Bitten By the Earl (Lords of the Night Book Two) Page 2

  Anything over and above hatred and regret.

  As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, the plush red carpeting masking his urgent footfalls, he let his mind dwell on Elizabeth, the woman he’d never gotten over, the one who would always torture his thoughts.

  Years ago, he’d fallen for her in a mad, heady, rush of passion. Unable to control his beast that had been unleashed amidst desire and need, he’d more or less attacked her, and they’d come together violently. She’d been twenty, barely a woman, and though she’d matched him in desire and want, what he’d done to her was unforgivable, what he’d taken from her beyond the pale, if even she’d given consent.

  At least for part of it.

  She hated him, feared him now, avoided him in social settings or if he happened to visit her brother. Practically fled from him if he came too close. Who could blame her? He’d let the beast take control without giving thought to how the aftermath would have affected her. It didn’t matter that he held considerably more domination over himself these days, that he made certain he’d already fed if being in her presence was required.

  Perhaps I’m better off alone for the remainder of this miserable life.

  Giving into a wince as he traversed the left-hand corridor, Rafe attempted to ignore Elizabeth, for if he didn’t, he’d fall into a perpetual brown study and perhaps let depression claim him. There was one more full moon this year, which meant he had one more chance to break the curse surrounding him, else he’d have no choice but to wait five years before the opportunity arose again. And he knew, beyond a doubt, that such an opportunity would not afford itself to him this time around.

  That was almost as hopeless as thinking Elizabeth would suddenly fall in love with him and what he was during the dark of the night.

  You could end the whole of your torment by not feeding, locking yourself away and letting the bloodlust take your life…

  He shook away those thoughts. I cannot give up, not yet. There might still be hope. No matter that he wanted a second chance with her, she refused to pass any significant amount of time alone with him. Beyond that, Donovan remained adamant his sister not find herself involved with one of the Cursed Lords. If he knew that Rafe harbored feelings for Elizabeth, hinted at what he had done to her, at what he and she had shared, they’d find themselves on a dueling field at dawn.

  Bah! As if he is more honorable as a wolf shifter than I as a vampire.

  The logic appeared fair enough, perhaps, but it didn’t mean he had to adhere to it as a final dictate, for Donovan had never banked on falling in love either. It had happened, changed him in ways none of his friends had anticipated, and it remained to be seen if he’d allow his curse to continue. Rafe would use that logic to his favor if need be.

  At the door to his private suite of rooms, he pressed the brass handle. When the oak panel swung open, he stepped into what was a sitting area and swiftly closed the door behind him.

  The hunger raging through his body intensified. His incisors lengthened into razor sharp fangs as he glanced about the small apartment, tastefully decorated in dark, masculine colors. A tiny sound, the rustle of fabric from the adjoining bedchamber, alerted him to the fact that the female he’d ordered had indeed been supplied. Of course she had. That was why the club existed, no matter how abhorrent to everyday sensibilities.

  Drawn by the scent of her, the smell of the hot blood coursing through her veins, Rafe strode over the floor, the thick Oriental carpeting muffling his footfalls. When he appeared in the doorway, the woman on the bed scrambled to her feet.

  “You requested my services, my lord?” she asked in a quiet voice tinged with a quake of excitement. Or perhaps it was fear as she eyed his fangs and her eyes rounded.

  “I did.” He drew his gaze up and down her form: petite, voluptuous and red-haired, clad in a diaphanous nightgown and wrapper, both trimmed with froths of lace, no doubt designed to showcase every charm of her body. She was beautiful, trained to be so, as were all the women in the club, but her appearance wasn’t what arrested his attention. The rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat was more seductive than her curves. At least for now. “Come.” Rafe didn’t stop moving until he’d thrown himself into a winged back chair in one corner of the room. “Join me.”

  When she did and she climbed into his lap, straddling him, he stifled a sigh of relief. This horrible hunger, this need, would soon pass and leave him be. He fisted a hand in the red waterfall of her unbound hair and claimed her with an open-mouthed kiss meant to arouse. Indeed, his length tightened, but he wasn’t of a mind for sexual satisfaction this night. One of his fangs scraped the plump flesh of her bottom lip. The metallic, slightly spicy taste of those first tiny droplets exploded upon his palate, and the hunger increased tenfold. His fingers throbbed, his very nails aching to develop into horrible, hideous claws capable of ripping out a throat.

  When he released her with a gasp, she looked at him with eyes of mossy green as she pressed her breasts to his chest, her hands on his shoulders while the scent of honeysuckle wafted to his nose. She put her lips to his ear. “Shall I undress, my lord?” Her voice was a purr, well-practiced to lure a man into her web. “How would you like to have me? I have heard you are a thorough lover.”

  “Tempting.” He drew a fingertip along the slope of her cheek, the nail beginning to lengthen. Did he use the women at the club to quell physical urges? Of course. Even vampires had lust to slake, but he was loath to take a mistress, and this creature had eyes and hair the wrong color, and she didn’t smell like roses. At present, he wasn’t of a mind to relieve the ache in his prick, not when there was a chance that he might catch a glimpse of Elizabeth at Mountgarret’s soiree. He wished to appear somewhat more honorable than she probably thought—than he thought of himself. The overriding hunger prompted his next words. That tiny taste the doxy gave wasn’t enough. “No, I’ll not need those services this night.”

  A seductive smile curved her pink-hued lips, and a drop of blood lingered, mesmerizing. The hard points of her nipples were outlined beneath the gauzy material she wore and she wriggled on his lap, a fully wanton baggage. “Perhaps later then. I did so hope to experience all of you this night.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Yet his length hardened, and despite himself, he loosed a groan. No, Rafe. If he wished to make a good showing with Elizabeth, he must quell some of these urges.

  She pouted. “What is it that you wish from me?”

  Oh, this one knew, of course she did. It was why some of the women were installed at the club; they had a specific purpose. They were appraised of that going in, for these women weren’t stupid, and they were well paid for their discretion and service—and sacrifice. They were also provided for and taken care of, for the club’s founders wouldn’t have it any other way. He needed to feed, and he’d rather do it in a controlled setting than drift about the streets of London after dark, terrorizing the citizens and running the risk of drinking from an unsavory victim.

  “Your blood, my dear,” he whispered, and a shiver went through her that transferred to him. Gently, he lifted her chin and tilted her head to the side so that the column of her ivory neck was revealed. “Are you amenable?”

  Not that it mattered, but it was easier if they were willing.

  “Yes, but I would prefer if you’d utilize all of what I offer.” She pressed her whole body against his, layering herself to him, her breath warming his chin. There was no doubt about her desire. “It makes the bite that much more enjoyable.”

  “I’ll wager you do.” Rafe tamped down the urge to grin. He did have some skill in the carnal arts, but tonight he wasn’t of a mind to indulge. Yes, it made him a popular member of the club, but those relationships were empty, vital to his well-being, of course, but there were no feelings attached in those joinings, and they left him cold. The fact he hadn’t bedded a woman there for months was telling. “Again, I must decline, for I have other obligations this evening.”

  The women here serve
d one purpose and that was all. At least employed at Bête Noir, they were kept off the streets and given a better life. There was but one rule within the club—never develop personal feelings or tendres for the women beneath its roof.

  “I can make it worth your while, my lord.” Her voice, low and seductive, was tempting.

  But she wasn’t the one he wanted above all else.

  “Perhaps another night.” While maintaining his hold on her chin, he stared into her eyes. The ring about his pupils would flare red, and with that, the enthrallment process captured the full of her attention. Her eyes rounded, reflecting wonder, darkened with desire, and she went pliant in his arms. Being enthralled by a vampire temporarily stunned the intended victim, which was convenient for a safe feeding. If they thrashed about, there was every possibility of tearing out one’s neck. And he wasn’t a killer. “Thank you in advance for your donation,” he whispered, and then he put his lips to her neck, drawing them down until he encountered her jugular. The rapid trip of her pulse thrummed against his lips.

  Quickly, he opened his mouth wide and then with the force and skill he’d long ago perfected out of necessity, Rafe sank his fangs into her skin, puncturing that all-important artery. Her blood spilled, thick and hot, into his mouth, and he settled the woman more comfortably in his arms as he drank from her.

  Dear Lord, this might be the height of sinful, but it tasted like the finest ambrosia. The only thing better would be if he’d fallen into release right before the bite.

  Greedy, he suckled at her neck, swallowing the life-giving liquid, his primary source of nourishment, as she writhed on his lap with sounds of satisfaction escaping. How long had it been since he’d actually enjoyed normal food at a dinner? He couldn’t remember, but he did when it was required of him. A groan escaped as he took his fill from the saucy bit in his arms, and as he did so, she stared at him with eyes frozen open while pleasure scudded across her features. It felt as if he cheated, somehow, for each time he fed from one of the whores at the club, though they would remember nothing in the morning except the feelings of experiencing an intense release, for that was a side effect of his bite, he gained nothing pleasurable from such intimacy.

  I do what I must to survive.

  But, there was always something missing, a part of him that longed for something else from life.

  Eventually, he took his fill, but left off early enough that he didn’t drain the woman of all her blood. That wouldn’t have been well-done of him, and he wasn’t in the business of killing women for satiety. He might be the devil’s own emissary as the rumors said, but he wasn’t a criminal… at least not a common variety criminal. He lifted his head. Blood trickled down his chin. The metallic scent filled his nostrils and brought an odd comfort.

  Ironic, that. Did sucking the blood of a victim constitute immoral behavior? In some circles—most—it did, but to him, it was forced upon him to live another day trapped in the damned curse. What was the greater crime?

  Her eyes shuddered closed as the enthrallment faded. The drugging effects of his bite, of a low-grade toxin given off as soon as his fangs broke the skin, sent heavy lethargy into her limbs, and she faded, drooping with a satisfied sigh and shiver.

  Rafe licked at the spot on her neck where the puncture wounds gaped. The one positive of his curse was the fact that something in his saliva would heal the wounds of his creation. Just as the toxin relaxed them, he could repair the bite marks. In the morning, no trace of his feeding would linger, either on her skin or in her mind.

  He snorted as he wrapped the woman in his arms and stood from the chair. Her head lolled upon his shoulder, and he carried her across the floor. Though his very presence invoked fear and terror in the one woman he cared about, in everyone else, it was as if he’d never existed.

  I’m a damned thief in the night, taking whatever my body demands.

  No one remembered that he’d been with them.

  How ignoble and deuced annoying. Shaking his head, Rafe laid the redhead upon the sumptuous bed. He covered her with a quilt and then once he’d cleaned the evidence of his feeding from his lips and face, he quit the room.

  The hunger had abated, but the perpetual irritation of the curse remained as it always did. Did he wish to break it? Some days, yes. Most days, he’d become used to this way of living. It would be nice not to play slave to the bloodthirst, the skulking about at night, avoiding the sun, being with women only to feed and relieve physical need. If he had his druthers, he’d rid himself of the curse, merely to escape the half-life he lived.

  I want to live as a human, damn it. He wished for the love of a good woman, a help mate, and, if fate was kind, a wife, perhaps children who wouldn’t labor beneath the curse as he did. Was that so hard? Gah! He wanted to rail at the heavens, but from past experience it would make no difference. Living as a human man was nigh impossible, and ordinarily, Rafe would cease to torture himself with such thoughts…

  But…

  … Donovan had managed to live with his curse, had been the first in their set to prove that it could be done and a man could live happy with that existence if one found the right woman to stay by his side, to accept him. The duke remained cursed with his beast, but he’d also made peace with that fact. And his lady didn’t mind.

  Rafe heaved a sigh. Being a vampire was different than living as a wolf-shifter. His was a more hand’s on type of curse—direct, invasive, and it was deuced uncomfortable at times.

  If only the damned curse hadn’t alienated him from Elizabeth. If he had her regard, perhaps he might wish to actively pursue ditching his fate. Yet, he had neither, and so he existed, merely because letting himself die was the coward’s way out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  December 2, 1815

  London, England

  Lady Elizabeth Sinclair—younger sister to the Duke of Manchester—glanced about Lord Mountgarret’s semi-crowded Mayfair ballroom with a critical eye. It wasn’t exactly a rousing crush by ton standards, but the viscount had managed to entice a fair number of people to the event. Good for him. She hoped the rumors that constantly swirled about the man—as well as her brother—would continue to die down and the Cursed Lords of London, as the men were called, would keep integrating into Polite Society.

  At least that was the plan and why she worked tirelessly on her brother’s behalf. He was afflicted by a curse, of course, but he didn’t deserve shunning.

  None of them did.

  Neither do I.

  However, tonight, she most certainly did not feel in a festive mood, nor did she want to spend her time being a societal liaison for her brother and his contemporaries. She had only consented to make an appearance for her friend Felicity’s sake. Since the woman was the Earl of Coventry’s sister and the same age as she—plus her best friend—Elizabeth had showed up mainly for the chance to gossip. I need chatter. Her brother and his new wife, Alice, had been out of pocket on their wedding tour, which meant the St. James Place townhouse had been lonely and quiet… and boring, especially after the harrowing events a couple of months ago that had put both his life and his wife’s in peril.

  When Elizabeth had had no choice except to see Rafe, to be in his company…

  Well, that was neither here nor there. She needed noise and people about her for the moment. So her thoughts wouldn’t keep dwelling on him, the man she couldn’t forget, no matter how hard she tried. The man who’d come back into her life with the advent of her brother’s marriage. The man who’d torn her life apart with violence and terror.

  Because of what he was.

  “There you are!”

  The sound of Felicity’s voice yanked Elizabeth from her thoughts. She smiled at her friend, and her hand shook as she lifted it in greeting. “I promised to come, and I did,” she responded and gave the other woman a quick hug.

  Raven hair, brilliant green eyes, coupled with red cheeks and lips all worked together to make Felicity one of the most beautiful women in the room. She resembled her
older brother heavily, and she enjoyed the earl’s overprotection too much, for she flirted shamelessly knowing Coventry wouldn’t stand for any man to come too close.

  Donovan is same way with me.

  Long ago she’d accustomed herself with the knowledge, and mayhap she skirted the edge of safety because of it. Perhaps it was warranted, for there were bounders and men bent on evil throughout the ton, men who would prey on the sisters of the Lords of the Night merely for leverage, even if no one knew with any certainty the Cursed Lords of London were indeed afflicted.

  It was a strange position she found herself in because of that. Strange and fettered, for she often chafed at the lack of freedom, for Donovan was always watching, and she didn’t put it past him to follow her about while he was in wolf form.

  Drat his eyes. Now that he’d married, perhaps his diligence regarding her would slack.

  Felicity snorted and linked their arms. “You might have promised, but anyone can see you’d rather be elsewhere, and I’m here to make certain you don’t take yourself back to that empty townhouse where you’ll stew.”

  “I don’t stew,” she said with a toss of her head that set the long trail of glossy brown curls of her topknot bouncing over her shoulder. “I merely have a talent for overthinking.”

  “Oh, I won’t try to argue with you about that, but you also need to live for yourself.” A giggle emanated from the other woman as she pulled Elizabeth toward a collection of delicate, gilt-painted chairs at one side of the ballroom. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you. Is it true that your brother is happily married?”

  “Oh, yes.” A natural smile tugged at the corners of Elizabeth’s lips. “Donovan is so in love with Alice, it would be quite nauseating if it weren’t adorable and the match much hoped for.” She’d long thought her brother would never find love, but then he met Alice, and entered into a hard-won battle for her heart.