Bite Me, Your Grace (2 page)

As Papa escorted her outside, she peered at Burnrath House, visible through the naked branches of the hawthorn trees. The forbidding structure seemed to beckon her from the darkness. An intoxicating tremor ran all the way down to her toes. She pulled the fabric of her cape tighter around her bared shoulders.

“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.

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.