One Bite Per Night (7 page)

“You will be
the
Original of this Season,” Maria declared, holding up a panel of violet silk embroidered with silver leaves. Lydia wondered if Vincent would like her in that color.

The novelty soon wore off as she was poked and prodded within an inch of her life. Fittings in England were much more aggressive and tedious than they had been in America. The draftiness of the castle added to Lydia's discomfort. By the time the session was over, she was covered in goose bumps, despite the blazing fire in the hearth.

Sally cooed sympathetically as she helped her back into her gown with deft speed. Maria packed away the fabric samples and fashion plates with equal dexterity. Lydia marveled at the how quickly their hands moved.

Vincent returned to escort the dressmakers to the carriage. “I have a prior engagement, so I will not be joining you for supper,” he said tersely before he departed.

“They seem competent and skilled enough,” Miss Hobson said to Lydia once they were alone. “The seams of their gowns were invisible. I swear I've seen those girls before. Perhaps they worked in Madame Dumont's dress shop.”

Supper was a dull, bleak affair without Vincent's presence. Miss Hobson spoke in a steady stream about the preparations for the Season. Lydia could respond only with halfhearted smiles and comments.

An ache grew in her heart when he didn't return later. Lydia tried to absorb herself in sketching, yet it did little to improve her mood. Eventually, she gave up and went to bed.

What
did
I
do
wrong?
She sighed, watching the shadows dance on the stone ceiling of her chamber.
Did
I
wound
him
when
I
spoke
of
the
Devil
Earl
rumors?
She recalled his anger when he'd thought Emma had been gossiping.
That
must
be
it. With all of the villagers afraid of him, he must be very lonely. I will make amends tomorrow.

To her dismay, the next evening Vincent didn't join her on the west hill, though she stayed and painted until it was too dark to see. Miss Hobson sent a footman to collect her, and Lydia's heart sank when the earl yet again did not attend supper.

Her despair deepened as he avoided her for the remainder of the week. She attempted to raise her spirits by making a game of evading Miss Hobson and sneaking out through the secret passage to wander the castle grounds and practice target shooting, but it gave her little cheer, because Vincent wasn't with her.

“I beg your pardon if I am too forward, Miss Price. You look to be plagued by blue devils,” Maria said as she adjusted the hem of Lydia's new gown.

Lydia glanced at the doorway for any sign of Miss Hobson before the words came pouring forth. “I think I've displeased Lord Deveril.” Immediately she clamped her mouth shut, humiliated to share her personal pain with a virtual stranger. However, Vincent's absence had turned her into a veritable cauldron of worry.

Maria paused at her work and gave Sally a long look. Lydia's embarrassment deepened.

After a moment, Sally rolled her thimble between her elegant fingers and shook her head. “I doubt very much that you displeased him. Lord Deveril is a very, ah, complicated man who shoulders much more responsibility than most.”

“Have you known him long?” Lydia burned with curiosity.

Maria smiled, gray-green eyes brimming with tender nostalgia. “We've been acquainted for a time. Lord Deveril rescued us both from dreadful circumstances.”

Lydia was about to inquire further, then Sally spoke up abruptly. “Is this your sketchbook? May I look?”

“Yes.” She realized that the dressmakers did not want to elaborate.

Sally opened the leather-bound book and gazed at Lydia's drawings. “These are very good. Maria, come see.”

Despite her pleasure at the compliment, Lydia's cheeks burned. In between drawings of Castle Deveril and the Cornish landscape were many sketches of Vincent. Just as she expected, when they flipped through the pages, Maria gave her a knowing look.

“You are a very talented artist, Miss Price. You've captured Lord Deveril perfectly. Do you paint as well?”

Blushing, Lydia nodded. Surely they knew she was hopelessly infatuated with her guardian.

“Oh, you must show us your work!” Sally exclaimed.

In the face of such genuine enthusiasm, Lydia could hardly refuse. It might not be proper to invite hired help into her bedchamber; however, Miss Hobson was napping and thus was not present to object.

Both Sidwell sisters gasped the moment they beheld the paintings Aubert had hung in her chamber. Maria seemed most fascinated with the ones depicting the Louisiana Bayou, while Sally studied Lydia's paintings of sprawling plantation houses and the French Quarter. Lydia was beginning to tell them about New Orleans when both sisters spotted the portrait of her father.

“You have a
Thomas
Lawrence
!” Maria breathed. Myriad strange expressions flitted across her angelic face.

Lydia nodded. “My father sat for him before he left England with my mother. I wish more than anything to be able to paint with such skill. I hope to meet Sir Lawrence when I go to London.”

Maria glanced at her sister before nodding. “Oh, you certainly
must
endeavor to make his acquaintance. Have you asked Lord Deveril if he will take you to the Royal Academy?”

If
he
will
speak
to
me
again.
“I intend to ask him soon. Perhaps Sir Lawrence would be willing to provide advice on perfecting my own portraits.” Then she could do Vincent's striking masculine beauty justice.

“He may be willing to tutor such a talented artist. But if he does, you must be on guard,” Sally replied with sudden severity. “He is a notorious flatterer and despoiler of innocents.”

Such candid and scandalous gossip tickled Lydia's fancy. She hadn't heard anything like it since she was in America…aside from the time she'd eavesdropped on Emma and her sister.

Unfortunately, Miss Hobson bustled into the room, eyeing all three of them with patent disapproval for gossiping instead of working. With hastily mumbled excuses, all returned to the solar with the chaperone marching in the vanguard.

The final adjustments to Lydia's two new gowns were made with a modicum of reserved propriety, though once in a while either Sally or Maria would meet Lydia's gaze, and they'd have to muffle their giggles in their handkerchiefs. Too soon, Vincent's coachman arrived to take the sisters home.

“That is as queer a pair as I've ever seen,” Miss Hobson commented after they departed. “Though one cannot deny their extraordinary skill.” She lifted the newest gown, a pale blue morning dress with embroidered forget-me-nots on the hem and bodice. “I can't believe they created such a dress in mere days. I know many in the
ton
who would pay a small fortune for such haste. However, it is such an inconvenience for them to come here in the evening and delay our supper.”

“I don't mind.” Lydia quickly defended them. “I cannot wait to wear these dresses.”

The chaperone favored her with a rare smile. “You'll be permitted to wear the mauve dinner gown soon, when you enter half mourning.”

“Thank God. Although I rather like black, it
has
become monotonous. Why does mourning have to be so much longer in England?”

“Because we are more civilized,” Miss Hobson replied sternly, though there was a gleam of humor in her eyes. “Come now, it is time to change for supper.”

Lydia nibbled her lip and asked tentatively, “Will Lord Deveril be joining us?”

“I do not think so.” There was a glimmer of pity, or possibly anger in her tone. Perhaps she thought Vincent was being rude.

As she took her seat at the massive dining-room table, Lydia eyed Vincent's empty place. He
was
being rude. He was the lord of the castle and her guardian. He
should
be here. His absence was like a sore, relentlessly gnawing at her senses. The discomfort quelled her appetite, and as soon as was polite, Lydia excused herself, pleading a headache.

Miss Hobson gave her a sharp look, then her countenance softened and she rang for Emma to help Lydia prepare for bed.

Once her gown and stays were removed and Emma departed, Lydia collapsed into her bed, utterly exhausted and aching with loneliness.

Though Deveril had been absent in her waking hours, he joined Lydia in her dreams every night—vivid, intoxicating, and disturbing dreams in which he danced with her in the moonlight. Slowly, he would bend to kiss her. Lydia would gasp in desire and reach to pull him close. Then he would change into a wolf and chase her through the forest. Her heart would pound in exhilaration, for she wanted him to catch her. Just as his arms closed around her, she would awaken, shudders wracking her body.

***

“This will not do, my lord.” Miss Hobson fixed Vincent with a formidable stare. “As Miss Price's guardian, you need to see to her well-being. She was so lonely last night that she took to bed right after supper.”

Vincent sighed. He should have locked the door to his study. “As I have told you time and again, Miss Hobson, I am very busy.”

“If you are to see Lydia wed, she needs to learn the ways of courtship,” she persisted.

He raised a brow. “Is that not why I hired you?”

“She needs to practice with a true gentleman.” She favored him with a stern frown. “As she is in mourning, she cannot attend country parties to learn these things along with other debutantes.”

Vincent bit back a curse. The woman's logic was sound. Yet he could not be around Lydia any longer. For God's sake, he'd once more nearly bitten her! Self-revulsion knotted his gut. It was his responsibility to protect Lydia. How could he protect her from himself? Avoidance was the only solution.

And it wasn't as if he were not truly busy. He'd been meeting with his small population of subordinate vampires, explaining the situation to them as best as he could, and appointing his second in command to stand guard over Cornwall while he was in London.

“Surely there must be some other way. Perhaps I can hire someone.” Pointedly, he flipped through the pages of his account ledger, all of which were up-to-date. “I have some columns that have yet to add up, so—”

“Lady Morley will be anticipating this,” Miss Hobson interrupted in a deceptively casual tone. “She likely believes Miss Price will be presented to the King with a lack of polish. She wouldn't expect one of the ‘Mad Deverils' to be capable of preparing a young lady for Society.” Her gaze narrowed. “If you want to be successful in this endeavor, you must help Lydia. You are the only one who is able. Or do you want her to be the laughingstock of the
ton
?”

Vincent slammed the ledger shut. “Damn it!” Yet again, she was right. He supposed he should be grateful for the chaperone's advice. The Cornish sea would turn to swamp before he'd allow Lady Morley to triumph. A bitter smile curled his lips. “Check and mate, Miss Hobson.”

The woman acknowledged her victory with a regal nod. “I rather thought so.”

When Vincent arrived in the drawing room, Lydia's eyes lit with such joy he flushed with shame. Miss Hobson's words taunted him.
She
was
so
lonely
last
night
that
she
took
to
bed
right
after
supper.

“Good evening, Miss Price.” He bowed.

Lydia said nothing to this and merely curtsied before sitting back down on the chintz sofa. The dark circles under her eyes compounded his guilt.

“That is a lovely gown,” he ventured, feeling like a cad.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, looking down at her feet.

Was she upset by his avoiding her this past week? Or had he frightened her during that night on the west hill?

Sitting next to her on the sofa, he lowered his voice. “What is the matter, Lydia?”

She took a deep breath and met his gaze. “My lord, did I do anything to displease you? Is that why you have not spoken to me for so long?”

The hurt in her voice nearly undid him, along with the look in her eyes. Vincent was struck by such yearning it was like a blow to the chest. If only he could take what she offered.

“You have done nothing wrong.”
I
have
, he added silently.
Every
time
I
touch
you, it is wrong.
When she did not appear convinced, he gentled his tone. “I have been up to my ears in estate matters.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “Oh, I am sorry. I hadn't realized…” She shrugged. “Of course you have work to do and cannot spend every evening with me, conversing and playing games.”

“Perhaps we may play a game or two after supper tonight.” He had missed her company as well. The nights without her laughter and inquisitive discourse had been cold and empty.

“My lord,” Aubert announced from the doorway in a rattled tone. “The Duke of Burnrath is here.”

Vincent stiffened. The Lord Vampire of London was here to discuss the situation with Lydia…and he saw fit to see to it in person. This could not bode well.

With monumental effort, he maintained his composure. “Miss Hobson, see that Miss Price is dressed for supper.”

Ignoring everyone's wide gazes, he strode out of the room, fighting back a growl as he heard Miss Hobson whisper to Lydia, “It is a shame His Grace is married. He would have been a prime catch.”

The duke awaited him in the entrance hall, tapping his gloves on his thigh.

“Ian.” Vincent pointedly greeted the duke by his given name. Instinct commanded him to avoid humility, though he bowed low in respect for the other vampire's rank.

“Vincent.” Ian returned the bow, silver eyes glinting without hostility. His long black hair had escaped its tie to fall in his face.

The duke must have flown here. Vincent felt a twinge of envy for that particular power of Ian's. He tamped it down and concentrated on the matter at hand. “I see you have not yet turned over the reins to your second and departed for Paris.”

Ian nodded. “For your sake it's a bloody good thing I have not. Rafe would not have taken kindly to your news”—his brows drew together in annoyance—“which is precisely the cause for my delay.”

“It appears I owe you my eternal gratitude.” Vincent couldn't hold back his relief. Perhaps His Grace would be willing to help. “Would you care to join me for a glass of brandy in my study?”

Ian inclined his head. “Quite so.”

“Shall I set another place at the table, my lord?” Aubert asked as he fetched the candelabrum.

Vincent looked to the duke, who nodded in assent. “Yes.” If Ian was staying that long, it was likely they would hunt together as well.

“Very good, my lord.” Aubert escorted them to the study and lit the fireplace.

“Have you gone mad?” Ian demanded the moment they were alone.

Vincent ignored the question and poured them each a glass of brandy. “Are you refusing my request?”

Ian took a sip of his drink and ran his fingers through his hair. “No, though I am hoping I can help find a solution to this problem so you might avoid coming to London completely. I have mingled with Society for centuries now. Have you any idea how difficult it has been?”

Vincent nodded. “I can imagine. Believe me, I would not do this if I didn't believe it was completely necessary.” He explained matters in greater detail, emphasizing the utter hatefulness of Lydia's grandmother. “Lady Morley intended to have Miss Price forcibly committed to an asylum had I refused to honor the alliance.”

Ian's brows rose. “By God, I see now why you agreed.” He shook his head. “A London Season appears to be the best option after all. It would be far worse for her to remain too long under your roof, lest she discover what you are.” His expression hardened. “I am, however, reluctant to allow the Siddons sisters to return to London.”

“I need them to outfit Lydia. No mortal seamstress could carry off such a task in this short a time,” Vincent argued. “Besides, their mental faculties have much improved, and they promised to stay out of sight and not make trouble.”