Immortal with a Kiss

by Jacqueline Lepore

  I moved as quickly and silently as I could. When I saw the pair of them—Vanessa unmistakable with her long, glorious waves streaming down her back, her head thrown back, and a tall male figure bent over her—I nearly screamed.

  I had nothing with me with which to do battle, for my tools were secreted upstairs in my room. I did not think I had time to return for them. Vanessa writhed in the creature’s arms, and a low, guttural moan rippled through the air, igniting pinpricks of horror across the back of my neck. I had to do something, I decided. Even unarmed, I had to try.

  Prayers, I thought, my mind going to the opening vesper prayer used by those priests secretly anointed as vampire extirpators. I began to mutter, drawing on my strength.

  “Deus, in adiutorium meum intende.” God, come to my assistance.

  I rose, stepping out of the shadows. “Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.” O Lord, make haste to help me.

  I walked forward. “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.”

  I raised my voice, but the fiend was too enraptured; it did not raise its head. The prayer was having no effect. Fear constricted my throat, and my voice strained against it to be heard: “Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.”

  As it was in the beginning, both now and ever, and unto ages of ages.

  Suddenly, the Latin died on my lips and shock froze me in my tracks. I blinked as comprehension dawned. My God, I saw suddenly that I’d completely misread what was happening.

  Vanessa’s hands grasped the man, pulling him close. She was not struggling at all. Her movements were not a result of fear . . . but of passion. Embarrassment flushed through me like a scalding rain. This was not a victim in the death throes of a ravenous vampire! I saw now that the man’s hands cupped her breasts, which were nearly bared by her disarrayed clothing. His mouth was on her neck, but not to feed. Her moans were driven by ecstasy, not helplessness. Moreover, I saw, too, who the male figure was. Colin O’Hara. Vanessa and the Irish boy were lovers.

  He must have driven the girls back from the village, then waited for her to sneak away. How many times had they arranged meetings like this? Did the other girls know about it?

  Eustacia did. And Margaret was too keen not to.

  Stepping out of my hiding place, I called out: “Vanessa!” I strode up to them purposefully, a sharp admonition in mind.

  The Irish boy released her. Vanessa made a little purr of protest, and looked about. She turned lazily toward me, her expression petulant. It appeared she was utterly unconcerned with her gaping dress, nor was she showing any indication of shame at having been found in flagrante delicto.

  “Do up your blouse at once,” I told her. “Get into the house and wait for me in the students’ parlor. I will deal with you in a moment.”

  She glanced back at the Irish boy and smiled sadly. “Sorry, love,” she whispered with a coquettish little moue. She sighed. “I shall warn you not to bother running to tell Miss Sloane-Smith. She’ll do nothing, you know. She did nothing when that whining Miss Markam told her all about us.”

  My hand flexed at my side. It was all I could do not to slap the supercilious expression from her face. “I think you are mistaken if you believe she would condone this.”

  “She understands something you should, too, Mrs. Andrews. She may not know all, but she knows enough to fear it, and she will protect the secret of the Cyprian Queen.”

  I tensed. “What is this Cyprian Queen?”

  “She is beauty, and love.” She smiled coyly. “She is the goddess.”

  Goddess. Now I understood! The goddess of beauty and love was, of course, Aphrodite. I knew my Greek mythology well. Aphrodite, or Venus to the Romans, was said to have been born from the sea, carried aloft on the foam to Greece from Cyprus. She was sometimes referred to by her country of origin, thus the Cyprian.

  Yes, and now I recalled why the term had seemed familiar. Cyprian was also an old-fashioned name for a sophisticated prostitute. For Aphrodite was the goddess of love, beauty, and sexual appetites.

  “What are you playing with, Vanessa?” I whispered, horrified. A terrible thought occurred to me, and I wondered if the girls were actually engaged in selling their bodies. Was this a cadre of prostitutes operating out of one of the most prestigious girls’ academies in all of England?

  “Miss Sloane-Smith will never wish anything to be revealed or all at the school would be ruined. Every last girl.” She held a finger to her lips and giggled as she skipped past me.

  My gaze shot to the boy. He was a young man, really, strapping and handsome with his Black Irish coloring. “I will tell the headmistress,” I informed him, putting starch in my words, “and she will no doubt forbid your coming to the school ever again.”

  His bleak gaze did not move as Vanessa drifted through the orchard, fading into the darkness. His mouth was twisted in a bitter line. “It doesn’t matter, I’ll not come back here again.” Suddenly he swung his eyes at me. I saw the faint sheen of tears unshed. “I am not the one she loves,” he spat, and he glanced over his shoulder, into the thickest part of the blackness around us. I followed his gaze but saw nothing.

  He turned back to me, and it seemed he wanted to say more. His lips peeled back, suddenly grotesque in a grimace of unspoken suffering. Then, suddenly, he was gone.

  A trickle of fear bled cold down my spine, but I did not call out to him, demand he come back and explain what he had meant. I looked to where he had glanced, his face full of impotent rage. What was out there?

  In truth, I had no wish to find out, not unarmed and alone in the darkness as I was. I hurried inside.

  I thought about what Vanessa had said about Miss Sloane-Smith, and had no doubt there was some merit to her confidence the headmistress would not take action even if I told her of Vanessa’s transgression. I had seen firsthand the headmistress’ priority to keep the name of the school pristine. I was not so naïve I did not recognize her motivations: not the welfare of the girls but the welfare of the school, an entity fed by the pounds charged to wealthy families each year, parents who wanted the prestige of a society education for their daughters.

  If I brought a scandal like this to her attention, it would not be met with gratitude. And I was already on such shaky ground with her. I hated the decision I made, but I had more important things than the moral failure of a student to contend with. If I were dismissed, I would not be here to fight the vampire when I found him.

  Or her. The Cyprian Queen, she’d said—just as Madge had done. Who was she? Was it a myth, a fiction? Did it mean anything at all?

  Chapter Nine

  I chose unwisely when I selected my gown on the night of Suddington’s dinner party. It was made of French silk in a shade of ivory so rich it swallowed the light, throwing it back to the eye in a soft, pearlescent gleam. The intricate folds around the bodice glowed like swirls of thick cream. In the full skirt, the delicate shimmer of mother-of-pearl rippled so that each footstep was a dizzying concert of fairy light combined with the crisp symphony of expensive silk.

  My sister, Alyssa, had designed it, conspiring with a ridiculously expensive dressmaker one rainy afternoon a few summers ago when we were in Bath. She was good with fashion and always on me to dress better, never failing to stress that I could afford it. She was rather infatuated with the wealth my late husband had left to me, far more so than I ever was. I had to admit my wardrobe was the better for her interest in these matters, and I was at present most grateful to her.

  As I pinned up my hair, I wondered at my foresight in including this elaborate gown among the more practical selections I’d had sent from my home after settling into Blackbriar. I’d done that after making the acquaintance of Lord Robert Suddington. Had I perhaps harbored a secret hope that I might have occasion to wear it for him?

  When I joined my headmistress, I was met with a glare. This I took as a sort of reverse compliment, as I had known it would displease her to see me dressed so grandly. However, Miss S
loane-Smith herself made an impressive appearance. Her hair was perfectly in place, her dress made from swaths of gray lace, very artful and flattering to her figure. The color did her justice, and I glimpsed the beauty she’d once been.

  She studied my appearance from head to toe, and I saw jealousy glitter in her eyes. “You have kept me waiting,” she snapped.

  “I beg your pardon,” I murmured, not pointing out that I had presented myself at exactly the appointed time.

  We did not speak as we traveled through the dark, chilly night across the great Fell, through forested lanes to Holt Manor. I was surprised to find it was smaller than my own home in Dartmoor—or, rather, Simon’s home, which was now my possession—and less grand. The structure was a great deal older, a plain rectangle of lichen-covered stone with no embellishments, not even a single tower.

  There was music coming from inside, a string quartet of some skill measuring out a dignified air. The light from the windows glowed and I hurried up the steps like a moth flitting heedlessly to bare flame.

  A footman in smartly appointed livery opened the door with a solemn flourish, and in contrast to the drab gray exterior, the inner sanctum was lushly carpeted in crimson Aubusson rugs and draped richly with dense gold velvet. Mirrors and glass sparkled blindingly, set afire by countless tapers rising from candelabras on every gleaming wooden surface and standing in iron stands. Spectacular flowers were placed in pots all around, their thick scent perfuming the air, and it all went to my head as Miss Sloane-Smith and I proceeded into a grand parlor crowded with people.

  “Do not disgrace the school,” Miss Sloane-Smith said under her breath. When I glanced at her, I saw the warning had been forced through a stiff jaw frozen in a smile. No one looking at us would suspect it, but I knew the headmistress resented deeply my presence at her side. And then her expression changed, her youth returning in a flood as her eyes gleamed and her smile grew real. Robert Suddington had come up to greet us.

  I was blessed by fate when he greeted Miss Sloane-Smith first, for I was temporarily overcome by his presence. He cut a magnificent figure, his coat and trousers black, his shirt white, his cravat a snowy froth at his neck, all of the finest cloth and tailoring. “My dear Glorianna,” his warm voice intoned, folding her hands in both of his. I watched Miss Sloane-Smith’s steel features quiver with barely repressed delight. “It is too long since we have seen one another, cousin. Being liberated from the walls of the school suits you. You are a vision. Thank you so much for coming tonight.”

  “It is my pleasure,” Miss Sloane-Smith murmured, a hint of flirtation in her voice. She was a woman suddenly, no longer a headmistress, and I was rather awed by the transformation. I did not see how my host could fail to be charmed, and I experienced an unpleasant twinge of jealousy when Suddington lingered over her hand. Then he released her and turned to me, and my heart gave a small lurch.

  “Ah, Mrs. Andrews. Thank you so much for joining us this evening.”

  My voice sounded breathy and too feminine when I answered. “Indeed. Thank you for the kind invitation.”

  He led us into the room, introducing us—or, rather, me, since Miss Sloane-Smith was well known to the other guests. I was too overwhelmed to remember any names, but I smiled pleasantly, if vacantly, while Miss Sloane-Smith engaged in conversation at once.

  Standing to the side, I felt foolish and out of place. Worse, I was revisited by memories of my youth, when I had gone to soirees and balls with my sister. Alyssa had been and remained the uncontested beauty of the family. I, as my father affectionately remarked, was the odd duck. But as I grew, I realized the world did not regard us odd ducks kindly. I quickly learned that to be one was to be an outcast, invisible, even scorned, although I confess this latter only happened when I provoked it by being unpleasant. For several years of my adolescence, that was my game.

  I went through an unfortunate period of rebellion, insolently insisting on conversing in topics I had known very well would be ill-received. But I liked discussing the new discoveries being made in the field of science. I adored debating the merits of Milton over Spenser and could make my opponent dizzy with my impassioned opinions. I could not sing, stitch a needlepoint sampler, or play the pianoforte worth a fig, but I could shoot better than most men, and I am ashamed to admit I boasted of it. There it was—I was an odd duck.

  I’d thought these feelings were gone for good. Because Simon, my late husband, had found me like a diamond in the rough, and I had been loved and had loved in return, though it was not the romantic sort but practical, easy companionship and regard that was enough to make me happy, or at least content. How dear Simon had been, for he had cherished those things I’d been told to suppress about myself.

  I had not felt like an odd duck for some time, but here I was again, self-conscious and unwieldy among these strangers.

  And then a hand closed over my elbow, and a low, masculine voice murmured in my ear, “Now we can slip away. I wish to show you something.”

  I did not look back as Suddington led me out of the room. He laughed once we were out of earshot, having glanced at my face. “Dear Emma, do relax your guard. It is not my intention to abduct you.”

  He’d removed his glove so that his warm, bare skin touched mine when he grasped my hand, long fingers curling ever so slightly to take possession of my wrist. The contact sent a thrill up my arm.

  “I wish to show you something of my house,” he explained. “I am rather proud of the place. I wish I could be here more often.”

  “And here I thought you were the essence of the country squire,” I countered, floating a little as he drew me along a hallway. On both sides, arched embrasures were cut into the wall. These housed Chinese pots containing more exotic flowers perched on long stalks. Their perfume was intoxicating, adding a dreamy quality to our little adventure.

  “You are a botanist?” I inquired.

  “Of sorts. It is a hobby, merely. I love beauty in all its forms, but most especially in flowers. You might say I am a devotee.” His smile was secret, seductive. “At the risk of sounding boastful, I keep a rather impressive hothouse. You must come back and see it in the daylight. I promise it will dazzle you.”

  I thrilled a little at the invitation. “I would be very pleased to do so.”

  He consulted his pocket watch and frowned. “I would show you now, even though it is not to full advantage, but there is not time before dinner.” He moved to one of the potted plants.

  “Instead let me show you an excellent specimen right here, which is new to my collection. My business interests take me all over the world, and I have taken to bringing back plants as a particular type of souvenir.” He gazed lovingly at the flower, his voice hushed in tones of reverence. “This is the Cattleya labiata, which caused such a sensation several decades ago. Its introduction to England incited quite a scandal.”

  I moved closer, then froze. I could see why the plant has inspired controversy. Billowing white petals unfurled in an outer blossom to frame a more emphatic inner bloom that was disturbingly sensual. It emanated a strong perfume. “An orchid, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Indeed.” He gazed lovingly at the plant. “The forbidden orchid.”

  The vague sense of embarrassment I had felt upon viewing the plant blossomed into a full, hot flush when I realized what I was seeing. It was like looking at the most intimate parts of the female anatomy, the shameless petals approaching the vulgar in their blatant resemblance to nearly every detail.

  “This mysterious plant has inspired unmatched devotion by collectors,” Suddington explained. “Did you know there is an underground network of wealthy connoisseurs whose passion for the exotic flower has inspired intrigues the like of which has not been seen since Napoleon tried to sweep through Europe?”

  I could not look at the flower any longer. “Of which you are one?”

  “Not I, no. I keep myself to some of the more tame of the species.” He smiled at me, frowning a bit while he did so. “You do n
ot find the plant pleasing?”

  I thought it lurid, but I did not say so. “I think it is marvelous, but then, your home is filled with so many wonders I can barely hold my attention on one for more than a moment before getting distracted.”

  He indicated a closed set of doors. “Here, then, this is what I wished to show you. You’ve often mentioned books you’ve read, and I thought you might appreciate this.” Flinging open the doors dramatically, he stood back and ushered me in. I could feel his eyes on me, awaiting my reaction.

  I stepped into a library unlike any I’d ever seen in a private home. It was two stories high and as large as a ballroom. I rushed in, a tiny gasp of excitement escaping me before I realized it.

  He chuckled, coming to stand beside me. “I had my servants light the sconces, knowing I would show it off to you.” Linking my arm in his, he drew me deeper into the room. “The sad truth is I know precious little about the collection. It was a pet project of my grandfather’s, though I have never been in residence long enough to take the time to peruse it in depth. I do know, however, the basic layout. We have local histories over here. One of my ancestors was obsessed with archeology, so there is a grand collection on Egyptian history and such somewhere over there. I content myself with this section. The classics—Spenser, Milton, Shakespeare, Marlowe . . .” He grinned mischievously, pausing to gaze into my dazed eyes, and quoted: “ ‘Is this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Illium?’ ”

  His light manner suddenly sobered, and he was no longer smiling. He gazed at me with an alarming intensity that drove my pulse up to a frantic flutter. For a moment, I could not breathe. He was quoting Marlowe to me, I thought in wonder. As if he knew beautiful literature was my passion, as if he knew me.

  I should move away, an inner voice cautioned, and yet I stayed as securely as a pinned butterfly as he drew closer. If he were about to kiss me, I suddenly realized, I would not have the strength to deny him. That made me rear back, glancing away with embarrassment as we recovered our composure.