One Bite Per Night

by Brooklyn Ann

  “Then I will hire someone else. However, I am confident that he will accept my offer.”

  Vincent was more than confident. He’d made discreet inquiries about the painter before the visit to the Royal Academy. Despite Lawrence’s fame and lofty position, he was deeply in debt. The man didn’t gamble or overindulge in frippery. His loose pockets were the result of being overgenerous to his friends. It was difficult to fault him for that.

  Lydia calmed at his reassurance. Her pacing halted, and she lowered her voice. “What is the story about him and the daughter of Sarah Siddons? Miss Hobson refuses to tell me.”

  The curiosity in her gold-flecked eyes nearly undid him. However, it was best she not know. “It’s not a suitable story for a lady.”

  She sighed in disappointment. “Well, whatever happened, he certainly seemed to be remorseful about it.”

  Yes, Lawrence had indeed been stricken with guilt. It radiated throughout his entire being. Sally and Maria should be pleased to hear that…and also that he was balding.

  Despite the fact that Ian had charged one of his vampires to guard the sisters, Vincent surreptitiously glanced at every window to ensure they were not here to spy on Lawrence.

  As if summoned by the thought, Aubert entered the drawing room, escorting the painter. “Sir Thomas Lawrence,” he intoned.

  Lawrence bowed and shook his hand. “Good evening, Lord Deveril.”

  Sir Thomas kissed Lydia’s hand, and Vincent concealed a frown. In spite of his bald crown and the wrinkles framing his eyes, the man was still far too handsome.

  Supper was an amiable affair as Sir Thomas regaled Lydia with tales of all the famous painters he knew, and Lydia described New Orleans. Her words evoked such a vivid picture that Vincent could feel the humid heat, see the riverboats, and taste the spicy food.

  After the meal they adjourned to the yellow salon, where Lydia’s paintings were set up on display. Sir Thomas scrutinized each so intently that Vincent had to place a hand on Lydia’s shoulder to ease her nervous trembles.

  “You have a remarkable sense of color,” he said finally. “Subtlety in the right places, and vivid hues where it has the best impact. You mix your palette well, Miss Price. I would be honored to give you a few lessons and perhaps even have a word with my fellow Academicians about admitting you.”

  She beamed at his praise. “Thank you.”

  Miss Hobson scowled from her seat in the corner. Her dislike for Lawrence was apparent, though at least she did not wish to murder him. Oblivious, Lydia and Sir Thomas sipped wine and spent the next hour in animated conversation about light, color, and texture.

  Vincent’s gaze locked on Lydia’s glittering golden eyes, the flush of her cheeks, and her lush parted lips. He savored the musical passion of her voice. She was like a beacon warding off the darkness in his soul.

  “Would you paint her?” he blurted, realizing he must have a way to look upon Lydia after she was taken from him.

  Sir Thomas blinked. “Well, between her lessons, my duties at the Academy, and the upcoming exhibition—”

  Vincent silenced him, naming a figure that made the poor chap nearly choke on his wine. Lydia gasped, myriad emotions playing across her beloved face.

  “I believe that could be arranged.” Lawrence coughed, regaining composure. “Shall tomorrow afternoon be agreeable to begin?”

  “That is fine, though I am afraid I shall be out.” He gave Miss Hobson a pointed look, which she returned with a firm, subtle nod. She would keep Lydia in sight the entire time.

  After Lawrence took his leave, Miss Hobson uttered a few cool platitudes about the painter and his scandalous past before changing the subject to Lydia’s suitors. Lydia let out a small, unladylike groan, clearly wanting to talk more of painting and scandal. Vincent had his own reasons for disliking both topics.

  “It is time for my walk,” he said sharply, unable to bear another moment of speculation as to which man would ultimately enjoy her company.

  Lydia met his gaze, an unspoken plea for him to remain flickering in her eyes. He wished he could…for eternity.

  As he prowled the London streets to slake his unholy thirst, Vincent wondered if centuries later, he’d be gazing at Lydia’s portrait with the same mournful longing that was in Lawrence’s eyes when he looked upon his painting of Sally.

  ***

  Lydia trembled with excitement when Sir Thomas arrived the next afternoon. The painter bowed, ignoring Miss Hobson’s hostile gaze. Lydia bit back a chuckle. As if she would be interested in the man in that way. He was older than her father.

  The yellow salon was transformed into a studio, with her easel and paints set near the large picture window where the light was best. She eyed the blank canvas, fingers itching to obliterate the whiteness with creation.

  Sir Thomas surveyed the arrangement with an approving nod. “Well, Miss Price, what would you like to paint?”

  “I’d like to attempt a portrait.” She tried not to sound too giddy. “I have drawn plenty, but I’ve never dared attempt to paint one.”

  He nodded. “Then it would be best to start from one of those sketches. May I see them?”

  Smiling to conceal her nervousness, Lydia fetched her sketchbook and handed it to him.

  He flipped through the pages as she stared out the window, focusing on a sparrow in the budding lilac bush. The sun was high in the blue sky, so it would be hours before Vincent could join them downstairs. She cursed his headaches.

  “Most of these are of Lord Deveril…” Lawrence broke into her thoughts. His tone was bland with no hint of censure.

  Lydia dared to turn back around.

  The painter continued, “With such striking features, he is a good choice for a subject. You have an artist’s eye, I see.” He carefully removed the most recent drawing, one she’d begun the night Vincent first kissed her. “I believe this is the best of the lot. You captured…something in his expression. Let us hope it shall carry over to the canvas.”

  As she carefully traced the preliminary outline on the canvas, Sir Thomas pulled out his own sketchbook and began drawing her.

  Why had Vincent commissioned a portrait of her? Did he intend it for her to hang in her future husband’s drawing room? Was that yet another strange British custom? She held her breath as she outlined his firm, angular jaw. Or did he want the painting for the same reason she wanted one of him? Did he want something to remember her by? Something to gaze at long after she was gone from his life?

  Once she finished the outline, Sir Thomas nodded in approval and showed her his own sketch. Lydia stared. In minutes, he had captured the shape of her face and features perfectly. “We may begin your sitting tomorrow afternoon, if that is agreeable with your guardian.”

  He went through her paints and handed her a few colors. “The largest challenge in portrait painting, in my opinion, is mixing the right flesh color. His lordship is so very pale, so I advise only a drop of red.”

  As Lydia mixed the paint on the palette, Sir Thomas asked about her presentation and debutante ball, and Lydia began to feel at ease with him.

  “I understand you met your grandmother for the first time,” he said quietly.

  Lydia shook her head, despising the ache in her throat. “Saw her is more apt. She refused to acknowledge me.”

  Lawrence made a sympathetic cluck. “I am sorry to hear that. Although I am frankly surprised that Lady Morley continues to bear such venom over your father’s marriage. People should learn to forgive and move beyond old grudges.”

  Miss Hobson raised a brow and gave him a piercing stare. “Some things cannot be forgiven.” From the chaperone’s censorious tone, Lydia could tell she wasn’t referring to her parents’ marriage.

  The painter knew it as well, for he flushed. “In matters of love, the heart takes precedence.”

  “Real love isn’t fic
kle and doesn’t cause hurt to the objects of its affections,” Miss Hobson countered before returning her attention to her embroidery in cool dismissal. Lydia gaped at the crushing set down.

  He opened his mouth to argue, then shook his head and turned to Lydia. “That is all for our lesson today, Miss Price. I have other pressing engagements.”

  “Of course. Thank you very much,” she replied, trying to conceal her puzzlement with the odd exchange between her mentor and her chaperone.

  The moment Lawrence departed, Lydia whirled to face Miss Hobson. “What in the world was that about? Was he once a beau of yours?”

  Unbelievably, the chaperone laughed, a dry, yet somehow still-merry sound. “Certainly not.” Her mirth vanished as quickly as it appeared. “One of my first charges was nearly ruined by him—not because she did anything untoward, but because of his reputation. Fortunately, his attention wandered to another as it has always been wont to do. However, she was so devastated that I feared she would never make a good match.”

  “Ah, so he has a penchant for chasing skirts.” Lydia managed a light laugh, though once more, at the mention of his womanizing habits, disappointment gnawed at her consciousness at the thought of her hero being less than honorable. Vincent, on the other hand, was far too honorable. If only he would fling propriety to the wind and…and… A memory of his kiss permeated her senses, evoking an aching void of longing in her heart.

  If only…

  She shunted the thought away and returned her attention to the subject of Sir Thomas Lawrence. “Well, he is one of the finest painters in the world, no matter his flaws.”

  “I certainly cannot deny that.” Miss Hobson nodded. “If he were not, I would have protested Lord Deveril’s hiring him to tutor you. All the same, I—”

  She fell silent as Aubert entered the room. “The dressmakers have arrived.”

  Lydia bit back a curse, every vestige of her being dreading another tortuous fitting, and wishing to continue working on her painting of Vincent.

  “Very good, Aubert. Escort them to the blue salon.” Miss Hobson beamed, clearly relieved at the change in subject and delighted at the prospect of seeing new frocks and fripperies. Setting her sampler aside, she approached Lydia. “Let us get you cleaned up. I do hope they’ve finished your new riding habit.”

  Lydia sighed and removed her painter’s apron before she washed her hands and followed her chaperone out of the studio.

  Miss Hobson grimaced at the paint staining Lydia’s fingers. “Thank heavens for gloves,” she muttered before they entered the blue salon.

  The seamstresses rose from the settee, wielding their measuring tapes and pins.

  “How wonderful it is to see you, Miss Price.” Maria’s eyes gleamed warmth as she withdrew a carriage dress needing final adjustments.

  Sally nodded. “Are you enjoying London?”

  Their genuine interest spurred Lydia’s excitement over her last few days. “Very much. Lord Deveril took me to visit the Royal Academy, and you will not believe what has happened.”

  The sisters leaned forward with avid curiosity. “Do not tease, tell us.”

  “I had the pleasure of finally meeting Sir Thomas Lawrence!” Her words came out in a rush. “He came to supper last night and, afterward, Vincent”—she flushed at her improper slip of tongue—“ah, I mean, Lord Deveril has hired Lawrence to give me painting lessons!”

  The dressmakers stared at her, frozen. Lydia looked down in embarrassment at having spoken of her guardian in such an intimate manner. Doubtless they thought she was callous and too American.

  “You met Sir Thomas Lawrence?” Sally breathed at last with no hint of censure.

  Relieved, Lydia nodded. “And he is teaching me portraiture. Perhaps I may have a piece finished in time for the Royal Exhibition next month.”

  “What did you think of him?” Maria asked sharply, appearing not to care as much about the Royal Exhibition.

  “He is very kind and an excellent tutor.” Though a mite absentminded and melodramatic, she added silently.

  “Is he married?” Sally inquired softly.

  “Not as far as I know.” Lydia frowned at the intensity of their gazes. Why were they so interested in the man? Had one of them been among Lawrence’s fabled string of conquests? Immediately, she dismissed the idea. Both were much too young.

  Yet as she studied Sally and the deeply pensive look in her gray eyes, Lydia suddenly realized why Lawrence’s painting of Sally Siddons had seemed so familiar to her. This Sally bore an astonishing resemblance to the subject of that portrait. They even shared the same Christian name. If the painting wasn’t decades old, she would have thought they were the same person. Perhaps Sally and Maria Sidwell shared a blood relation to the Siddons family.

  Siddons…Sidwell. Even the surnames were similar. Perhaps a relation on the wrong side of the sheets?

  Miss Hobson cleared her throat. “Let us see if that carriage dress suits Miss Price. And how much work is left on her next ball gown.”

  Maria blinked as if woken from a dream. “Of course.”

  The next two hours were spent taking measurements and pinning hems. Lydia struggled to remain still and avoid glancing at the clock, wondering when Vincent would return and if there would be time for a game of chess. She couldn’t wait to tell him of her painting lesson.

  After the seamstresses departed, Miss Hobson shook her head. “Such an irreverent pair. I cannot fathom what they were about in asking you such questions about that painter.” Her fingers caressed the embroidered hem of the new carriage dress. “Though for garments as exquisitely and expediently produced, we may endure them speaking above their station from time to time.”

  “Artistic appreciation shouldn’t be limited only to the upper classes!” Lydia bristled, despite the fact that the sisters had seemed more interested in the artist than his work. “Especially considering that most artists are not of the nobility.”

  Miss Hobson gave her an impatient glance, clearly not in the mood to debate. “That may well be. Now it is time to get ready for Almack’s. I hear the Marquess of Stantonbury will be attending. He is one of the most sought-after bachelors this Season…”

  Lydia groaned. The marriage noose grew tighter every day.

  Seventeen

  Vincent made his way up the walkway to his town house, eager to see Lydia. Between her painting lessons, dress fittings, and attending balls and musicales, he’d hardly had the opportunity to speak with her all week. Was she happy? Had any of her numerous suitors captured her interest yet? Miss Hobson hadn’t noticed any sign of a budding tendre so far.

  As he entered the drawing room and Aubert took his coat, he heard Angelica and Lydia laughing together in the yellow salon. He’d forgotten they were attending the opera tonight. So much for having a moment alone with her.

  “My lord.” Aubert’s eyes were wide with a strange combination of excitement and uneasiness. “Viscount Bevin has just arrived. He wishes to speak with you in private. I, ah, placed him in the library.”

  Not another one. Dread burrowed in his gut. The first one had been a fortune hunter, easy to turn aside. The second had been old enough to be Lydia’s father.

  Viscount Bevin… Vincent couldn’t place the fellow. He’d been introduced to so many knights, barons, viscounts, and earls that the names and faces were a tiresome blur. Aubert must not care for the man, or else he’d have allowed him to socialize with Lydia and the duchess while he waited.

  “Thank you, Aubert. You may bring him to my study.”

  Ignoring the temptation to peek in on Lydia, he reluctantly trudged upstairs.

  Pouring a glass of brandy, he sat at his desk and awaited the inevitable.

  The young viscount bowed the moment he was admitted into Vincent’s study. “Lord Deveril, I humbly request Miss Price’s hand in marriage.”

  A r
ed haze obscured Vincent’s sight, blurring out the scrawny lad in front of him. His fangs throbbed with the need to tear the man’s throat and drink down his life.

  “My lord?” Viscount Bevin asked in a voice tinged with fear.

  The dandy would do well to be afraid. Vincent took a deep breath and fought to keep his feral instincts under control. This man is doing right by offering for Lydia. It is as I planned. However, he could not bring himself to accept the offer immediately.

  “The Season has just begun, and I would like my ward to enjoy a portion of it before she settles into wedlock.” How easily those words came. The rest he had to force out. Swallowing the acrid taste in his mouth, he added, “However, I promise to consider your offer.”

  Briefly, a petulant frown crossed Bevin’s countenance, and Vincent’s fists clenched. Then the young lord bowed. “Thank you, my lord. May I call upon Miss Price tomorrow?”

  I would rather you call on the devil. Vincent gritted his teeth and nodded.

  “Forgive me for saying so, my lord.” Bevin peered at him with wide eyes. “You do not look well.”

  “It is another of my headaches. Now if you will excuse me…” Vincent turned to the window, unable to bear the sight of him a moment longer. “Aubert will see you out.”

  The moment Bevin departed, Vincent slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t expected Lydia to receive offers so quickly. More would be forthcoming, and he would have to accept one of them. Soon, she would be out of his life. He gazed at Lydia’s painting of the sunrise. His heart clenched. It was probably the last gift he’d receive from her.

  “Miss Hobson!” he bellowed, caring not a whit for propriety.

  The chaperone arrived quickly. Doubtless, she’d been hovering right outside the door. “Yes, my lord?” she inquired levelly.

  Vincent rubbed his temples. Perhaps a headache truly was on the way. “Lydia has received another offer for her hand.”

  Her eyes widened. “D-did you accept?”

  “I told Lord Bevin I would consider it. For now, I wish for Miss Price to enjoy the Season a while longer.” He looked back at Lydia’s painting, avoiding Miss Hobson’s hawklike gaze. “In the meantime, he may court her along with the other dandies who have been flocking here.”