Bite Me, Your Grace (8 page)

A bell clanged, signaling the beginning of the fight.

The Ox clenched his ham-like fists and stomped toward his opponent. Rafe watched him with bored detachment as he reared back to land a sound blow. Rafe shrugged away nonchalantly. The Ox snarled in irritation and charged forward with renewed determination. Ian smiled. The poor sod had no chance.

The Spaniard was truly a wonder to behold. He moved with feral grace and a quickness that had the spectators gasping. Ian was also impressed, but not with Rafe's speed, for he was actually slowing himself down. His control in holding back his true preternatural abilities defied belief. Even with one functioning arm, the vampire could crush a man before he could make a fist.

Rafe's current opponent, however, was as unaware of this as all his predecessors had been. With an arrogant smirk, he shot his fist up in an uppercut at Rafe's seemingly vulnerable left side.

To Ian's view, Rafe's right arm moved lazily to block the punch. Then, with equal ennui, he tapped his fist to the man's chin, dropping him like a mail sack.

The crowd roared as their unique champion was once more declared the victor.

Rafe's gaze met Ian's, and with a slight nod, he quit the ring. Ignoring congratulatory shouts and thumps on the back, he made his way straight to Ian and bowed with a flourish.

“Your Grace, would you care to join me in the ring?” Rafe's lips curved in a strange sneer that was the closest thing to a smile he had ever been known to manage.

Ian sighed as everyone in the club doffed their caps and bowed. He preferred to remain anonymous in this part of town. From the gleam of Rafe's amber eyes, the rogue knew it.

Grinning back at his second, he bowed. “Thank you, no. I fear you'd trounce me. Instead, may I persuade you to join me for a stroll?”

Rafe inclined his head in agreement as several banknotes were thrust in his hand by the proprietor. Both vampires knew he could not refuse the Lord of London. Still, worry creased the Spaniard's brow, and though Ian wanted to reassure him nothing was amiss, he perversely remained silent until they were alone on the dark streets. It served Rafe right for announcing Ian's title in such an inconvenient place.

“If this concerns Polidori, I apologize for not yet locating him.” Rafe pulled off the leather tie that held back his waist-length black hair, shaking out the mass to dry his sweat. “I believe the
bastardo
knows we seek him and is only venturing out in the day.”

“I am not concerned with Polidori,” Ian replied, gazing up at the fog-obscured moon. “In fact, I am considering calling off the search. His popularity is waning, and I've happened upon a more effective solution to keep society's suspicions at bay.”

“What sort of solution?” Rafe eyed him warily.

“I shall marry,” Ian said calmly, bracing himself for the Spaniard's outrage at the announcement.

Rafe snarled and let loose a string of Spanish expletives. “
Dios
mío
! Why would you do such a thing?”

Ian sighed and related the tale of Angelica's misguided foray into his home and its disastrous results. “And so, if I marry her, I may ensure that she keeps her silence about our kind as well as dissuade society from believing the rumors circulating about me.”

His second continued to curse. “Still, marriage? Have you gone
loco
? She could expose us all! Do you have any notion of the danger in which you are placing us?”

“Well, I can't kill her,” Ian retorted.

Rafe nodded in reluctant agreement but stopped walking. His amber gaze turned speculative. “You could Change her.”

“No!” Ian growled, heart cringing at the thought of taking such an innocent away from family, friends, and daylight. “She is too innocent for this life and has such ambitious plans for her future. It would be monstrous to take that away from her.”

Rafe shook his head. “What shall you do with her, then? For one thing, she will not quicken with child, no matter how many times you lie with her, but the situation will grow far worse when she begins to age and you do not. At the prospect of such unhappiness, how do you expect her to hold her tongue?”

The Spaniard had a way of seeing the possible outcomes of any situation. It was one of the many reasons Ian had chosen Rafe to succeed him as Lord of London.

Ian suppressed curses of his own as he replied with feigned confidence, “Don't worry, I'll think of something.”

“Pull the laces tighter, Liza!” Margaret commanded as she bustled back and forth, bumping into Angelica's writing desk in her fluster. “And do be quick. His Grace will be here any minute.”

The victim of the clamping stays would have sighed if she had any breath remaining in her lungs. Every time Angelica tried to forget the nightmare of the Cavendish ball, her mother insisted on bringing the memory back in vivid clarity just by mentioning the Duke of Burnrath, a feat she'd accomplished at least a hundred times today.

To further add salt to the wound, Margaret punctuated nearly every sentence with “…and you will be the Duchess of Burnrath. Oh, my darling, I can hardly believe such a miracle has transpired!”

Angelica didn't know which galled her more, the fact that she had been so close to attaining her goals and had them snatched away so quickly, or that His Grace expected her to swoon at his feet in undying gratitude when he only wanted her to save
his
reputation. He was using her.

She
had
to find a way out of this. And now that her reputation had been saved since the duke offered her marriage and announced to all and sundry that she was not in his house of her own free will, surely there was no real need to go through with this ridiculous farce…
was
there
? Her stomach clenched in worry.

Between her mother's strident commands as she flitted from room to room and the frantic racing of the servants in their efforts to ready the house for the duke's arrival, Angelica managed to snatch enough precious minutes of quiet to formulate a shaky plan. Ironically, her mother unwittingly inspired the main point of her scheme.

During breakfast, Angelica had noted with grim amusement that her mother had likely slept less than she had. The layer of powder under her eyelids was so thick that it looked ready to topple from her face into her cup of chocolate at any moment.

“When the Duke of Burnrath calls upon you, you must show him your skills with the pianoforte. Gentlemen are pleased when a lady has musical talent. But”—Margaret's eyes narrowed in warning—“you mustn't play those scandalous songs you have written and do
not
sing under any circumstances! I have told you again and again, my dear, that our Lord did not gift you with a pleasant voice, as much as you seem to wish otherwise.” She set down her cup with a clatter, warming up to the lecture. “Oh, and do not discuss those gothic novels and their freakish notions you seem to adore and…”

I
wonder
what
he
would
do
if
I
did
sing?
Angelica crushed the biscuit on her plate with sadistic cheer.
In
fact,
what
would
he
do
if
I
did
everything
Mother
tells
me
not
to?
There it was. For once, she made an effort to listen to her mother's advice, especially in regards to what
not
to do.
There
lay her way out of this predicament. She would do everything a “proper lady” would never do. In short, she thought with a grin, she would be herself.

The Duke of Burnrath would never want to wed her if he truly knew her. He had said that “love was hardly a necessary ingredient for a successful marriage.” Angelica was well aware of that depressing truth, but she believed the reason for the alleged success of marriages within the peerage, aside from terror of the scandal attached to a divorce, was the fact that the two parties were virtual strangers. Surely no one would be able to bring themselves to marry someone if they knew all their flaws before the nuptials!

A glimmer of hope quickened Angelica's pace up the stairs to her bedchamber. If getting to know her failed to deter the duke, she would run away and endeavor to support herself with her writing.

As Liza pulled an elegant emerald brocade gown over Angelica's head, Angelica managed a genuine smile. Tonight she would defy one of Mother's principal commands: Do not ask a man too many questions, for it implies that you doubt his character.

She would do just that, as well as twist this catechism in a different way. She was going to ask him about being a vampire. She hadn't yet determined if what he was applied to her opinion of his character, but she was certain His Grace wouldn't like her prying at his secret.
It
shall
give
him
a
taste
of
what
to
expect
if
he
marries
me. And if I fail, at least his answers will give me good material for a novel.

When the butler announced that His Grace, the Duke of Burnrath had arrived, Angelica couldn't stop her pulse from accelerating at the sight of him. He towered over Morrison as he handed over his cape and hat, appearing utterly and completely like the sleek, dangerous creature that she knew him to be. She was suddenly very grateful that he only “liked” her, for if the duke had any deep feelings for her, she knew instinctively that he would never let anything dissuade him from pursuing his desires. A strange sensation of warmth curled through her lower belly at the thought.

“Good evening, Angel.” The vampire bowed low, taking her hand. His glittering silver eyes regarded her as he pressed cool, firm lips to her flesh, making her shiver.

There was a slight flush to his cheeks. Had he dined on someone's blood recently? She shivered and unconsciously placed a hand on the side of her neck where his fangs had penetrated her flesh.

“Oh, Your Grace, do come in!” Margaret lifted her skirts in a ridiculously elaborate curtsy. “I trust you had a pleasant stroll around the block? Would you like a tour of our home?”

Thankfully, Angelica's father interrupted Margaret as he entered the drawing room and greeted Ian with jovial but restrained civility. “It is wonderful to see you, Your Grace. I took the liberty of having supper provided before we begin preparing the contract, if that is all right with you.”

When the meal commenced, Angelica suppressed the urge to sink under the table as her mother turned herself inside out in her effort to please the duke. Angelica and Burnrath looked at each other with identical looks of amused embarrassment. She couldn't hold back a smile as she remembered him laughing with her on his sofa when she told him about her ghost stories. Resolutely she pushed back the memories. It would not at all do to have warm feelings for this man. Vampire or no, he was still a
man
and as such he represented an end to her freedom.

She decided to begin the first phase of her plan.
Mother
says: a lady must always eat as daintily as a songbird
. Angelica devoured the meager amount of food on her plate, looking up at him in mute challenge, waiting for him to object.

“I do so admire a woman with a healthy appetite,” he said with a wry smile as if he were aware of her strategy.

She flushed and looked down, noticing that the majority of his food remained untouched. She was completely distracted for a moment.
Do
vampires
eat
food, or do they only drink blood?
She remembered the feel of his mouth locked on her neck and shivered as she realized the sensation hadn't been an unpleasant one.

“Is the food to your liking, Your Grace?” her mother asked, twisting her napkin in her nervousness.

The duke took a bite of braised beef and chewed. “This is delicious, Lady Margaret. Unfortunately I dined earlier”—Angelica dropped her spoon, and he fixed her with a stern eye—“and I would not be able to manage another bite if this meal was not so exquisite.”

Margaret seemed pleased and Angelica searched her mind for another of her mother's commandments.
A
lady
does
not
ask
a
man
too
many
questions.

“What are your interests, Your Grace?” Angelica asked, surprised at her genuine curiosity.

Burnrath's smile gave her another unbidden shiver. “I enjoy playing cards, reading, attending the opera, and playing with investments in the market. What do you prefer, Miss Winthrop?”

Margaret paled at the duke's blatant admission that he was involved in trade, but her father had a new gleam of interest in his eyes. As if His Grace held new value as a prospective son-in-law. She needed to do better.

“I enjoy reading, writing gothic stories, and”—Angelica floundered for the right words—“supporting the liberation of women!”

At her mother's strangled gasp, she knew she'd scored a hit.

“I see,” Burnrath said, his lips twitching. “And how do you contribute to this cause?”

Angelica fixed him with an icy glare. How dare he be amused! “Well, I purchase all the literature I can on the subject, and I portray my heroines in my stories as strong, independent thinkers who have no need for a man. And the songs I write involve honest feelings rather than insipid yearnings.”

“You write songs as well?” The duke raised a brow, but his smile deepened. “I am overjoyed that I shall have a very talented bride. I would like to hear your compositions sometime.”

“I am certain you would not,” Margaret said stiffly, fixing her daughter with a warning glare. “I am quite afraid that my daughter's singing is most… unconventional.”

Angelica's heart surged with triumph as she embarked further. “What is your average profit from your investments on the
'Change
, Your Grace?” This time, she heard a murmur of protest from her father. Surely this was dangerous ground. A lady was never to discuss matters of commerce.

To her disappointment, the duke did not seem chagrined in the slightest by her rude inquiry. “I have made anywhere between ten and ten thousand pounds on my speculations. And how much have you made from your writing?”

“Eighteen pounds, so far.” Angelica struggled to keep the defensiveness from her voice. “Of course, that was only from short stories. The profits from a novel will be much higher.”

“When you are the Duchess of Burnrath, you will likely make more,” her father said in a blatant attempt to placate her.

Angelica turned to her father, breath heaving shallowly.
He's
supposed
to
be
on
my
side!
“I believe my work should stand on its own merits and the reception shouldn't change because of my name.” Her gaze darted back to Burnrath. “And I do not see why I should have to change my name in the first place.”

The duke smiled. “That is what a lady does when she marries.”

Her fists clenched irritation. “Yes, but why? Why does a woman have to give up her name? Why don't
you
change
your
name?”

Margaret's face turned white with mortification. Her father seemed wracked with confusion as his mouth struggled to form a response.

The duke, however, was undaunted by her radical outburst. “Because that is the way things have always been done, Angel.”

Her father nodded in relieved agreement. “Yes, quite so, Your Grace.”

Angelica refused to take the bait and kept her reproving stare on the target of her ire. “I do not think that longtime tradition is a legitimate reason to throw away my identity. After all, for centuries we believed that the world was flat, but now we've come to our senses at last.”

Her parents gasped in mutual shock, but before her lips could curve in a triumphant smile, the scoundrel before her actually raised his glass to her in a toast.

“I applaud your sound logic, Miss Winthrop,” Burnrath said with another of his infuriating knowing smiles. “However, I do not believe English law will bow down before it. They move dreadfully slow, after all. But do not allow that to stop you from pursuing reform. Who knows, perhaps someday women will be allowed to sit in Parliament.”

“Are you
mocking
me, Your Grace?” Angelica asked in a low voice.

“Not at all,” he replied cheerfully. “I am enjoying myself immensely.

Angelica suppressed a groan of frustration. Her only consolation was that her parents appeared to be scandalized, exchanging helpless glances while she and the duke verbally dueled by asking each other questions that were unseemly for dinner conversation.

The sparring was cut short when the meal ended. Her father cleared his throat. “Shall we adjourn to my study to begin preparing the contract, Your Grace?”

A wave of disappointment washed over Angelica. To her surprise, she'd been having a good time. Then she remembered her mother crowing with triumph that His Grace wanted a short engagement. She felt as if she were suffocating and was certain her stays weren't the only cause. She had to bargain for more time.

“Papa, wait!” she cried. “First may I take His Grace for a stroll through the garden? I would so like some fresh air.” She smiled and attempted to flutter her eyelashes the way the other debutantes did when attempting to cajole their papas to raise their allowances.

Her father gave her an odd look before comprehension dawned as his eyes lit on the couple. Angelica could see what he thought. Of course they would want some time alone together.
Bloody
hell, I'm doing this all wrong!

“I am certain that will be quite proper. Go on and enjoy yourselves,” he said with an indulgent wave of his hand, blushing as Margaret beamed at him. Angelica couldn't remember the last time her mother had smiled at her father like that.