Bite Me, Your Grace (3 page)

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.

Rosetta paced the underground chamber, fangs abrading her lower lip as she nibbled on it, a nervous habit left over from her mortal days. Sleep was impossible this day. She had deceived her lord last night, and he wasn't merely any Lord Vampire. Ian Ashton was the Lord of London! Her punishment could be death, rather than banishment. Running a slim hand through her cropped jet hair, she approached the bed to gaze down at the cause of her folly.

John
. She smoothed dark curls from his brooding face, noting with a soft smile that his color seemed better. She'd met Dr. John Polidori in Switzerland on her grand tour, which all new vampires took. Hers had been delayed a few years due to the execution of her maker, who'd Changed her without permission from the Elders. Lord Burnrath had sent her off with generous funds as soon as the ordeal was over, telling her that the trip would help her get over the pain of losing her maker. Rosetta took the money gratefully. In truth she was happy her maker was gone. He was an autocratic boor with no imagination or appreciation for the beauty of life. The bastard hadn't even been able to read.

Rosetta enjoyed her travels like nothing else, and when she heard that there was to be a great gathering of writers at Lord Byron's villa on Lake Geneva, she had dashed off to Switzerland as fast as her funds permitted.

On her first night there, she came upon a man wandering the ruins of an ancient castle. His rich voice murmured a delightful combination of words, forming a rhyming melody that tickled her senses in the most pleasing manner. Every once in a while, he'd frown and say the line again, replacing a word or two with others that made his verse sing. He was composing a poem. She smiled and silently climbed a stone parapet above him to hear him better. Rosetta loved poetry with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

When the man stepped into a shaft of moonlight, her breath caught as he came into view. From his rich dark curls and cinnamon-tinted skin to his ebony, slumberous eyes and lithe form, he was the most beautiful man she had beheld. Rosetta leaned forward, licked her lips—and a stone came loose under her hand. She lost her balance and tumbled down from the ruins with a startled shriek.

She struck the cobblestone surface of the remains of the bailey. Her leg broke with a sickening snap and she fainted.

When Rosetta awoke, she was lying in a sumptuous bedchamber and the man she had been spying on was poised over her leg, inspecting the injured limb with scholarly studiousness. He raised his head and their eyes met. A frisson of heat passed between them and left her breathless.

“That was quite the fall you took, miss.” His voice was like dark Swiss chocolate. “Whatever were you doing up in those ruins?”

“I was listening to your poem,” she confessed. Then, before he could ask more, she said, “My name is Rosetta. Who are you, my lord?”

He chuckled ruefully. “I am no lord, only a mere physician. Dr. John Polidori, at your service, dear Rosetta. I am here as companion to Lord Byron. And, speaking of my position, I must see to your leg.”

Polidori turned and removed a brown bottle and a spoon from his bag. He poured a thick liquid with the heavy aroma of poppies into the spoon and bade her to take the medicine with a stern expression that would not tolerate refusal.

He set her broken leg and recited his poetry to distract her from the pain. The dark odes he composed were like beautiful music to her ears. By the time he finished, dawn was creeping near.

“Now you must rest and I will see you home in the morning,” he said.

“I'm afraid that's not possible,” Rosetta countered. “I must go now!”

“But your leg!” he protested.

“I will survive,” she said as she struggled to get out of the bed.

Polidori helped her to her feet despite the mutinous expression marring his handsome features. Reluctantly, he handed her a crutch. “But when may I see you again?”

“I don't know.” The words made her ache dreadfully, but no other answer was allowed. Getting too close to mortals was dangerous. “Really, sir, I must go!”

Somehow, the dear man understood the urgency in her voice and reluctantly summoned a servant to drive her to her inn. She had barely closed the wooden chest she slept in before the sun's deadly rays streamed through the window. Her day sleep was filled with dreams of the handsome doctor, and when she awoke, she still couldn't get him out of her mind. Though every instinct screamed at her not to, she limped off to Byron's villa to spy upon him once more.

Rosetta had followed him everywhere since. She even kept the cast on her leg long after it healed in case he spotted her. The more she watched him, the deeper he crawled into her heart. His compassionate care for his patients fascinated her as well. He seemed to be too good to be a real person. Indeed, the man had a passion and capability for love that eclipsed that of the usual mortal man.

John Polidori never lacked bed partners, male and female, and he treated all with tenderness and regard from the beginning to the end of his affairs. Before she became fully aware of the fact, Rosetta found herself longing to be one of those who came into his arms. Unfortunately, his current lover was the tempestuous poet, Lord Byron. And when the arrogant bastard sent her dearest John fleeing back to London to nurse his broken heart, Rosetta's urge to kill the poet was terrifying in its viciousness. But it was forbidden to kill a mortal in these times when modern science threatened to reveal her kind.

So she contented herself with watching over John like a dark guardian angel, aching with desire to comfort him as he plunged himself deeper and deeper into debt with his drinking and gambling, trying to drown his sorrow. While he slept, she'd slip into his room to stand over him and watch the lines of worry smooth from his handsome face. Every night she whispered words of love and encouragement to him, urging him to continue to write and support himself. After awhile, her will seemed to affect him, for he had pulled out his parchment at last. But this time, John did not pen another poem but a story—a story about a vampire.

Her heart thudded in her breast as she spied the story's title page.
Could
he
know?
She gave his slumbering form a worried glance before scooping up his pages and fleeing to her lair to discover what secrets he'd gleaned of her kind.

Rosetta devoured Polidori's tale in less than an hour. As she read, her terror dissolved into gales of surprised laughter. This wasn't a story about her kind at all! The work was a satire, albeit a morbid sort of parody. The so-called “vampyre” was in truth a symbol for Lord Byron's dissolute and sometimes perverse nature.

She hugged the pages to her chest, shoulders still shaking in mirth. Why, “The Vampyre” was a work of genius! And best of all, it was the perfect way for John to thumb his nose at Lord Byron. All of England would be laughing at the man who broke Polidori's heart if they read the tale. The local vampires would have a good chuckle as well. Rosetta returned the story to John and whispered to him that he should publish it at once. Unfortunately, he heeded her words. And that was only the first thing to go wrong.

When Polidori anonymously published his story, vampires became Europe's favorite trend. Nobody seemed to realize that the story was a satire. The local populace of blood drinkers were irritated, especially the Lord of London. He thought the story was about him! And to Rosetta's everlasting fury, the tale was mistakenly accredited to Lord Byron. However, when the Duke of Burnrath made a trip to Italy to make discreet inquiries about the man, Rosetta was relieved, for he would be looking in the wrong direction. Though the Lord of London seemed more annoyed than enraged about the story, she was worried that it had attracted his notice at all.

Her heart clenched in agony with the knowledge that she wasn't old enough to have the power to Mark the man she loved. If she were able, he would belong to her and all others of her kind would know that to harm him would incur her undying wrath. He could be her mortal companion and eventually she could petition her lord to Change John. Then they could be together forever, and her love would be safe. But after what she'd done, her hope for such an easy solution lay in tatters.

Her worries bore fruit when Lord Burnrath convened with all of his vampires one night. Not only had he discovered the identity of the author of “The Vampyre,” but he was furious about the story's growing popularity and the suspicions it created regarding his identity. Since he mingled with the mortals of the
haut
ton
as the Duke of Burnrath, his reputation was in danger. Rosetta fought back feelings of guilt. In truth, he was a fair, if not kind, Lord Vampire.

“I want you all to search for this Dr. Polidori,” the duke had commanded, his powerful strides circling them all. “When you find him, bring to me alive. Until this matter is resolved, all petitions to change territories will be held in abeyance. I need all of you with me now.”

Rosetta had kept her head down in feigned obeisance, struggling to keep her features composed and not to tug at her cravat or fidget in her male garb. She'd been terrified he would see that she knew where John was, even as her mind screamed at her heart for betraying her master. But she was trapped now, forbidden to leave the city until the duke allowed petitions once more.

Still, she was almost too late. With the deadly fingers of dawn crawling into the sky, Rosetta found Polidori unconscious in an alley behind one of his favorite gaming establishments. He didn't stir as she carried him to her lair and she feared blood poisoning from too much drink. He was deathly pale and emaciated, so she bit her finger and gently coaxed a few drops of her blood between his sculpted lips. His color returned and his breathing steadied, but still he did not awaken.

Rosetta lay down and took the sleeping man into her arms to warm him. She had to find a way to stop the Lord of London's quest to find John. Her thoughts raced as she reviewed and discarded plans.

Before she fell asleep, she kissed his brow and whispered, “I will keep you safe, my love. I promise.”

***

Angelica wished the day would end as soon as she opened her eyes.

“You have three callers!” Margaret announced as the breakfast dishes were cleared from the table.

“Ughhh…” Angelica groaned. Her mother's strident voice was more piercing than the morning light streaming in the windows. Champagne, apparently, was not so nice after all. How she longed to go back to sleep, but no, her mother just
had
to drag her out of bed at an uncivilized hour to break into yet another grating lecture about her conduct last night. As if her mother hadn't blistered her ears enough on the carriage ride home the night before.
If
I
never
have
to
hear
about
marriage
again, this will be worth it.
She tried to keep up the litany, but her head ached too much for the thought to be even moderately convincing.

“My goodness, Lord Makepeace, Lord Ponsonby,
and
Sir Albert Brighton are here to pay calls to you,” Margaret continued, oblivious to her daughter's agony. “Angelica, attend to your hair at once! This is a better opportunity than I anticipated. We must contrive a way to allow all three to escort you to the park.” In a rare burst of affection, she kissed her daughter's cheek. “Whatever you did, dear, was an absolute success. If only your sainted grandmother were alive to see this day!”

Angelica managed a wan smile at her mother's cheer—until the news sank in.
Callers
. That meant she had failed in her endeavor to render herself unmarriageable. She longed to sink through the floor.

Margaret patted down Angelica's hair and shoved her into the drawing room. Three bouquets of flowers were thrust in her face as the fops bowed before her.
Dear
God, they look ready to ask for my hand already!
She fought the urge to flee to her room and vomit into her chamber pot. Only one thing settled her rebellious stomach, and she focused on the thought with all her will as clammy lips were pressed to the back of her hand. Today she planned to resubmit her first complete ghost story to
The
New
Monthly
Magazine.

While writing the haunting tale of the ghost of a highwayman haranguing travelers as they crossed Hounslow Heath, Angelica had been busy gathering a disguise. She had acquired the costume piece by piece and hid the collection under a board that she'd painstakingly removed from her closet floor.

For she couldn't submit her story as Angelica Winthrop. To her undying dismay and bitterness, she'd learned that Mary Shelley's success as a gothic authoress was the exception, rather than the rule, owing much to the fact that she and her family were connected to the publishing business.

When Angelica went to the office of
The
New
Monthly
Magazine
, the editor had nearly laughed her out of the establishment. She ground her teeth at the injustice. Her merits as a writer should stand on their own, having nothing to do with her sex. On a flight of inspiration, she decided to beat them at their own game. She would see if “Allan Winthrop” had better luck. The tiewig she'd ordered was the final piece to her costume and should be in the shop today. And if her writing gained enormous popularity, she'd whip off her wig and expose herself before Mr. Colburn, the publisher himself, with a triumphant laugh! But first, she had this obligatory nonsense with her suitors to contend with.

The morning jaunt through Hyde Park represented the most unendurable two hours of her life. And Liza's mildly amused smile didn't help matters. Every bump the carriage wheels hit jarred her bones and intensified her agony. The gentlemen crowded her, making it hard for her to breathe as they vied for her attention. Her mouth tasted like a sweaty stocking and her head throbbed with the effort of making small talk. She supposed they thought she was behaving with admirable maidenly modesty, when truly her skull ached with every word she spoke. And if the birds didn't stop chirping, she swore she would take up shooting.