Bite Me, Your Grace

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.”

As he followed the Wentworths down the staircase and into the crowd, he spied the aforementioned heiress. Her lush, dark beauty made the reigning insipid blondes look blandly faded. His loins tightened at the sight of her ripe figure and shining locks. Perhaps the gown was too mature for the debutante. Or perhaps too much time had passed since his last visit to a house of pleasure. Either way, he would do best to avoid her for her sake.

Ian took a deep breath as he plunged into the crowd, bowing and renewing introductions. It was fortunate that he had fed tonight; else the scent of so much fresh blood would drive him mad. Unbidden, his gaze rested once again on the Winthrop girl, then narrowed. There was something amiss with the look in her eyes.

Though he was unable to read minds, Ian’s gift lay in detecting the subtle nuances in a human’s movement, gestures, expressions, and voice. If he desired, he could win any hand of cards he played. Every instinct in his body told him the debutante was planning something. It wasn’t merely the lack of avarice in her eye that most girls of her age and status possessed; her mother had enough of that for the pair. But the impish twinkle to the beauty’s subtle smile told him that she was up to mischief.

The girl downed a glass of champagne with unladylike haste. Whatever she was going to do must take courage. He would have to keep a discreet eye on this intriguing creature. Lord Wentworth was quite a good fellow for a mortal, and it would be a shame for his party to be spoiled by some foolish chit.

***

Angelica stifled a yawn with a sip of her third glass of champagne. She had danced her slippers off with eligible and ineligible gentlemen alike. On the ballroom floor, she’d executed the first part of her plan to scandalize the ton. Instead of exchanging mild pleasantries about the weather and her family’s health, she’d attempted to shock her dancing partners by speaking her mind.

To a foppish baronet, she’d mocked male fashions, comparing the brilliant colors of satin knee breeches and bright waistcoats to the plumes of strutting peacocks. With a wealthy earl, she’d pried into his business ventures, discussing shipping investments and banking practices as if she were about to plunge into a wealth-making endeavor. With a dull viscount, she went as far as to go into gory details about the exhumation of corpses in Frankenstein. The abrupt manner in which the man’s face had turned green was most satisfactory. She even danced twice with each of them.

Proud of her daring, she anxiously waited for the dance offers to cease and the gossiping to commence. To her vexation, gentlemen became more ardent in seeking out her company. She finally had to plead exhaustion and quit the floor, praying that no gentlemen would seek out her father to offer for her hand.

Angelica’s lip curled in disgust as she fanned beads of sweat from her forehead. Why will these bloody fops not leave me alone? Last week Lady Dranston’s daughter was a complete wallflower because of her incessant prattle about horticulture. What could I be doing wrong?

A viscount bowed before her. “You look overheated, Miss Winthrop. If you would permit me to escort you, I know of the most pleasant alcove in which you could cool off.” He licked his fat lips and ogled her bosom.

Her stomach roiled in revulsion, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. No doubt he would try to steal a kiss from her, and if she were caught, she would definitely be ruined. On the other hand, often a man would marry a girl he compromised. Especially a girl with a dowry of her size. The thought of being leg-shackled to this lecher for the rest of her life, much less allowing those fleshy lips anywhere near her person, made her skin crawl.

“No thank you, my lord. I am quite comfortable as I am,” she said coolly.

He bowed once more and strutted off in search of other prey. Angelica felt sorry for the next poor girl.

“I absolutely adore your gown.” A voice intruded on her thoughts.

She turned to see a lady in a shockingly low-cut gown of emerald silk smiling down at her. Angelica had seen the blonde before at other engagements but could not remember her name.

“Thank you.” Before she could return the compliment, a girl her age in a classic gown of virginal white approached. She also looked familiar with her golden curls and cherubic lips.

The girl curtsied to Angelica before she turned to the older woman. “Oh, Victoria, Lord Branson danced twice with me tonight! He is so very handsome and dashing.”

The lady in the green gown rewarded the girl with a bitter smile. “Then you must ignore him for the rest of the evening.”

The girl’s face fell in disappointment. “But…”

“But nothing, Claire. He is in debt up to his ears and only has an income of four thousand per annum besides.” Victoria fluttered her hand. “Oh, forgive us. I did not introduce myself. I am Lady Victoria Wheaton, and this is my sister, Miss Claire Belmont.”

Angelica curtsied. “How do you do? I am Miss Angelica Winthrop.”

Claire gasped in dismay. “Not the Earl of Pendlebur’s granddaughter?”

Victoria smacked her sister on the arm with her fan as Angelica replied, “I am. Is there something amiss with the fact?”

Claire was shocked at her candor. “I do apologize. It is just that I thought your come-out would be next year. I, um… was not expecting such competition for the season.”

Victoria chuckled. “She was betting on landing the most titled gentleman this year. My friends and I made a wager on it as well. Your presence will tilt the odds.”

Angelica was stunned that these young women sounded just as obsessed with money and titles as her mother was. She didn’t bother to point out that she did not want to “land” anybody. “What about love?” she blurted.

The ladies giggled and Claire replied, “I would love to be a duchess!” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “The Duke of Burnrath is here tonight. Ooh, just imagine if I could get his attention!” She rose up on her toes and craned her neck, searching the crowd.

Victoria frowned at her sister. “Do not consider it for a moment, Claire. The dukes of Burnrath have long since held a tradition of wedding foreign brides. Plenty of naive girls and widows have tried to lure him into defying that custom, with only a broken heart and ruined reputation to show for the effort.” She smiled. “Besides, I hear that he is a vampire.”

Angelica’s breath halted. She’d devoured John Polidori’s tale with nearly as much gusto as Mary Shelley’s. Could such creatures be real? If so, that would mean her neighbor was one!

Claire tossed her curls and asked, “What is a vampire?”

“I did not know Mother sheltered you that much. A vampire,” Victoria explained, “is a creature that looks like a man and steals into ladies’ bedrooms and drinks their blood. The stories are all the rage.” Her shining blue gaze belied the seriousness of the subject.

Claire shuddered. “How very ghastly.” Then her eyes lit up and she rose up on her toes once more. “There he is, with the Duchess of Wentworth!”

Angelica scanned the crowd with bated breath. Was the Duke of Burnrath really a vampire? Her imagination spun. It was too delicious for words. She spotted him and realized this was the first time she’d seen His Grace in the light. He towered above nearly every man in the throng. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, was unfashionably long, caressing the broad shoulders of his black evening jacket. She shivered. His silver eyes met hers, and Angelica felt as if her stays had been tightened. The duke raised a sardonic brow at her and inclined his head slightly before taking the Duchess of Wentworth in his arms for a waltz.

Her cheeks heated and shame flooded her at being caught staring. She shifted on weak knees and opened her fan, hating the strange discomfort rising up at the sight of him dancing with the Duchess of Wentworth. She scanned the crowd for a distraction.

“He cannot be a vampire, Lady Wheaton,” Angelica said, frowning as she eyed the mirrors that adorned the ballroom, the glow of the candlelit chandeliers reflected within. “Look at the mirrors. He casts a reflection.”

Victoria followed her gaze. “So he does. No matter, I was only teasing. With the popularity of the tale of Lord Ruthven, many have been speculating about the duke’s nocturnal leanings.”

“What does a reflection have to do with vampires?” Claire asked, plying her fan and fluttering her eyelashes as she tried to get the duke’s attention.

At any other opportunity, Angelica would have eagerly explained every detail of the vampire myth to a new audience, but her reaction to the duke had unsettled her. She struggled to find a meaning for the disturbing feelings he evoked. Taking another glass of champagne from a passing footman, she sipped the bubbly vintage in silence as Victoria prattled to her sister about garlic and crosses.

“What is his name, I wonder?” she murmured more to herself than for any edification.

“Ian Ashton,” Claire answered. “Oh, if only he did not have that stupid family tradition! He would be the catch of the century. Imagine being the Duchess of Burnrath!”

Ian. The name sent a strange thrill through Angelica’s body.

A young gentleman approached her with obnoxious mincing steps. “Would you care to dance, Miss Winthrop?”

She tore her gaze from the duke and saw that a line had formed behind the lace-bedecked Corinthian. Her original problem returned to her. She must avoid marriage to one of these mindless dandies. To do so, she needed to focus on how to best destroy her reputation, not staring at a handsome duke, one who wasn’t even a vampire.

“Not right now, thank you,” she said to the gentleman. She raised her voice so the other contenders could hear. “I fear I am getting a headache.” Her eyes scanned the area, looking for an opportunity to escape.

She saw the Duke of Burnrath leave the dance floor and go into the gaming room. At first, she was chagrined to find her attention upon him once more, but then she was inspired. A debutante wouldn’t be caught dead there, especially if she were following an unmarriageable gentleman inside. Such an action would ruin her for certain. And if she happened to get a closer look at His Grace, well, it would be more than worthwhile.

She checked to make sure her mother wasn’t watching. Relief and irritation warred as she saw Mother chatting cozily with Lady Osgoode and Lady Makepeace. No doubt attempting to auction her to the highest bidder! Angelica suppressed a derisive snort and headed for the card room.

The second she entered the smoky room, each gentleman looked up from his cards and stared. As a few awkward coughs echoed, her face heated and she was overcome with the urge to flee.

“I thought I saw you come in here,” Victoria said from behind her. “This is really not the place for an unwed lady, but I am sure you are merely curious.”

Her voice was oddly triumphant. Angelica smiled in comprehension. Victoria wanted Angelica’s reputation ruined to raise the odds of her sister making a better match. Let Claire have them all! She stifled the urge to giggle. Champagne, she decided as liquid euphoria tinged the edges of her consciousness, was ever so nice.

She spotted a group of ladies clustered around the faro table, watching the high-stakes play. They waved at Victoria and smirked at Angelica, whispering behind their silk fans.

“Well, I suppose that as long as you are with me, you should be suitably chaperoned,” Victoria said, tugging her farther into the room.

True to her words, the male audience seemed to relax as Angelica joined the group of women. By their presence in this room, they must be of the “fast” set. Mother will have an apoplexy if she sees me here! For some reason, the thought brought back her giggles as she fetched another glass of champagne from a passing footman. The other women looked at each other and laughed. The room tilted and for a moment it seemed that there was two of everything. She blinked and looked back at the women. The way that the jewels at their throats caught the light was extraordinary.

***

For the first time in over two hundred years, Ian was losing a game unintentionally. The Winthrop girl was distracting him. At first he thought she had purposefully followed him into the card room, but since she hadn’t looked at him since she’d come in, he was not so certain. His gaze surreptitiously flickered over her in annoyance. Whatever could she be planning?

“I daresay,” Lord Ponsonby drawled, tapping out his cigar. “That little minx over there is diverting my attention from the game. I am tempted to quit the table and endeavor to receive an introduction.”

“Unless your aim is marriage, I would not consider it.” Lord Makepeace scratched his muttonchop whiskers. “That’s the Pendlebur heiress.”

Ponsonby shook his head. “She couldn’t be. An heiress would not risk her reputation coming in here.”

“I am certain that my wife is responsible for this,” Viscount Wheaton’s brows drew together in consternation. “This has the signature of one of Victoria’s pranks. The poor miss likely has no idea she is doing anything wrong.”

“Well, if the damage is already done…” Ponsonby stood. “My breeches haven’t been this tight in years. Anyone care to wager that I can seduce her before the night is out?”

“You will not,” Ian countered with a growl and rose from the table, confused that he felt so strongly about a girl naive enough to allow her reputation to be ruined. Or maybe the thought of Ponsonby’s limpid hands upon her silken flesh was what vexed him.

Ponsonby raised a brow. “God’s teeth, Burnrath, I thought you didn’t dally with maidens.”

“I do not.” He crossed the room behind Ponsonby. “I merely believe someone should be mature enough to put a stop to this foolishness.”

Ponsonby ignored him and approached the girl. “And who is this beautiful lady?” he said, straining to peer down her bodice.

Ian followed close behind, ready to throttle the sod if he so much as touched the innocent beauty. Oblivious to the tension filling the room, the debutante hiccupped and retrieved a smoldering cheroot from the table. Her gaze was laced with scorn as she, unbelievably, put it to her lush lips and inhaled.

All eyes fixed upon her in stunned silence as she blew out a cloud of smoke and quoted, “‘Taught from infancy that beauty is woman’s scepter, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.’”

Ian couldn’t suppress his laughter. He didn’t know what was more amusing about her quote: the fact that the chit was well-read, or that a beauty such as she was reciting the words of the infamous Mary Wollstonecraft.

She swayed on her feet and his amusement dissipated as he realized that the girl was foxed. Frowning, he extracted the cheroot from her dainty fingers and took her hand.

“I believe I owe you a dance.” He forced a casual tone, hoping to get her out of the card room and back to the ballroom without a scene.

“Oh… huh?” she stammered, blinking up at him with huge dark eyes.

Behaving as if that were an assent, he took her by the elbow and escorted her out of the gaming room amidst the accompaniment of brittle titters from the “ladies” and guffaws from the “gentlemen.”

“I must inform you, Miss Winthrop, that the gaming room is not the place for virtuous young ladies.” He tried to sound stern and keep his eyes from drifting down to her lovely breasts. But her face was just as captivating. He nearly lost his footing as he escorted her down the stairs to the ballroom.

The girl nodded and fixed her ebony eyes on his. “I know what I am doing. ‘In fact, it is a farce to call any being virtuous whose virtues do not result from the exercise of its own reason.’”

Ian choked back a laugh as he tried not to drown in her dark gaze. “Touché, my dear. I also found Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work to be invaluably stimulating. Pray tell, do you believe Frankenstein to be the work of her daughter, or did her husband pen the novel, as most conclude?”

“My name is Angelica, not ‘my dear,’ and only a complete bird wit would not recognize hereditary genius when they read it. Or perhaps, society does not believe a woman is capable of writing a passable gothic tale.”

Angelica. The name fit her ethereal beauty. At least until she opened her mouth. This was not the typical, vapid product of a successful launch into the Quality. This woman was an intriguing creature, fascinating in her combination of astuteness and naive rebellion against convention. And her dark forbidden beauty was driving him mad.

Rather than release her to a suitable dance partner as he had intended once they entered the ballroom, he took her in his arms for a waltz. It was painful to keep his gaze from the tempting swell of her breasts above the blue satin, the subtle rhythm of her delicate pulse beating at her throat, or to endure the warm feel of her tiny waist beneath his hand as he guided her in the close dance.

“I heard that you are a vampire,” Angelica said, gazing up at him with candid gypsy eyes.

He threw back his head and laughed, oblivious to the scandalized stares cast their way. “I am a man.”

The girl nodded. “I assumed so.”

“And why is that?” Ah, now shall come the contrived flirtation. Ian settled his features into an expression of detached boredom that was guaranteed to send ladies scurrying.

“I saw that you cast a reflection.” She was either too drunk to notice his disdain or very brave.

Her lush lips curved into a smile, and he found himself asking, “And if my image were not captured in the glass, what would you do?”

She grinned up at him. “I would of course ask you what such a thing is like, to be a vampire.”

Ian fought to conceal his shock and keep his voice level. “Why would you want to know such a thing? Would you want to be one?”

Angelica smiled as if they were discussing the latest Paris fashions. “I did not think about that. I only thought it would make a good story. I am a writer, you see.”

A good story. His jaw clenched in irritation as he thought of Polidori’s fabrication. A good story was what had landed him in this mess.

Thankfully, the music ended before she could continue her unconventional banter. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Winthrop.” He took her arm and escorted her to her mother.

“Mother, I believe you have met Lord Burnrath.” Angelica hiccupped.

Lady Margaret Winthrop nodded. “Y-your Grace,” she murmured. Her throne-room curtsy contrasted oddly with her panic-stricken face.

Ian smiled wryly as he bowed. “Lady Margaret.” No doubt she was terrified to see her delicate flower in the company of one with his questionable reputation.

The Duchess of Wentworth beckoned him with a nod and he obeyed the summons, hoping to reassure the frightened mama. But Angelica seemed to command his attention for one last look. To his disbelief, the outrageous woman actually grinned at him.

He forced the impertinent baggage from his mind as he finished his dance with the hostess and bid her farewell.

Tonight he would gather together all of London’s vampires and command them to search for Dr. John Polidori. He must find out if this man knew the secrets of his kind. For if he did, the physician would have to be silenced… one way or the other.

His lips curved into a rueful smile as the butler handed him his topcoat and hat. It was unlikely that he would kill Polidori for the crimes of his wayward pen. The Elders frowned upon that practice in these modern times. Likely he would be required to Mark the upstart and have him watched for the rest of his life, or perhaps Ian would be encouraged to Change him. Still, wisdom dictated him to tell his subordinates as little as possible, the better to keep his options open.