One Bite Per Night (8 page)

Ian nodded. “Fine, if you believe they are necessary in getting your charge married off quickly. Though be sure to keep a close watch on them.”

Vincent tried to ignore the ache in his heart at the thought of losing Lydia. It was for the best. She'd already come dangerously close to learning his secret. “Will the duchess agree to sponsor her?”

The Lord Vampire sighed and drank more brandy. “That, old friend, is another reason why I am here. My wife is…well, she's reluctant to take on such an endeavor.”

“Why?” Vincent frowned. “Is it due to the scandal of Miss Price's parentage?”

“No, nothing of the sort.” Ian raised his gaze to the heavens. “Angelica frowns upon Society's way of arranging marriages. She says she wants ‘no part in auctioning innocent flesh to the highest bidder.'”

Vincent gaped. “This, from a duchess who secured that very title by wedding you?”

Ian laughed, silver eyes twinkling with mirth. “Ah, if you knew how hard she fought to avoid such a terrible fate.”

The
duke's courtship had not been completely amicable?
He frowned in confusion. “She seemed cheerfully resigned the night of your wedding.”

“Yes, by then I'd persuaded her I wasn't a fate worse than death,” Ian replied, not offended. “And, I am certain Angelica will soften on the matter once she is assured Miss Price is receptive to the task of husband hunting.”

Was
Lydia
receptive?
Vincent wondered. He had not broached the subject of suitors with her. Surely Miss Hobson had. “I believe she is…why wouldn't she be?” he finally replied.

“Who can fathom the workings of the female mind?” Ian shook his head. “All that aside, please let me know if I can help you in any way.”

“Your Grace.” Lydia sank into a deep curtsy, grateful for Miss Hobson's instructions.

This was the first duke she'd ever met, and from what she knew of English nobility, they were a matter of great consequence.

“Miss Price, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Burnrath raised her hand to his lips. Without his lofty title, he would still be an imposing man, with his well-muscled frame, gleaming raven hair, and intense silver eyes.

“The pleasure is mine,” she responded, taking her seat.

Throughout the meal, the duke kept a steady flow of that same dull, polite conversation in which she had been trained. Yet somehow he possessed enough charisma to make the weather and local goings-on seem interesting.

Despite Burnrath's charm, Lydia could not help but feel a twinge of hostility at his presence. Just when Vincent ceased neglecting her, the duke had to intrude on her opportunity to renew her coziness with her guardian.

With His Grace here, there would be no games of chess, and certainly no chances to speak freely. She suppressed a defeated sigh. What was the purpose of the duke's arrival anyway? Vincent had greeted him as an old friend, and yet he appeared to be wary of the man. Perhaps they were partners in an illegal venture?

“…do you think, Miss Price?” Vincent was saying.

Lydia inclined her head in apology. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering.”

Vincent gave her a forgiving smile. “I said, His Grace has offered to allow us to use his private box at the opera when we go to London.”

“Oh, that would be lovely.” It had been years since she'd been to the opera.

As the next course was served, Lydia could not help noticing that the duke ate as little as Vincent. Perhaps a meager appetite was an affectation of the upper classes. Lydia prayed such was not the case, for she would starve to death.

“What brings you to Cornwall, Your Grace?” Miss Hobson asked.

Burnrath gave Vincent an enigmatic look before answering. “Lord Deveril has requested that my wife sponsor Miss Price's debut in Society.”

The chaperone's eyes widened, and she turned to Lydia with a smile. “This is momentous news! With such connections, the offers should pile in.”

“Offers?” Lydia asked, though she was afraid she knew what Miss Hobson meant.

“Of marriage,” Vincent said curtly, as if angry with her confusion.

“Marriage,” she repeated through numb lips. The purpose of the trip to London and all the training in preparation became clear. Of course it was to be more than a diverting vacation. Her stomach pitched.

The duke nodded, giving her a quizzical look, as if she were an interesting species of insect. It was no wonder, for she was behaving in an incredibly foolish manner. She'd known she'd eventually be encouraged to find a husband, but the suddenness struck her like a hammer on an anvil. She didn't want to marry a stranger in London. She wanted to stay with Vincent.

The room was suddenly too hot, and the walls seemed to be closing in around her. She had to get away, to get fresh air, before she screamed.

“Please, excuse me,” Lydia said before fleeing.

***

“Well,” Ian drawled, leaning back in his chair. “That went well.”

Vincent ignored him and turned to Miss Hobson with an icy glare. “You did inform Lydia that she is to wed, did you not?”

The woman's chin lifted in a vain attempt to hide her anxiety. “I'd assumed she understood her responsibility as a young lady of noble birth.” Her voice quavered defensively. “She'd spoken of having a Season in New Orleans. How was I to know things may have been different there?”

Vincent cursed as the matter became clear. “Because her father failed to perform his responsibility to Society when he married for love… Bloody hell,
I
should have known!”

“Vincent.” The duke's voice was implacable. “My wife will not sponsor the young woman if she is not willing.”

Miss Hobson sighed. “Surely she could not expect something so fanciful as love.”

Vincent ignored the chaperone and faced Ian. “I am certain we can persuade Miss Price to see reason. She has been receptive to all other aspects of taking her place in Society.”

Ian swirled the brandy in the glass before giving a slight nod. “No doubt her grief remains for the loss of her parents.”

Miss Hobson nodded. “A reasonable assumption, Your Grace. I'm certain she'll collect herself after a while and be down soon.”

Ten minutes later, a gunshot exploded in the castle bowels.

Miss Hobson froze, putting a hand to her throat. The duke's eyes echoed the terror in Vincent's soul. “Dear God, do you think she—”

Vincent didn't hear the rest of the dreaded question, refused to hear it. In a burst of preternatural speed, he dashed from the room and up the stairs to the entrance to the secret passage, tracing the sound and the Mark between them.

“Lydia!” he roared as his heart threatened to pound itself out of his chest.

The moment he entered the tunnel, the scent of sulfur, gardenias, and salt consumed his senses…but there was no blood.

“Lydia?” His voice cracked with unadulterated hope.

“I'm all right, my lord.” Her voice echoed from far away, near the end of the passage.

Vincent released the enormous breath he'd been holding and nearly flew to her side. She sat on the steps, halfway down to the rear door. The smell of black powder and sulfur permeated the confines to the point of near suffocation.

Her large eyes blinked at him, swimming in unshed tears. The gun lay in her lap, quivering in her trembling hands. He took it from her, hissing as the hot barrel burned his palm.

“I could have told you it was still hot,” she muttered.

Vincent set the pistol out of reach, keeping an eye on her eerie calm. “What happened?”

Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks color in embarrassment. “I saw a spider. I know it was foolish to take a shot at the damned thing, but it frightened me. I
hate
being afraid.”

“A spider,” he echoed like a half-wit. “You tried to shoot a spider.” Relief replaced his terror. “I thought you—”

Mirthless laughter broke off his tirade. “You thought I tried to do myself in?” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Do you truly think I would take such a drastic measure after hearing a bit of unpleasant news? And if I did, that I would utilize such a messy, crude method? In such a case I would likely use poison…or leap from one of those high cliffs into the sea…”

“Enough!” Vincent cut her off.

“I am sorry I caused you undue alarm, my lord.” Her voice remained unnaturally brittle. “I merely wanted a few minutes of solitude, a peaceful nighttime walk. Y-you may return to your guest.”

The smell of salt grew stronger as a tear spilled down her cheek. Vincent's heart ached as the Mark between them pulsed in agony.

“I will not leave until you tell me what has upset you so.” He sat beside her on the dusty stone steps.

“I have been such a fool,” she choked out. “Papa would have allowed me to marry for love, and now he's gone.” Her body shook with pent-up despair. “I know the rules are different now, yet I was so upset by the loss of my parents…”

Vincent placed a hand on her shoulder. Lydia took a deep, resigned breath and pressed on. “Then I came to this cold new land to reside in the care of strangers. My only remaining family didn't want me.” Her chin tilted up, and she favored him with a watery smile that quickly shattered with her next words. “And now I realize I will go from one stranger t-to another.”

The declaration undid her, and she broke off with a muffled cry. Vincent pulled Lydia into his arms as she cried. Each gasp pierced his heart, while her tears burned through the front of his shirt.

“Hush now. Do not cry.” When the empty words had no effect, instinct took over. Vincent stroked her hair and her back in slow, soothing motions. He bent to kiss her forehead, but once his lips touched her delicate flesh, he could not stop there. His lips brushed her temples, her eyelids, her cheeks. Salt and sweetness drowned his senses, stirring his blood thirst. Recoiling at the predatory response, Vincent lifted his head, though he could not relinquish her embrace.

“Surely we are strangers no longer.” The words fell dry and as useless as ashes.

Despite the inane statement, Lydia clung to him tighter. “That is the very thing that makes this predicament more difficult. I've only just come to know you, you see. And I…” She shook her head. “I am such a fool.”

His chest tightened as the impact of her words struck him.
No, Lydia. It is I who am the fool.
The bitter truth lodged in his throat. He'd thought it would be so easy to take her into his home, polish her up, and foist her off into another's hands. He'd thought of her only as a burden, a debt to a long-dead friend, and a means to spite her loathsome grandmother. Now, as he'd come to know Lydia, he'd only regretted his attachment to her, never considering that she'd form one to him. He'd thought only of himself.

“I will not be going anywhere.” Vincent regretted the words the second he uttered them. Eventually he would have to depart from her life. The sooner he did so, the better it would be for them both. He lightened his tone and continued to stroke her silken hair. “I am certain you will meet a fine man, one who will shower you with jewels and adoration.”

She snorted. “I don't care about jewels
or
adoration. I only want a friend.”

Possessing a will of its own, his fool mouth responded, “I'll always remain your friend.”

She met his gaze, her lashes spiky with moisture. “Do you promise?”

Unable to bear her tears, Vincent lied. “I promise.” Eager to remove himself from his deceit, he brought the subject back to her impending marriage. “And I will not see you married to just anyone. It must be a good man, who will treat you with kindness and respect.”

Lydia rested her head on his chest. “Will he love me?”

“Who could not love you?” Before they could venture further into dangerous territory, Vincent reluctantly disengaged from Lydia's embrace. Forcing a light tone, he said, “Come, we must assure the others you are all right. Miss Hobson was quite undone when she heard the gunshot.”

***

Lydia cursed herself as she met her chaperone's panicked gaze.
I've been such a ninny.
“I apologize for causing you undue concern, Miss Hobson. I merely wanted some air, and when I went to fetch my cloak, I…tripped over my gun.”

“Are you feeling feverish?” Miss Hobson asked, worried.

“Not at all.” Lydia willed herself not to tremble at the duke's intent stare. It was as if he knew what had transpired in the passageway, knew that Vincent had held her and kissed away her tears.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory. She turned away to pick up her glass of wine, draining the rest of it in one swallow. To hell with them if they thought her uncouth. She'd already discharged a firearm indoors, displayed hysterics before her guardian, balked at her womanly duties, and engaged in an improper embrace with a man…that man being none other than her guardian. A little wine could only improve the evening.

As she met Vincent's stormy gaze with her own, her mind raged with unsatisfied longing.
I
must
not
let
this
man
affect
me
so. I must save these feelings for my future husband.

Yet, when the men departed for an evening walk, Lydia could not stop the cold ache of loneliness from piercing her heart any more than she could stop reliving the feel of Vincent's embrace…and his lips caressing her flesh.

***

Vincent took a deep breath of the night air and regarded Ian as they walked toward the village. “Thank you for your keeping Miss Hobson occupied while I saw to Lydia.”

“She gave us all a fright. I am relieved no harm came of it. By the by, I could not help noticing that you are covered in her scent,” Ian noted drily. His eyes glittered molten silver in the moonlight.

“She needed comfort.” Vincent resisted the urge to look away.

The duke raised a skeptical brow. “You must have been very thorough. You're not feeding from her, are you?”

Vincent stiffened and nearly tripped over a rock. “Good God, no!”
Though
I
almost
stole
a
taste.

Ian's eyes narrowed. “You want to.”

Oh, yes.
The beast within concurred. Self-disgust rose up at his desire. “My control is stronger than that.” Forcing a level tone, he tried to change the subject. “As the moon is all wrong for smuggling, we shall have to seek our meal at an inn. The Carp's Head is usually full of sodden prey at this hour.”

Ian ignored the bait. “You cannot become too attached to Miss Price…unless you intend to make her one of us.”

“No!” Vincent roared, halting his rapid steps. “She is too full of life. It would be a crime to turn her into a monster.”

“I had thought the same about my wife,” Ian countered lightly. “I was wrong. Angelica has taken to this existence as if she were born for it.”

“
No.
” Vincent remained adamant.

“Then we must see her wed as soon as possible.” Ian's brow creased in thought. “There is the matter of my wife to contend with. However, I am encouraged to believe Angelica will like Miss Price, as she tends to admire unconventional sorts. Will Miss Price take well to Her Grace? I daresay that would help the situation.”

“How am I to know?” Vincent said as the meager lamplights from the village came into view. “I've met your wife only twice.”

Ian shrugged. “Well, tell me more about the young lady and her interests. Perhaps I may find something the two have in common.”