Bite Me, Your Grace (20 page)

The next evening, Ian returned home immediately after feeding, for he missed his wife. He had been thinking a lot about Angelica's behavior these past two months. Perhaps he'd judged her too harshly and her cool behavior toward him was due to being intimidated by her new position as a duchess. After all, her cool demeanor had been noticeably absent last evening.

Knowing how overzealous her mother was on subjects of propriety, he wondered if perhaps Angelica was now afraid to be herself. He would talk to her tonight, he resolved. He was sick of living with a veritable ghost of the woman who'd so delighted him in the beginning of their relationship.

He looked out the window of their bedchamber and saw that she had taken Loki outside in the garden. He knew that if he didn't catch her now, she would flee back into her writing room to scribble until dawn. As he headed out of the room and down the hall, he noticed that the door to the writing room was ajar. Perhaps it would be a better idea to wait for her there, so she had no chance of escaping him. Also, if she were somewhere comfortable, perhaps she would be more receptive to granting him an explanation of her coldness outside of the marriage bed.

When he entered the room, his nose wrinkled at the sharp, acrid odor of burnt tobacco. At first she'd tried to hide her smoking habit from him, but she didn't appear to care anymore what he thought. After they talked, he was determined to convince her to quit before the habit became a full-fledged addiction.

His eyes rested on her cherry wood desk, cluttered with ink bottles and papers from her manuscript and an ashtray overflowing with crushed cheroots. Ian closed his eyes as memories of making love to her on the desk flashed through his mind like quicksilver. He decided to remove the items so they could have a repeat performance.

He opened a drawer and put away her quill and ink bottle. When he emptied the ashtray into the dustbin, he was tempted to drop the piece of engraved silver in as well. He resisted the urge and placed it in the drawer with her other items.

As he swept up the pages of her manuscript, the title caught his eye.
The
Vampyre's Bride, a Novel by Angelica Ashton.
His jaw clenched. She would not dare!

But as he sat down in her chair and began to read, his brows knitted together and his lips thinned in rage as he realized that she did indeed dare.

***

Angelica had spent more time in the garden than she intended. After relieving himself, Loki caught a moth. The insect continued to escape—or Loki intentionally released it. He would catch his prey again, tossing the moth into the air and batting at it with dainty paws, his inky tail puffed up like a feather duster. She watched for nearly an hour, laughing at his silly antics and amazed at his keen night vision. When the kitten finally grew tired of his game, the hapless insect was reduced to tatters.

“What a fierce hunter you are!” she exclaimed, scooping him up and burying her face in his warm midnight fur. “Such prowess deserves a reward. Let's go see if Cook will spare some cream.”

She lingered in the kitchen longer than usual, dipping a crusty roll into a bowl of hearty soup. She was in a fix with her book. The hero and heroine had had a terrible fight and the hero was about to leave her. Angelica had no idea how to compose their reconciliation and form the happy ending.
What
if
my
story
doesn't have a happy ending?
an insidious voice whispered in the back of her mind.
Nonsense
, she told it.
This
is
my
book
and
thus
will
have
any
ending
I
choose. And I choose a happy ending because it's likely the only one I will get!

She finished her soup and dragged her feet up the stairs, dreading the daunting hours of staring at her blank pages as she willed her characters to speak to her. The door to her writing room was ajar, and the light pouring out into the hallway was brighter than usual. As she drew near, she could hear the crackle and pop of burning wood.
Why
would
the
chambermaid
light
the
fireplace
in
this
warm
weather?

With gentle pressure, she nudged the door open farther, her heart lodging in her throat as she saw a dark figure leaning against her desk, his back to the flames. Ian's face was cast in shadow, his eyes gleaming a sinister silver like a specter's. In his hand he held her incomplete manuscript. He slapped the stack of papers against his thigh in a steady ominous rhythm.

“Wh-what are you doing here, Your Grace?” she stammered.

His voice was low and dangerous, rife with silky threat. “I saved you and your family from ruin. I gave you my hand and my name. I gave you a beautiful home to do with as you pleased. I gave you gowns, jewels, and anything else you desired. But that wasn't enough for you, was it?”

“What do you mean?” she whispered as the blood seemed to drain from her body.

He stalked toward her like the savage being he was. “You seek to destroy me with
this
!” He thrust the painstakingly written pages at her as if she were a dog who'd defecated on the floor and he would rub her nose in it.

She was terrified. She'd never seen him this angry before. His eyes glowed demonically, and his fangs were bared and gleaming. He looked like the monster of a child's worst nightmares.

“Ian, I—” she whispered, not knowing what she was pleading for.

He raised his hand, and she flinched in terror that he would strike her. Instead, he whirled around and slammed his fist on her desk. The sound of cracking wood brought a shriek of terror from her lips. The desk split in two. Angelica's hand flew to her mouth and she stumbled backward. She had no idea that he was so strong. The knowledge that he could not only drain her of her life's blood but shatter every bone in her body as well shook her to the core.

“This book,” he said in a chilling,
awful
voice, “
especially
given the identity of the author, would undo everything I've worked for to salvage my reputation. Would you have every vampire hunter in the civilized world breaking down my doors to slay me?”

“No!” she cried, unable to believe that he would think her capable of such betrayal. “The publisher wanted me to write a vampire story. And I thought…”

“You
thought
!” he sneered. “You did not
think
at all, you foolish woman!” He strode to the hearth and threw her manuscript in the fire.

“No!” she shrieked, diving at the fireplace, heedless of the danger.

He caught her by the waist and pulled her away. Angelica struggled with all her strength as she watched the pages ignite and immediately curl and blacken as the hungry flames devoured months of hard work and dedication.

“You bloodsucking
fiend
!” A momentary pang of guilt struck her as he flinched from the insult, but Angelica forced it down. He had burned her book. He had hurt her, and she would hurt him back. He had burned
her
book! Rage curdled in her belly, rancid and fiery.

Angelica whirled around with a shriek of fury, pounding her fists impotently against his chest. She may as well have been striking a brick wall. She leaped up, trying in vain to land a blow to his face.

He seized her by the arms and shook her, his fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. “Be still!” he thundered. “Before I give you the sound thrashing you deserve.”

She ceased struggling and searched his face for any sign of the man who had smiled at her, laughed with her, made tender love to her and called her “Angel.” There was none. In his place was a furious, terrifying monster, looming over her and promising certain dire consequences if she made the wrong move or spoke once more. The fire popped and hissed ominously.

“Listen to me very carefully, madam,” he said through clenched teeth. “You may scribble to your heart's content on any subject you choose,
except
in regard to me or my kind. If you disobey me on this in the slightest, I
will
know, even after I leave this house and city, which will be soon. If I hear one word breathed in connection to you and vampires, you will not like the consequences!” He bared his fangs in a hideous, threatening grimace. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes,” she choked, fighting back the tears that threatened to crumple her where she stood.

“Good.” He released her and rubbed his hands on his trousers as if he had touched something loathsome. “I should be gone in a month's time. I will leave you this house and all my other estates, as well as sufficient funds to keep you in luxury for the rest of your life. In the meantime I would greatly appreciate it if you stayed the hell away from me.”

He pivoted and left the room, slamming the door. The crack of the frame mirrored that of her heart.

Angelica fell to her knees in a heap of skirts, unable to stand any longer as the racking sobs tore out of her body.

“Oh God,” she whispered, gazing into the fire, her vision painfully blurred through the sheen of her tears. “What have I done?”

Ian licked the blood of the drunkard from his lips and slipped a sovereign in the man's pocket before propping him up against the wall of the inn. The sustenance was like ashes in his mouth. The long years of his existence felt like a millennia these past few days. Angelica's betrayal had stung him deeply. He'd been a fool to allow himself to care for her. Not for the first time, he wondered if she had intended his downfall all along. He closed his eyes and remembered the many things she had said and done to indicate her duplicity.

“I heard that you are a vampire,” she had said the night they'd met.

“I am a man,” he'd replied, too captivated by her beauty to be wary of the trap she set.

The
dark
beauty
nodded. “I assumed so.”

“And why is that?”

“I saw that you cast a reflection.”

“And if I did not, what would you do?”

“I would ask you what it is like to be a vampire.”

“Why would you want to know such a thing? Would you want to be one?”

“I did not think about that. I just thought it would make a good story.”

He growled at his foolishness. She had been even more candid the night she broke into his house.

“As you know, I have always wanted to be a writer…”
And yet he'd still been beguiled by her, swallowing her Banbury tale of ghosts haunting his house like a wet-eared schoolboy.

And how could he have forgotten their courtship, when her questions about his kind had been relentless?

He cursed himself for being a gullible idiot. He had been blinded with infatuation by a bewitching slip of a girl who had made him feel like a mortal man again. But he was a mortal man no longer. He was a Lord Vampire, and his folly had nearly cost him his life and possibly the lives of the vampires under his protection.

“
Bloodsucking
fiend
,” she had called him. Fool that he was, the words still stung.

He slipped his hands in his pockets and walked in the darkest shadows, avoiding the meager touch of the moon. Mortals noted the black look on his face and darted out of his path, as well they should have.

It was past time he ceased living among mortals. In truth, he had no idea why his maker had insisted that he do so. No other vampires were pulling off such a ruse to the great extent that he was. Though he would miss a few of his friends, like the Duke of Wentworth, he had been accustomed to losing mortal friends for centuries.

He strolled into White's, deciding to enjoy the smoky haven while he could. It was time for him to leave this city, and most likely the club would no longer exist by the time he returned to England. Last night he had dashed off a letter to the Elders, requesting that Rafe stand in as Lord of London for the next fifty years.

Now all he had left to do was wait. He expected a reply within the month. He sighed and sat down at the faro table, his mind whispering,
Only
one
more
month
until
I
never
have
to
see
her
beautiful
face
again.

***

“Would you like anything else, Your Grace?” Liza asked gently as she brought Angelica's breakfast tray.

“No, thank you.” Angelica managed not to snap her reply, though she felt like exploding in rage and smashing everything in sight. “You may go.”

When she was finally alone, she leaped out of bed and paced the room like a caged tigress.
If
I
receive
any
more
sympathy
from
anyone, I swear I will scream!

As she swept back and forth across the bedchamber, details of the past week chased through her mind like relentless banshees.

After Ian threw her precious manuscript into the fire and raged at her, Angelica had locked the door of her writing room and spent the night huddled in her chair, numb with grief. When she emerged the next morning, she was heedless of the pitying looks the servants gave her when they announced that the duke had commanded them to move all of her personal items to the adjoining bedchamber. She merely nodded as if nothing was amiss and retired to the chamber, sleeping for two days.

For the next few days, the servants pampered her shamelessly as she drifted through the house like a ghost, smoking much, eating little, and feeling nothing. But when she happened to see Ian step out the rear door close to dawn, something quickened within her—anger.

He
has
not
been
sleeping
in
our
bedchamber
at
all! He only evicted me from it to be spiteful! That bloody bastard!
The next evening, after Ian left for his evening hunt, Angelica took a candle down to the cellar. There, she discovered something far more infuriating. The hidden chamber in which he'd slept was covered in dust and cobwebs. He hadn't been sleeping there, either. So where was he spending his days?

A sudden memory assailed her. The elfin-faced vampire female had appeared guilty the night Ian had presented Angelica to his people. Perhaps Ian was with
her!
Perhaps he always had been. The lump in Angelica's throat made breathing nearly impossible as she dashed away her tears with a clenched fist and returned to her bed.

The naked pity in the eyes and voices of her servants was like salt in the wound. And when Liza brought her breakfast and chocolate that morning, crooning to her as if she were a sick child, Angelica could take the sympathetic coddling no longer.

Her pacing ceased as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She could hardly recognize the ragged countenance staring back at her. She resembled a walking corpse. Her hair was tangled and matted in some places and ragged and wispy as cobwebs in others. She was skinny as a wraith; her skin held a sickly gray-tinged pallor against her linen night shift, and the circles under her red-rimmed eyes were the dark purple of thunderclouds.

“Bloody hell, I look worse than pitiful,” she whispered to her image. “I am positively ghastly!” She grimaced and noticed that her teeth were stained yellow from the cheroots she'd been smoking.

She whirled from the mirror and strode to her bureau with militant determination. Cursing under her breath, she removed the offending cheroots from their case and threw them into the fireplace. She would never smoke again. Next, she rang the maids for a hot bath and rummaged through her vanity for her tooth powder and brush. While waiting, she forced herself to eat every morsel of her breakfast.

As the maids poured the steaming water and lavender oil into her bathing tub, Angelica was heartened to see their encouraging smiles. The hot water relaxed her muscles, and she scrubbed her body with newfound vigor as if she was washing her troubles away… at least on the surface. Her hair took more effort and the water was tepid by the time she was able to get the ebony masses clean. Once the locks somewhat dried, she attacked the tangles with the hairbrush, muttering and cursing under her breath as she struggled to tame the knotted tresses.

Once her body and hair were addressed and she had cleaned her teeth twice, Angelica stood before the mirror dressed impeccably in a royal purple gown trimmed with black lace. “I am the Duchess of Burnrath, and I swear before God that I shall never be pitiful again!”

With that, she flounced downstairs to order the carriage. Now she had to purchase a new writing desk. Her resemblance to a walking corpse these past few days had given her inspiration for a new macabre story.

But writing wouldn't be enough to occupy her. The thought of resuming her frantic social schedule, even with the few who would still receive her, made Angelica's stomach turn. There had to be something she could do, something worthwhile. The memory of the squalor of Soho came to her. The faces of the starving men and the desperate drabs came forth with aching clarity, making her flush with guilt. How could she be dissatisfied with so much when others had so little?

Angelica threw herself into charity work with all the determination in her being. She donated vast sums to children's schools and houses for the homeless. She submitted articles to the papers about the plight of London's poverty-stricken masses. She went to the constabulary and related her tale of being attacked in Soho, offering a generous donation on the condition that more men were hired to keep the peace.

She dove into her new gothic novel with twice as much zealous determination as she had the last. She worked so hard that by the time she crawled into her bed every night, she was too tired to think about her shattered heart. And when Loki presented her with a dead rat nearly the same size as the cat, Angelica found that she could smile again.

***

“Your Grace?” Burke said to Ian as soon as he took his hat and topcoat. “There is quite a bit of mail that needs to be seen to. The duchess… er, Her Grace… seems to be too busy to address it.” The butler's nervousness was made obvious by his stumbling words and wringing hands.

“Very well,” Ian replied, wondering why Angelica was shirking her responsibilities. What was she up to that caused her to be too busy to answer her letters? Such behavior was not like her. “Bring the letters to me in the library.”

Burke coughed, practically cringing in discomfort. “I am afraid that Her Grace is entertaining guests in that location.”

As if on cue, Angelica's musical laughter trilled from the direction of the library. Ian clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. She used to laugh like that for him. “Very well, I'll read them in the blue salon, then.”

On his way to the salon, maids and footmen alike paled and darted from his path as if he were a dragon set on terrorizing a village. This bothered him only slightly less than the subtle glares of accusation the servants cast his way when they thought he wasn't looking.
As
if
he
were
the
one
who
was
in
the
wrong!
Two of the upstairs maids had quit after he and Angelica had their terrible row. He was surprised that his wife had found time to hire replacements but couldn't answer her mail.

Burke brought a decanter of brandy with an enormous stack of correspondence. Ian frowned at the pile.
Likely
she
ran
up
a
mountain
of
bills
for
dresses
and
frippery
in
a
girlish
pique. If she thinks that trying to spend all of my money will get a rise out of me, she is in for a long wait.

“Thank you, Burke,” Ian said, despising the way the butler's hands shook as he poured a glass from the decanter. “You have been invaluable to me.”

Ian tossed back a swig of brandy, reveling in the heat blooming in his belly. He wished that he could enjoy more than a few swallows without becoming ill. Then, at least, he could numb the pain his bride had caused. He retrieved the first envelope from the stack and broke the wax seal with his thumbnail. The correspondence was an invitation to a ball held more than three weeks ago. The next envelope also contained an invitation, as did the next, and the next after that.

Ian's brow creased. He knew she was spending a lot of time at home, but he had no idea that she was leaving important invitations unanswered, an act which would surely offend many of the
ton
's most influential members. Angelica was dangerously close to committing social suicide. He took a small sip of brandy and wondered if she was unaware of the consequences of her actions, and why he should care either way.

A few of the letters were not invitations. The envelopes were shabbier, and the contents gave him pause.

Your Grace, The Duchess of Burnrath:

You have our heartfelt thanks for your miraculous donation. Because of your kindness, the children are now able to have meat every day. There was even enough money left to purchase a few toys. I am certain that there is a special place in heaven reserved just for you.

Sincerely,

Adam Westland

Overseer of St. Jude's Orphan Asylum

The next one read:

Your Grace, The Duchess of Burnrath:

Thank you for your generous donation. The new women's wing should be completed next spring, God willing, and we hope you will attend the opening ceremony. We have also taken into consideration your recommendation of opening a school for nursing and midwifery. I am pleased to inform you that we have found two qualified candidates to serve as instructors. We will inform you of our progress.

Regards,

James Everson

Altherbury Hospital

Ian opened the next one with a sigh. Apparently his wife had become quite the philanthropist. This wasn't at all what he had expected, and for some reason, her actions unnerved him.

Dearest Duchess of Burnrath,

I am pleased to inform you that I have made good use of your contribution and have heeded your recommendations. I have now been able to hire two more men to assist me in the heavy task of combating crime in the city. You have my eternal gratitude.

Sincerely,

Constable Frederick Nelson

Ian set down the last letter and took another swig of brandy, wincing as his stomach protested. Angelica must have been affected deeply when those men attacked her in Soho. He cursed as guilt once again washed over him for leaving her unprotected that night, though she had taken matters into her own hands and fought off her attackers like a rampant lioness. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Now she was taking charge with her sponsorship of women, orphans, and the city's feeble attempt at law enforcement.