“Well, we had best be off before your mother has an attack of the vapors,” Papa said with a slight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Angelica sighed and cast the house one last longing look before allowing a footman to assist her into the coach. She had to find a way in there.
Her mother lectured her for the entire ride to the Wentworth ball. No dancing more than twice with the same man, else she’d be ruined. If she forgot herself and drank too much champagne, she’d be ruined. Ruined… ruined. The word grew more tantalizing every time she heard it.
Ruined meant that no man would want to marry her.
Ruined meant that she could abandon this shallow facade of belonging with polite society.
Ruined meant her dowry would be her own. Ruined meant she could write as much as she pleased.
Angelica smiled in the dark carriage. She would embark on her quest tonight. Surely the mission couldn’t be that difficult.
Two
Ian Ashton, Duke of Burnrath and Lord Vampire of London, threw down the latest issue of The Times with a curse. The Vampire, or Bride of the Isles was to have a second run in the theaters due to the popular demand. The craze spawned by Dr. John Polidori’s tale, “The Vampyre,” was reaching new heights. That foolish physician-turned-writer had jeopardized Ian’s life with his scribbling and he wanted to know why. Did the man know of Ian’s kind? Or was he merely playing with the old legends? Either way, the story had done a measure of damage.
As Polidori’s tale read, “His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention.” The nobility had latched on to this vampire fanaticism with the same zeal in which they embraced every new trend. Speculations about Ian’s odd hours and habits had already begun to circulate, though the duke had only been back in Town for two nights.
He’d recently returned from a wasted trip to Italy in pursuit of Lord Byron, to whom the tale had originally been attributed. Once he discovered Polidori was the author, Ian had rushed back to London, but he had yet to find the man. For now, Ian was biding his time and doing what he could to undo the damage.
He wasn’t concerned that the vapid aristocrats would discover what he was, for they were too jaded to truly believe. But when the lampoons and gossip articles in the papers made their rounds through the general London populace, somebody would take the jest seriously. He hadn’t been stalked by a vampire hunter since his third “incarnation” as the Duke of Burnrath and did not care to repeat the experience. That was why he was at this silly ball tonight. He had to protect his reputation.
“The guests are arriving, Your Grace,” the Duke of Wentworth announced. “Surely you do not intend to spend the evening in my library reading the papers? There will be some stiff gaming after the dancing, I assure you.”
“I am finished in here,” Ian replied, rising from his chair.
Wentworth picked up the newspaper and spied the story’s heading. “Egad, they will really give you a rough time now. It’s ridiculous how such a silly story can stimulate the imaginations of the gullible.”
Ian smiled, concealing his fangs. “How very fortunate that your ballroom is full of mirrors.”
Wentworth laughed. “I hope you do not mind, but I had Cook prepare her baked garlic and bread for our appetizers. The guests will leave with horrid breath, but I am sure the ball will be a smash and hopefully deter these ridiculous rumors. By the by, why do you refuse to come out during the day? If you would only ride through Hyde Park, or participate in a race or two, the talk would cease immediately.”
Ian frowned and brushed a lock of inky hair away from his face. “My physician advises against doing so. I have a skin condition, you see, and if any ladies saw me burned and blistered, they would take to their beds with their hartshorn for a week.”
“That bad, eh?” his friend inquired with raised brows.
Ian feigned a tragic sigh. “It is a family malady.”
The Duchess of Wentworth burst into the library. “There you are. Come out this instant! It is a veritable crush out there and I need help greeting the guests.” She lowered her voice. “You would not believe the obscene toupee Sir Hubert Huxtable is wearing. At first I presumed something had died on his head! And the Winthrop heiress is wearing a gown far too mature for an unwed girl.”
Ian stifled a laugh at the note of censure in her voice. “We shall keep you waiting no longer, Jane.”