One Bite Per Night (13 page)

After the seamstresses departed, Miss Hobson shook her head. “Such an irreverent pair. I cannot fathom what they were about in asking you such questions about that painter.” Her fingers caressed the embroidered hem of the new carriage dress. “Though for garments as exquisitely and expediently produced, we may endure them speaking above their station from time to time.”

“Artistic appreciation shouldn't be limited only to the upper classes!” Lydia bristled, despite the fact that the sisters had seemed more interested in the artist than his work. “Especially considering that most artists are not of the nobility.”

Miss Hobson gave her an impatient glance, clearly not in the mood to debate. “That may well be. Now it is time to get ready for Almack's. I hear the Marquess of Stantonbury will be attending. He is one of the most sought-after bachelors this Season…”

Lydia groaned. The marriage noose grew tighter every day.

Vincent made his way up the walkway to his town house, eager to see Lydia. Between her painting lessons, dress fittings, and attending balls and musicales, he'd hardly had the opportunity to speak with her all week. Was she happy? Had any of her numerous suitors captured her interest yet? Miss Hobson hadn't noticed any sign of a budding
tendre
so far.

As he entered the drawing room and Aubert took his coat, he heard Angelica and Lydia laughing together in the yellow salon. He'd forgotten they were attending the opera tonight. So much for having a moment alone with her.

“My lord.” Aubert's eyes were wide with a strange combination of excitement and uneasiness. “Viscount Bevin has just arrived. He wishes to speak with you in private. I, ah, placed him in the library.”

Not
another
one.
Dread burrowed in his gut. The first one had been a fortune hunter, easy to turn aside. The second had been old enough to be Lydia's father.

Viscount Bevin… Vincent couldn't place the fellow. He'd been introduced to so many knights, barons, viscounts, and earls that the names and faces were a tiresome blur. Aubert must not care for the man, or else he'd have allowed him to socialize with Lydia and the duchess while he waited.

“Thank you, Aubert. You may bring him to my study.”

Ignoring the temptation to peek in on Lydia, he reluctantly trudged upstairs.

Pouring a glass of brandy, he sat at his desk and awaited the inevitable.

The young viscount bowed the moment he was admitted into Vincent's study. “Lord Deveril, I humbly request Miss Price's hand in marriage.”

A red haze obscured Vincent's sight, blurring out the scrawny lad in front of him. His fangs throbbed with the need to tear the man's throat and drink down his life.

“My lord?” Viscount Bevin asked in a voice tinged with fear.

The dandy would do well to be afraid. Vincent took a deep breath and fought to keep his feral instincts under control.
This
man
is
doing
right
by
offering
for
Lydia. It is as I planned.
However, he could not bring himself to accept the offer immediately.

“The Season has just begun, and I would like my ward to enjoy a portion of it before she settles into wedlock.” How easily those words came. The rest he had to force out. Swallowing the acrid taste in his mouth, he added, “However, I promise to consider your offer.”

Briefly, a petulant frown crossed Bevin's countenance, and Vincent's fists clenched. Then the young lord bowed. “Thank you, my lord. May I call upon Miss Price tomorrow?”

I
would
rather
you
call
on
the
devil.
Vincent gritted his teeth and nodded.

“Forgive me for saying so, my lord.” Bevin peered at him with wide eyes. “You do not look well.”

“It is another of my headaches. Now if you will excuse me…” Vincent turned to the window, unable to bear the sight of him a moment longer. “Aubert will see you out.”

The moment Bevin departed, Vincent slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands. He hadn't expected Lydia to receive offers so quickly. More would be forthcoming, and he would have to accept one of them. Soon, she would be out of his life. He gazed at Lydia's painting of the sunrise. His heart clenched. It was probably the last gift he'd receive from her.

“Miss Hobson!” he bellowed, caring not a whit for propriety.

The chaperone arrived quickly. Doubtless, she'd been hovering right outside the door. “Yes, my lord?” she inquired levelly.

Vincent rubbed his temples. Perhaps a headache truly was on the way. “Lydia has received another offer for her hand.”

Her eyes widened. “D-did you accept?”

“I told Lord Bevin I would consider it. For now, I wish for Miss Price to enjoy the Season a while longer.” He looked back at Lydia's painting, avoiding Miss Hobson's hawklike gaze. “In the meantime, he may court her along with the other dandies who have been flocking here.”

The chaperone sighed as if she were relieved. Was she attached to Lydia as well? “That was wise of you. It gives the opportunity for better offers to come along without rejecting him out of hand. Viscount Bevin is of decent fortune and good character. However, I, for one, would like to see Lydia a countess…or perhaps even a duchess.”

Vincent suppressed a growl and fought to press on with his responsibility. “It has occurred to me that I know little about anyone in Society, much less anything pertaining to her potential suitors. Could you perhaps edify me on the prospects?”

“Of course, my lord.” Miss Hobson sat primly before his desk. “The biggest catches this Season are the Earl of Makepeace, the Marquess of Threshbury, Viscount Sheffield, and, of course, yourself.”

“I am
not
a candidate.” Vincent forced the words out.

Miss Hobson chuckled. “You'll have a difficult job convincing the
ton
otherwise.”

“Please, do not remind me.” Vincent sighed despondently in remembrance of the merciless pestering he'd endured from simpering girls and their avaricious mothers. “Tell me more about Makepeace.”

Miss Hobson continued to smile. “He is forty-five, his income is twenty thousand per annum, and he sits a horse well.”

“He is too old,” Vincent declared. “What of Threshbury?”

The chaperone blinked. “Well, his title is certainly the highest, his income is twenty-three thousand, and he is only thirty-two.”

Vincent frowned, though the information should please him. “He sounds like a paragon. Pray tell, does he have any faults?”

“Well, he does possess two mistresses. Such is common among gentlemen. Perhaps he will pension one off after he weds.” Miss Hobson lost her cheery tone and avoided his gaze.

“I won't have Lydia wed to a lecher,” he snapped. “What do you know of the viscount?”

Miss Hobson lifted her chin and replied with a hint of defiance. “He is twenty-three and fond of art. All accounts say he is a proper gentleman, and his income is more than acceptable at fifteen thousand. He and Miss Price seemed to get on well at her ball and at Almack's.”

“He is too young,” Vincent retorted. The conversation seemed to be like a snare, closing around him tighter with every word. “I am going to White's for a pint. This damn house reeks of flowers.”

An odd smile crossed Miss Hobson's lips. Vincent paid little attention.

***

Fists clenched in his pockets, Vincent entered White's gentlemen's club and spotted Ian at a table in the far corner, playing cards with Rafael Villar.

Holding back a reluctant sigh, he headed in their direction and paused, hearing his name whispered by a group of men gathered around the betting book. Ian shook his head and beckoned him over. Vincent continued on, wondering why he was a topic to be wagered upon.

The moment the men saw him approach, they scattered with sheepish grins.

“You don't want to see it.” Ian strode forward. “It will only vex you, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.”

Ignoring him, Vincent read the latest wagers in White's betting book. “
Bloody
hell.”

“I told you so,” Ian remarked.

Vincent continued to turn back the pages, appalled at the scrutiny he and Lydia were receiving. The first few were about her presentation. Wagers that she'd trip over the train of her court gown, drop her headdress, et cetera. The next few wagers after her debut were more optimistic. Who would steal a kiss from her, who would get two dances…and finally, who would wed her. There were more bets listed than the offers he'd actually received, which meant even more were forthcoming. He should be pleased.

His stomach wouldn't stop churning.

There were the wagers about him as well. Which Society matron he would bed, which debutante he would court, what sort of evidence of his rumored madness he would display. And, of course, there was a wager that he would wed Miss Georgiana Price.

Vincent sighed, remembering how the silly chit had practically stalked him through Almack's assembly rooms as Lady Morley stared over her fan. Even a half-wit would realize she was forcing the poor girl on him. He had no idea what the dowager hoped to accomplish with this strategy.

“It appears you have become quite the catch,” Ian noted drily.

“One would think rumors of my madness would be enough to dissuade them.”

The duke chuckled. “Not with your title and wealth.”

Vincent snorted and stalked back to their gaming table. Rafe looked up and continued to shuffle the cards with his one good hand. The action should have appeared freakish, but he handled the cards with such deft skill that it was like watching a work of art in motion.

As Ian took the cards, he fixed his piercing silver gaze on Vincent. “I understand that your ward has received more than one offer for her hand.”

“Yes.”

Rafe's eyes narrowed. “Then why have you not accepted one?”

Vincent suppressed the urge to tell the Spaniard to stay the hell out of his affairs. Yet Rafe would be taking Ian's position as interim Lord of London in less than a year, and had every right to be apprised of Vincent's situation with Lydia. “I want to ensure it is the right one.”

Rafe's scowl deepened. “The longer she remains under your roof, the more dangerous it becomes for us all.”

Vincent sipped his brandy and forced a bland tone. “I am well aware of that.”

“I do not think you are.” Rafe leaned forward and growled, “If she is not wed by the time I become Lord of this city, I will ban you from London and report you to the Elders.”

Ian slammed down his cards. “That is enough, Rafe. I did not invite the Lord of Cornwall here to be browbeaten. I wanted only to verify the rumors of the offers for his ward's hand. The Season has barely begun. Vincent has plenty of time and good reason for making use of it.”

Rafe continued to scowl at Vincent while he nodded. “That does not mean I approve of this dangerous charade.”

Ian raised a brow. “You did not approve of my marriage to Angelica either.”

Rafael made an impatient sound and lit a cigar. “If you don't get the girl married off soon, you'll have more to worry about than pithy human gossip.”

The smoke in the club was suffocating. The walls seem to press in on him. Vincent rose from the table, not giving a damn if he seemed rude. “I need to look in on my people.” Though the explanation sounded like an excuse, he was vindicated in that it was true. He wanted to make sure the Siddons sisters were staying away from Sir Thomas Lawrence.

Before they could respond, Vincent left the club, walking as quickly as possible without attracting notice from mortals. The moment he was out of view, he picked up speed. The London streets became a blur. To passing humans, he was a gust of wind.

He reveled in his preternatural speed, and a measure of tension eased from his muscles. Moving like lightning was one aspect of his existence that he truly enjoyed.

If only he could outrun his incessant desire for Lydia. And the gut-rending inevitability of her next marriage proposal. As much as he despised Rafe's insistence on haste, the Spaniard was right. A choice had to be made.

God, I miss him so much!
Lydia's heart clenched in despair. Vincent had not come home until after she went to bed the previous night. And this evening he had gone off for his walk before she'd cleaned up from her painting lesson, not even bothering to have supper.

Now, Viscount Sheffield was upstairs meeting with Vincent in his study, and there could be little doubt as to the purpose of his visit. Lydia fought the urge to cling to Angelica's hand as the minutes ticked by on the mantel clock.

“That's the fifth gentleman so far,” Miss Hobson commented, her embroidery needle flying through the fabric with a vengeance, displaying her excitement. “Truly, it is becoming cruel of the earl to leave them dangling so.”

Angelica darted an intent, unreadable look at the chaperone and opened her mouth to reply. Approaching footsteps halted her. All three women turned their heads to the door.

“You have received five offers now,” Vincent announced the moment he entered the blue salon. “Soon, you will have to settle upon one.”

Lydia's heart felt as if it were being torn to pieces.
How
can
you
be
so
cold
about
this?
Why
can't you see that I love you?

Furious with the pain he caused her, she forced a cheery tone. “Viscount Sheffield is very kind. Perhaps I shall do more to encourage his suit.”

Before she could gauge Vincent's reaction, Aubert appeared in the doorway. “My lord, Miss Georgiana Price is here…without a chaperone. She, ah, seems to be quite distraught.”

Vincent heaved a sigh. “Show her in.”

Miss Hobson raised a brow and whispered behind her fan, “This is Lady Morley's doing, I'd wager on it.”

Lydia's gut knotted in panic. Was Georgiana making another move on Vincent? Would he be receptive? After all, many gentlemen seemed to prefer a damsel in distress. For the first time in her life, Lydia cursed her strength and self-sufficiency. Perhaps if she had been a little more delicate, then Vincent would have wanted her.

“My lord,” Georgiana declared in a breathy sigh as she entered the room in a flurry of golden curls and frothy pink lace. “I am afraid I have become lost!”

“Yet you managed to find your way here,” Angelica remarked drily.

Georgiana threw the duchess a panicked glance before dashing to a visibly baffled Vincent, reaching out a trembling hand to cling to his arm. “My lord, if you could please—” Her voice broke off in a piercing cry as she stumbled against him. “Oh! My ankle!”

Vincent caught her before she could fall.

Lydia choked at the sight of him holding her cousin. She'd thought Georgiana was sweet and frail, without a mercenary bone in her body. But Lydia could do nothing to protest. She had no claim on him, and he wanted her to marry someone else.

Angelica rose from her seat, ebony eyes smoldering.

“That is quite enough of your theatrics, Miss Georgiana.” She turned to Vincent. “Assist her to the sofa. Miss Hobson, fetch some ice from the icehouse for the young lady's injury. His lordship will show you the way.”

Vincent and Angelica stared at each other as if having a silent argument. At last, Vincent nodded and bade Miss Hobson to follow him.

The moment they left the room, Angelica stalked over to the shaking Georgiana. “This display was badly contrived, Georgiana.”

“Y-your Grace,” Georgiana panted, cheeks flushed. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You may dispense with the playacting,” the duchess said sternly. “You cannot tell me that you had not heard of the events leading up to my marriage to the Duke of Burnrath only last year. For one thing, you could have displayed a measure of originality in your ploy. For another, the scheme would have been ineffective anyway, as this house is suitably chaperoned.”

Georgiana gasped and flushed guiltily. “Your Grace, I was not—”

Angelica silenced her with a firm grasp on her shoulders. For a moment, Lydia feared the duchess would shake her cousin. Then, Angelica favored her with a cool smile. “Yes, Georgiana, I am well aware that the plot was contrived by Lady Morley.”

The girl blinked vapidly. “How do you know?”

The duchess leaned forward. “The logic is obvious. The old bat hates Lydia and wants to see her ruined. I assume she believes that if Lord Deveril married you, he'd be under her thumb like you and the rest of your spineless family. If that happened, do you think Lydia's Season would continue?”

Georgiana shook her head, biting her lip.

Angelica's gaze suddenly turned slumberous and hypnotic. “You do not wish to wed Lord Deveril at all, do you?”

Not breaking her wide, fearful stare at the duchess, Georgiana shook her head briskly. “Not at all, Your Grace.”

“You will cease your pursuit of Lord Deveril immediately, no matter how hard your grandmother presses you.” Her gentle voice maintained a steely thread of command.

Lydia shivered. The small duchess seemed to possess an alien power, perfectly capable of bending others to her will.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Georgiana replied in a numb voice.

Angelica smiled suddenly, and the veil of threat dissipated. “I am pleased to hear it.”

Vincent and Miss Hobson returned with a dressing for Georgiana's ankle. Angelica set it on the sideboard. “We will not need this. Miss Georgiana is unhurt. It seems Lady Morley put her up to this nonsense as part of a feeble campaign to wring an offer of marriage from you.”

Miss Hobson gasped, and Vincent stiffened, eyes wide in outrage.

“I am terribly sorry, my lord,” Georgiana murmured weakly.

Vincent stalked closer. “Miss Georgiana, you may inform your grandmother that I am not in the market for a bride at all, not now, and not
ever
.”

Lydia's heart bloomed with relief at his adamant declaration, even as she silently vowed to persuade him to change his mind as it applied to her.

“Well, what are we to do with her now?” Vincent asked, running an agitated hand through his hair.

Angelica rose to face him. “Do not worry, my lord. I will see Miss Georgiana home. Lydia may accompany me, since we were just on our way out to another literary circle.”

“Perhaps I should attend as well.” Miss Hobson's eyes narrowed.

The duchess shook her head, and her eerie gaze turned on the chaperone. “Someone respectable should remain behind in case someone comes to inquire after Miss Georgiana.”

Vincent regarded Angelica sharply, as if there were some underlying tension between them. He sighed. “Very well, Your Grace. As it appears you have this situation under control, I shall depart.” He favored her with a stiff bow before turning to Lydia.

Taking her hand in his, he brushed his lips across her knuckles, capturing her with his stormy gaze. “Stay out of mischief, Lydia.”

She was about to argue, but she bit her tongue. “Yes, my lord.”

“Well, that was quite diverting, was it not?” Angelica remarked cheerfully once the three women were settled in the Burnrath coach.

A helpless laugh burst from Lydia's lips, and Georgiana looked at both of them as if she'd never seen them before.

“Don't worry, Georgiana,” Angelica soothed. “We bear you no ill will, do we, Lydia?”

Lydia faltered for a moment, seething at the memory of Georgiana in Vincent's arms, and finally nodded.

“It is not that, I fear,” the delicate blonde whispered. “It is what my grandmother will do when she learns I've failed.”

“I wouldn't worry.” Lydia couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice. “You are her favorite grandchild…her
only
grandchild, actually, since she refuses to acknowledge me. She will set you on a more suitable gentleman in no time.”

Georgiana blanched. “I am so very sorry, Lydia. I'd forgotten grandmother's cruel treatment of you. It was inconsiderate of me to prattle on so about my petty worries.”

It was hard to remain angry with the girl. Lydia sighed and forced a smile. “I forgive you, Georgiana. Truly, I consider myself fortunate not to be under that woman's tyrannical thumb.”

A small giggle escaped her cousin. “Oh, you cannot imagine.” She stopped suddenly, as the driver announced their arrival at Morley House.

Even in the moonlight, the neoclassical behemoth was a blinding white jewel set upon a bed of meticulously manicured lawn and artfully trimmed topiary. It seemed just as cold and unwelcoming as Lady Morley herself.

“Would you prefer to remain in the carriage, Lydia?” Angelica asked softly.

Lydia straightened her spine, fighting off the feeling of betrayal at the sight of the home she'd been barred from. “No, I believe it is time the old witch faced her prodigal grandchild.”

“I agree,” Georgiana stated with astonishing severity. “It would do her good to see us together.”

Angelica grinned. “Brilliant! It is settled then.”

The three linked arms and walked up the drive. They exchanged glances on the doorstep before Lydia nodded and grasped the bronze knocker.

A tired-looking butler answered the door. “Her ladyship is not receiving callers today,” he informed them.

Angelica fixed him with an imperious stare, appearing every inch a duchess. “Please inform Lady Morley that the Duchess of Burnrath has returned Miss Georgiana.”

“And who is the other young lady?” the butler inquired.

“This is Lady Morley's other granddaughter,” Angelica replied with a note of challenge.

His brows drew together. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I am under strict orders that Miss Price is not to be received. I will escort Miss Georgiana to Lady Morley. Good night.”

With an insultingly slight bow, the man escorted Georgiana inside and practically slammed the door in their faces.

Lydia turned to look back at the house. The turbaned dowager's figure in the window was unmistakable, her eyes narrowed with unadulterated hatred.

“I swear,” Angelica hissed through clenched teeth as they headed back to the carriage, “that woman has to be the most horrid person to walk the earth.”

“I think she is a coward,” Lydia said when they returned to the coach. “She knows she treated my father unfairly, and she can't face me because I'm a constant reminder of that fact.”

Angelica smiled sadly. “You're probably correct and definitely wise beyond your years.”

“Little good it has done me.” Lydia could not conceal the bitterness from her voice.

The duchess eyed her sympathetically. “You poor thing, you've been through so much this week. First, with the marriage noose tightening around your neck, then your cousin's vulgar display with Lord Deveril, and finally being snubbed by your own grandmother.”

Lydia raised a brow. “If you're trying to make me feel better, I'm afraid you're doing a poor job of it.”

“Would you like to have an adventure?” Angelica whispered with such secretive enthusiasm, impossible to resist.

She blinked. “Of course I would. What do you have in mind?”

The duchess grinned mischievously. “Take down your hair and give me your pins.”

Full of curiosity, Lydia complied. Angelica sat next to her on the plush seat and braided her hair, pinning it in a tight crown on her head, and then did the same with her own before the coach stopped at Burnrath House.

Once the footman escorted them into the house, Angelica took her hand, and they raced up the stairs to the duchess's bedchamber. An ornate mahogany wardrobe stood in the corner of the small room. Angelica threw it open and tossed Lydia a hat and various articles of clothing—men's clothing.

“The trousers may be too short. The boots ought to conceal the fact.” Her voice echoed from the depths of the wardrobe.

“Where are we going?” Lydia could not hide her excitement as she tried on the hat.

Angelica set her disguise on her escritoire and began unfastening Lydia's gown. “We are going to see parts of the city forbidden to decent ladies such as ourselves.”

The trousers were indeed too short, and the boots too large. Angelica stuffed the toes with handkerchiefs, and they were comfortable enough. The hat hid Lydia's hair perfectly, and her bosom was concealed by a thick woolen coat. The duchess allowed her one quick glance in the mirror before they crept outside, using the servant's entrance. She looked like a young man, ready to abandon his mother's apron strings and cavort about town.

“I can't believe you do this!” Lydia said as they walked down the cobblestoned street.

“Even a duchess needs freedom,” Angelica replied, waving down a hackney coach. “Besides, it gives me inspiration for my writing. Where would you like to go?”

“I haven't the slightest idea.” Lydia shook her head at the duchess's insatiable energy. “Other than I would prefer our destination to be somewhat…reckless, with a hint of danger.”

“In this city, that hardly narrows our choices.” Angelica grinned. “Cutthroats, thieves, and fallen women are a stone's throw in any direction.”

A thought crossed Lydia's mind, and she held back a gasp at her own daring. “Do you recall that pugilist whom your husband sponsors? Rafael Villar?”

Angelica's eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

Lydia took a deep breath and fixed her with a firm gaze. “I would like to see him box.”

The duchess was silent for the longest time. The horses' hoofs clattered as the coach rolled down the street. “Well, you are correct on that account. That would be most dangerous.”

“So we will not go?” Lydia tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

“Oh, we shall go,” Angelica announced with an impish smile. “Only we must be careful that
Don
Villar does not see us.”