The Vampire Who Loved Me

  “We’ve managed just fine without you for all these years,” Portia choked out, cutting off her own breath by surging against the arm he had locked beneath the beguiling softness of her breasts. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to carry on.”

  Adrian took another step toward them. “Why Portia, Julian? Why would this Valentine of yours have a particular vendetta against Portia?”

  Portia went still in his arms, all of the fight draining out of her as she held her breath, awaiting his reply.

  He gentled his grip to something dangerously near to an embrace. “Because Valentine is not only slightly insane, but insanely jealous. And somewhere along the way, she may have received the mistaken impression that I…that Portia and I…that we once were…” He faltered, his usual glib eloquence deserting him.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Portia wailed, “shoot him or shoot me but please put one of us out of our misery!”

  His gaze traveling between her face and Julian’s, Adrian slowly lowered the crossbow. Portia immediately jerked herself free of his grip and stumbled to Adrian’s side. He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her into the shelter of his body.

  Cuthbert let out a loud groan and began to stir, giving Julian no choice but to hasten over and help Larkin wrest him to his feet.

  “Come now, Cubby,” Julian said gently, dusting off Cuthbert’s rumpled frock coat, “you’ve gone and knocked your poor cravat all askew.”

  The fog in his eyes clearing, Cuthbert slapped Julian’s hands away and began to back away from him, trembling with genuine horror. “Get away from me, you devil!”

  “I was going to tell you, Cubby. Truly I was. I was just waiting for the right time.”

  “And when would that have been? After you’d ripped out my throat in my sleep?”

  Julian took an involuntary step toward him, his hands clenching into helpless fists at his sides. “I never would have hurt you. You’re my friend.”

  “I can’t be friends with a fiend! I should have listened to my father. He was right about you all along. You really are the spawn of Satan!”

  With those damning words, Cuthbert wheeled around and took off down the street at a near lope, the fastest Julian had ever seen him move.

  He shifted his beseeching gaze to Portia but she simply shook her head in disgust and turned away from him, stumbling when the heel of her slipper gave out altogether. Muttering beneath her breath, she hopped up and down just long enough to divest herself of both slippers, hurled them into an alley, then marched away from them all in her stocking feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Julian called after her.

  “Home,” she said shortly. “Where I plan to accept the first proposal from the first man who can prove he still has possession of his soul. I hear the marquess of Wallingford just might be in the market for a new fiancée.”

  Julian gazed after her, swearing softly beneath his breath.

  Adrian joined him, the crossbow now pointed at the ground instead of his heart. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your touch with the ladies, little brother.”

  Fingering the fresh hole in the silk of his waistcoat, Julian shot him a dark look. “You won’t be surprised to learn that I’m even more popular with my tailor.”

  A knock sounded on Portia’s bedchamber door, polite but persistent.

  Her only response was to huddle deeper into the window seat, drawing the down-filled counterpane she’d wrapped around her shoulders up to her chin. Outside the window the first pearly blush of dawn was just beginning to blur the edges of the night.

  She heard a soft creak as the door swung open, then closed again.

  Without turning around, she said, “Have I ever told you that there are times when I wish you were a vampire so you couldn’t come into my room without being invited?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Caroline asked, crossing the room and easing herself down on the opposite end of the window seat. “Older sisters are far more powerful than vampires. Not even garlic or a crucifix will keep us away when we’re determined to meddle in your affairs.”

  She drew a monogrammed handkerchief out of the bodice of her gown and offered it to Portia. It was the same handkerchief Adrian had given Caroline at their very first meeting. Portia accepted the offering and honked loudly into it. At the moment she had no patience for such sentimental tripe.

  She dabbed at her tender nose. “Now that I’ve succeeded in bringing home the prodigal son, shouldn’t you be out killing the fatted calf? Or did he volunteer to do that himself?”

  “I don’t believe he’s had the opportunity. Adrian’s been locked in the study with him for most of the night.”

  “So that’s what all the shouting was about. I doubt there’s any plaster left on the ceiling down there.”

  Caroline reached out and patted her knee through the counterpane. “Adrian told me what happened in Charing Cross.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? Did he also tell you that while I was mooning over his brother and making an utter cake of myself, Julian was rolling around in the bed of a female vamp who makes Lucretia Borgia look like the Virgin Mary? A vamp who just happens to have his missing soul tucked away in her reticule?”

  Caroline nodded. “I believe he might have made mention of that. Larkin is coming back tonight after sunset so they can discuss what’s to be done about her.”

  “Good,” Portia said briskly. “The sooner she’s gone, the sooner Julian can return to the life he’s chosen.”

  Caroline sighed, plainly reluctant to continue. “I’m not trying to make excuses for him, pet, but when he left home to search for his soul, you were little more than a—”

  “Don’t!” Portia warned, stabbing a finger at her. “If you say ‘child,’ I’m going to throw a tantrum so loud Wilbury will have to lock me in the broom closet with the twins.”

  “Can you truly blame him for going away? What did he have to offer you but danger and heartache?”

  “What are you trying to say?” Portia fought to blink back a rush of fresh tears. “That it was noble of him to sacrifice his body on the altar of dissolution and debauchery? That he did it all for me?”

  “He knew he couldn’t change what he was. Not even for you.”

  “Ah, but there’s the rub, isn’t it, Caro? Once he found her, he could have changed what he was. For me. But he didn’t.” She shook her head, dashing a tear from her cheek. “I’ve wasted all these years believing I was the only one who could save him when he never really wanted to be saved at all.”

  Caroline gently stroked a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Perhaps he didn’t believe he was worth saving.”

  Afraid she would crumble anew beneath the weight of her sister’s sympathy, Portia drew the counterpane even more tightly around her shoulders and went back to gazing out the window. “Perhaps he was right.”

  As Caroline rose and slipped silently out of the room, Portia watched the shadows of the night steal away, taking the last of her girlhood dreams with them.

  Nine

  Portia lingered in her bedchamber until well after noon that day. She might have hidden out there indefinitely, but she didn’t want her family to think she was sulking, or worse yet, nursing a broken heart. The sun had finally crept out as well and with it not due to set for several hours, she knew she wouldn’t have to worry about running into Julian on some deserted landing. After over five years of waiting for him to come home, it was still difficult to believe that they were now residing beneath the same roof.

  She glided gracefully down the long curving staircase, one hand drifting lightly over the banister. It was pure happenstance that she’d chosen to don one of her most flattering gowns—a day dress woven from Spitalfields silk the exact rich blue shade of her eyes. Sashes had been creeping lower for nearly a decade and the deep V of her stomacher bodice only served to accentuate her slender waist and the generous swell of her not-so-slender bosoms. A delicate chemisette peeked out of her rounded neckline in a teas
ing hint of lace. She had eschewed her usual choker in favor of a scarf fashioned from white Japanese gauze, wrapping it around her throat twice so that its gossamer ends floated behind her like angel wings.

  She touched a hand to her hair. It wasn’t as if she’d instructed her maid to take excessive care with her coiffure. It had required less than thirty hairpins to coil the heavy mass on top of her head, leaving a shimmering cascade of curls to frame her face.

  She passed the gilt-framed looking glass in the entrance hall, then stopped and backed up, unable to resist tweaking a bouquet of fresh roses into her cheeks. Why shouldn’t she strive to look her best? After all, a young lady never knew when an eligible suitor might come calling.

  She was tilting her chin this way and that to admire her reflection when a cadaverous figure garbed in black livery materialized just over her left shoulder.

  “Wilbury!” she exclaimed, clapping a hand to her fluttering heart. “You simply must stop creeping up on me that way. If you didn’t have a reflection, I’d have sworn you were a vampire!”

  Although the butler’s puckered face wore its customary scowl, there was an unmistakable twinkle of glee in his rheumy eyes. “Have you heard that Master Julian has come home?”

  Portia turned around to glare at him directly. She knew that he knew that she knew very well that Julian was back in residence. Age hadn’t dulled the crusty old snoop’s eyesight, his hearing, or his wits. He probably also knew exactly what time she’d finally stopped weeping into her pillow last night and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  “I had heard a rumor to that effect,” she said primly. “Am I to assume he’s napping in the wine cellar?”

  Without uttering a single word, Wilbury lifted his arm and pointed one long, bony finger at the library door. All he needed was a scythe and a hooded cloak and he could have passed for Death himself.

  Swallowing a knot of dread, Portia gazed at the tall oak door as if it was the portal to her own crypt. She hadn’t expected to be presented with such a temptation so early in the day. But perhaps it was just as well. After all, what better way to prove to both her family and herself that she was finally free of Julian’s seductive spell?

  She smiled at Wilbury as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Perhaps I should just peek in on him and make sure he’s resting comfortably.”

  “That would be ever so considerate of you, miss.” The butler bared his yellowed teeth at her in a death rictus of a smile.

  Portia took two hesitant steps toward the door, then turned back, determined to inform Wilbury that she’d thought better of the notion and perhaps Master Julian should be left undisturbed for at least the next century or two.

  The butler was gone. He’d somehow managed to slip away without as much as a creak of his ancient bones. Puffing out a sigh, Portia turned back to the door.

  Swallowing her misgivings, she slipped into the library, easing the heavy door shut behind her. She could see why the room might be enticing to a vampire in dire need of a good day’s rest. Rich dark mahogany paneled two of the walls while the remaining two were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The room sported only a single narrow window and its opaque velvet drapes had not only been drawn, but painstakingly pinned shut—Wilbury’s doing, no doubt. It would hardly do for little Eloisa to wander in and accidentally drag them open to the sunshine, leaving nothing of her uncle but a charred spot on the crimson and gold Turkish carpet.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Portia could just make out a man’s lean form sprawled on one of the burgundy fainting couches that flanked the cold hearth. She crept closer, her heart lurching into an all too familiar rhythm.

  Julian had stripped down to shirtsleeves, trousers, and stockings. His lawn shirt hung open at the throat, revealing a teasing sprinkle of crisp dark hair. His head lolled against the couch’s scrolled arm and his long, muscular legs were stretched out in front of him. His silky dark lashes rested flush against his cheeks. Despite the unnatural stillness of his chest, he appeared to be in the deepest of slumbers.

  Portia felt her heart soften against her will. He was no longer a threat to anyone. His supernatural strength and predator’s instincts might make him nearly invincible by night, yet it was those same instincts that betrayed him with the rising of the sun, leaving him as vulnerable as a child.

  She wondered if he still dreamed. If he strolled through sunlit meadows or if the shadows of night cloaked his sleeping hours as well as his waking ones.

  Before she could stop herself, she had reached to brush back the stubborn forelock that always fell over his brow. He stirred and she snatched back her hand, appalled at how easily she had surrendered her newfound indifference. She resolutely turned her back on him, determined to leave him to his dreams, whatever they might be.

  She was halfway to the door when she heard something behind her.

  She slowly turned. Julian’s eyes were still closed, his striking face in sweet repose. But Valentine’s contemptuous voice seemed to echo through the cozy silence: How could I not know who you are, what with Julian here constantly murmuring your name in his sleep?

  Portia hesitated, knowing she would be the worst sort of fool to linger. Julian stirred again, his lips moving soundlessly. Her resistance crumbling beneath the weight of her curiosity, she tiptoed back to the couch.

  A faint smile now curved his lips. “Oh, darling,” he murmured. “Your lips are sweeter than wine. Give me another sip, won’t you?”

  Portia gasped. She should have known his dreams wouldn’t contain anything as tame as a romantic stroll through a sunlit meadow. She stole a guilty look at the door. She knew she ought to back away and slip silently from the room, but instead she found herself leaning closer to the couch so she wouldn’t risk missing a word.

  A husky chuckle escaped his lips, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. “You wicked little minx, you know it always tickles when you kiss me there.”

  She swept her speculative gaze down the length of his lean, well-muscled frame, wondering just where there might be.

  “Oh, that’s it, angel…just a little lower…lower…Ahhhhhhhh…” His sigh melted into a deep-throated groan.

  Portia’s mouth went dry. She fanned her flushed cheeks, wondering how it could be so warm in the room when the hearth was stone cold. Even worse, the heat seemed to be spreading like molten honey to her breasts and her belly.

  Julian’s voice had faded back to a murmur. Forgetting all about her lovely gown, Portia dropped to her knees and leaned over him, straining to make out his words.

  His lips were nearly touching her ear when he whispered, “My angel…my sweet…my darling…”

  She held her breath, bracing herself for the moment when he would blurt out Valentine’s name.

  “…my shamelessly inquisitive Portia.”

  She jerked back her head to find Julian gazing up at her, his dark eyes sparkling with both triumph and mischief.

  “Why, you miserable devil! You were awake the entire time, weren’t you?” Scrambling to her feet, she snatched up one of the couch’s tasseled bolsters and began to pummel him with it.

  He lifted his arms to ward off her blows, laughing aloud. “I do hope you’re not armed. Adrian loaned me this shirt and I’d hate to return it with a nasty hole over the heart.”

  “You ought to be shot for making sport of me in such an unchivalrous manner!”

  “And I suppose it’s chivalrous for a lady to eavesdrop on a gentleman, especially in his sleep?”

  As he swung his long legs over the edge of the couch and sat up, Portia realized what a fool she’d been to believe him defenseless. His faint pallor only deepened the striking hollows beneath his cheekbones and sharpened the obsidian glitter of his eyes. With his hair rumpled and a pair of roguish dimples slashing his cheeks, he looked like temptation itself, a nearly irresistible invitation to sin.

  Backing away from him, she clutched the bolster to her breast like a shield. “You weren’t sleep
ing and I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was simply…” she paused, frantically scrambling for an alibi “…searching for a book I thought I’d left on the couch.”

  “Were you under the impression that I’d swallowed it?”

  She gave him a reproachful glance. “I should have known you were mocking me. No woman with so much as an ounce of moral character would allow herself to be seduced by such hackneyed piffle. Lips sweeter than wine indeed!”

  He clapped a hand to his heart, wincing in mock pain. “You wound me, Portia. It’s one thing to shoot a man, quite another to cast aspersions upon his lovemaking skills.” To her alarm, he rose and began to pad toward her. “Are you insinuating that you wouldn’t be moved at all if I told you that your skin was as smooth and sweet as fresh cream?” He lowered his sultry gaze to her mouth. “That I couldn’t tempt you to let me steal a kiss by whispering that your lips were like plump, ripe cherries just begging to be…plucked?”

  Ignoring the treacherous tingling of those lips, she forced herself to stand her ground, even when he halted less than a foot away from her. “No, but I might develop a sudden and uncontrollable craving for fresh fruit.”

  He cupped her cheek in his hand, gently tracing the ripe curve of her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. The teasing sparkle had vanished from his eyes, leaving them curiously somber. “What about forbidden fruit? Would you find that equally enticing?”

  “Not if it were being offered to me by an unscrupulous snake.” Pulling away from his caress to hide its unsettling effect on her, she said, “If all you have to offer a woman is such overwrought drivel, then perhaps it’s just as well that you have your supernatural skills to fall back on.”

  Despite the dim light, she would have almost sworn she saw a flash of genuine hurt in his eyes. “Is that what you believe? That the only way I can hope to lure a woman into my bed these days is to work some sort of unholy enchantment upon her?”