by Brooklyn Ann
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.
Eight
“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 throug
h 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.”
Ian nodded. “Fine, if you believe they are necessary in getting your charge married off quickly. Though be sure to keep a close watch on them.”
Vincent tried to ignore the ache in his heart at the thought of losing Lydia. It was for the best. She’d already come dangerously close to learning his secret. “Will the duchess agree to sponsor her?”
The Lord Vampire sighed and drank more brandy. “That, old friend, is another reason why I am here. My wife is…well, she’s reluctant to take on such an endeavor.”
“Why?” Vincent frowned. “Is it due to the scandal of Miss Price’s parentage?”
“No, nothing of the sort.” Ian raised his gaze to the heavens. “Angelica frowns upon Society’s way of arranging marriages. She says she wants ‘no part in auctioning innocent flesh to the highest bidder.’”
Vincent gaped. “This, from a duchess who secured that very title by wedding you?”
Ian laughed, silver eyes twinkling with mirth. “Ah, if you knew how hard she fought to avoid such a terrible fate.”
The duke’s courtship had not been completely amicable? He frowned in confusion. “She seemed cheerfully resigned the night of your wedding.”
“Yes, by then I’d persuaded her I wasn’t a fate worse than death,” Ian replied, not offended. “And, I am certain Angelica will soften on the matter once she is assured Miss Price is receptive to the task of husband hunting.”
Was Lydia receptive? Vincent wondered. He had not broached the subject of suitors with her. Surely Miss Hobson had. “I believe she is…why wouldn’t she be?” he finally replied.
“Who can fathom the workings of the female mind?” Ian shook his head. “All that aside, please let me know if I can help you in any way.”
Nine
“Your Grace.” Lydia sank into a deep curtsy, grateful for Miss Hobson’s instructions.
This was the first duke she’d ever met, and from what she knew of English nobility, they were a matter of great consequence.
“M
iss Price, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Burnrath raised her hand to his lips. Without his lofty title, he would still be an imposing man, with his well-muscled frame, gleaming raven hair, and intense silver eyes.
“The pleasure is mine,” she responded, taking her seat.
Throughout the meal, the duke kept a steady flow of that same dull, polite conversation in which she had been trained. Yet somehow he possessed enough charisma to make the weather and local goings-on seem interesting.
Despite Burnrath’s charm, Lydia could not help but feel a twinge of hostility at his presence. Just when Vincent ceased neglecting her, the duke had to intrude on her opportunity to renew her coziness with her guardian.
With His Grace here, there would be no games of chess, and certainly no chances to speak freely. She suppressed a defeated sigh. What was the purpose of the duke’s arrival anyway? Vincent had greeted him as an old friend, and yet he appeared to be wary of the man. Perhaps they were partners in an illegal venture?
“…do you think, Miss Price?” Vincent was saying.
Lydia inclined her head in apology. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering.”
Vincent gave her a forgiving smile. “I said, His Grace has offered to allow us to use his private box at the opera when we go to London.”
“Oh, that would be lovely.” It had been years since she’d been to the opera.
As the next course was served, Lydia could not help noticing that the duke ate as little as Vincent. Perhaps a meager appetite was an affectation of the upper classes. Lydia prayed such was not the case, for she would starve to death.
“What brings you to Cornwall, Your Grace?” Miss Hobson asked.
Burnrath gave Vincent an enigmatic look before answering. “Lord Deveril has requested that my wife sponsor Miss Price’s debut in Society.”
The chaperone’s eyes widened, and she turned to Lydia with a smile. “This is momentous news! With such connections, the offers should pile in.”
