Bite Me, Your Grace (12 page)

He'd thought she was afraid of him, but that wasn't true. Angelica felt safe with Ian. Safe… and valued. Every aspect of his behavior in their brief courtship implied he cared about her thoughts and feelings, and he never criticized her for being different from other females. The realization brought another thought.
Perhaps
he
isn't marrying me only to protect his reputation. Perhaps he is doing it because he's lonely.
She remembered the story of how he became a vampire, abandoned on the field of battle, attacked, and left for dead over two centuries ago. Now all of his family was gone. Of course he was lonely. But he shall be lonely no longer, she vowed.

Suddenly, Angelica couldn't wait to return to London and shop for her trousseau. She strode to the door, ready to announce that she was eager to become the Duchess of Burnrath, but that she would do so because she
wanted
to, not because of his threats.

Then she froze with her hand grasping the handle, remembering the ferocity of her grandfather's tirade. Not only would the earl be reluctant to put aside the quarrel, but he also would still blame her father for her rebellion. And worse, Angelica and her mother would likely tear each other apart on the carriage ride home far worse than they had after their previous visits to Pendlebur Park.

She would have to find an explanation that would soften the earl as well as vindicate her father. Angelica was tempted to blister her mother's ears for encouraging the earl to threaten her family, but what was the use? Margaret would never understand. Besides, after the wedding, she would be free of her mother. But now, she would have to soften the earl for her father's sake.

Angelica sat back down on the bed and thought. Her excuse would have to be believable but something silly… something the usual featherheaded debutante would think.
Oh, this would be difficult!
After discarding multiple explanations, she settled on a plan of action. She wouldn't be able to keep a straight face easily while spewing such drivel, but she would have to do her best. Ian wouldn't be the only one with a smooth tongue, she vowed. A vivid memory of his smooth tongue momentarily weakened her knees, but Angelica thrust the hypnotic image away to focus on the matter at hand.

With renewed determination, she made her way down the stairs and softly knocked on the library door. “Grandfather?” she said in her most imploring voice.

“What is it now?” the earl demanded in his usual churlish tone.

She took that for permission and opened the door, composing her features in the most submissive demeanor possible. “I came to apologize.”

Her grandfather gave her a brief glance and made a gruff noise of assent. “Very well.”

Angelica approached him with careful, delicate steps, as if she was reenacting her presentation to the Sovereign. Noticing the stiff set of his shoulders, she avoided meeting his eyes. Forcing her voice to the most dulcet of tones, she began. “I am terribly sorry for my awful behavior and that I said I did not wish to wed the duke. My only explanation for such foolishness is that I am so afraid that I will not be worthy of him.”

She chanced a glance then and noticed his gaze softening. Her opening appeared to be working.

“What do you, mean, child?” he asked in a tone he hadn't used since her childhood, when he'd comforted her after her nightmares.

Angelica fought back her indignation at being called a child but maintained her composure. “Since the dukes of Burnrath only married foreign nobles, the idea of being the first English Duchess of Burnrath frightens me terribly. I do not believe I am worthy of such a high honor, given my half common blood. Please forgive me?” she whispered, hoping he'd believe the explanation.

“Oh, dearest granddaughter.” He enfolded her in his arms. “You do not need to be afraid. Your mother is an expert on how to act the proper lady in society. Just follow her guidance and you shall be a fine duchess. Now you must forget all that nonsense about writing novels. Leave that for the spinsters and commoners.”

Angelica stepped out of her grandfather's embrace, biting her tongue. She would see what Ian had to say about that. A twinge of doubt curled in her belly. What if the duke would indeed forbid her to write? She closed her eyes, refusing to ponder such a horrifying thought.

“Grandfather?” She returned to the mission at hand. “Could I beg you to not tell Mother about the foolish things I said? She would be dreadfully upset, but worse, she will tell Papa, and he would bring the roof down on my head! After all, he helped to encourage the match between the duke and me. He was always wrangling invitations to parties His Grace would attend, and such.”

“He did, did he?” The earl's eyes lit with reluctant admiration. “Very well, I suppose I will hold my tongue then.”

Angelica allowed herself to feel a measure of hope. Perhaps someday the earl would reconcile with her father. That thought, as well as anticipation of seeing her husband-to-be, nurtured her for the remainder of the visit.

Ian called upon the Winthrops the very evening that Angelica and her mother returned from Pendlebur Park. He was surprised to discover just how much he had missed his bride-to-be. He was so busy trying to solve the mystery of the disappearance of one of his vampires that he shouldn't have had time for such whimsical thoughts. Still, Angelica haunted his memory with her impish smile, gypsy eyes, and irreverent remarks.

“I have something to tell you, Your Grace,” Angelica said as soon as they were alone in the drawing room for their designated five minutes.

“Oh?” He tried to hide his amusement at her serious demeanor even as he wondered if it was possible for her to have grown even more beautiful in the short time she'd been away.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I wanted to let you to know that I agree to the match and I will marry you.”

He couldn't suppress a chuckle at her regal demeanor. “Well, I should certainly hope so as our engagement is a foregone conclusion. The contracts have already been drawn up.” Ian reached to touch her silken hair, unable to resist her.

Her eyes narrowed as she rose from her seat. “I would have you know,
Your
Grace,
that it was
not
a ‘foregone conclusion.' In fact, I was not going to marry you at all! I have been doing everything I can to avoid becoming leg-shackled to you and I was going to run away!”

His jaw clenched. Ian had hoped to dispel her feelings that he was a monster and apparently had failed far worse than he had ever anticipated.

“And just where were you planning to run to?” he asked icily, unwilling to acknowledge the pain in his heart.

Angelica did not flinch at his tone. Her skirts rustled as she paced the room. “I would have used the money I made from my stories to rent a flat somewhere in the city and support myself with short stories until I finished a novel. I heard that the lady who wrote
Pride
and
Prejudice
made one hundred forty pounds.”

“That would not be enough to buy your pretty gowns,” he mocked, his temper rising at her sheer ignorance and ingratitude.

“Gowns can go to the devil!” she retorted, cheeks growing pink in indignation. She looked down at her pale-blue satin opera gown as if offended by the shimmering elegance adorning her exquisite form. “Besides, they are not sensible garb for an author, I should say.”

The way Angelica glibly spoke of living in squalor and subjecting herself to the sordid dangers of London rather than being his duchess made him clench his fists. Did she really think he was a fate worse than death?
Or
was
she
truly
that
naive?

“What play are we going to see?” she asked in a blatant attempt to change the subject.

Ian did not intend to let her off that easily. Inspiration struck him. Oh, he would take her to a “play” for certain. A play that she would never forget.

“Something pitiful and tragic,” he said with an evil smile. It was high time his bride received a taste of reality. “I think you will be quite affected.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion at his tone but she nodded in assent, ever displaying her indomitable courage. “I will get my cape.”

“Put on a sensible pair of boots as well.” Ian's heart twisted with bitterness. He would show her a fate worse than death.

***

Angelica peeked at the duke, nervous about his cold demeanor. He was angry about something. His eyes seemed to shoot sparks, and his jaw was clenched so tightly she could see a nerve pulsing. She shivered. She felt like she was locked in a cage with a hungry wolf. Lifting the curtain, she peered out the carriage window.

“The theater district is in the opposite direction.” She couldn't keep the alarm from creeping into her voice. “Where are you taking me?” Surely he wasn't going to bite her.

He smiled, but his eyes held no warmth. “I want to show you something.”

Within moments, a foul odor was creeping into the coach. Her nose wrinkled. “What is that awful stench?”

“Humanity.” The carriage stopped and the groom handed her down. The driver looked around at their squalid surroundings, his nostrils pinched in disapproval.

“Drive twice around the block, and keep your pistol out and at the ready,” Ian commanded before taking Angelica's arm and leading her away from the carriage.

They were somewhere on the outskirts of the district of Soho. Angelica clung to his arm with one hand and pressed a handkerchief to her nose with the other. The reek of the place was unbearable. Her boots squelched sickeningly in the quagmire of mud and excrement that covered the rutted street.

Even at this late hour, the streets were filled with people. Scantily clad women with faces covered with rouge and sores beckoned to gentlemen from doorways to ramshackle buildings and crooked alleys. Some even lifted their skirts, calling out lewd invitations that she only half understood. Little boys ran barefoot with runny noses, trying to catch rats. There were even people lying in the gutters. Whether they were drunk, sleeping, or dead, Angelica couldn't tell.

One of the bodies nearby suddenly sat up. “Spare me a coin 'er two, milady? Please, take pity on a dying man.” His grimy fingers clutched the hem of her dress, and she could smell his rancid breath through the handkerchief. His nose was a gaping hole of rotten flesh.

She reached into her reticule and tossed him a guinea, trying not to shriek in revulsion. Unbidden, her eyes strayed back to the doxies. From what she overheard from the servants, these women earned their living by satisfying men's “baser desires,” whatever those were. The ones she observed looked pitiful and brittle. Angelica looked down at her fine clothes and shuddered.

I
have
been
such
a
spoilt
fool!
Her stomach churned in self-disgust.
Here
I
was, throwing a childish tantrum to escape marriage to a beautiful man… a beautiful titled man, no less, and a life of luxury and ease. And these half-starved women have to degrade themselves every evening just to stay alive.

“Tell, me Angelica,” Ian said coldly, leaning on a jeweled walking stick. “Is this squalor what you would prefer to being wed to a monster?”

“No!” she cried, choking on the word as she realized what he was doing.
Oh
God, I hurt him. He thinks I'm afraid of him. That's what this is all about.
“Ian, you are not a monster.” She walked closer, reaching for him to prove her point.

He closed his eyes, digesting her words. “Then why were you afraid to marry me, if not in fear of what I am?”

She clutched his coat sleeves and looked up at him, willing him to see the truth in her eyes. “I wasn't afraid of what you are at all. Well, I was afraid because you are a
man
. I was terrified of losing my freedom.”

Doubt and confusion filled his gaze, but there was a glimmer of something else.
Was
it
hope?
“What do you mean?”

Angelica took a deep breath and explained. “My mother told me that a man would never countenance his wife writing gothic novels. I thought I wouldn't be able to bear giving up writing, especially not to dedicate my life as an ornament for your arm and a ‘perfect' hostess. Besides,” she added with narrowed eyes. “I've read
The
Sylph
, so I know how miserable life as a duchess can truly be.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She struggled not to drown in his glowing silver eyes. “What made you change your mind?”

She faltered, looking down at the slimy cobblestones beneath her feet. “Well, my family has convinced me that my duty is to marry, and our engagement is healing rifts between my grandfather and my mother and father. And, well… you are not really a fate worse than death.”

“Indeed?” he asked with a raised brow.

“Oh, yes. In fact, you are very handsome and…” She resisted the urge to place her hands against her burning cheeks. “Quite nice!”

The tender smile that she loved returned to his face. “Oh, Angel, truly, you will have more freedom with me than you had in your home. After all, a duchess may do as she pleases.”

“Even write?” she breathed, daring to hope.

He nodded, and caressed her cheek. “Even write.”

Pleasure curled through her, all the way down to her toes, until she saw a large rat skitter by, reminding her of something else. “In that case, Your Grace, may I request a wedding present?”

“Anything,” he said indulgently.

“May I have a cat?” Her lips curved as she voiced a long-denied wish. Her mother would never allow animals in her home.

“A cat?” He chuckled at the odd request. “Surely you would prefer a little lapdog like the other ladies?” He smiled and his voice turned teasing. “Or perhaps you would enjoy having a monkey like those that belong to the more eccentric matrons?”

“Certainly not,” she scoffed. “Dogs are useless and monkeys belong in the jungle. Your house has rats. The one that startled me so I tripped down your stairs was monstrous! Besides, Mother never let me have any pets, and I shall be quite lonely during the daytime when you are… asleep.”

“Very well, a feline it is, along with anything else your heart desires.” He took her arm, pulling her close. “Let us leave now. I am sorry I brought you here.”

“Oh, please do not be sorry!” Angelica protested, clinging to him. “I always knew that London had unsavory districts, but I hadn't the slightest notion of how bad it could be. You have opened my eyes, Your Grace. I fear many others are unaware of the pitiful living conditions here. Perhaps I could write numerous articles on the subject. I believe I shall want to come back and gather more information about these sorts of sections of the city.”

“As long as you never venture here alone.” Ian's voice was stern. “Such a foolish action would be extremely dangerous. Truly, I should never have brought you. I was not thinking clearly.”

Angelica hid a smile. It seemed he truly did care for her. “But what if I wear a disguise?” she teased.

“No disguises,” he countered roughly. “After all, they did not protect you from me.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered solemnly.

He reached up and stroked her hair. “Please, call me Ian.”

Her heart warmed at his soft tone. “Very well… Ian. May we go home now?” She shivered as the dampness of her gown seemed to seep into her bones.

Again, agonized guilt slashed across his features before he managed a light smile. “Of course, my Angel.”

Angelica sighed and leaned into him as they headed back in the direction of the carriage. Footsteps echoed on the cobblestones behind her, but she barely heard them. Suddenly Ian stopped.

“Polidori!” he growled, and thrust her away from him so roughly that she almost fell.

Shock roiled through her at the abrupt change in his mood. “Ian, what—”

He didn't hear her. The duke was staring at a handsome Italian man who had stumbled into the square.

Could this be the Polidori, the one who wrote “The Vampyre”?
She didn't have time to ask, for Polidori's dark eyes met Ian's glowing gaze, then widened in terror as Ian bared his fangs. Polidori turned and fled, and Ian bolted in pursuit. His walking stick clattered to the ground, forgotten.

Angelica watched in stunned silence as the normally composed duke disappeared around the corner, running like a madman.

“Oh-ho, this be our lucky day!” a voice chortled, and she was seized from behind.

As she struggled against her captor, a scruffy man came out of the shadows. His toothless grin chilled Angelica to the bone. It was the same grin that graced little boys' faces while they pulled the wings off butterflies. One quick glance at the empty street told her that the coach had not yet arrived. Not only that, but the square was now suddenly deserted, as if everyone were happy to leave her to her fate.

“Aye, I see the gov'ner has left his fancy piece for us.” The scruffy man's filthy hand reached for her bodice.

The man who held her tugged her backward. “'Tis my turn first!” he growled.

His sour stench made her eyes water. She was
not
going to wait long enough to find out what these ruffians had in store for her. She raised her knee and kicked back and upward, her boot slamming into the man's groin.

He released her immediately, his breath whistling out of him in a pitiful squeal. She rushed forward to freedom… and her skirts tangled around her boot. Angelica plummeted face-first into the filth on the street. An enormous ruby winked at her from the mud and her eyes widened at its incongruity before she noticed the length of polished wood to which the jewel was affixed.

“Methinks it's
my
turn now,” the other man chuckled, approaching her and unfastening his grimy trousers. “I like it when they fight; 'tis exciting.”

Angelica's hand closed around Ian's walking stick, and she scrambled to her feet with a scream of fury tearing from her throat.

***

Ian's hand closed around Polidori's arm just as he heard Angelica scream. All thoughts of interrogating the writer ceased. What had he been thinking?

“Another time, Doctor,” he said, releasing the man.

Choking with guilt and terror, Ian ran back to the square where he had left his intended bride.

Ian sucked in a breath at the sight before him. One man was crumpled on the ground, blood dripping from a wound on the side of his head. Angelica fended the other off with Ian's walking stick, oblivious to the mud dripping from her face and hair. Apparently she had not discovered that the walking stick concealed a blade, for she was merely bludgeoning her enemy with the length of wood. Admiration for her courage warred with guilt for putting her in danger. His protective instincts rose to a frenzied pitch and the scent of blood teased his nostrils. With a roar, he seized Angelica's attacker and sank his fangs into his throat.