about the story’s growing popularity and the suspicions it created regarding his identity. Since he mingled with the mortals of the haut ton as the Duke of Burnrath, his reputation was in danger. Rosetta fought back feelings of guilt. In truth, he was a fair, if not kind, Lord Vampire.

“I want you all to search for this Dr. Polidori,” the duke had commanded, his powerful strides circling them all. “When you find him, bring to me alive. Until this matter is resolved, all petitions to change territories will be held in abeyance. I need all of you with me now.”

Rosetta had kept her head down in feigned obeisance, struggling to keep her features composed and not to tug at her cravat or fidget in her male garb. She’d been terrified he would see that she knew where John was, even as her mind screamed at her heart for betraying her master. But she was trapped now, forbidden to leave the city until the duke allowed petitions once more.

Still, she was almost too late. With the deadly fingers of dawn crawling into the sky, Rosetta found Polidori unconscious in an alley behind one of his favorite gaming establishments. He didn’t stir as she carried him to her lair and she feared blood poisoning from too much drink. He was deathly pale and emaciated, so she bit her finger and gently coaxed a few drops of her blood between his sculpted lips. His color returned and his breathing steadied, but still he did not awaken.

Rosetta lay down and took the sleeping man into her arms to warm him. She had to find a way to stop the Lord of London’s quest to find John. Her thoughts raced as she reviewed and discarded plans.

Before she fell asleep, she kissed his brow and whispered, “I will keep you safe, my love. I promise.”

***

Angelica wished the day would end as soon as she opened her eyes.

“You have three callers!” Margaret announced as the breakfast dishes were cleared from the table.

“Ughhh…” Angelica groaned. Her mother’s strident voice was more piercing than the morning light streaming in the windows. Champagne, apparently, was not so nice after all. How she longed to go back to sleep, but no, her mother just had to drag her out of bed at an uncivilized hour to break into yet another grating lecture about her conduct last night. As if her mother hadn’t blistered her ears enough on the carriage ride home the night before. If I never have to hear about marriage again, this will be worth it. She tried to keep up the litany, but her head ached too much for the thought to be even moderately convincing.

“My goodness, Lord Makepeace, Lord Ponsonby, and Sir Albert Brighton are here to pay calls to you,” Margaret continued, oblivious to her daughter’s agony. “Angelica, attend to your hair at once! This is a better opportunity than I anticipated. We must contrive a way to allow all three to escort you to the park.” In a rare burst of affection, she kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Whatever you did, dear, was an absolute success. If only your sainted grandmother were alive to see this day!”

Angelica managed a wan smile at her mother’s cheer—until the news sank in. Callers. That meant she had failed in her endeavor to render herself unmarriageable. She longed to sink through the floor.

Margaret patted down Angelica’s hair and shoved her into the drawing room. Three bouquets of flowers were thrust in her face as the fops bowed before her. Dear God, they look ready to ask for my hand already! She fought the urge to flee to her room and vomit into her chamber pot. Only one thing settled her rebellious stomach, and she focused on the thought with all her will as clammy lips were pressed to the back of her hand. Today she planned to resubmit her first complete ghost story to The New Monthly Magazine.

While writing the haunting tale of the ghost of a highwayman haranguing travelers as they crossed Hounslow Heath, Angelica had been busy gathering a disguise. She had acquired the costume piece by piece and hid the collection under a board that she’d painstakingly removed from her closet floor.

For she couldn’t submit her story as Angelica Winthrop. To her undying dismay and bitterness, she’d learned that Mary Shelley’s success as a gothic authoress was the exception, rather than the rule, owing much to the fact that she and her family were connected to the publishing business.

When Angelica went to the office of The New Monthly Magazine, the editor had nearly laughed her out of the establishment. She ground her teeth at the injustice. Her merits as a writer should stand on their own, having nothing to do with her sex. On a flight of inspiration, she decided to beat them at their own game. She would see if “Allan Winthrop” had better luck. The tiewig she’d ordered was the final piece to her costume and should be in the shop today. And if her writing gained enormous popularity, she’d whip off her wig and expose herself before Mr. Colburn, the publisher himself, with a triumphant laugh! But first, she had this obligatory nonsense with her suitors to contend with.

The morning jaunt through Hyde Park represented the most unendurable two hours of her life. And Liza’s mildly amused smile didn’t help matters. Every bump the carriage wheels hit jarred her bones and intensified her agony. The gentlemen crowded her, making it hard for her to breathe as they vied for her attention. Her mouth tasted like a sweaty stocking and her head throbbed with the effort of making small talk. She supposed they thought she was behaving with admirable maidenly modesty, when truly her skull ached with every word she spoke. And if the birds didn’t stop chirping, she swore she would take up shooting.

When the trio brought her and her maid back home, she strained every ounce of her patience saying good-bye politely to each one instead of bolting from the carriage as if the conveyance were on fire.

Angelica heaved a sigh of relief as Liza shut the front door behind her, silencing the platitudes at last. But the peace was not to endure.

Her mother practically charged at her in the foyer, breathless with excitement. “You must tell me at once everything that happened!”

She looked so girlish in her enthusiasm that Angelica could not suppress a chuckle. “Mother, we have only now returned.”

Margaret sobered and straightened her back. “Of course, I’ll allow you to get your breath and Liza may bring us some tea. Three suitors in one day! I am so proud of you, my dear.”

Before Liza had set down the teapot, her mother fixed Angelica with an eager, inquisitive stare. “Now, tell me everything that transpired.”

Angelica lifted her gaze heavenward as she poured her tea. “There was nothing of note. We discussed the weather. I inquired of their families, complimented Makepeace’s phaeton and horses, and greeted our acquaintances in the park.”

Margaret’s eyes twinkled. “I hear that Makepeace is one of Claire Belmont’s suitors. It appears you have pulled him from her grasp.”

Angelica closed her eyes at her mother’s mercenary tone. “I didn’t intend to do so.”

Margaret harrumphed. “She has plenty of other suitors. I daresay she is your biggest competition this season. Your dowry may be larger, but blondes are all the rage.”

Angelica felt an unexpected wave of pity for Claire. Like any respectable debutante, the girl was utterly consumed with the obsession of seeking a husband with the most elevated title and greatest wealth. Angelica had no doubt that the beautiful girl would succeed. But then what would become of her? After she went through the unpleasant business of producing the requisite heir, Claire’s life and purpose would be over. Angelica’s hands clenched into determined fists under the table. That must not happen to me.

Margaret interrupted her reverie. “Daydreaming about your suitors, I see. You didn’t favor one more than the others with your attention, did you?” Her voice sharpened.

“Of course not. In fact, I hardly said a word and allowed them to talk about themselves, which they were pleased to do.” Angelica refrained from saying that her head ached so badly that speaking took far too much effort.

Her mother nodded. “Good. I am glad you are seeking to atone for your scandalous behavior last night, though it seemed to benefit you greatly.”

“What do you mean?” The only thing Angelica regretted about last night’s conduct was that she drank too much and failed to scandalize anyone.

Margaret leaned forward conspiratorially, though they were privately ensconced in their own home. “I think your popularity is highly due to the fact that the Duke of Burnrath paid some attention to you last night,” she whispered. “He has never been known to do so to an unmarried lady, so all gentlemen, naturally, will seek to discover what he found so entrancing about you. Men are like that, my dear. Where one goes, the others will follow. You must endeavor to keep his interest, but do not, under any circumstance, allow him an opportunity to get you alone. Then you would be ruined.”

Angelica laughed at her mother’s contradictory instructions. “How is it that a man can bolster my reputation with one hand, yet destroy it with another?”

“Do not be glib.” Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone knows that he will never marry an English girl. Great catch though he would be, he would only offer indecent things to you.”

“What sorts of indecent things?” Angelica leaned forward. It was the closest her mother had come to discussing anything that went on between a man and a woman. A sudden and alarming dizziness and warmth curled through her body as she remembered the duke’s hands upon her during their waltz last evening.

“A lady would not endeavor to know,” her mother said primly. “Now you must take a nap and restore your color. You are much too pale.”

Angelica slumped in disappointment and changed the subject. “Lady Wheaton told me His Grace is rumored to be a vampire.”

Her suggestion had the desired effect, for Margaret’s agonized sigh heaved through the dining room.

“I was afraid you would hear that foolishness.” She frowned. “Put that twaddle firmly out of your mind. Vampires are nothing but the product of a drunken physician’s twisted imaginings.”

“Actually,” Angelica countered, “there have been legends of such creatures for centuries. I have researched—”

Margaret bristled. “I will hear no more of this foolish drivel.”

“Yes, Mother.” She struggled to keep the mutinous tone from her voice as she turned back to more important matters. “May I take Liza with me for some shopping this afternoon?”

Margaret nodded. Her gratitude for the shift in topic was apparent. “You must purchase a new fan. The one that matches your gown for tonight is frayed. Now hurry on to bed. I cannot have you looking like a corpse at Almack’s tonight.”

Angelica grinned. “A corpse at Almack’s… now that would be a great story!”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare start in on that morbid nonsense again!”

As Angelica made her way up the stairs, she shook her head when Margaret murmured, “It is a pity His Grace will not be there.”

A small part of her agreed. If she allowed him the opportunity to get her alone, she could be ruined, her mother had said. Now that was a tantalizing thought… too tantalizing. If her fascination with His Grace last evening was any indicator, such an endeavor would be far too risky. Besides, he’d seemed to have grown bored with her quite rapidly once she began to speak of her writing. Angelica frowned as she lay down for her nap. It was a shame the Duke of Burnrath wasn’t really a vampire. He was certainly handsome enough to fit the role perfectly.