One Bite Per Night

by Brooklyn Ann

  Angelica retrieved a well-worn volume and handed it to her. “You must read this book.”

  Lydia’s pulse quickened at the title: A Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft. Just holding the book felt like an act of rebellion. Angelica’s eyes met hers, and they exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Lydia knew then that she had made a true friend.

  “Do you agree to sponsor Miss Price for the Season, then?” Vincent interrupted the exchange as he regarded them from the doorway.

  “Yes, I will. Though I suppose that means I shall have to once more transport myself to the realm of respectability.” Angelica looked so dismayed at the prospect that Lydia couldn’t hold back her laughter.

  “We would like to take you both to the opera tomorrow,” the duke said, joining his wife. “It is a way Miss Price can glimpse Society before the Season begins.”

  “Oh, we should see The Vampyre, or The Bride of the Isles!” Angelica exclaimed.

  “A vampire opera?” Lydia grinned. “That sounds delightful!”

  Vincent, however, glowered at the suggestion of the play. He must despise gothic tales, thought Lydia. Perhaps that comes with living in a real castle.

  ***

  “Just what do you think you are about, Angel, loaning her that book?” Ian demanded the moment Vincent left with his charge and the chaperone. “The last thing Vincent needs is for that young lady’s head to be filled with seditious ideas.”

  Angelica’s eyes narrowed, flickering with preternatural flame. “You don’t believe in female equality?”

  Ian raised his gaze to the ceiling, as if to seek divine aid. “You know that I do. I lived through Queen Elizabeth’s reign. You also know that a number of Lord Vampires are female. The issue is about Miss Price. She needs to be happily wed and safely out from beneath Vincent’s roof before she discovers what he is.” He fixed her with an icy stare. “As for that subject, what in God’s name would possess you to suggest a vampire opera? Have you gone mad? You may as well bare your fangs at her!”

  “And would that be such a terrible thing?” Angelica said softly. “Did you not observe Lydia closely, Ian? She is in love with Lord Deveril.”

  “What makes you think he would return the sentiment? He hardly acknowledged her presence tonight.”

  Angelica laughed. “Precisely. He took extra pains with that, as if had he touched her, he would be unable to stop.” She shook her head. “It is beyond comprehension why he would throw away an opportunity for happiness.”

  “The only way he could keep her is to seek permission to make her one of us. I attempted to broach the subject with Deveril during my visit to his castle.” He waved off Angelica’s hopeful grin. “He is adamantly opposed to the idea.”

  “Why? You remember how he was at our wedding reception and during my first ball. He was obviously lonely, and Lydia is perfect for him. One would have to be blind not to see it.” Angelica reached up to caress her husband’s face. “Surely you can persuade him to see reason.”

  Ian locked his arms around her. “Have patience, Angel. You forget we have eternity. If Vincent truly loves her, he won’t let her go. I’ll wager you two hundred pounds he’ll submit a request to the Elders to Change Miss Price by the end of the Season. You must not meddle.”

  Angelica answered as honestly as she could. “I shall endeavor to do so as little as possible.”

  Fourteen

  Lydia stood rapt in awe at her first sight of Somerset House. Illuminated by gas lamps, the “house,” a sprawling neoclassical quadrangle, was one of the largest structures she’d ever seen. The Thames lapped against the south wing, and boats actually rowed inside the building under its massive arches.

  “Lydia.” Vincent’s voice brought her back to awareness. “If you want to see the paintings, we had better go inside now or we’ll be late to the opera.”

  She blushed at being caught gaping. “I am sorry, my lord. It is so…” She spread her arms helplessly, at a loss for words. She wished they could have come during the day, but Vincent’s headaches prevented it.

  “You do not have anything like this in America?” A hint of pride for her home country warmed Miss Hobson’s voice.

  Lydia shook her head. “The president’s home is dainty by comparison.”

  Both her guardian and her chaperone laughed at the candid remark.

  “Is all of this home to the Royal Academy?” she asked, reeling in amazement as they made their way up the large paved drive.

  Miss Hobson shook her head. “The Society of Antiquaries, the University of London, and countless public offices hold accommodations here.”

  Bewigged officials opened the doors for them, and after taking Vincent’s card, they led them up a wide, curving staircase to the apartments of the Royal Academy of Arts. When they entered the cavernous receiving room, Lydia immediately wanted to examine the myriad gold-framed paintings adorning the walls. However, there was a man waiting.

  “Lord Deveril, I presume?” he inquired mildly.

  Vincent nodded. “I apologize for the late hour and thank you for your willingness to give us a tour.” He turned to Lydia. “This is Sir Thomas Lawrence, president of the Royal Academy and one of the finest portrait artists to have lived. Sir Thomas, this is my ward, Miss Lydia Price, daughter of the late Earl of Morley, and a skilled painter in her own right.” He gestured to Miss Hobson. “This is Miss Sarah Hobson, the most vigilant chaperone in England.”

  Lydia hid her astonished gasp with her fan as Vincent gave her a wink. She’d known they’d be visiting the Academy, but he hadn’t told her they would be meeting Sir Thomas. She quickly curtsied, trying not to ogle the painter she idolized.

  He was fairly tall, though much shorter than Vincent. Deep blue eyes, noble Roman features, and rich golden hair fringing his balding head proved that he had once been a handsome man. Was he truly a despoiler of innocents, as the Sidwell sisters had claimed?

  “Miss Price, you have your father’s unique eyes. He sat for me once, you know.” His lips curved in a warm smile. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Overwhelmed that he knew who she was, Lydia’s curtsy was shaky. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I have the portrait you painted of my father. May I see more of your work?”

  “Of course.” He extended his arm. “Shall we begin the tour?”

  Lydia took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the paintings. He pointed out works by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Thomas Gainsborough, and Benjamin West.

  She stopped in front of West’s roundel, The Graces Unveiling Nature. “The texture of their hair is amazing. It appears he used many different-sized brushes.”

  “You have an astute eye for detail,” Lawrence said, eyeing her more intently as he proceeded to show her his own paintings.

  His skill with light and shadow was extraordinary. Lydia was also impressed with the romantic, almost melancholy quality of his portraits. She studied each, trying to identify a unifying technique to explain the effect, but could not. A portrait of a young woman caught her eye. There was something familiar about her dark, wavy tresses and pensive gray eyes.

  “I’ve seen her before,” she whispered aloud.

  Vincent shook his head, expression unreadable.

  “Impossible.” Sir Thomas’s voice turned suddenly melancholy. “That is Sally Siddons, daughter of the renowned actress, Sarah Siddons, who was like a mother to me.” He gestured to a portrait of Sarah Siddons, an actress so famous even Lydia had heard of her, before once more regarding the painting of the daughter. “Sally, who was my dearest love, died before you could have been born.” Moisture rimmed his blue eyes, and a look of pure agony sliced across his features before he cleared his throat. “Would you like to see the classrooms now?”

  “Oh, very much!” she exclaimed, feeling terrible for upsetting him. He must have loved that woman d
early…unless she was one of the “innocents” that Maria had said he’d despoiled.

  The unpleasantness was quickly forgotten as the painter showed them the classrooms. “We take on around thirty students a year. First they learn to imitate the old masters, and then they learn to develop their own original techniques.”

  Lydia’s gaze devoured the sight of easels, canvases, paints, and brushes. The acrid odors of turpentine and linseed oil filled her with longing. “It has long been my dream to study here.”

  Sir Thomas chuckled. “Such enthusiasm. Unfortunately, only males are permitted to attend the Academy.”

  The offhand statement was like an unexpected slap…as it always was when her gender barred her from something desirable. Every time Lydia thought she was accustomed to such irrational restrictions, a new one would rear its head. This one stung more than others. Why should her sex prevent her from becoming a better painter?

  Her fists clenched at her sides. She wished she could rage at his unfairness, like Angelica. “But two of the founders of the Academy were women!” she burst out. Lydia shocked herself at arguing with her hero, yet she could not hold back. “Mary Moser and Angelica Kauffman!”

  The painter blinked. “I see you are knowledgeable in the history of our beloved establishment. In that case, you must know that though both were exceptional artists in their own right, neither studied at the school.”

  “Perhaps we could discuss arranging some private lessons. Would you at least come dine with us Thursday evening so you may assess Lydia’s work?” Vincent asked suddenly. Lydia longed to throw her arms around him and kiss him all over.

  Sir Thomas’s gaze grew speculative, doubtless at the prospect of dining with a member of the peerage rather than at viewing Lydia’s amateur work. “Very well.”

  Turning back to Lydia, Sir Thomas’s smile turned falsely indulgent. Her heart sank.

  “Do you paint with watercolors, Miss Price?”

  She lifted her chin and tried not to sound impertinent. “Oils.”

  His grin broadened while his eyes at last gleamed with honest interest. “Female oil painters are rare. I would indeed like to see your work.”

  “Oh, it is nothing compared to yours,” she replied, suddenly shy. What were her paintings compared to those of a master?

  Vincent cleared his throat. “It is time we were off. We have another engagement. I look forward to speaking with you again, Sir Thomas.”

  As they made their way back to the town house, Lydia’s heart swelled with gratitude. Boldly, she placed her hand on Vincent’s. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He hesitated a moment before patting her hand. “Do not thank me yet. He may refuse to teach you.”

  “Your kindness in asking him is enough.” With painful reluctance, she withdrew her hand before her touch lingered into impropriety.

  ***

  Vincent smiled as his valet helped him dress for the opera. Lydia’s delight in the visit to the Royal Academy had been a palpable thing, a sojourn back to the hopes of youth. The opportunity to look in on the painter for the Siddons sisters merely gilded the evening.

  He hadn’t intended on offering to hire Sir Thomas. Lydia had been so crestfallen at hearing that females were barred from the Academy that he’d been overtaken by the urge to bring back her smile. Besides, he told himself, ladies of the ton were expected to take lessons in art or music. No harm would be done as long as the old lecher behaved himself.

  Just as Ian and Angelica arrived to take them to the theater, Lydia descended in a white satin opera gown that did little to conceal her opulent curves. His fists clenched at his sides. Hell, he had better behave himself.

  Vincent held back a groan of arousal as he slid into the Burnrath coach next to Lydia. The heat of her proximity was sweet torture. If only Miss Hobson could have come along to dull the mood. With the duke and duchess serving as chaperones for the opera, there was no need.

  He frowned once more as they arrived at the opera house. A vampire play? Was Her Grace insane? Ian’s countenance was rigid with annoyance while the men exchanged pained looks as they helped the women from the carriage. What if Lydia grew suspicious of them?

  Stares and whispers interrupted Vincent’s thoughts, bringing his awareness back to their surroundings. The people of London were receiving their first glimpse of Lydia. Several males gazed at her like love-struck swains, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and stake his claim. He gritted his teeth. The more suitors she had, the better. His muscles tensed with the need to tear the fops to shreds. Lydia’s hand squeezed his bicep as he led her down the walk, and he resisted the urge to bare his fangs in triumph.

  Once they were settled in the duke’s box and the curtains lifted, Vincent’s earlier worries returned. Thankfully, it soon became clear that he had no cause for concern. The production was the silliest thing he’d witnessed in his lifetime, full of painful melodrama, ludicrous magic ceremonies, and an overly sinister corpse-like actor who bore no resemblance to a vampire at all. At least the singing was good.

  Worry quickly turned to amusement, though it was nothing compared to Angelica’s response. The duchess had both hands clapped over her mouth as she struggled to contain gales of laughter. Ian gazed heavenward as if praying for divine assistance in removing him from this silliness. Lydia smiled at the performance and frowned in puzzlement at the others’ reactions.

  Vincent tapped Ian’s shoulder in warning. If the ducal vampires did not contain themselves, they would elicit Lydia’s suspicion faster than the folderol on stage.

  His gaze wandered from the stage to the cheap seats below the boxes. Two bonneted heads were averted from the stage, looking up at one of the boxes. Studying them more closely, Vincent recognized the profiles of Sally and Maria Siddons. Though they were thoroughly disguised with wigs and face paint, unease gnawed at his gut at their solemn expressions, out of place with the farce on the stage.

  He followed the direction of the vampires’ tremulous gazes to the private box of Sarah Siddons. Though age had taken its toll on their mother’s once-beautiful face, her noble stature and vivacity remained. Sarah observed the play, oblivious to the presence of her daughters. Her lip curled in sublime scorn for the atrocious performance before her. Vincent could well imagine how painful a sight it was for one of the greatest actresses ever to have walked the boards.

  Heaving a sigh that should have been felt through the rafters, Sarah Siddons stood and departed her box in a disgusted huff.

  Sally and Maria immediately rose to follow. Then their pleading gazes met Vincent’s.

  Feeling like the cruelest of tyrants, he firmly shook his head. Tears poured down their cheeks as they obeyed and sat back down.

  Fifteen

  “Miss Lydia Price, daughter of the seventh Earl of Morley!” the Lord Chamberlain announced.

  Lydia’s vision blurred, and dizziness threatened to topple her. Then her gaze locked on Angelica’s, and she seemed to gain strength. You can do this. It was as if she could hear the duchess’s voice in her mind, encouraging her to place one foot in front of the other.

  Ignoring the hushed whispers of the surrounding crowd, Lydia made her way to the throne with demure grace. It helped to pretend she was walking to Miss Hobson with the tablecloth pinned to her back. Even so, she nearly faltered when she caught her first glimpse of King George IV.

  His Majesty was a formidable sight indeed, a corpulent mass of flesh dripping in jewels. Thankfully, her concentration on her curtsy allowed her to recover from her shock, and she was able to kiss the pudgy royal hand with rehearsed dignity. The monarch’s heavy lids barely lifted, and she could smell the stench of sweat and strong spirits emanating from him. Lydia struggled not to stare like a half-wit. King George did not at all resemble his magnificent portrayal in paintings she’d seen. Was this common for rulers of great nations? Perhaps the etchings of
President Monroe were also misrepresentations.

  The King muttered something unintelligible. Lydia grasped for a proper response. English monarchs had been known to imprison—or behead—those who invoked their displeasure.

  “I am honored, Your Highness,” she replied as demurely as possible.

  George’s eyes widened, and he blinked at her in startled awareness. A stone of terror dropped in Lydia’s belly. She had said the wrong thing!

  Then he smiled. “Your accent is delightful, Miss Price…” He shook his head and wiped a film of sweat from his brow. “Miss Price, ah yes, I remember your father. Brilliant chap! And a lucky bastard for having the courage to marry the one he chose.”

  Blinking once more, he gave her the formal nod of approval, and thankfully she was able to neatly catch her train from a nearby servant and walk backwards from the throne room without missing a step. From the corner of her eye she caught Vincent’s smile of approval before she was flanked by Angelica and Miss Hobson. His regard warmed her from her toes up, until the Chamberlain announced, “Miss Georgiana Price, daughter of the eighth Earl of Morley!”

  The breath fled Lydia’s body in a rush. My cousin! Eyes wide, she watched the young girl make her way to the throne. Though she had to be at least eighteen, Georgiana looked to be about sixteen, with her blushing cheeks, doll-like blonde curls, and large blue eyes. Her youth seemed further magnified as she trembled before the King. Unlike Lydia, her gown was more old-fashioned and had hoops. That proved to be unfortunate, for she stumbled backward when she was dismissed. A servant caught her before she fell, and the King dozed on, oblivious. The poor girl quavered as she was chastised by her grandmother…

  My grandmother! Lydia gasped at her first sight of the Dowager Countess of Morley. Her father’s mother, whom he had defied, and who had exiled him. Gazing upon a countenance more severe than those adorning cathedral walls, Lydia could no longer be shocked at such treatment.