One Bite Per Night (9 page)

Vincent sighed. “I've never encountered a mortal with so many interests as Lydia. It would take hours to catalog her pursuits. She paints, shoots, fishes, plays chess, and has a penchant for horrid gothic novels, to name a few.”

Ian chuckled. “Gothic novels, you say? Well, that certainly helps. I believe Miss Price will be eager to meet my duchess.”

“Why do you say so?” Vincent eyed two drunkards stumbling from the Carp's Head.

The duke smiled. “Have you heard of the author Allan Winthrop?”

Lydia breathed a silent prayer of thanks that, after her lessons, Miss Hobson permitted her to retire to the library. Vincent and the duke had not yet come down for supper.

“It appears his lordship has left you a gift,” Miss Hobson commented as she settled near the fire with her embroidery.

A delighted gasp escaped Lydia's throat. On her favorite settee lay a novel. “
The
Haunting
of
Rathton
Manor
by Allan Winthrop” was embossed on the cover in silver script.

Vincent had given her a novel to cheer her and perhaps apologize for neglecting her. Lydia hugged the book to her breast in delight before settling down to read.

The story was so chilling and engrossing it seemed she was halfway through in minutes. Dusk had fallen in the blink of an eye.

Lydia looked up from the novel as she heard footsteps approaching. “My lord, thank you for the book. It is so delightfully ghastly, it is giving me the shivers! Do you—” The words died as the duke's imposing form filled the doorway.

“Miss Price.” He bowed courteously.

“Your Grace!” She leaped to her feet and sank into a deep curtsy, darting a nervous glance at Miss Hobson. “I apologize. I had thought you were Lord Deveril. He left me a book, you see.”

The duke chuckled. “No, it was I who left it for you. Vincent told me you enjoy such tales. Do you like it?”

Her cheeks flushed at his kind gesture. “Oh, yes, very much, thank you.”

“Very good.” Burnrath smiled strangely. “I am well acquainted with the author.”

“You know Allan Winthrop?” She tried to suppress her excitement.

“Yes, I know her very well.”

Lydia frowned. “
Her?
”

The duke winked. “Mr. Winthrop is my wife, Angelica Ashton, Duchess of Burnrath.”

Her jaw dropped. “Truly? I look forward to meeting her!”

“I am certain she will be delighted.” He smiled and left them with another bow.

“Well,” Miss Hobson said the moment the duke was out of earshot, “His Grace seems to approve of you. That is a very good sign for your future prospects.” The clock chimed the seventh hour, and the chaperone smiled. “It is time to change for supper. You may wear the mauve silk tonight.”

Lydia brightened. At last she was in half mourning, and the gowns the Sidwell sisters had delivered were divine. She couldn't wait for them to finish the rest of her wardrobe. Right now they were working on her court dress.

As if to celebrate the reintroduction of color to Lydia's life, the dining room was adorned with flowers. When Vincent rose from the table, she observed he wore new clothes as well. From his snowy neckcloth, down to his gleaming black boots, he radiated gentlemanly elegance.

Lydia smiled in appreciation. “My lord, you look very dashing.” His eyes were such a stormy blue she felt she could drown in them.

The duke cleared his throat, and her cheeks heated. “And you do as well, Your Grace.”

Burnrath looked down at his equally fine garb and sighed. “Perhaps I am due for a new wardrobe.” His silver eyes gleamed with teasing laughter.

The meal was another dull affair with all proprieties observed. Miss Hobson's extreme scrutiny of Lydia's use of her utensils and how she held her napkin was vexing. Lydia knew it was because they were going to leave for London in a month. Her appetite fled as excitement for the unexplored warred with apprehension at the unknown.

Miss Hobson's instructions continued after supper. Lydia ground her teeth behind her fan, on the verge of pleading a headache. Then she heard Vincent utter a muffled curse when the duke corrected his manner of sitting.

My
God, he has to endure nearly as much preparation as I!
Her eyes widened at the realization. The earl had been a recluse before she'd arrived on his doorstep. Of course he would be unaccustomed to Society. A twinge of guilt gnawed in her belly. If it were not for her, Vincent wouldn't have to suffer this discomfort.

When the duke suggested they practice their dancing, Lydia and Vincent shared a pained smile.

***

By the time Vincent and Lydia perfected the quadrille, his ward was nearly panting in exhaustion. Her breasts heaved within the confines of her gown, and Vincent almost groaned in desire. With her flushed cheeks and parted lips, she resembled a woman finished with a more pleasurable activity.

“I find it overwarm in here. Would you care to walk in the gardens?” Vincent asked before Ian or Miss Hobson could subject them to further exertion.

“I would like that very much.” Palpable relief filled Lydia's eyes.

“You must fetch your cloak and wear your walking boots,” the chaperone admonished. “It is likely damp out.”

Lydia met Vincent at the door, and he offered her his arm. The cool breeze was indeed a relief after hours of dancing. Appreciatively, he breathed in the scent of rain and newly bloomed roses. A lantern glowed from the parapet above. Vincent waved at Ian, concealing his annoyance. Lydia glanced at Miss Hobson's reserved figure and sighed. As if by mutual agreement, they walked to the edge of the garden, out of earshot.

“How are you getting on with the dressmakers?” he inquired carefully. He'd lurked in the shadows outside the castle during those sessions, senses tuned for the slightest tremor of danger.

Lydia gave him the first genuine smile he'd seen all evening. “Very well, my lord. Not only have they produced the most exquisite garments I've ever seen, they also told me about Thomas Lawrence, my favorite painter. I've been wanting to ask—may we visit the Royal Academy and meet him?”

Those
clever
minxes.
Vincent bit back a chuckle.
They
wish
to
make
certain
the
painter
and
I
cross
paths. At least there is little harm in it.
“Perhaps.”

“The flowers are lovely in the moonlight.” Lydia's voice was oddly tremulous.

Vincent studied her face a moment. “I know that look. You are curious about something, and reluctant to ask me. Speak up, Lydia. You should know by now you have freedom with me.”

She bit her lip, then said, “I realize you have been greatly inconvenienced by my presence here.”

His eyes widened. Was she aware of his desire for her? “Whatever do you mean?”

She sighed. “I mean…everything. I've observed you enjoy your privacy, yet since I've arrived, your home has been inundated with people. Now you must prepare for the London Season alongside me, though I know you wouldn't go if I hadn't been placed in your care.”

The sweetness of her words warmed his soul. He forced a teasing tone. “Are you apologizing for being a burden to me?”

Plucking a wild rose blossom from a nearby bush, she avoided his gaze. “Yes, and I also want to know why you did this thing. What made you agree to become my guardian, to open your home to me when my own family would not have me? Why did you sacrifice your peace for a stranger?” She yanked the petals from the flower, allowing them to drift to the ground. “Miss Hobson told me there is an alliance between our families, though she didn't speak further on it.”

Vincent met her gaze. He hadn't spoken of his friendship with Joseph or its tragic ending to anyone. But Lydia was his old friend's kin, and as such, she deserved to hear the tale—at least some of it. “In 1651, I…er, my ancestor was stationed alongside yours, Joseph Price, third Earl of Morley, in the army of Charles II. During the battle of Worcester, Joseph saved my…ancestor's life. A vow of eternal friendship was made. While the King was in exile, the two earls aided each other in avoiding Cromwell's spies and concealing their royalist leanings.”

Vincent shook his head. Those had been dangerous times, with imprisonment and possible execution only a hairbreadth away. “The alliance was to be cemented further with the betrothal of the Earl of Deveril to Joseph's sister. Alas, there was an accident.”

Vincent closed his eyes, remembering being drunk in celebration of his betrothal and the return of King Charles. He'd foolishly indulged in his favorite hobby of climbing, and tumbled from the cliffs near his castle, his body shattered on the rocks below. A dark figure had appeared over him. He'd thought it was the angel of death. The being knelt down and whispered to him in Gaelic: “
I
have
killed
many
Englishmen. I atone for it by leaving you with eternal life.
” Twin daggers pierced his throat. Then all was blackness punctuated by moments of extreme pain and a savage, alien thirst.

Lydia interrupted his thoughts. “What sort of accident?”

“I do not know,” Vincent lied. “Only that it left the earl horribly disfigured.”

He'd awakened as the tide came in. His body was perfectly healed, and with obscene strength, he climbed up the cliff, aware of nothing except a burning thirst. The gamekeeper found him, shouting in alarm at his tattered clothes. Vincent tore the man's throat open and satisfied the hellish hunger. As the corpse dropped at his feet, he realized he'd become a monster.

“The betrothal was broken,” Vincent said flatly. Seeing Mary again had been out of the question. “Though Joseph visited his friend's bedside every month the first year after the accident, and twice a year thereafter.”

His throat tightened at Joseph's loyalty as guilt crippled him at the times he'd covered himself in bandages and pretended to be an invalid so Joseph wouldn't see what he'd become.

“How very sad,” Lydia whispered achingly. “The alliance lasted all these years?”

Vincent nodded. “So it has, though I did not know until Lady Morley arrived, brandishing those ancient papers.”

Her eyes widened in the realization that it had been a forgotten alliance. She managed a shaky smile. “So there is friendship between our families once more.”

“Well, between you and me, at least.” He chucked her under the chin. “As for your grandmother, I do not believe I can ever abide that harpy.”

“Thank you for that,” Lydia said quietly. “When I learned she did not want me, I'd thought there was something wrong with me…perhaps I was cursed.”

He kissed her brow, savoring the taste and feel of her silken skin. “You are blessed, Lydia, and I intend to see you remain so.”

For the first time since he'd been Changed, Vincent did not regret lacking the courage to end his existence as a new purpose made itself clear. As they walked back to the castle, he made a silent vow to Joseph's spirit, wherever it was. “I
will
see her safe and happy, old friend.”

“This is the worst torture I've been subjected to in my life,” Lydia groaned as Emma helped her regain her feet. “What diabolical person devised such a horrid custom?”

She scowled at her new court dress, displayed in the solar as incentive for learning how to walk in it. The Sidwell sisters had created a masterpiece of gleaming white satin overlaid with petticoats adorned with hundreds of seed pearls, and embroidered with gold rosettes and wreaths. Miss Hobson remained in awe over the sisters' perfection and their speed in sewing it.

Not daring to risk ruining the elaborate creation, Emma had fastened a tablecloth to the back of Lydia's gown. With that, Miss Hobson bade her to practice walking…backwards. One was not allowed to turn her back on the monarch, yet one's court dress was required to have a long train—which made obedience to such a rule damn near impossible.

Miss Hobson was completely unsympathetic. “In my day, I had to wear a gown with enormous hoops and stiff panniers, as well as a train that was twice as wide.”

Lydia frowned at the mitigation of her plight. “Was your headdress this cumbersome?”

“No, those seem to have grown over the years.”

In truth, Lydia liked the elaborate confection of pearls and white ostrich plumes. It reminded her of a voodoo priestess's crown, or perhaps the headdress of an Indian chief. Unfortunately, the damned thing persisted in falling off whenever she bowed.

“May we be finished for the afternoon?” she pleaded. “I will be mortified if Lord Deveril sees me wearing a tablecloth.”

Miss Hobson looked as if she was about to argue, then she glanced out the window at the sun sinking behind the west hill. “The hour
is
late. Emma, bring the court gown upstairs so we may put it on Miss Price before the earl arrives. I assume he would like to see the picture she presents.”

The gown was like a complex piece of machinery. Even with the aid of Emma and Miss Hobson, the ordeal of dressing Lydia took nearly an hour. Emma had barely arranged Lydia's hair when Aubert informed them that the earl was downstairs.

Assuming what she hoped was a stately air, Lydia carefully made her way down the stairs as Emma carried her train, and they both prayed she wouldn't fall. When she made it to the solar, Vincent's eyes widened. Her heart lodged in her throat. Did he find her beautiful? Then his features settled into what looked like boredom.

“No hoops?” he asked with a raised brow.

Lydia's heart sank. He was concerned with the dress, not her.

“The custom has been abandoned since the Regent was crowned,” Miss Hobson told him.

“Ah.” He nodded. “It will do, then.”

As Emma and Miss Hobson helped her back upstairs to her chamber, Lydia bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from shrieking. After all the hard work it had taken to dress, all he could say was, “
No
hoops?
” and “
It
will
do
”?

While Emma removed the elaborate gown, Miss Hobson attempted to soothe her. “Men are ignorant of the complexity of ladies' fashions. You cannot expect them to appreciate such delicate nuances.”

When they joined him for supper, it seemed Vincent had an inkling of her trial.

“Have you mastered the art of walking backwards yet?” he asked as the soup was served.

Lydia opened her mouth to deliver a crushing set down. Then her pride stopped her from showing her hurt. She forced a light tone. “Not quite yet, my lord, and it is cruel of you to tease me about it.”

He sighed and toyed with the food on his plate. “My apologies if I have wounded you. The gown is exquisite, fitting for a prize such as yourself. It is the sycophantic ritual it symbolizes that vexes me.”

As Lydia met Vincent's gaze, it seemed they shared a deep kinship. She now understood why he avoided London. Both were outcasts, not meant for the pomp and ceremony of High Society. Why could he not see that? Why was he determined to place her in such a role? Why wouldn't he permit her to remain here…with him?

Lydia could not resist a bit of retaliation for his callous dismissal of her efforts, or of his obliviousness to her feelings. After the meal concluded and they adjourned to the solar, she said, “I understand you are to help me practice proper conduct with my suitors.”

“Well, I am rather busy…”

Before he could continue his protest, she warned, “Or in recompense for your earlier mockery, Emma could pin a tablecloth to your back, and you may demonstrate your skill in walking backwards with a train.”

“You have me there, Miss Price.” Vincent gave her a wink, acknowledging her victory just as he did when she managed a clever move in their chess games. He turned to Miss Hobson. “Who shall I be first? Lord Struttingcock or Viscount Mealymouth?”

Miss Hobson looked down her nose at him and refused to participate in the humor. “We shall start off simply. You may be an earl who wishes an introduction to Miss Price. I shall pretend to be you, her guardian.”

Despite the chaperone's attempt to maintain a formal air of instruction with the playacting, it was all Lydia could do to hold in her laughter as she and Vincent competed with each other on who could fabricate the most ridiculous names for her imaginary suitors. For now it was as if they were playing another game.

“You must also know how to respond when a suitor behaves in an ungentlemanly manner. Now, Baron…er…Stuffedshirt, say something improper to Miss Price,” Miss Hobson instructed.

Vincent lifted an imaginary quizzing glass and looked down insolently, as if perusing her bosom. “I say, Miss Price, do your garters match your gown?”

Lydia felt herself blush at his heated gaze and intimate allusion to her undergarments. She nearly answered in the affirmative before Miss Hobson told her to rap his arm with her fan.

“Now turn away and never acknowledge him again.” The chaperone had them act out various scenarios until the novelty had long since worn thin.

“Would you care to stroll through the garden, Miss Price?” Vincent asked with exaggerated formality.

Lydia nodded with relief. This farcical play was becoming tedious. She donned her cloak and took his arm. The night air was chilly yet tranquil, redolent with the scent of the newly bloomed spring.

“You look very lovely this evening.” Vincent swept her with a glance that warmed her from her toes up. His hair fell about his shoulders, making him look deliciously rakish.

Slowly, his hand crept down to take hers. Shivers broke out on her flesh as his thumb caressed her wrist and the back of her hand. He had such long fingers, she mused.

“I read a poem today that reminded me of you.” He gave her another sideways glance, as if confessing something naughty. “Would you like to hear it?”

Her knees quivered beneath her skirts. Perhaps he did feel something for her.
Perhaps
he
is
now
going
to
declare
himself!
“Yes, I would.”

“Your chaperone is watching us from the parapets. It would be better for me to recite it more privately.” With gentle force, he guided her behind a tall hedge.

Lydia's belly fluttered as Deveril took both her hands. His hair gleamed like an angel's wing. Would he tell her he couldn't let her go, that they didn't have to go to London? That instead they could remain here…together?

“
She
walks
in
beauty, like the night
,” he whispered.

“Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”

Vincent's eyes were like a turbulent sea in a moonlit storm. He gazed at her as though she was something precious. Lydia sighed as his long fingers removed a pin from her hair.

“One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,”

Her breath caught as he twirled a lock of her hair.

“Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.”

His hand crept up to caress her cheek, his intent gaze never wavering.

“And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,”

His lips curved in a sensual smile as he concluded.

“But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!”

For an eternity, they stared as if peering into each other's souls. His fingers slid past her cheek and threaded once more through her hair, sending the remaining pins scattering into the grass.

“Lydia,” he whispered.

Then his lips were on hers, warm, silken, teasing. Her limbs melted. Intoxicating heat unfurled low in her body. Lydia reached up to pull him closer, to demand more.

Vincent pulled back before she could grasp him. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “And that is your most important lesson in courtship, Lydia. Never allow a man to get you off alone, especially if he desires to recite poetry, and
particularly
Lord Byron's verses.”

A strangled gasp caught in her throat at his duplicity. It had all been part of the game! “You…you…”

He held up a hand. “Now slap me with your fan in retaliation for taking such liberties.”

Reeling in outrage, she fumbled in the pockets of her cloak for the ineffectual weapon.

Vincent shrugged, undaunted at her ire. “That is why you should keep your fan at the ready.”

Seizing the bundle of cloth-covered sticks, she smacked him soundly on the arm, much harder than Miss Hobson had instructed.

“You are lucky I did not have my gun,” she hissed.
How
could
he?

To her vexation, he chuckled. “No, a kiss such as that, indiscreet as it was, is hardly a dueling offense.” His eyes narrowed, and he stalked closer. Lydia thought of the time he'd told her the story of the wolf. Vincent looked just as predatory as he had that night. “However, if a man kisses you like this…”

With lightning speed, he seized her, pulling her against his body as his lips came down on hers with brutal force. One hand ruthlessly gripped the nape of her neck, while the other grasped her bottom, urging her hips against his. Though it was still part of the game, Lydia was unable to prevent herself from responding. Molten desire flooded her body, flaring brightest within her core. His mouth ravaged hers, his tongue darted in, sliding across hers, coaxing it to tangle with his in a primal dance.

A low moan escaped her throat as she ground her body against him. His hardness pressed, insistent upon her most secret place, making her ache for something only he could give.

With a low growl, he broke away and thrust her from him. His breath came in harsh gasps. “If a man kisses you…like that,” he said roughly, “then I shall see him dead.”

Panting with need, Lydia met his savage gaze in challenge. “What if I want him to?”

Vincent moved forward. Her lips parted in anticipation. Then he stopped and sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You must save such things for the marriage bed, else you'll be ruined.”

“But, Vincent, I want—” He stopped her before she could say, “
you
.”

“This must not happen again.” His voice was firm, containing an edge of a growl. “I will escort you back to the castle, and then I must go for my walk.”

As they walked back, Lydia felt his arm vibrate with tension beneath her hand. Those kisses had affected him as deeply as they had her. She
knew
it! Why would he not admit the fact? Her thighs trembled with unfulfilled desire as her mind raced with the truth of her heart.

Not only did she want Vincent's kisses, she wanted his heart. She did not want or need to go to London to find the man she would love and marry. She'd already found him.

***

With a smile, Miss Hobson watched Lydia flee up the stairs. At first, as she'd observed Deveril's stiff stride and turbulent countenance, she'd thought the two had quarreled. Then one glance at Lydia's flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and swollen lips confirmed the earl had finally given in to temptation and stolen a kiss.

She looked back out the window. Her smile deepened at the sight of Deveril stalking off angrily into the night. Miss Hobson would have wagered a guinea that he was cursing himself for his lapse in propriety.

Ah, yes. Things were progressing along quite nicely.