by Alicia Ryan
The back wall was decorated with three gold-framed mirrors, each taller than she was. They angled down to provide a reflection of the table. She found herself amused to notice Darren did indeed cast a reflection.
Drinks flowed first, to her great relief, and Darren introduced her to the eight lords of various rank who’d joined them. She recognized the two Darren had invited earlier at Padworth’s. Three others she thought she’d seen there as well, but the rest were strangers to her. Darren intimated as much when he mentioned that for one of them, it would be a new experience to hear her sing.
She sipped champagne and told her pathetic, made-up tale about how she lived in California with an aunt and had no idea how she’d come to be in London—how she’d just woken up in the middle of the street half-naked and soaking wet and been rescued by a paper boy.
“Darren’s promised to help me try to find out what happened,” she added.
“Yes, Highmore, I suppose you could at least have the missing person reports checked out,” said the viscount she’d met at Padworth’s.
“But if she finds out where she belongs, Padworth’s will be the worse for it,” another of the gentlemen added.
“Thank you.” She thought the chances of her finding somewhere she belonged were thin. She certainly hadn’t managed it so far in her life.
At about eleven, the gentlemen took seats around the dining table where the chairs had been spread out in a semi-circle to give all of them a view of her. She stood at the other end of the room beside a tremendous vase of red lilies and began to sing.
She’d given a lot of thought to what to perform tonight, and the hungry, rapt expression on Darren’s face told her the first selection had been a good choice. She didn’t usually do Broadway, but she loved this song—“The Music of the Night” from Phantom of the Opera. And what could a vampire not love in a song about the seductiveness of the dark as opposed to the garishness of day?
Darren’s sexy smile, when she finished, was its own reward.
After that, she kept going in the same vein, not doing anything as overtly sexual as she had performed last night. Some Whitney Houston, some Sheryl Crow. An abbreviated version of Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly”, one of her favorites, “Ain’t No Sunshine”, and, finally, Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon”.
As she ended that one, she shot Darren a questioning glance. He nodded, and she smiled at his guests.
“Thank you for your attention tonight, gentlemen.”
They applauded, and as they did so, maids began bringing covered dishes to the two tables on either side of the room.
Darren got up and brought her more champagne, and she enjoyed the marvelous midnight breakfast his staff had prepared. She noted with some dismay that the plates on which they ate, gilded with silver and gold, probably each cost more than she made in a week. And they were probably antiques—though, being a vampire, he must have a lot of antiques lying around.
Darren sat next to her on her left, and for a while, Lord Hartley occupied the seat to her right. He was a charming flirt, but to her surprise, he was full of questions about America—to most of which, she gave half made-up answers because she couldn’t remember much about the America of 1815. She found herself wishing she’d been a better history student.
At some point, she registered that Darren had left her side and was across the room talking to another Earl whose name she couldn’t remember. She wanted to join him, but Hartley had her trapped because he never allowed the slightest pause in conversation. So she tried to keep up.
He seemed satisfied with her assurance that Americans had celebrated the recent British victory over Napoleon at Waterloo. She at least knew who Napoleon was. And he seemed content with her mostly nodding and smiling at his commentary on the apparently only recently ended War of 1812.
“But tell me about California,” he said. “It surprises me to hear of Americans living out there under Spanish rule. But you must be from the northern part. They call it Alta California, correct?”
Oh, shit, she thought. California became a state on September 9, 1850. Her fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Rossiter, had droned that sentence at them virtually every day that year. How could she have forgotten? Shit.
She gave Hartley what she hoped was a distracting smile. “That’s right. Alta California. It is mostly timber and ranching for the Spanish, but towns are beginning to pop up and flourish, especially around the missions.”
“So, you’re Catholic then?”
She shook her head. “No, not Catholic.”
He nodded with what she took to be approval.
“And how did you and your aunt wind up there? Where are you from originally?”
She couldn’t do the math fast enough to tell if her story would hold water, but waded in with more fabrications about an uncle who was a fur trader who’d met her aunt in Tennessee and how they’d taken her in when her father and mother were killed by Indians in a raid on their settlement.
His sympathy was so genuine she wanted to curl up under the table and hide like the rat she was.
He granted her a momentary reprieve when he got up to refill his plate, and she was about to rise herself, only to find Lord Hartley’s seat immediately taken by someone else.
“Lord Cranston,” the man said.
“Yes, I remember,” Roxanna replied, for Darren had introduced them at the start of the evening. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Cranston was older, but not unattractive. He had close-cropped brown hair and striking green eyes, but he had a hard look about him. Roxanna was confirmed in her impression when the fake smile he was wearing transformed into a leer as he leaned in closer to her.
“I’d enjoy any evening in which you played a prominent role, my dear. As soon as Highmore tires of your exclusive company, you come to me. That dress begs for diamonds. I’ll see that you have them.”
Something about him made her wary. “Thank you for the gracious offer, but diamonds aren’t high on my list of priorities at the moment.”
His sandy brows shot up. “Don’t try to make me play the fool. No one believes that ludicrous story about you being a lost waif from America. It’s plain what you are.”
Roxanna matched his arched brows with one of her own, wariness beginning to give way to anger. “And that is?”
He shrugged. “A whore who sings.” He gave her a half-smile. “Or a singer who whores. Take your pick.”
Roxanna forced a tight breath through her nose. “Well, whore or no, I still choose my own company.” She looked him pointedly up and down. “And I find you rather wanting.”
All pretense of a smile faded from his face. “You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone who is daunted by obstacles. I’m not. In fact, I always get what I want—one way or another.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll do well to remember that.”
Before she could object, he let her go, put his fake smile back on, bowed to her as if they’d been having a civilized conversation, and made his way to the other side of the room.
“Creep,” she muttered under her breath.
As she fumed, she became conscious of the increasing clink of silverware on china. People were finishing up.
“Anyone for a game of cards?” Lord Hartley called out when the maids began to clear away the evidence of breakfast for ten.
Darren coughed. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I’ve promised to return the lady to Padworth’s personally.”
Lord Hartley laughed. “If you want us out of your hair, Highmore, you lucky bastard, just say so.”
Darren smiled. “You remember the way to the door, I trust?”
Now everyone laughed, but they also took the hint and made swift goodbyes, each of them bowing to her before they left. Even Lord Cranston, and, though she glared daggers at him, there wasn’t a trace of malice in his gaze now that Darren was standing at her side. She sighed when he was gone and vowed to put him out of her mind. There were jerks everywhere. Asi
de from the few unpleasant moments of his company, she’d been shocked at the courtesy with which she’d been treated. Apparently they didn’t all see her the way Phillip—or Cranston—did. Or maybe they simply had the good sense not to anger their host.
Darren closed the large door behind the last of his guests and took both her hands in his. “Was I terribly rude?”
She smiled. “Just slightly, I think.”
“I simply can’t wait any longer, Roxanna. Tell me you’ve decided to do this with me. Don’t make me guess. I fear my own wishes cloud my judgment.”
“You want to bite me, right? That’s what you’re asking?”
He nodded, his dark eyes wide, hopeful.
“But you won’t kill me?”
“No. No, I haven’t killed anyone in over a hundred years.”
“I want your word.”
“I gladly give it. I don’t want you dead, Roxanna. I just want you mine.”
His dark beauty and heated gaze took her breath away, and she sighed, moving closer to him. “Then consider me yours,” she whispered. “For tonight.”
He groaned and picked her up in his arms, carrying her up a staircase two steps at a time. At the third set of doors, he put her down and pushed one open to reveal an opulent bedroom. The walls were covered in gold brocade, and the carpeting and bed clothes were of the deepest blue. The bed was a four-poster, bigger than her entire bedroom at home, cabined by heavy, blue velvet curtains tied back with gold braided rope.
She strode over toward the intimidating bed and then turned to face him. He’d closed the door and stood staring at her.
“So,” she said. “Do we do this the normal way, only with biting?”
He gave a full-throated laugh. “You know, I love everything that comes out of your mouth—what you sing, what you say. You delight me.”
“Plus, I smell good.”
His smile disappeared. “You smell divine.” He stepped closer, put his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to touch his lips to hers.
The kiss was light at first, like he didn’t want to hurt her. Roxanna stepped into him, running her hands inside his coat, and he tightened his arms around her. When she circled her hands up around his neck and curled her fingers into his silky hair, he took the kiss from teasing to devouring, and she couldn’t help but moan at the need, the desire that radiated from him. It pulsed over her in waves as his tongue invaded her mouth, as if he were trying to claim her—to erase the memory of any others who might have come before. She dimly thought he was doing a pretty good job of that.
She moved her hands down and pushed his coat over his broad shoulders, while he undid his waistcoat and shirt, sliding them to the floor. He was pale, she thought, but not noticeably more than other people she’d met. Tans seemed out of fashion here. And he was beautiful—as she’d known he would be. Lanky muscles slid over his arms, across his chest, and down a flat stomach. She’d never been with a man like this—a man so perfect. She suddenly wished the lights were off. She wasn’t sure she liked sleeping with a man who was more beautiful than she was.
He undid the stays on her gown and slid it from her shoulders, stepping back to watch it fall to the floor. She met his gaze with trepidation but then watched it slide appreciatively down her body. She wondered why he didn’t seem disappointed. There had to be so many more beautiful women he could have.
“So lovely,” he whispered.
He sat down on the bed to take his boots off but didn’t remove his trousers.
“To answer your earlier question,” he said, “this doesn’t work like normal human intercourse. For vampires, biting is the only penetration.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
He laughed. “Feeding is the one remaining bodily function we have, but don’t worry. You won’t be disappointed.”
“So you’ve done this a lot?”
She wanted to kick herself. Why had she asked? She was certain she didn’t want to know the answer. For crying out loud, he was at least a hundred. Of course, he’d had sex—or whatever—before.
To her surprise, he looked nervous, running his hands down the sides of his pants. She wondered if it was a leftover human reaction. It wasn’t like he could actually have sweaty palms, apparently.
“When I was first turned, I followed Pietro’s lead. There were women—and men—every night. Sometimes we gave them pleasure; sometimes we just pleasured ourselves.”
She noticed he wasn’t looking at her anymore, but rather staring at some spot on the wall over her shoulder.
“But even when I let them drink from me, the pain of the bite was hard to make up for. That was never pleasurable for them.” He shook his head. “It made it all too clear, I think, that they were merely food.”
“Yuck.”
He met her gaze and gave a rueful smile. “And that’s what they were. Many of them we killed outright. Others we let go, but only after making them forget the blood-drinking.” He shrugged. “So it was like it never happened.”
“So you and Pietro...?”
His face changed into a near snarl. “No. He turned me because he wanted a libertine companion in his adventures, nothing more. There was never any bond between us. Not even friendship.” His features relaxed, and he seemed to let the memories go. “Besides, vampires don’t feed from each other. There’s no pleasure or nourishment in it.”
“But you will find pleasure in this...in me.” It was only sort of a question.
He closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“And you won’t make me forget it ever happened.”
“No.” He looked at her. “Unless you decide you want me to.”
He looked pained at that, and she felt the urge to comfort him. To comfort a vampire.
She took a deep breath. It was too much to be believed.
So don’t believe it, she told herself. Just do it.
She kept her eyes locked on his and closed the distance between them.
Taking her hands in his, he pulled her astride him where he sat. When he kissed her again and cupped his hands around her breasts, she forgot her doubts. His hands were cool, but their touch was gentle, and her skin warmed beneath his fingers.
He lifted his mouth from hers and moved to kiss her neck, groaning as his tongue slid slowly from the base of her ear to the hollow of her throat. He leaned back and shook himself. “Dear God,” he whispered. “Roxanna, I...”
She met his heated gaze. “Show me what to do.”
He nodded and lifted her up so she could climb over him and lie back on the bed. With his tongue, he traced a path from between her breasts, down across one hip, then painstakingly slowly over each scar on her right thigh.
She was panting before he finished caressing her there, and when he moved to lie between her legs, she couldn’t help but cry out as he put his tongue to work on her most sensitive flesh.
“There’s no part of you that isn’t delicious,” he murmured.
“You...you enjoy this?”
“Very much. Just like sex, a bite is so much better if we’re both eager for it.”
“Consider me eager,” she whispered, dropping her head back to the pillow.
“Beautiful and fearless—my dream girl from the future.”
She laughed, thinking “fearless” was the last word she’d use to describe herself, but Darren was all seriousness as he slid farther down the bed. He bent her right knee and stroked an area on the inside of her thigh with his thumb.
“You want the pain, don’t you?” he asked.
She gulped, closed her eyes, and nodded.
“Very well, pain then pleasure.”
She didn’t watch—just held her breath—and she wasn’t disappointed. Twin points sank deep and slow into her thigh, and she bucked against him, but not in protest—rather like electricity would arc between two contact points.
The pain seared away everything for her—all her fears, all her doubts, all her sense of never having belonged anywhere in her life, all he
r restlessness and disillusionment. In the blinding penetration of his teeth into her flesh, all of it was gone. She was Roxanna Collins; she was strong, and she was where she belonged.
It wasn’t until she began to catch her breath that she noticed he hadn’t moved. But when she looked at him, he began to drink, and each swallow he took created a gentle wave of both pain and pleasure. Both sensations washed over her, like water over the sand at low tide.
Then he bit deeper, and she sucked in her breath as she watched him close his eyes and take one last pull on her flesh.
When he lifted his head, she could see he was trembling—from the hand that still gripped her thigh all the way across his gorgeous shoulders. She had no concept of how long it had been since he’d bitten her—or how long they lay like that, with him seemingly frozen and her own eyes glued to his beautiful, but somehow stricken, face.
Finally, she lay back on the pillows, and her movement seemed to bring him back to the present. He moved to lie alongside her and brushed his hand down the side of her face.
Then his wrist was over her mouth—his bleeding wrist. She looked up at him, and he nodded. She brought her hand up, gently intertwining her fingers with his as she let her tongue slip out for her first taste of him.
And that taste was all it took for the world to spin away. She took one long swallow, and her body began to ride a wave of sensation. She felt Darren curl her up into his arms before her mind left for parts unknown. She didn’t know where she was, only that she’d never known such pleasure and that Darren was there with her—in her mind, in her body. She could feel him holding her, but something of him was inside her now. She felt his isolation, his need for her—and the blissful imperative drumbeat of the pleasure his blood created. It told her he wanted to give her everything—and it gave all that it promised, only releasing her after she had long passed the point when she thought she could stand no more of Darren’s passionate blood embrace.
***
Darren fought to stay awake. Her blood had given him so much to consider. The taste of it had enveloped his brain like nothing he’d ever experienced. He feared no other human would ever be enough for him again. If he lost this girl, every time he fed would be a painful reminder of her once-warm presence in his arms, under his lips, his fangs.
