One Bite Per Night (4 page)

“You must strive to do better in hiding your boredom,” Vincent said after the topic of the weather had been exhausted.

Lydia hid her pained frown behind her napkin. “Yes, my lord.”

Sympathy for her welled within. “I know these things can be tedious, but you must master them before the Season begins. However, I think you've endured enough for the evening. Let us speak more freely. Tell me about New Orleans. Did your father own a plantation?”

Lydia brightened at the change in subject. “No, we lived in the city, although we enjoyed frequent visits to the bayous. My father made his income from lucrative investments. He did
not
believe in slavery.”

Vincent chuckled at her vehement tone. Slavery was a practice he disapproved of as well. “So all of your servants were white?”

“No, but all were free and were paid wages.
Gens
de
couleur
libre
, they are called. ‘Free people of color.'” She sighed. “I hope someday all Americans will be free.”

“I wouldn't count on it.” Vincent eyed her as he sampled his custard. A gentle heart and a revolutionary spirit could be a tragic combination.

They embarked on a spirited debate of the complex issues involved, with Lydia stubbornly maintaining that slavery could be abolished without an outbreak of civil war.

Vincent smiled at her naive passion. “All the same, the labor costs money, while slaves do not. American landowners save much coin that way.” Pressing his point, he continued. “Never underestimate the power and depth of human greed, Miss Price.”

She considered his words as the dishes were carried away. “I believe you are correct, my lord, though it saddens me.” She managed a wan smile. “I must say, this was a much more stimulating conversation than the last.”

Miss Hobson sniffed. “It was a distasteful subject, not at all suitable for Polite Society.”

Vincent and Lydia exchanged glances, both fighting back laughter at the chaperone's pious disapproval.

As dinner concluded, Lydia glanced at him with concern. “Are you well, my lord? You have scarcely eaten.”

Before he could fabricate an excuse, Miss Hobson changed the subject. “Will you be adjourning to have a cigar and port? I have a matter to discuss with Miss Price.”

No
doubt
to
scold
her
for
being
so
forward.
“I do not smoke, so I feel no need to excuse myself.” Pleased at thwarting her, he added, “However, we may all depart to the game room, and I would be delighted if you joined me once more for a glass of brandy.”

The chaperone's lip curled at the jab, but her eyes glittered with amusement…and respect. “I do not suppose you have anything less potent?”

“Certainly,” he said. “I have the finest champagne, imported from France.”

“No doubt smuggled,” Miss Hobson muttered.

“Quite so,” Vincent said agreeably. “This is Cornwall, after all.”

“Check,” Lydia declared with a triumphant grin.

Lord Deveril merely blinked at her before slowly moving his rook. “Mate.”

“Damn! I walked right into that, didn't I?” She ignored Miss Hobson's disapproving cough at her language and looked at the remaining chess pieces with awe as his strategy became clear. “That was brilliant, my lord! May we play again?”

The earl gave her a quizzical look that made her feel as if he was peering into her soul. “You are not bothered that I trounced you so?”

She shook her head and smiled. “I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I hope to learn more and win the next round.”

As he set up the board with graceful, long fingers, she asked, “Tell me about smugglers. Are they like pirates?”

Deveril chuckled. “I have never encountered a pirate, so I couldn't say. Though I assume they'd taste—” His brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Er, I assume their tastes are coarser than the usual smuggler, who is a combination of unscrupulous businessman and skilled sailor.”

Lydia concealed a giggle behind her hand and took another sip of her delicious champagne, relishing the tickle of the bubbles on her tongue. As they played, she asked more questions about Cornwall's smugglers, in hope of distracting him.

“Most of what is smuggled here are luxury items from France, such as Brussels lace, brandy, champagne, tea, and spices,” he explained, taking her queen. “And smuggling likely accounts for a larger portion of Cornwall's income than fishing and mining combined.”

Lydia attempted to take his knight with her bishop. “But isn't there a death sentence if one is caught?”

“Yes, but one must feed one's family.” He seized her knight with a pawn. “Besides, why should the Crown reap all of the profits?”

Lydia mulled this over as she brought her pawn to the end of the board, winning back her queen. Alas, it was too late, for Deveril had her king trapped. She again lost the game, but at least she earned an education. Her guardian was extremely intelligent, a quality she'd always admired in a man. She could never tire of conversing with him.

The earl's admiring smile made her loss worthwhile. “You nearly had me a few times, you know. When I'm finished with you, you will be quite a formidable player.”

Lydia flushed at the compliment. “May we play billiards next?” Her father played, but Lydia had never tried her hand at it.

Miss Hobson cleared her throat, doubtless to decry the request as unladylike. “It is getting late, Miss Price. Perhaps you should retire.”

Deveril held up a hand. “Actually, I believe we should adapt ourselves to city hours, in preparation for the Season. It would not do to have Miss Price wilting from exhaustion shortly after her first ball begins.”

Lydia's heart surged. It appeared the earl was an ally.

Miss Hobson's eyes widened a moment as myriad expressions played across her stern face. At last, she dipped her head with a hint of a smile. “A capital idea, my lord.”

The earl arranged the balls near one end of the antique, yet newly clothed, table. Lydia selected a cue from the oak rack, admiring the carved lions' heads adorning the rack's edges.

“Would you care to break, Miss Price?” Deveril invited.

She frowned. “Break?”

His brow arched. “Is it called something else in America?” He pointed his stick at the ivory cue ball and the triangle of colored balls.

Lydia gathered she was supposed to knock them apart. “I apologize. It has been some time.”

Gritting her teeth, she approached the table and leaned over, positioning the cue in what she hoped was the correct manner. She took aim, drew it back, thrust it forward…and the dratted thing merely skimmed the cue ball. The white sphere rolled toward the triangle with agonizing slowness. It struck the first ball with a barely audible click, and the mass remained still.

“You've never played before, have you?” Deveril chuckled. Though his voice was amused, she could detect no trace of mockery.

Lydia returned his laughter. “No, for some reason Papa never taught me. He said darts were sufficient.” A memory had her frowning in confusion. “He played with mother, though.”

“Darts?” That quizzical glint returned to his gaze, making his eyes shift to a light blue, like the sea on a clear day. “How proficient are you at that game?”

She beamed. “Very.”

He gestured to a mahogany cabinet at the far end of the room. “I have a board. Shall we play that instead?”

“Not tonight,” Lydia replied. “I've always wanted to learn billiards…and piquet, tennis, and cricket.”

Deveril sighed and started to say something but stopped and shook his head, opting instead for another draught of brandy. “Very well. We shall begin with the break.”

With fluid grace, he bent and poised his cue, striking the white ball with the tip in a solid clink. The colored balls scattered across the table, faster than her eye could track. But she could hear them. Three flew into the corner pockets with resounding thumps.

Beautiful.
The word echoed in her mind, and Lydia longed to match such skill, but knew if she failed, she'd be content merely to watch him…and the strong shape of his backside beneath his buff trousers.

She took the cue and made her shot. This time, the white ball bounced off the table.

“You need to put more effort in your balance to better make the proper angle,” Deveril said before handily knocking in another ball.

He gave her the same advice after she sent the ball careening across the green, ricocheting off the corners, only to sink into the left pocket.

Deveril moved to make his shot and missed as a loud snore erupted behind him.

“I see I have further reason for us to grow accustomed to London hours,” he said as the cue ball meandered lazily into the right pocket.

Miss Hobson rested her head on her shoulder, embroidery askew on her lap. She appeared to be sound asleep.

“May we please continue the game?” Lydia whispered, grateful to be away from the chaperone's scrutiny. “We can wake her afterward.”

“Enjoying respite from the dragon, are you?” Deveril teased in his musical voice. “Surely it cannot be because you hope to win, although you have earned a penalty shot.”

“You surmise correctly, my lord,” she replied, fetching the white ball.

“Wait,” Deveril said before she took her shot. “Would you like me to show you how it's done?”

Lydia grinned, eager to master the skill. “Please do.”

For some reason, his features darkened. He took a breath, and his countenance settled, though his eyes remained stormy. She froze as he stepped toward her. “To do this, I will have to stand behind you and guide your hands.”

“Yes,” she whispered in answer to his unspoken question.

Tension charged the air as Deveril approached. A few locks of hair had escaped its binding and framed his face, making him appear rakish and predatory.

Her breath caught as he moved behind her. Though only his hands touched her, one on her shoulder and the other on her wrist, Lydia felt him against her, as if his presence transcended his body.

“Though you must lean over the table, you need to straighten your spine and bring up your shoulder.” His breath tickled her neck and ear.

“Then you need to hold your arm level, like this.” Those long fingers pressed against her flesh with suppressed strength as he gently moved her arm to the correct position.

Lydia's knees felt like custard, and her hips quivered in instinct to melt against him. It took all of her will to process his words. “All right.”

“Now focus on that ball at a point just to the right of the center. Are you ready?” His hair brushed her cheek like a silken feather.

“Yes,” she gasped, struggling to focus on the game.

With his hands guiding her, the cue moved back. Lydia felt his firm, warm chest against her back…then the cue struck. For an instant, her hips bucked against him, and something hot and primal rose up in her lower body.

Deveril moved away quickly as if burned. They watched the white ball strike its target.

The blue sphere fell into the pocket, along with another, and Lydia whooped in triumph. “I am catching up now, yes?”

Deveril shook his head. “I'm afraid not. You pocketed the black, which means the game is forfeit to me.”

Her eyes narrowed in irritation. “You did that on purpose!”

“I did no such thing,” he countered in such a stern manner that it could only be the truth. He sighed and smoothed his hair from his face. “It was a mistake. A great mistake for which I humbly apologize.”

Lydia suspected he wasn't talking only about the game, and shivered at the memory of his touch. “All right. May we play again?”

“No. It is time for my walk.” His eyes were luminous, hypnotic.

“May I accompany you?” she asked, not yet ready to relinquish his company. To walk with him in the moonlight…

“
No!
” he said hoarsely.

Lydia jumped at his sudden harshness. Had she angered him?

Deveril gave her an apologetic look and returned to his earlier formal tone. “It would not be appropriate, Miss Price. Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

Without a backward glance, he left the room, crossing the plush rug with long strides.

Lydia's breath remained trapped in her throat as she put away her cue. She could still feel the brief, intense contact his body had made. And the fire in his gaze seared her soul.

“Well.” Miss Hobson yawned and fetched a candelabrum. “It is past time we retire.”

Lydia followed the chaperone like a puppet, her mind continuing her fixation on the earl and his quicksilver change in mood. “Whatever came over him?” she murmured.

“His lordship merely appreciates his solitude,” Miss Hobson said as she held the candelabrum aloft, illuminating the dark stairway. Her voice gentled. “I'm certain he didn't mean to frighten you. It is likely the effect of being awake at this ungodly hour.”

“What do you presume he does on those walks? Does he have a mistress?” Envy curdled her insides at the thought.

“No, his clothing is always in order when he returns, and he does not smell like perfume,” Miss Hobson replied distractedly. She spun to face Lydia, eyes wide with outrage. “A lady does not speak of such things…and a maiden should not even know of them.”

Lydia chuckled. Were English girls so cosseted? “Perhaps he gambles?”

The chaperone shook her head. “His demeanor remains unchanged. No sign of joy from winnings or dismay at losses. Really, this conversation is unseemly.”

“Perhaps he's smuggling? Visiting an illegitimate family? Practicing witchcraft?” Lydia rushed on, undaunted. “Come now, you cannot tell me you are not curious.”

Miss Hobson sighed as they reached Lydia's chamber. She glanced left and right for eavesdropping servants before ushering her inside and closing the door. “Very well, I admit one cannot refrain from a bit of curiosity at such odd behavior.”

“What do you suppose he does?”

“I can see from your impish expression that you think he's involved in something scandalous,” Miss Hobson scolded. “I regret I must disabuse you of such a notion. From all I've observed, his lordship shows no sign of tawdry behavior. Therefore, it is my belief that he goes on his nighttime walks merely because his headaches prevent him from doing so during the day.” She lit the lantern and rang for Emma. “Or, it is a mental compulsion of some sort.”

“Mental compulsion?” Lydia asked, intrigued.

Miss Hobson nodded. “I've seen such an occurrence. There was a duke who felt the need to wash his hands every hour. It was odd, though harmless. Otherwise, he was sound of mind.”

“Ah, so Deveril is cracked?” Lydia whispered. That could explain his odd shifts in mood.

Before Miss Hobson could respond, Emma entered the chamber. “All Deverils are mad,” she whispered loudly. “Every single one! My mother says—”

“That it is rude to eavesdrop?” Miss Hobson cut in with an arched brow.

Emma flinched. “No, miss. I was only answering your summons and overheard.”

The chaperone nodded. “Prepare Miss Price for bed…and do not wake her until noon. His lordship wants us all to adopt London hours in preparation for the Season.”

Emma curtsied, visibly relieved to have avoided a scolding. Miss Hobson bade them both a good night and retired to her chamber.

As the maid helped her out of her gown, Lydia whispered, “What
did
your mother say about the Deverils?”

She felt Emma stiffen. “It's really nothing, miss. J-just silly gossip. Miss Hobson will have me out of the house if I repeat it.”

“She doesn't have to know,” Lydia wheedled, curious about her enigmatic guardian.

Emma opened her mouth then shut it with a shake of her head as she hung up Lydia's dress. “I must not say anything, other than his lordship has been kind to me.” Lifting her chin, she added, “And he has been kind to
you
as well.”

Lydia flushed with guilt at her speculation. Deveril
had
been kind to her. “All right, Emma, I'll not pester you.” She climbed into bed. “Unless Deveril does something truly mad.”

Emma nodded. “If he does, I will happily leave my position.”

Despite the late hour and warm fire, sleep failed to entice Lydia into its embrace. Her flesh continued to tingle at the memory of Deveril's hands on her arms and the heat of his breath on her ear.

***

An hour before dawn, Vincent strode back to his castle in a foul mood. Bronn, his third in command, had reported another rogue, or perhaps the same one who'd been sighted the previous week. Rogue vampires, those who had been Changed without sanction, or who'd been exiled or left their lord's territory without leave, were always a problem. His vampires were usually able to defend themselves from such cretins, but Lydia was not…and she'd been out alone after dark.