One Bite Per Night (12 page)

***

Lydia sighed in relief as she leaned against a pillar, resting her sore feet. Her slippers pinched like the devil, and her face ached from forcing smiles at her inane suitors' compliments. She longed to escape to the library and curl up with a novel. Even more, she longed to take Vincent's hand and run back to Cornwall. Alas, Miss Hobson would bring the roof down on her head if she left this party held in her honor.

To her dismay, a group of pastel-draped debutantes invaded her solitude. Lydia fought the urge to yawn as they chattered on about Lord So-and-So and Baron Whatnot.

“Who is that ugly man by the pillar?” a young blonde asked.

Her friend giggled, and Lydia only just overheard her reply. “That is
Don
Rafael Villar, a hidalgo from Spain and an infamous pugilist.”

“A pugilist?” the other repeated quizzically. “How can that be? Look at his arm!”

Lydia turned to peer over her fan at this latest topic of gossip. The man was not ugly, though she could understand why sheltered young girls would think so. His skin was an intriguing shade of cinnamon; his hair fell past his shoulders, an inky black that rivaled the duke's, and his eyes were the color of Vincent's brandy. If that wasn't enough to set him apart from the pale, gilded crowd surrounding him, the left side of his face bore rippled scars, as if he'd been burned.

At last she saw what was amiss with his arm. It hung limp and awkward, damaged from the same burns. It was a wonder he could box with such a disadvantage, albeit believable when one observed his muscled form, thinly disguised under his simple, unadorned attire.

No, this man was not ugly; he was striking with his savagely chiseled features and intent, amber eyes. She would love to render him in charcoals.

The debutante's voice intruded on her speculation. “He is looking right at us!”

“Let us make haste to the retiring room before he attempts to speak to us.”

Lydia fought back a gasp, for the man was not looking at them. He was looking at
her
. His amber eyes pierced hers, and his mouth twisted in a fearsome scowl. So she did what she felt was right under the circumstances. She lifted her chin, flicked open her fan, and approached him.

“
Don
Villar.” She took care to sound cheery as she curtsied. “I am honored that you attended my coming out.”

His scowl deepened. “I believe you are not supposed to speak to me unless we are formally introduced.” His voice was gravelly, yet rich with his Spanish accent.

Lydia refused to step back and gave him a wry smile. “
Would
anyone introduce us?”

He blinked as if startled by her humor. “Probably not.”

When he didn't say more, she sighed. “Are you always this taciturn?”

He nodded curtly then flicked his gaze around the room. “
Señorita
Price, you should return to your party before your fragile reputation is ruined.”

Lydia frowned. These days her reputation felt more like a burden than an asset. Before she could reply, a firm hand grasped her arm.

“
Don
Villar,” Vincent said with a painfully slight incline of his head.

Rafael did not bow at all. “Lord Deveril.”

They stared at each other with far more intensity than the sullen looks exchanged by Lydia's suitors when they argued about who would dance with her first.

Vincent behaved as if Rafael had committed a crime in speaking to her. He pulled her away, refusing to acknowledge the Spaniard any more. “Come, you look like you need fresh air,” he said tersely.

Lydia refused to tremble as he led her out of the French doors and into the spring night. It took all of her effort to hide her alarm. She'd never seen him this angry.

“I don't want to see you speaking with that man again.” His tone was rife with command.

Lydia bristled at his autocratic behavior. “Why ever not?”

Vincent gripped her shoulders and brought his face down close to hers. “I don't want you
near
him, because he is dangerous. Even the greenest chits here know that.”

Senses electrified at his nearness, she leaned forward until her mouth was inches from his. “Why is he dangerous?”

A low growl escaped his throat, sending shivers up her spine. “It is not fit for an innocent young lady to know.”

“Perhaps I don't want to be innocent,” she whispered against his lips. Vincent shivered under her touch, and Lydia felt a moment of triumph before he gently pushed her away.

“We must return to the ballroom before people begin to talk.”

Flinching at his stiff tone, she lifted her chin and followed him back to the crushing noise of her party. Immediately, several young men flocked to her side, begging for a dance. It took a few minutes for her polite refusal to be heard over the barrage of music and loud conversation.

“I must thank the fine ladies who have attended this night.” She seized upon the excuse, seeing a handsome woman seated at the far end of the room, wearing a mauve half-mourning gown that clashed with her auburn hair. Unable to dance, she must be bored senseless.

The woman smiled when Lydia sat next to her.

Lydia returned the smile. “I am honored that you are here, Lady…Rosslyn.” She blushed at her difficulty in remembering everyone's names. At least she had remembered this lady was a countess.

“It is my pleasure, Miss Price,” the woman replied. “Are you enjoying your come out?”

“It is lovely, thank you.” Honesty compelled her to add, “Though it is overwhelming. I have met so many people, and it is difficult to keep all the names straight.”

Lady Rosslyn smiled sympathetically. “I felt the same way when I had my come out. Miss Hobson was my chaperone then. I have full confidence she will help you sort everyone out.”

“She
was
?” Lydia asked, feeling an instant kinship with the other woman.

The countess nodded. “I found her intimidating beyond measure at first. Eventually, I learned that she has a warm heart under her frigid exterior.” Her blue-green eyes held a momentary twinge of sadness. Had they been close?

Reluctant to pry, Lydia changed the subject. “What do you know of
Don
Villar?”

Lady Rosslyn peered over her fan at the sullen Spaniard. “Only that he is a close friend of the Duke of Burnrath. I've seen him here occasionally when I attend the duchess's literary circles, but he's never been receptive to conversation.” A faint blush colored her cheeks.

Lydia concealed a smile. It appeared she wasn't the only one intrigued by Villar. However, this lady's fascination looked to be of a far more dangerous sort. Risking a glance at her guardian, Lydia shivered as she recalled his touch.

Ignoring her petulant suitors, Lydia spent the rest of the evening talking with Lady Rosslyn. It was much more difficult to pretend indifference to Vincent's burning gaze.

As the hour drew near for Sir Thomas Lawrence's arrival for supper, Vincent hid a smile while he watched Lydia pace the length of the drawing room. If she kept at it much longer, she was liable to wear a path in the carpet.

“What if he does not like my paintings?” she asked for the seventh time.

“Then he has no taste,” he repeated, trying not to notice the curve of her rear as she continued her pacing.

“What if he refuses to teach me?”

“Then I will hire someone else. However, I am confident that he will accept my offer.”

Vincent was more than confident. He'd made discreet inquiries about the painter before the visit to the Royal Academy. Despite Lawrence's fame and lofty position, he was deeply in debt. The man didn't gamble or overindulge in frippery. His loose pockets were the result of being overgenerous to his friends. It was difficult to fault him for that.

Lydia calmed at his reassurance. Her pacing halted, and she lowered her voice. “What is the story about him and the daughter of Sarah Siddons? Miss Hobson refuses to tell me.”

The curiosity in her gold-flecked eyes nearly undid him. However, it was best she not know. “It's not a suitable story for a lady.”

She sighed in disappointment. “Well, whatever happened, he certainly seemed to be remorseful about it.”

Yes, Lawrence had indeed been stricken with guilt. It radiated throughout his entire being. Sally and Maria should be pleased to hear that…and also that he was balding.

Despite the fact that Ian had charged one of his vampires to guard the sisters, Vincent surreptitiously glanced at every window to ensure they were not here to spy on Lawrence.

As if summoned by the thought, Aubert entered the drawing room, escorting the painter. “Sir Thomas Lawrence,” he intoned.

Lawrence bowed and shook his hand. “Good evening, Lord Deveril.”

Sir Thomas kissed Lydia's hand, and Vincent concealed a frown. In spite of his bald crown and the wrinkles framing his eyes, the man was still far too handsome.

Supper was an amiable affair as Sir Thomas regaled Lydia with tales of all the famous painters he knew, and Lydia described New Orleans. Her words evoked such a vivid picture that Vincent could feel the humid heat, see the riverboats, and taste the spicy food.

After the meal they adjourned to the yellow salon, where Lydia's paintings were set up on display. Sir Thomas scrutinized each so intently that Vincent had to place a hand on Lydia's shoulder to ease her nervous trembles.

“You have a remarkable sense of color,” he said finally. “Subtlety in the right places, and vivid hues where it has the best impact. You mix your palette well, Miss Price. I would be honored to give you a few lessons and perhaps even have a word with my fellow Academicians about admitting you.”

She beamed at his praise. “Thank you.”

Miss Hobson scowled from her seat in the corner. Her dislike for Lawrence was apparent, though at least she did not wish to murder him. Oblivious, Lydia and Sir Thomas sipped wine and spent the next hour in animated conversation about light, color, and texture.

Vincent's gaze locked on Lydia's glittering golden eyes, the flush of her cheeks, and her lush parted lips. He savored the musical passion of her voice. She was like a beacon warding off the darkness in his soul.

“Would you paint her?” he blurted, realizing he must have a way to look upon Lydia after she was taken from him.

Sir Thomas blinked. “Well, between her lessons, my duties at the Academy, and the upcoming exhibition—”

Vincent silenced him, naming a figure that made the poor chap nearly choke on his wine. Lydia gasped, myriad emotions playing across her beloved face.

“I believe that could be arranged.” Lawrence coughed, regaining composure. “Shall tomorrow afternoon be agreeable to begin?”

“That is fine, though I am afraid I shall be out.” He gave Miss Hobson a pointed look, which she returned with a firm, subtle nod. She would keep Lydia in sight the entire time.

After Lawrence took his leave, Miss Hobson uttered a few cool platitudes about the painter and his scandalous past before changing the subject to Lydia's suitors. Lydia let out a small, unladylike groan, clearly wanting to talk more of painting and scandal. Vincent had his own reasons for disliking both topics.

“It is time for my walk,” he said sharply, unable to bear another moment of speculation as to which man would ultimately enjoy her company.

Lydia met his gaze, an unspoken plea for him to remain flickering in her eyes. He wished he could…for eternity.

As he prowled the London streets to slake his unholy thirst, Vincent wondered if centuries later, he'd be gazing at Lydia's portrait with the same mournful longing that was in Lawrence's eyes when he looked upon his painting of Sally.

***

Lydia trembled with excitement when Sir Thomas arrived the next afternoon. The painter bowed, ignoring Miss Hobson's hostile gaze. Lydia bit back a chuckle. As if she would be interested in the man in
that
way. He was older than her father.

The yellow salon was transformed into a studio, with her easel and paints set near the large picture window where the light was best. She eyed the blank canvas, fingers itching to obliterate the whiteness with creation.

Sir Thomas surveyed the arrangement with an approving nod. “Well, Miss Price, what would you like to paint?”

“I'd like to attempt a portrait.” She tried not to sound too giddy. “I have drawn plenty, but I've never dared attempt to paint one.”

He nodded. “Then it would be best to start from one of those sketches. May I see them?”

Smiling to conceal her nervousness, Lydia fetched her sketchbook and handed it to him.

He flipped through the pages as she stared out the window, focusing on a sparrow in the budding lilac bush. The sun was high in the blue sky, so it would be hours before Vincent could join them downstairs. She cursed his headaches.

“Most of these are of Lord Deveril…” Lawrence broke into her thoughts. His tone was bland with no hint of censure.

Lydia dared to turn back around.

The painter continued, “With such striking features, he is a good choice for a subject. You have an artist's eye, I see.” He carefully removed the most recent drawing, one she'd begun the night Vincent first kissed her. “I believe this is the best of the lot. You captured…
something
in his expression. Let us hope it shall carry over to the canvas.”

As she carefully traced the preliminary outline on the canvas, Sir Thomas pulled out his own sketchbook and began drawing
her
.

Why had Vincent commissioned a portrait of her? Did he intend it for her to hang in her future husband's drawing room? Was that yet another strange British custom? She held her breath as she outlined his firm, angular jaw. Or did he want the painting for the same reason she wanted one of him? Did he want something to remember her by? Something to gaze at long after she was gone from his life?

Once she finished the outline, Sir Thomas nodded in approval and showed her his own sketch. Lydia stared. In minutes, he had captured the shape of her face and features perfectly. “We may begin your sitting tomorrow afternoon, if that is agreeable with your guardian.”

He went through her paints and handed her a few colors. “The largest challenge in portrait painting, in my opinion, is mixing the right flesh color. His lordship is so very pale, so I advise only a drop of red.”

As Lydia mixed the paint on the palette, Sir Thomas asked about her presentation and debutante ball, and Lydia began to feel at ease with him.

“I understand you met your grandmother for the first time,” he said quietly.

Lydia shook her head, despising the ache in her throat. “
Saw
her is more apt. She refused to acknowledge me.”

Lawrence made a sympathetic cluck. “I am sorry to hear that. Although I am frankly surprised that Lady Morley continues to bear such venom over your father's marriage. People should learn to forgive and move beyond old grudges.”

Miss Hobson raised a brow and gave him a piercing stare. “Some things cannot be forgiven.” From the chaperone's censorious tone, Lydia could tell she wasn't referring to her parents' marriage.

The painter knew it as well, for he flushed. “In matters of love, the heart takes precedence.”

“Real love isn't fickle and doesn't cause hurt to the objects of its affections,” Miss Hobson countered before returning her attention to her embroidery in cool dismissal. Lydia gaped at the crushing set down.

He opened his mouth to argue, then shook his head and turned to Lydia. “That is all for our lesson today, Miss Price. I have other pressing engagements.”

“Of course. Thank you very much,” she replied, trying to conceal her puzzlement with the odd exchange between her mentor and her chaperone.

The moment Lawrence departed, Lydia whirled to face Miss Hobson. “What in the world was that about? Was he once a beau of yours?”

Unbelievably, the chaperone laughed, a dry, yet somehow still-merry sound. “Certainly not.” Her mirth vanished as quickly as it appeared. “One of my first charges was nearly ruined by him—not because she did anything untoward, but because of his reputation. Fortunately, his attention wandered to another as it has always been wont to do. However, she was so devastated that I feared she would never make a good match.”

“Ah, so he has a penchant for chasing skirts.” Lydia managed a light laugh, though once more, at the mention of his womanizing habits, disappointment gnawed at her consciousness at the thought of her hero being less than honorable. Vincent, on the other hand, was far
too
honorable. If only he would fling propriety to the wind and…and… A memory of his kiss permeated her senses, evoking an aching void of longing in her heart.

If
only…

She shunted the thought away and returned her attention to the subject of Sir Thomas Lawrence. “Well, he is one of the finest painters in the world, no matter his flaws.”

“I certainly cannot deny that.” Miss Hobson nodded. “If he were not, I would have protested Lord Deveril's hiring him to tutor you. All the same, I—”

She fell silent as Aubert entered the room. “The dressmakers have arrived.”

Lydia bit back a curse, every vestige of her being dreading another tortuous fitting, and wishing to continue working on her painting of Vincent.

“Very good, Aubert. Escort them to the blue salon.” Miss Hobson beamed, clearly relieved at the change in subject and delighted at the prospect of seeing new frocks and fripperies. Setting her sampler aside, she approached Lydia. “Let us get you cleaned up. I do hope they've finished your new riding habit.”

Lydia sighed and removed her painter's apron before she washed her hands and followed her chaperone out of the studio.

Miss Hobson grimaced at the paint staining Lydia's fingers. “Thank heavens for gloves,” she muttered before they entered the blue salon.

The seamstresses rose from the settee, wielding their measuring tapes and pins.

“How wonderful it is to see you, Miss Price.” Maria's eyes gleamed warmth as she withdrew a carriage dress needing final adjustments.

Sally nodded. “Are you enjoying London?”

Their genuine interest spurred Lydia's excitement over her last few days. “Very much. Lord Deveril took me to visit the Royal Academy, and you will not believe what has happened.”

The sisters leaned forward with avid curiosity. “Do not tease, tell us.”

“I had the pleasure of finally meeting Sir Thomas Lawrence!” Her words came out in a rush. “He came to supper last night and, afterward, Vincent”—she flushed at her improper slip of tongue—“ah, I mean, Lord Deveril has hired Lawrence to give me painting lessons!”

The dressmakers stared at her, frozen. Lydia looked down in embarrassment at having spoken of her guardian in such an intimate manner. Doubtless they thought she was callous and too American.

“You met Sir Thomas Lawrence?” Sally breathed at last with no hint of censure.

Relieved, Lydia nodded. “And he is teaching me portraiture. Perhaps I may have a piece finished in time for the Royal Exhibition next month.”

“What did you think of him?” Maria asked sharply, appearing not to care as much about the Royal Exhibition.

“He is very kind and an excellent tutor.”
Though
a
mite
absentminded
and
melodramatic
, she added silently.

“Is he married?” Sally inquired softly.

“Not as far as I know.” Lydia frowned at the intensity of their gazes. Why were they so interested in the man? Had one of them been among Lawrence's fabled string of conquests? Immediately, she dismissed the idea. Both were much too young.

Yet as she studied Sally and the deeply pensive look in her gray eyes, Lydia suddenly realized why Lawrence's painting of Sally Siddons had seemed so familiar to her.
This
Sally bore an astonishing resemblance to the subject of that portrait. They even shared the same Christian name. If the painting wasn't decades old, she would have thought they were the same person. Perhaps Sally and Maria Sidwell shared a blood relation to the Siddons family.

Siddons…Sidwell.
Even the surnames were similar. Perhaps a relation on the wrong side of the sheets?

Miss Hobson cleared her throat. “Let us see if that carriage dress suits Miss Price. And how much work is left on her next ball gown.”

Maria blinked as if woken from a dream. “Of course.”

The next two hours were spent taking measurements and pinning hems. Lydia struggled to remain still and avoid glancing at the clock, wondering when Vincent would return and if there would be time for a game of chess. She couldn't wait to tell him of her painting lesson.