Bitten by Desire

by Marguerite Kaye

  Vaelen sucked carefully, but with pleasure so extreme he thought he would be unable to contain himself. So hot and sweet her taste, it filled him with acute tenderness and sorrow and longing even as it sated his baser needs. The feral part of him growled its gratification, greedily demanding more. It was an immense wrench to stop, but he timed it by the pulsing of her climax, ceasing as it faded, licking carefully over the tiny wound.

  Imogen opened her eyes, staring up at him hazily. Sated she looked; delectably sated. Would that he felt the same. She held out her arms, but he ignored her mute invitation. She had already tested his resistance far beyond the usual bounds.

  “Sleep, lovely Imogen,” he whispered, relieved to see that she closed her eyes obediently. It pained him, but he pressed his cool hand to her brow and said the words which would obliterate him from her mind. To be forever unremembered was one of the prices he paid. Usually it cost him nothing. Imogen sighed and settled. He pressed a kiss to her brow. Then he left the way he had arrived, suddenly and silently.

  Imogen woke in the morning feeling light-headed. The ribbons of her nightgown had come undone; it was rucked up around her waist. Her sheets were tangled. She struggled up through the mists of sleep. The room was chilled, for the window was still open. Allegra, exhausted from her night’s ramblings, lay sound asleep on the end of the bed.

  Such a dream. It came back to her as she fixed her nightgown. The memory made her blush. A slight ache between her legs revealed a small bruise on her inner thigh and some tiny abrasions crusted with blood. Her nails obviously needed trimming.

  Blood rushed to her head as she sat up. She felt euphoric, dizzy, exhausted. As she lay back down again a cold, handsome countenance swam before her. Vaelen. Her sinful secret. Her dark angel summoned from the black, full-moon night.

  Over the coming days the memory of the dream tormented Imogen. Vaelen haunted her thoughts so much she could not settle to anything. Even her mother-in-law, who normally paid her scant attention, felt moved to comment on it. “Really, my dear, you are in a most distracted humour these days. What on earth has got into you?”

  What indeed? When her fevered mind started to hallucinate him, to conjure him outside the confines of her bedchamber, she worried that her mind was affected. He made his first appearance in the theatre. Attending Mr Kean’s renowned performance of Shylock, she was certain the shadowy presence whose gaze touched her like a mist from a box opposite was Vaelen, but when she glanced up at the interval the box was empty, and remained so.

  In the early morning, as she rode in Hyde Park accompanied by her groom a day or so later, she was sure it was he who rode past her at a fierce gallop astride a black stallion shining with sweat, though his face was a blur, and he passed so quickly that only the drumming of the horse’s hooves on the track reassured her it was no ghostly vision.

  She often thought she glimpsed him across crowded rooms at parties, but he seemed always to melt away when she tried to approach him, or even to meet his gaze. Was she going mad? But surely the very act of wondering meant she was sane. Despite this she was not reassured. He seemed to have got into her blood, like an illness or an elixir. He possessed her. She could sense him before she saw him—or thought she saw him—an awareness so acute that it hurt. Each time it happened, panic clutched at her, squeezing its vice-like grip round her insides as she forced herself to contemplate the idea that he might be real. Because if he was…

  But then he disappeared like smoke or mist or whatever ephemeral thing he was made of. Yet she longed for him to exist, for if he did not it was becoming clear that she could not either. Not in any meaningful way—not any more. Her fate, her very existence, seemed irrevocably entwined with his. Which was a truly mad idea. But she could not seem to stop herself thinking such irrational thoughts. The more elusive Vaelen was—or the illusion of him was—the stronger became her obsession.

  Chapter 3

  “Six ruffians I tell you, and not a one left standing at the end of it. By Gad, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Come, Aldridge, we all know your tendency to exaggerate. Two in the morning you say it was? So you’d have had at least four bottles by then. You must have been seeing double.”

  A burst of masculine laughter greeted this, but Lord Aldridge was insistent. “I tell you, there were six of them. Footpads, there on the Strand, after his purse. It’s a damned disgrace.”

  “And did you not feel inclined to go to Kilmun’s assistance?” Lord Cullen enquired.

  “Well, of course I damn well did, but by the time I’d crossed the road he’d dealt with them himself. Why, I doubt even Tom Cribb in his prime would have shown a handier pair of fives,” Lord Aldridge declared. “Anyway, if you don’t believe me, ask the man himself.”

  The Earl of Kilmun strolled into the card room and, waving away a footman bearing a tray of Lord Cullen’s excellent claret, joined his host at the far end of the room. “Ask the man himself what?”

  “About the other night. Six of ’em, weren’t there?”

  The earl shrugged. “Poor specimens. Nothing to boast about.”

  “Nothing to— For God’s sake, man, they could have killed you.”

  “I very much doubt it,” the Earl of Kilmun said drily. “Not armed only with cudgels.”

  “I hear you took fifty thousand off Mannington in one sitting of piquet the other night,” Lord Cullen interrupted.

  This piece of news drew several exclamations of amazement, but the earl was dismissive.

  “Do you ever lose?” Lord Cullen asked.

  “Why, do you want to put me to the test?”

  “Lord no, you have the devil’s own luck.”

  The Earl of Kilmun’s smile was thin. “Indeed I do.”

  Lord Aldridge drained his glass of claret in one long swallow, snapping the fingers of his other hand to summon the waiter for another. “What’s this I hear about Sally Emerson? It’s all over town that she’s given Malfrey his conge in favour of you.”

  “Shallow waters and thin blood. That is one well drunk rather too dry for my taste.”

  The men laughed knowingly. “Dammit, Kilmun, you’ve the luck of the devil with the ladies, as well as with the cards. Whether you choose to taste what they offer or not, they lose all interest in the rest of us when you’re here, and yet you look through most of ’em as if you can’t see them.”

  “Believe me, I see them. In fact, sometimes, I am forced to see rather more of them than I would like to,” Kilmun said with a shudder.

  Lord Cullen guffawed. “You’re an incorrigible dog. Why, only the other day I was saying…”

  But the Earl of Kilmun had already left the room.

  In Lady Cullen’s magnificent formal salon, a group of women taking tea were also conversing upon the subject of the fascinating and elusive Earl of Kilmun.

  “They say that there is a locked room in his town house full of gold and precious jewels.”

  “Aside from his several estates in England, he has a chateau in France, a palace in Prussia and castles in each of the Baltics.”

  “And as for his reputation with the fairer sex—well…”

  The four ladies edged closer on their gilt chairs. Cornelia, the Dowager Duchess of Strathfyne—the first Dowager as she had come to be known by her particular friends since her beloved son, Alfred, passed on, leaving his widow to stake a second claim to the same title—tinkled her teaspoon on Lady Cullen’s second-best Spode and pursed her lips. “They say that even our hostess has flung her cap at him,” she said confidentially, “and as we are all too aware, what Melissa Cullen wants, Melissa Cullen gets.”

  Knowing nods greeted this statement. “And did Lady Cullen succeed with the earl?” Emily, Lady Alkington, raised a delicately enquiring brow.

  “Oh no, and nor, as far as anyone can ascertain, has he shown the least interest in any of the ladies of the Ton, though it is not for the lack of opportunity,” the dowager said acerbically, “for some had as well trussed
themselves up and offered themselves on a platter.”

  “I cannot blame them. I would myself, if I were not so long in the tooth,” Lady Emily said with a coy smile, “for even were he not as rich as Croesus, there is something fascinating about him, do you not agree?”

  Mrs Frances Burlington shuddered. “I don’t know about you, but I find him rather frightening. That look of his… I declare, I feel as if he is stripping me of my clothes, and whether it is to flay me alive or use me in a more particular way, I cannot ever quite tell.”

  “Frances!”

  “No, I know what she means,” Lady Emily said. “One can never quite be sure whether one is safe with him or not.” Her generous décolletage rippled as she shuddered delicately. “I would not like to cross swords with him.”

  The Countess of Innellan dropped a slice of lemon into her teacup. “Not cross swords, perhaps, Emily,” she said maliciously, “but you would like to unsheathe his, I think.”

  Scandalised titters greeted this sally, though it was generally felt that the Countess of Innellan had, as ever, gone too far. It was left to the dowager to restore some modicum of propriety to the conversation. “I heard he does not permit anyone to visit that mansion of his,” she said. “I don’t know where you got that story about the room of gold, because I haven’t heard of a single caller who has been allowed across the threshold. Nor has he any living relative that anyone has heard of. He is a most singular man.”

  “Good evening, ladies. How do you all do?”

  “Imogen, my dear, how well that new gown suits you.” The elder Dowager Duchess held out her hand to the younger. “Do you wish for tea?”

  Imogen smiled her greeting to her mama-in-law’s three closest cronies, and sat down next to her. The dress had been delivered by the modiste that morning, pewter silk, the deep flounce trimmed with silver ribbons. She had been quite astonished by the transformation it made to her appearance to put off her widows weeds. The woman who looked back at her from her mirror, with her hair newly dressed à la Méduse to make the most of her natural curls, looked as if she were waking from a long sleep.

  Despite her troubled nights, her eyes seemed to have a new sparkle, her skin a new lustre. She would have liked to attribute it to an easing of the suffocating weight which she was only now realising she had been carrying in the long months leading up to Alfred’s death and had been bearing since, but was secretly certain that it was rather the awakening of her darker, twilight self. Her shadowy other half.

  “No tea, thank you.” Imogen eased away from the heat of the fire. “Of whom were you talking?”

  “The Earl of Kilmun, my love. Not a man I would recommend you become acquainted with.”

  “Why not? Is he a rake?”

  “Imogen!”

  “Oh, Cornelia, don’t be such a prude,” Lady Emily said. “Imogen may look like an innocent, but she was married for nigh on five years. The Earl of Kilmun is a conundrum, Imogen, my dear, for he gambles like a rake but always wins. He is as irresistible as a rake, yet he resists, and of course, the more he resists, the more irresistible he becomes. So one could not really call him a rake, though quite what he is we cannot decide.”

  “You will ignore Lady Emily, my dear. The Earl of Kilmun is most definitely not the sort of man you should be acquainted with.”

  Lady Emily smiled wickedly. “I’m afraid it looks as if she might have no choice in the matter.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” the dowager demanded angrily.

  Lady Emily gestured over Imogen’s shoulder where a striking figure, accompanied by Lady Cullen, was heading through the crowded drawing room directly towards them. Dressed in an exceedingly well-cut black tailcoat with dove-grey pantaloons and a silver waistcoat, the simplicity of his toilette served to focus the attention on the man himself. His figure alone made him stand out in the crowded salon, for he was taller than most and better built too, with wide shoulders, his coat buttoned over a broad chest tapering down to a trim waist, his legs long and muscled. The pristine white linen of his neckcloth, elegantly tied, but neither so high nor so starched as the height of fashion dictated, drew attention to the clean, austere lines of his face.

  “Your Grace, may I present a gentleman most eager to meet you.” Though she addressed Imogen, Lady Cullen’s eyes were on the man by her side. Her fingertips gripped his jacket. Her smile was brittle. “The Earl of Kilmun, Her Grace the Dowager Duchess—the younger Dowager Duchess of Strathfyne.”

  “Your Grace.” He bowed flawlessly in front of her.

  “My Lord Kilmun.” Imogen made her own curtsy, feeling as if she might faint clean away.

  Vaelen! It was him, and he must be real because everyone else could see him too. Heat flushed her cheeks and coloured the soft rise and fall of her bosom, so that the pearls which she wore gleamed pink with it.

  He was here, and he was real. And angry. Though he disguised it well, she could sense it; a glittering thing, sharp and sparkling. Danger. Imogen’s heart beat too fast. Her breath came shallow and rapid, as if she had been running.

  The earl held out his arm. “May I be so bold as to speak to you in private?”

  She was vaguely aware of the dowager clucking in the background, but there was no question of her doing anything other than obeying him. Imogen touched her fingertips to his and felt the contact like a shock. She stumbled and he caught her to him. Then they were alone in a small side room and she had no idea how they got there.

  “Vaelen. I thought I had dreamt you.”

  “You remember?” He found it difficult—too difficult—to wish that she did not, that his protective cloak of anonymity had been preserved. She remembered him. Something like warmth touched his cold heart. He had suspected as much, had known from that first night that she was different from all the others. It was there, that straining of his feelings on the leash he normally had no problem holding, feelings he had thought himself outgrown centuries ago. But that road led to tragedy for both of them. The very existence of temptation should be enough to warn him. He had been right to seek her out, to warn her she risked her very soul by becoming involved with him.

  “Who are you?” She could still not quite believe this was happening.

  “As you heard, the Earl of Kilmun. I’m sure your mother-in-law has filled you in on my reputation,” Vaelen replied. He could not resist touching her, running a finger down her cheek, watching the colour rise to his touch. A long tress of curling black hair was swept over her shoulder, trailing down over her bosom. Satin black on milky white. His manhood stirred.

  “It was you? You came to my chamber. I didn’t imagine it?”

  “No, but you would do well to pretend that you did. It should not have happened. It must not happen again. That is what I have come to tell you.”

  “But I don’t understand how it happened in the first place.” Colour stole up her neck, flushing her cheeks. “I thought I was dreaming.”

  “You called to me. You should be careful what you wish for.” Imogen looked startled, and he saw that she remembered it all, even those whispered words of warning before he crossed her threshold. “Do you regret it?”

  She swallowed nervously, seeing in the pulse that beat at his temple, sensing in the flare of heat in his eyes that her answer mattered, though she also sensed he would deny it. She didn’t understand what was happening to her except that he was the cause of it, and since it had happened—though she was alarmed and frightened and unnerved—she had never felt so alive. “No,” she said emphatically, “I don’t regret it. Do you?”

  Vaelen drew back from her. “Yes,” he said coldly. Not the truth but it should be.

  Imogen twisted her bracelet around her wrist. The pearls felt clammy, like her skin. She was beginning to feel rather sick. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered shakily.

  “It would be better for you if you did.”

  Her fragile hold on her control broke suddenly. “Why must you speak to me in riddles? It is like try
ing to grasp smoke. Who are you? What have you done to me? Why can I not stop thinking about you? Why do I feel so—so possessed by you?”

  Her words plucked at a chord buried deep in his being. The restlessness and the loneliness of his wandering, he could see it reflected in those beautiful eyes of hers. The aching of wanting. The pain of yearning. No wonder the taste of her had been so sweet. No wonder he had been unable to stop her from haunting what passed for his dreams. “As if you were seeking something you did not even know you were missing,” he said with a twisted smile. “Something you know you should not want, but cannot help desiring. Is that how you feel?”

  “That is it precisely. I can’t help myself. The very idea of you being real should be mortifying. Part of me is terrified, but another part of me is—is elated.”

  Vaelen closed his eyes. Her words rang so piercingly true, her presence was so sweetly tempting. “Elation.” He took her hand, pulling her hard against him. “You should be wary of elation,” he whispered, almost to himself, “for it is very close to death.”

  His long fingers were cool on hers. The contact reverberated, tingling up her arm, licking shards of heat inside her, making her acutely aware of her skin inside her dress, her flesh inside her skin. His eyes were fixed hungrily on her mouth. Trepidation and desire. Elation. A frisson of it twisted low in her belly.

  She knew he would kiss her and he did. She was possessed by his kiss, possessed by the desire which flamed instantly inside her, possessed by an urgent need to be possessed. It was different from before, this kiss; darker in hue, more singular in tone. He kissed as a conqueror, as one who would plunder, and she kissed him back in complete surrender. His mouth was hard on hers. She could not remember how to breathe. Vaelen’s breathing was ragged.