Bite Me, Your Grace (6 page)

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.”

The moment the Winthrops were announced by the Cavendish butler, Angelica knew something was wrong. The throng abruptly fell silent as the Winthrops took their place in the receiving line. Icy stares and amused glances pelted her and her parents before the ballroom erupted in whispers and mocking laughter. When her mother led them to greet the hostess, Lady Cavendish cut her dead.

“Surely she cannot still be upset that I won her ruby earrings last month,” Margaret whispered. Her cheeks flamed scarlet. “It's not my fault that she is a dreadful whist player!”

As they made their way to the refreshment table, Baron Osgoode approached them and retracted his offer of marriage.

“I am certain you understand,” he said, favoring her with a stiff, mocking bow.

“Though I am happy to be relieved of your suit, I do
not
understand,” Angelica replied, voice laden with deliberate scorn at his rudeness.

Osgoode swept her with a scathing glare. “Come off the act, little miss. Everyone knows what happened between you and the Duke of Burnrath.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” her mother's voice quavered in indignation, “that you are refusing her simply because she danced with His Grace at the Wentworth ball?”

Osgoode sneered. “So, she lied to you as well. I assure you, madam, that she has done more than
dance
with him.” With another mocking bow, he left to lead a blonde beauty onto the dance floor. He whispered in her ear, and they both glanced at the Winthrops and smirked.

“Explain yourself immediately!” Margaret hissed.

Angelica swallowed. Suddenly the glitter of the chandeliers and the bejeweled nobles around her was overwhelming to the point of nausea. “When I sprained my ankle, the duke found me, not the coachman. His Grace sent his coachman for the doctor. He did not touch me other than to carry me to his couch and check for broken bones.” She did not dare confess that he also drank her blood… and nearly kissed her.

“You mean to tell me that you were inside his home with him
alone
?” her mother panted, appearing to be close to an attack of the vapors. “Do you know what you've done? We're
ruined
! No man will have you now, and my father will cut us off from every shilling of my inheritance!”

Ruined.
It had finally happened. She was free. She opened her mouth to say, I told you I did not wish to wed, but the sight of her mother's pallor and the heartbroken look on her father's face gave her pause. In that moment, she knew that not only did her parents love each other, but they also
both
loved her and honestly believed a marriage would be best for her. Her belly knotted with something that felt suspiciously like guilt.
I
never
wanted
to
hurt
them
. As if her intentions would make everything well again.

“We had better leave,” Margaret said, practically tugging Angelica's father along. The richly garbed crowd of spectators resembled a malevolent rainbow sea.

“The Duke and Duchess of Wentworth!” The Cavendish butler pounded his cane as he announced the latest arrivals.

Her mother paled further and Angelica winced at the realization that more of their friends were arriving to hear of her family's disgrace. The duke and duchess greeted their hostess and then approached the Winthrops with friendly smiles.

“They must not have heard yet,” Papa muttered, staring at the polished floor.

“That makes this disaster all the more humiliating!” Mother wailed, clinging to his arm.

I will atone for this somehow, Angelica vowed.
I
shall
stay
with
them
and
give
them
the
money
I
earn
from
my
stories. Perhaps I will even write romantic novels if I have to. I hear they turn a higher profit. Somehow, I will earn their forgiveness.
Yet, despite her remorse, she couldn't help but feel liberated from this false society and its perverse way of auctioning women off to the highest bidder.

“The Duke of Burnrath!” the butler boomed. The thud of the cane now sounded more like a judge's gavel.

“Oh my Lord, I think I'm going to faint,” her mother gasped, swaying on her feet. The Duchess of Wentworth hurried to her side. The duke grinned at her father as if everything was playing out to a satisfactory conclusion. Angelica wondered if perhaps the man was cracked.

Angelica steadied her mother and craned her neck to see the vampire stroll in, impeccable in his evening finery. Her heart thudded in her chest at the sight of his beautiful but dangerous visage. Unbidden, her hand went up to her neck, which tingled in remembrance of his bite.

The whispers echoed through the ballroom like sinister wings of bats.

“That blackguard!” her father growled. His narrow frame shook with fury. “I am going to call him out.”

“Jacob,
please
!” her mother pleaded, her face was as white as Angelica's ball gown. “Do not do such a thing. You will only throw more fire on this dreadful scandal!”

“Why not? All is lost anyway. I intend to give them something else to talk about. It is my duty to demand satisfaction and defend my daughter's honor.” He squeezed Angelica's hand and approached the duke, likely to the Quality's everlasting amusement.

Angelica clutched her mother's arm with numb fingers, silently praying.
Please, do not let him hurt my papa.
The Wentworths remained silent. Perhaps they had heard the gossip after all. If so, she owed them her eternal gratitude for their kindness.

A crowd gathered around and drowned out her father's angry tirade with excited murmurs. To the disappointment of their audience, the two men went out the doors side by side, their backs straight as pikestaffs. Their figures were barely visible under the meager light of the lanterns strung over the lawn.

“Surely they do not intend to duel
here
?” Lady Cavendish put a shaky hand to her throat at such a momentous breach of propriety. However, Angelica swore she could see a glint of excitement in her eyes.

“Of course not, my lady,” the Duke of Wentworth drawled. “Rapiers and pistols were not part of the recommended dress, after all. The worst they can do is engage in fisticuffs.”

Lady Cavendish shrieked at a passing servant to fetch her some hartshorn.

“Oh, I wish I could see what is happening.” Margaret's voice was shrill with panic.

“It would take a shipman's winch to lift the crowd out of the way,” Angelica replied drily, trying to hide her panic.

The Duchess of Wentworth chuckled as she fanned Margaret. “I admire a woman whose wit can hold up to any situation.”

In a surprisingly short time, her father and the duke returned. Burnrath possessed a satisfied expression, while Angelica's father appeared stunned.
What
had
happened
outside?

“Dear God, he's coming this way,” her mother gasped, retrieving her own fan. “Hasn't he done enough damage?”

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as the Duke of Burnrath approached her. His gaze locked on Angelica while his lips curved in an enigmatic smile. Her chin lifted in attempt to deny her weak knees.

The whole world seemed to hold its breath as he bent to one knee and placed a hand over his heart.

Angelica frowned as her mind swam in confusion.
What
in
the
blazes
is
he
doing? Surely he doesn't think an apology will repair matters in the slightest.

“Miss Winthrop,” the vampire began, holding her motionless with his compelling husky voice. “Ever since I first saw you, I have been enchanted. And when I found you injured outside in front of my house and had the opportunity to speak with you, my heart was touched. I have not been able to rid you from my thoughts since. Would you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The gasps from all around hurt Angelica's ears as they nearly shook the large chamber. Her stays became a cruel vise, forbidding the slightest breath of air into her lungs. The blood roared in her ears. Black and white spots danced in her vision.

“Of course she will,” Margaret announced cheerfully, then immediately fainted into Papa's arms. The Duchess of Wentworth rummaged in her reticule for smelling salts. Lady Cavendish elbowed her way through the masses for a better look.

“But… you are a vampire,” Angelica blurted out.
Good
God, is this truly happening?

Titters and guffaws broke out. “Surely you do not believe that nonsense, my dear,” the Duke of Wentworth said, his brow creasing with worry.

Angelica blushed as she realized she'd spoken aloud. Burnrath laughed, but there was a warning glint in his eye.

“I was only jesting, Your Grace,” she said faintly and reached out to help him to his feet. He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

“I believe I have further things to discuss with your father,” he said softly. “Please save a dance for me upon my return.”

The Duke of Burnrath bowed and left her. Immediately Angelica was swarmed by an array of ladies, all congratulating her as if they had not given her the cut direct only minutes ago.
This
cannot
be
happening!
A silent scream caught in her throat as the situation finally dawned on her.
I
was
ruined, then in the blink of an eye I have become the toast of the beau monde. All because a vampire wants to marry me!
Everyone thought her tears and laughter were from joy. No one had the slightest idea that she was dangerously close to hysterics.

As the women cooed at her and exclaimed over the duke's proposal, all Angelica could think was:
I did not say “Yes.”

***

Ian carefully pulled away from Lady Margaret's grasping hands again. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the overbearing woman was on the verge of kissing his feet in gratitude. Smoothing things over with Angelica's father had been a simple matter, for wealth and a lofty title could accomplish practically anything in these greedy, corrupt times. Mr. Winthrop had agreed that Ian would call upon the Winthrops the following evening to hammer out the betrothal contract and set a date for the wedding.

“If I may be so bold, Your Grace,” Jacob Winthrop began, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I would feel much more secure if the nuptials were performed as soon as possible. My daughter is rather… er, spirited… and I believe there could be risk of her, ah… proclivities leading her into further danger without a firmer hand than mine taking the reins at the earliest convenience.” He held up his hands defensively. “It is not that I am a weak man, but Angelica is my only child, you see, and I fear I have indulged her shamelessly.”

Ian chuckled. Many a suitor would not want to wed a girl after hearing such talk, but he wasn't such a man. Especially since an early wedding suited his plans just fine. “If I could have her as my bride tonight, Mr. Winthrop, I would.”

Angelica's father nearly choked on his brandy, a horrified look warping his strong features. “Good God, man. I did not mean
that
soon! Even if we could procure a special license at this hour, it would not at all be the thing. Imagine what people would say!”

“I was only jesting, Mr. Winthrop.” Ian was quickly tiring of the conversation. All he wanted was to feel his Angelica in his arms once more. “Now, shall we return to the ladies? I believe I owe the lovely Miss Winthrop a dance.” Without waiting for a reply, he set down his untouched glass and headed out of the room without a backward glance.

Ian's heart clenched when the crowd surrounding his intended bride moved enough for him to see her face. She looked pale as death and her cheeks were streaked with tears.
Poor
little
Angel,
she
has
been
through
a
lot
this
night.

Her hand felt icy as he wrapped his fingers around hers and led her to the center of the ballroom as the musicians struck up a waltz. He almost lost his step as he saw the seething fury burning in her gypsy eyes.

“Pray tell me, whatever is the matter, my dear? But please smile so as not to incite the gossip mill again,” Ian said pleasantly, as if they were exchanging small talk.

Her teeth clenched in a hideous parody of a grin and she hissed, “Why are you doing this? You can't possibly need my dowry, and I am certain as bloody hell that you do not love me.”

In truth, he hadn't completely expected Angelica to fly into his arms and squeal in joy at his suit, but her degree of hostility came as an unpleasant surprise. “Such language is quite unseemly, Angel.” He smiled down at her but tightened his grip on her hand. “Though I do admire that you are astute enough to know I have plenty of wealth in my own right, surely you were raised to expect that love is hardly a necessary ingredient to a successful marriage.”

Angelica's laughter mocked him. “I am breathless with your flattery. Pray continue.”

Ian was torn between amusement at her daring and anger because she was forcing him to muddle through this awkward explanation. She should be more grateful than her mother had been for saving her and her family from social death. Leaning down as if to smell her perfume, he lowered his voice.

“Spare me from your wrath, Angel. Since you insist upon knowing, I will tell you that your reputation was not the only one in danger. Thanks to that upstart, John Polidori, and his story taking the Continent by storm, people have become suspicious of me.”