Bite Me, Your Grace

Seven


Angelica hummed a merry tune as she wrote “The End” at the bottom of the last page of her story, “The Haunting of Rathton Manor.” When Liza returned, she would have her deliver the manuscript to Colburn and return with her twelve pounds. “The Ghost of the Highwayman” had already been published and had received excellent reviews to her delight and her father’s pride. Her mother, for once, had kept her lips pursed in silence, only muttering her disapproval in the background. Now that she’d confessed her writing success to her parents, Angelica had renewed her hope that she could convince her father to let her use her dowry for her writing career instead of marriage.

For the tenth time this afternoon, she peered out her window at Burnrath House. The mansion loomed behind the budding hawthorn trees in silent vigilance, guarding a vampire during his day rest… a vampire who had drunk her blood then apologized for it… a vampire who had nearly kissed her and probably would have apologized for that as well. Instead of a horrid monster who slaughtered innocents, he had been a gentleman who’d summoned a doctor, seen that her injuries were treated, and sent her safely home.

Angelica smiled as she thought back to that night, five days ago, when the doctor had helped her out of the carriage and into the arms of her frantic parents. The look on her mother’s face as she took in Angelica’s masculine attire had been so comical that her face had burned with the effort of suppressing the giggles. She had dozed on and off as she was hauled into the house, muzzy-headed from the medicine the doctor forced down her throat and only half hearing her mother’s tirade.

Papa had looked so frightened and concerned that she had longed to tell him some good news. On a flight of inspiration, she had informed them about the publication of her first story as if the happy event had occurred that very day.

“You will be a published author?” Papa’s eyes had lit up once they were settled in the drawing room. “Well done, my dearest!”

“Do not encourage her!” Margaret shrieked, doubtless on the verge of hysterics. “If anyone knows she penned that story, she will be ruined beyond all hope.”

Angelica’s head had nodded back and forth in slow motion. It seemed that she could see everything in double. She feared she would fall out of her chair. She gripped the sides of her seat in a futile effort to stop the swaying.

Dr. Sampson must have noticed, for he’d interrupted the discussion. “The young lady has had a very trying day. I have given her a healthy dose of laudanum and I recommend that she be put to bed immediately. I will check on her tomorrow and bring a crutch with me.”

The following days were paradise for Angelica. She spent nearly the entire time writing, with no Almack’s, no balls, no callers, no suitors, and no lectures from Margaret to take her away from her muse. When she wasn’t writing, she enjoyed meals in bed and reading her favorite novels, taking every available opportunity to look out the window at the Burnrath mansion and daydream about her encounter with the vampire. Over and over she replayed her adventure with him in her mind, relishing the tingle that ran up her spine with each remembered detail.

Angelica shook her head and fought to remain practical. She would miss having the duke as a neighbor when she moved to a modest flat and embarked on her career. Perhaps she could call on him sometime when her career was more established. Then maybe she could ask him about vampires… and maybe he would kiss her! She frowned. Practical, she must be practical. And yet her belly fluttered as she imagined his lips on hers… and the sight of his bare chest beneath his unbuttoned shirt.

To be truthful, her ankle had felt fine since the day before. She merely wanted more time to finish her story and enjoy her peace away from the social whirlwind.

Only moments after Liza departed with her letter and manuscript, Margaret marched into Angelica’s bedchamber with Dr. Sampson. It was time for another examination. Unfortunately, this time he pronounced her healed. Angelica bit back an unladylike curse.

“Then we may go to the Cavendish ball tonight?” Mother asked him, wringing her hands.

“Just so long as she limits her dancing,” he said, closing his medical bag.

Margaret beamed. Angelica groaned.

***

John Polidori awoke to the sound of a soft soprano singing a haunting melody. A blissful sigh escaped his lips when he felt the soothing sensation of a cold cloth bathing his forehead. He opened his eyes, and his blurred vision took in the sight of the figure before him. The cropped hair and masculine attire led him at first to believe that he was being tended by a young man. But the lilting voice and smooth luminous skin gave him pause. Was he being nursed by one of the famed castrati singers of his home country? The notion was dashed as he felt a pair of soft breasts pressing against his shoulder.

“John, you are awake.” Her voice was cultured and gentle as an angel’s.

“Where am I?” he croaked, forcing his heavy eyes to focus. “How long have I been asleep?”

She handed him a cup of water and he drank greedily. “I found you unconscious in the alley behind your usual club three nights ago.” Her full lips pouted as she ran a gentle hand through his hair. “I brought you to my home and have been caring for you since. I think you were sick from drink.”

He could see her clearly now. He knew this woman. How could he ever have mistaken her for a male? And how could he have forgotten her lovely voice? Her exquisite face had stayed in his memory for all time. Lord Byron and his friends had mocked him when he spent weeks searching the Swiss countryside for her. But if Byron had seen her, he would have stilled his wagging tongue.

The rich fabric of her waistcoat and cravat looked coarse against the silken glow of her face and hands. Her dark eyes were as large as a doe’s, fringed with lashes impossibly long and thick and framed with thin black brows. The lady’s fine-boned face was as delicate as porcelain, with ruby lips that made him groan with desire for a taste. John reached up and touched them with his finger to make sure she was real.

Excitement warred with dizziness. “It is you! Rosetta, my darling, what are you doing in England? I searched for you for months after we met. I set your leg. Do you remember?”

She nodded, smiling. “I will never forget your kindness. My heart is filled with joy that you remember me.”

“But how did you find me?” he asked, frowning as he took in his surroundings. “And why is this chamber without windows?”

She ran a hand through his curls. “First you must eat while I heat water for your bath. I’ve brought you clean clothing. When you are comfortable, I will tell all.”

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.

Before, all he had to worry about was whether Angelica would reveal his secret to her peers. Now, she would have none. His hands clenched the felt-covered table until he heard the wood squeal in protest. Then again, she may yet be able to open her mouth to someone. There must be a way to silence her and also repair the damage he’d done.

A mad notion whispered in the back of his head. The more he thought about it, the more attractive the idea became. If the plan proved successful, not only could he ensure that Angelica kept her mouth shut, but she would be welcomed back into society and pampered more than ever. And, hopefully, the rest of the speculations about his nocturnal proclivities should cease as well.

Ian smiled as he handed Wentworth the quill and gestured to the betting book. “You are about to make a tidy profit, my friend.”

“Why is that?” His friend blinked in confusion at the abrupt change in mood.

“I will bed the Winthrop heiress,” Ian said with a wry grin. “However, it shall be after I wed her.”