One Bite Per Night (25 page)

A hint of uneasiness flashed in her eyes before she regained her teasing tone. “I am sorry, my lord. You will have to wait.” She squeezed his hand. “May we
run
now?”

Together, they took off in a flash, the spring breeze whipping across their cheeks with the scent of newly bloomed flowers. Vincent felt her joy of the run echo his own.
She
belongs
with
me
, his soul repeated.

When they arrived at Burnrath House, he couldn't stop from hauling her into his arms and kissing her good night. Her lips tasted like honeysuckle.

“Stay with me tonight?” she whispered against his mouth.

His hardness ached with temptation. “I cannot. As we are not yet wed, people will talk.” He cursed them all to the lowest circles of hell.

She nodded and bit her lip, looking suddenly vulnerable. “Do you still want me?”

Vincent couldn't hold back his laughter. “More than a drunkard wants wine, Lydia. Now I must go before someone sees us.” Pulling her into his arms for a last embrace, he inhaled the scent of her hair. “Until tomorrow.”

Before he lost his resolve and carried her off to ravage her, he escorted her back to the house and left, reminding himself that he had a surprise of his own planned.

The next evening, Lydia awoke quivering with anticipation. Tonight she would present her own phantasmagoria.

“How do you think he'll react?” she asked Angelica worriedly when they met downstairs.

The duchess remained silent and considering for the longest time. Finally, she replied, “He may very well walk out of the room after the part where—”

Lydia cut her short, fighting back worry. “Could your husband make him stay?”

“I could ask him to try,” Angelica replied dubiously.

It was likely the best she could hope for. “And if Vincent remains, what do you suppose he'll think?”

At last, the duchess smiled. “If he stays until the end, I feel it is likely you'll achieve your desired outcome from this endeavor.”

Quickly, she and Angelica sought out their first meal and returned to Burnrath House for the preparations. Lady Rosslyn arrived soon afterward with her magic lantern.

When Vincent strode into the drawing room, Lydia had to clasp her hands behind her back to resist running into his arms. As Ian and Rafe took him off to occupy him with a game of chess, part of her wondered if he'd ever hold her again after this.

An hour later, Lydia paced anxiously through the music room. Everything was in readiness. Chairs for Vincent, Ian, Rafe, and Miss Hobson were arranged before the black curtain. The screen was poised halfway between, prepared to be lowered the moment the audience was distracted. Lady Rosslyn took her place in the shadows with her magic lantern and Lydia's carefully painted slides. Angelica stood by her glass harmonica, resplendent in one of the black velvet cloaks she'd ordered for the occasion and insisted they all wear.

Yes, everything was in readiness, except for Lydia. A thousand questions and doubts raced through her already-taxed mind. In mere minutes, Vincent would hear the story and see the paintings she'd painstakingly worked on. Would he charge out of the room in outrage, as Angelica had predicted? Her heart clenched in terror at the very real possibility.

Or what if Vincent remained and was repulsed by her story? What if it made him further regret the ever-increasing burden she'd been since she came into his life? Crippling guilt threatened to drown her. If it weren't for her, Vincent wouldn't have faced a death sentence and become beggared.

Despite her remorse, Lydia could not bring herself to regret meeting him. Every smile he'd bestowed on her, every time she'd made him laugh, every kiss he'd stolen, every moment in his arms, all were memories she would cherish for the remainder of her existence. And she could never regret his Changing her into a vampire, giving her powers and experiences she'd never thought possible.

Her chin lifted. She would not be a burden to Vincent any longer. She would undo all the trouble she'd caused him. And she would do everything in her power to teach him to find joy in his existence.

***

Vincent and Ian looked up from their chess game as Rafe entered the room. “It is time for Her Grace and Miss Price's presentation. It shall be held in the music room.”

“Splendid.” Ian rose from his seat. “I was growing quite weary of being trounced.”

As they followed Rafe down the stairs, Vincent grew increasingly maddened with curiosity. Ian seemed to share his sentiment.

“Come now, Rafe,” the duke prodded. “You've held your tongue for the entire time. What is this presentation that Miss Price and my wife have been cooking up?”

The Spaniard sighed. “It's only another phantasmagoria.”

“A
what
?” Vincent blinked at the strange word.

Ian laughed. “Ah, brilliant! I can imagine Miss Price was delighted to participate in creating such a production. Why didn't you say so before?”

Rafe scowled, seeming to be in a fouler mood than usual. “Because I only recently learned what the blasted things are called.”

“What are they?” Vincent demanded, irritated with his ignorance.

The duke clapped him on the shoulder. “They are the most astounding art form ever to be invented. Words cannot describe it. You, my friend, are in for a treat.”

Ian opened the music-room door, gesturing for Rafe and Vincent to precede him. The duchess awaited them, dramatically garbed in a black cloak. Lydia and Lady Rosslyn stood behind her in matching costumes, solemn expressions on their faces.

“If you gentlemen would please be seated.” Angelica gestured to a group of chairs placed in front the fireplace, which had been blocked off by a thick black curtain.

Vincent, Ian, and a reluctant Rafe joined her. Suddenly, the lights went out and an ethereal melody trilled. Vincent glanced over his shoulder to see the duchess playing an odd instrument that resembled a crystal caterpillar spitted over a desk. The cylindrical object spun slowly on a shaft through a wheel, which Angelica operated with her foot.

Lydia's rich voice rose above the music. “Once upon a time, there lived a young woman who loved to paint. Her parents nurtured her gift.”

Ian nudged him, and he turned back to the curtain, though he would have preferred to keep his eyes on Lydia.

Vincent gaped as an image of a black-haired woman smiling up at a happy couple appeared to float before his eyes. He recognized it as one of Lydia's paintings. Before he could wonder how it had manifested, the image seemed to retreat into a dark tunnel until it disappeared. He blinked, realizing that a transparent screen had been lowered in front of the curtain.

Lydia continued the tale: “Then, tragedy fell. Her mother and father both perished from the fever.”

Melancholic music played on the instrument as the next vision appeared of the young woman weeping as two coffins were loaded into a funeral hack. Vincent gasped as the realization struck. This story was about Lydia.

As if confirming the thought, Lydia continued. “She was sent on a long journey across the ocean to live with her relatives.”

The next picture showed the woman on the deck of a ship, her black skirts blowing in the wind as she faced a terrifying gale.

“Once she arrived in the strange new land, she discovered that her family did not want her. Instead, they had decreed that she was to live with a monster in a haunted castle.” Lydia's voice wavered then, and she glanced at Vincent with a wide, unreadable gaze.

The music became eerie as a new image came into focus. The “monster” loomed over Lydia's form, and though he was mostly cast in shadow, Vincent could recognize his own eyes as they reflected the lightning in the background over his castle.

Agonizing pain pierced Vincent's heart at Lydia's description of him as a monster, both in words and in her skilled artistic rendering. He attempted to rise, to charge out of the room and this house, never to return. Ian clamped a hand on his shoulder and forced him back to his seat.

Vincent tensed as Lydia took a shaky breath and continued the tale. “The monster did not want her either, so he did his best to be frightening. But the woman was not afraid.”

Angelica played a playful tune on her strange instrument as the next picture was revealed. Vincent recognized the west hill with its great oak, where Lydia had liked to paint. This time, she had depicted him from the back, posing in a caricature of some sort of sinister beast, arms raised and hands reaching out like claws. Lydia's likeness, however, was undaunted. A wide smile shone on her face, and she appeared to be on the verge of joyful applause.

Lydia pressed on. “So the monster thought hard on how to get rid of her. He consulted a witch as well as two other monsters. It was decided that she should be taken to the great city, where many young women were sent to find homes.”

A mournful note played as the picture depicted a dour Miss Hobson and a gleeful Vincent, holding up ball gowns and pointing their fingers in command. Vincent heard the real Miss Hobson sniff, offended at being called a witch. His brows drew together in confusion. Where was Lydia going with this?

“The woman did not want to go to the city. She loved the haunted castle and, unbeknownst to herself, had begun to love the monster as well. Since she knew he did not want her, she obeyed him.”

The music grew yet more tragic as a heartbroken Lydia was revealed, reaching out to a seemingly indifferent Vincent.

No, I loved you from the start!
Vincent opened his mouth to shout. Then the next part of the story choked off his words.

“She met her family in the great city. She learned that her grandmother was the
true
monster, and the rest of her family bowed down to her as slaves. The monster she'd been sent to live with was indeed no monster at all. He was an angel. And the witch was in truth a saint.”

Miss Hobson nodded in satisfaction as a haunting melody played. The next picture revealed a grotesque caricature of Lady Morley wielding a whip and Vincent holding Lydia in his arms, shielding her with gossamer wings.

“The woman longed to prove her love to her guardian angel.” Lydia's voice was filled with passion. “She pondered long and hard on the matter. Nothing would truly be worthy, yet perhaps if she showed him what was in her heart when she thought of him, he would feel it too.”

And then the sun rose over a verdant meadow. From delicate pink to brightest gold, it filled the chamber with the glory of the dawn. Lydia gave him a sunrise so realistically portrayed that Vincent could feel its warmth upon his face and smell the wildflowers blooming in the field. Her sun did not burn him.

The warm breeze stirred his hair, and Vincent realized that this detail was indeed real. Reluctantly pulling his gaze from Lydia's miraculous creation, he noticed a pair of footmen wafting fans over steaming pots of perfumed water while Angelica used her odd instrument to duplicate birdsong.

Hot liquid trailed down his cheeks. It was not a trick of the production. It was Vincent's own tears of joy.

His heart cried out in protest as the sunrise faded, taking with it the trilling birdsong. The gas lamps were once again lit, and the curtains parted. Ian, Vincent, and Miss Hobson stood and applauded.

Miss Hobson interrupted with a frown. “How does the tale end?”

Vincent stared intently at Lydia as he abandoned his seat and slowly approached her. “The guardian angel wept with joy at the woman's creation, for she showed what had been in
his
heart all along.” Taking Lydia's hand, he gently pulled her toward him. “As for the rest of the tale, we shall see.”

He couldn't bear waiting any longer. Reverently, he kissed Lydia's knuckles. “There's something I need to do. I shall return soon.”

Vincent met the duke's eyes. “Do not let her go anywhere.”

Ian grinned wryly. “You may count on it, though don't be too long, for Angelica and Lady Rosslyn shall likely want to toast the production's success.”

***

Two hours later, the drawing room had dissolved into an uncomfortable silence as everyone awaited Vincent's return. The only ones seemingly complacent with the delay were Ian, Rafe, and Lady Rosslyn, the latter of whom was settled placidly near the fireplace, reading a copy of Mary Shelley's
Frankenstein
.

“I say, whatever can be keeping Lord Deveril?” Miss Hobson's voice was full of annoyance as she wrapped one hand around her cup of untouched tea and waved off Rafe's cigar smoke with the other. “I would hardly call this a quick errand.”

Lydia and Angelica exchanged nervous glances. At first she'd assumed that Vincent had needed to feed, but Miss Hobson was right. It shouldn't have taken this long if he meant to return soon. Panic crawled up her spine anew. Maybe he truly had been revolted by her story and had been too polite to say so in front of everyone. Her hands twisted restlessly in her lap.

Just as her nerves were on the verge of collapse, the door knocker sounded, and she heard the butler say calmly, “Welcome back, my lord.”

Moments later, Vincent's tall form filled the doorway. Joy surged in Lydia's being at his return. Another man followed behind him, appearing flustered and exhausted. Without bothering to introduce the stranger, Vincent crossed the room to Lydia.

Taking her hands in his, he sank down to kneel before her. “I know we already are engaged, but I never went about it properly. Lydia Price, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Gasps permeated the room as Vincent reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a small jewel case. He flicked the box open to reveal a golden ring filigreed with Celtic knots and adorned with a large diamond surrounded by a rainbow of other jewels.

Lydia's heart lodged in her throat even as unmitigated happiness warmed her body.

“When?” The word escaped aloud before she was aware.

“Now.” From another pocket in his waistcoat, Vincent withdrew a small sheaf of papers. “I have with me a marriage contract and a special license. I've also managed to procure a parson at this late hour.”

Everyone's gazes flew to the stranger, whose identity was now revealed. The parson yawned as if in emphasis of the inconvenience. All eyes shifted to Lydia, awaiting her reply.

Her knees quaked beneath her gown, threatening to give out and topple her.

“Please, Lydia,” he said achingly. “I cannot bear another night of you not being mine.”

“Yes.” The word escaped her lips past the joy swelling within.

As if afraid she'd change her mind, Vincent quickly slipped the elaborate ring on her third finger and rose to his feet, retaining his grip on her hand. “You've made me the happiest of men,” he replied. “Now let's have done with these signatures, so Parson Matheson may perform his duty and return to his home.”

Lydia followed him in a daze to the table as Angelica, grinning in encouragement, handed her a freshly dipped quill. Tears brimming in her eyes, Lydia signed the contract. The marriage license blurred in front of her as she signed that as well.