One Bite Per Night (3 page)

“I required Lady Morley to double the existing dowry in exchange for my taking on the responsibility.
Then
I doubled the amount yet again from my own coffers.”

A strange snort that may have been a laugh came from Miss Hobson at the last. “The dowager countess will not be pleased to hear that.” Taking a sip of her drink, she leaned forward. “It is rumored that the Deverils have always been a miserly lot.”

He smiled over his glass of brandy. “Well, their frugality has been enough that it shall be no trouble for me to break the tradition.” It was astounding the fortune one could amass in two centuries. The bitter rub was that he'd had nothing or no one to spend it on…until now.

“That is excellent news. You will need it for this endeavor to succeed.”

Miss Hobson then filled his ears with talk of tutors, dresses, fans, and other such frippery. Vincent only half listened as he mulled over other more serious challenges: the first being that a Lord Vampire needed permission before entering another's territory. Typically, that would not be of great concern, as he was on good terms with the Lord Vampire of London. However, Ian was due to depart soon on an extended wedding trip, and his second in command would rule London for the next half century.

Vincent was not well acquainted with Rafael Villar, though if the dour expression on Villar's scarred face was any indication, relations between London and Cornwall would become less amicable. Likely Rafael would refuse Vincent's request to bring Lydia to London for the Season, as he had vocally disapproved of Ian's marriage to a mortal.

Hell, Ian might refuse if he was still in charge. He'd involved himself with a human out of necessity, and solved the conflict eventually by Changing his bride. Vincent's involvement was voluntary…and hell would freeze over before he destroyed such a vivid life as Lydia's.

As soon as Miss Hobson retired, Vincent headed up to the chamber he'd prepared for Lydia. He wondered momentarily at his sense of urgency.
I
am
only
doing
my
duty
in
seeing
that
she's settled in properly.

He paused at her door long enough to reach out with his senses and verify that she was asleep before stealing silently into the room. It wouldn't do to frighten her.

She was so full of life. Vincent watched Lydia's sleeping form with awe. Her hair spread across the pillow like a midnight waterfall. He longed to touch it as he had earlier. No,
more
.

He remembered how her large eyes had sparkled despite the dark circles of fatigue beneath them. Yet she had seemed concerned for
him
. An odd ache pierced his chest at the memory.

Her hair whispered beneath his fingers like satin. Vincent snatched back his hand and left the room, guilt roiling through him for touching something so pure.

Lydia awoke to the aroma of bacon and freshly baked bread. She smiled at Emma, who was carrying a heaping breakfast tray. “That smells heavenly.”

Emma nodded and placed the tray on the table near the bed. “Cook was pleased to prepare a nice meal. His lordship rarely dines at home.”

“Why not?” Lydia reached for the food, stomach rumbling. A pang of disappointment struck her at the maid's words. She'd looked forward to dining with her fascinating guardian.

The maid shook her head. “It seems to be a custom among bachelors.”

“Well, it's a terrible custom.” She bit into a piece of crisp bacon. “The man is much too thin.” That hadn't stopped him from haunting her dreams last night. He'd been caressing her hair as though she was something cherished. Her cheeks heated, and her pulse quickened.

Oh
no.
Her fork fell from nerveless fingers. She knew this feeling. It was the same sensation she'd experienced when she'd first seen the dashing Monsieur Delacroix at the opera last year. She'd yearned for the better part of a month until her maid had informed her that the man was engaged to a planter's daughter, and he also had a quadroon mistress tucked away in the French Quarter.

Now
I'm attracted to my own guardian.
Her lips curled in a self-deprecating frown. Was she destined to always pine over the wrong man? A guardian was supposed to be a figure of familial authority, like an exalted uncle. Unfortunately, Lord Deveril was too damned handsome to be anyone's uncle.

Unaware of Lydia's plight, Emma opened the curtains and tended the fire. Lydia buttered her bread and looked around the chamber. Far from a gothic horror scene, the room epitomized luxury, with its plush rugs covering the stone floor, elegant tapestries, and cheery fireplace. Lydia didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. At least there were no cobwebs. She abhorred spiders.

After she finished eating and completing her morning ablutions, Emma helped her into a gown of black muslin trimmed in lace.

“Is the earl about this morning?” Lydia ventured curiously.

“No, he remains abed during the day. The sunlight gives him a terrible sick headache.”

“The poor man!” Lydia's heart clenched with sympathy. “How is he to enjoy himself? Much less look after his estate?”
Or
me?
“What is he like?”

Emma paled and glanced around as if expecting to see Deveril over her shoulder. “I cannot say, miss. I have not been long in his employ.”

It seemed her maid was afraid of the earl. Was the man a tyrant? She wouldn't be able to abide that for a moment.
Though
if
he's strict, my silly infatuation should abate.

Miss Hobson awaited her in the solar with a pair of fans in hand. The chaperone looked pale. “Good morning, Miss Price. We must begin cultivating your manners so you are ready for the London Season.”

“London?” Lydia's heart raced. “I only now came here.”

“We won't be leaving for another month.”

Lydia nodded. At least she had time to become acquainted with this wild, sea-kissed land. Although admittedly, the prospect of seeing England's capital was exciting. Her dream of meeting Sir Thomas Lawrence might yet be possible. “Do you suppose Lord Deveril may take me to see the Royal Academy of Arts?”

Unaffected by her excitement, Miss Hobson handed her a fan. “He may, though we must make you presentable in time. Now show me how you learned to open a fan.”

Just like that, her lessons began. Lydia's instructors in America seemed not to have been good enough, for Miss Hobson drilled her in things she'd thought she'd mastered years ago. After an hour with the fan, they spent even more time on walking, and yet a longer period on sitting. By the time they finished luncheon, Lydia was twitching with boredom…and Miss Hobson had paled further.

Miss Hobson absently rubbed her temple. “Do ladies nap in America?”

“We do when the heat is terrible. As it is much cooler here, I do not feel in the least tired. Perhaps Emma could give me a tour of the castle while
you
rest?” Lydia suggested gently. “I know I have been a trying pupil.”

“No, no, not at all,” Miss Hobson assured. “However, your suggestion has merit. It is time you become acquainted with your new home. We shall continue your lessons at supper.”

Finishing her tea, the chaperone departed, still rubbing her temples as though her headache was worsening. Perhaps the malady was a common reaction to the climate, since the earl suffered from them as well. Lydia prayed it was not so. Frequent headaches had plagued her when she'd had yellow fever.

She forced the ugly memory away and stood, brightening at the new prospect before her. “Let us explore the castle.”

Emma shivered as she secured the needle in her sampler. “I've not been here long enough to know this place well, miss. I fear we shall become lost.”

Lydia chuckled. “What fun that would be.”

“
Fun?
” The maid quavered in fear.

Taking pity on the woman, Lydia sighed. “I'll ask the butler to come along. I do not suppose this castle has many callers to tend.”

At last, the maid giggled. “I suppose not.”

Aubert proved to be an informative guide, navigating the corridors with ease as he explained the purpose of each room. Worn tapestries depicting pastoral landscapes covered nearly every inch of the walls in an attempt to block out the musty dampness. Lydia listened to Aubert's descriptions, rapt with fascination as she pictured rushes adorning the stone floors and knights rushing off to battle, wearing their ladies' favors for luck.

Several renowned paintings also adorned the castle walls. Lydia gasped in delight as she spotted a Goya, a Lorraine, and even one by Thomas Lawrence. The earl appeared to be fond of landscapes. Lydia's fingers itched to render her own images on canvas. Perhaps Miss Hobson would nap long enough for her to venture outside with her paints.

“Miss Price.” Aubert's voice turned sharp when she turned the corner to the south wing. “We cannot continue that way.”

“Why not?” She peered down the corridor. The lack of lit wall sconces engulfed the area in shadows. Was there a dark secret? She'd read that castles contained secret passageways.

“Those are his lordship's quarters.” Aubert's voice was hushed and wary. “He
must
not
be disturbed.”

Lydia sighed at the depressingly commonplace explanation. “Very well. Are there dungeons?”

The butler nodded. “Most of that area has been refurbished into a wine cellar.” As if sensing her need for further entertainment, he added, “A few old prisoner cells remain. Would you like to see them?”

“Oh yes, I would be most obliged!” Lydia vowed she would search for secret passageways the moment she was alone.

***

Vincent bit back a curse as he returned from his first hunt of the evening. Lydia had been under his care for less than twenty-four hours, and she'd already gone missing.

“Where is she?” he demanded once more to no avail.

The maid trembled and babbled incoherently.

“What is amiss, my lord?” Miss Hobson's voice was groggy as she entered the room.

“My ward is missing.” He vowed to use a less heady vintage the next time he plotted with the chaperone.

Aubert shuffled between them. “Miss Price is painting on the west hill, my lord. Miss Hobson was indisposed…” He squared his thin shoulders and continued. “Miss Price wanted to walk the grounds and paint. I saw no harm in her doing so, as we can see her from the window…”

Vincent glared at the dark window.

“Well,” the butler stammered. “We
could
see her before we began preparing for supper.”

Miss Hobson flushed. “I shall fetch her straightaway!”

“No,” Vincent countered. “Why don't you…check on the supper?” He turned to the maid. “And you will…do whatever a maid does to prepare for a meal.
I
will collect Miss Price.”

Utterly out of his element, he left the castle and hurried through the moonlit evening. Devouring the distance in long strides, he wished he could use his powerful speed and flash to the west hill in seconds. It wouldn't do to frighten Lydia. He had to behave as a mortal man.

Clenching his teeth, Vincent realized he wasn't the only one upset by his ward's arrival. Although he had hired Miss Fiddock, she would not have lost her position in the first place if it were not for Lydia. Miss Hobson would not have come here if not for the sum he offered…and she would have done a better job of keeping track of her charge if he hadn't doused her in brandy the night before. His servants were in a state of bewilderment, since they were unaccustomed to long-term guests.

By the time Vincent crested the west hill, he was infuriated. It would be all well and good to blame Lydia, but she was innocent. Lady Morley was a far likelier target…yet even then she was only the catalyst. He had only himself to blame, and though if he could go back and refuse the dowager's plea to honor the alliance, he knew he wouldn't. He should have planned better, enacted further preparations.

The chaos in his household was solely his fault. The fact only increased his temper.

“What do you think you're about?” he demanded.

Lydia turned from packing away her paints, tawny eyes wide as a doe's. “My lord!” She managed an awkward curtsy despite her heavy canvas apron.

Vincent frowned. The cumbersome apron made her resemble a drudge. Were things more lax in America? “A lady is not safe alone outside, especially after dark.”

“I was perfectly safe.” With a jaunty grin, Lydia removed her hand from beneath the apron. A flintlock pistol was in her grip. “I am not a fool. My father told me I shouldn't be alone without some means of protection. I've had it pointed at you since you startled me.”

Shock and admiration warred within, until all he could manage was a burst of laughter. His ward had spirit. Lydia glared at him like the wrath of hellfire even as the moonlight glistened on her hair like an angel's nimbus.

Catching his breath, he managed to gasp, “I am not laughing at you, Lydia. I am laughing because you had the upper hand all along.” He regained his composure. “I am unused to being surprised.”

She released the hammer on the gun with delicate precision before tucking it back into the massive pocket in the apron. “I shall endeavor to do so more often, for your reaction was quite diverting.”

Not knowing what to say to that, Vincent approached the canvas propped up on an easel. His eyes widened at her skill. “You've rendered the castle well.”

“That is only the preliminary outline,” she said demurely as she finished packing her supplies into a worn leather case. “Besides, how can you tell? I had to stop because I couldn't see the end of my brush.”

“I can see well at night, due to my nocturnal schedule.” With his heightened vision, even the tips of her eyelashes stood out in vivid detail. “Allow me to escort you back to the castle. It is time for supper.” He reached for the painting.

“Be careful, the paint is still wet.” She gingerly snatched the canvas before he could take it. “You may carry my easel.”

Vincent folded the contraption and picked up her case. Lydia strode down the hill in brisk strides. As he matched her pace, the scent of gardenias rose over the acrid odor of turpentine.

The moment they entered the castle, Lydia was swept away by Emma and Miss Hobson, for one to primp and the other to scold. However, in a surprisingly short time she arrived in the dining room no worse for wear and radiant in a black taffeta evening dress.

“You look fetching this evening, Miss Price,” he said, pulling out her chair.

Her cheeks flushed an entrancing pink. “Thank you, my lord. I know it is a bit much for a country supper. Unfortunately, I do not have many gowns.”

“Oh?” He raised a brow as the soup was served. “You brought many trunks.”

She tasted her chowder and dabbed her lush mouth with the napkin. “One contains my paints, charcoals, canvases, and sculpting clay. Two hold my paintings. Another, my books.”

“And the rest?” He stirred his soup, wishing he could eat more than a miniscule amount.

“Well, one contains my fishing rods and tackle, and the last holds my gun collection.” An impish smile teased the corners of her lips.

“Gun
collection
?” Vincent was thankful he did not have a mouthful of soup, or else he would have sprayed the table. “So, one is not enough?”

Miss Hobson's face turned an alarming crimson as she choked on her dinner roll. Lydia gave her a hearty thump on the back. “Most were my father's, but three are mine. He enjoyed taking me shooting.”

Vincent grinned. “It appears you are a lady of many talents.”

Miss Hobson interrupted with a brisk cough. “I have discussed Miss Price's, ah, unconventional proclivities with her, and I assure you they will not be revealed to others.”

Lydia nodded, expressionless, but Vincent could feel her sudden sadness. He suppressed the urge to glare at the chaperone, despite the fact that she was likely correct.

He forced a bright tone as the next course was served. “All the same, that should not prohibit her from enjoying herself here until we go to London. With my forests and lake, I'm certain you will be able to indulge your passion for the fresh air.”

“You have a lake?” she nearly squealed in delight.

“Well, it is more like a very large pond,” he joked, happy to bring back her spirit. “But the fish are plentiful, I assure you.”

To his surprise, Miss Hobson smiled in what appeared to be relief. He realized she must have feared his disapproval of Lydia's hobbies.

As the next course was served, Lydia's cheer dissipated as Miss Hobson attempted to engage her in the practice of polite conversation.