Chapter 5

William

The banquet was drawing to a close.

The butler stepped to my side and, once again, silently removed the plate of human food before me—untouched, not a single bite taken.

I sat at the head of the table, watching with cold eyes the nephew upon whom so much had been staked.

Edward was sprawled across the long table, an empty wine glass clutched in his hand, strands of golden hair plastered messily against his forehead as he mumbled something unintelligible. The heir to the Spencer family, now looking like some vagrant who'd gambled away his last penny in a tavern.

Displeasure rose in my chest once more.

I had seen far too many young men ruin themselves at the gambling table, in lies, beneath a woman's skirts. Yet in four hundred years, not one heir of the Spencer line had ever strayed from the proper path for long—not under my watch.

The foolish behavior of a human male in the grip of his rut would not normally have troubled me. But a few hours earlier, standing outside that door and hearing the country girl beneath Edward let out those sweet, wanton gasps, a crack had appeared in my composure.

It was an unfamiliar sensation—like a flame searing inside my chest.

With my mind alone I had brought the stag's head down from the wall, a warning to Edward: Merton Manor was not some rural haystack for him to rut in, and he was not to drown himself in base appetite. But he had clearly taken none of it to heart, still daring to openly contradict me over what I called that girl.

What magic did she possess, that my ever-obedient nephew had learned to defy me?

"Take him back to his room."

I rose, issuing the order to the servants behind me. I had no wish to let Edward disgrace himself here any longer.

Then I loosened my cravat and walked straight out of that stifling dining room.

The clamor faded behind me, and the night settled once more into silence. I slowed my pace, trying to quiet the restlessness stirring within me.

It was then that a maid, her face flushed with panic, came hurrying toward me, head bowed—and collided with my shoulder. When she saw who it was, her voice trembled with fear. "My Lord, forgive me… Miss Anne has gone missing. I've searched everywhere and cannot find her."

She stammered on for some time before I gathered that she had failed to escort the country girl to her room—a blatant slight to a guest visiting for the first time. It seemed these servants were long overdue for a reckoning.

But at that moment I felt no anger. Instead, that irritable mood of mine seemed to find an outlet.

"You may go. I'll handle it."

The maid, as though granted a pardon, vanished down the far end of the corridor.

I stood alone in the middle of the empty hall, closed my eyes, and let my senses unfurl completely.

I had no need to search blindly. The scent of sun-warmed grass on her skin was a map she could not hide. It cut through the manor's cold, dim air—thick with the odor of age—and drew me onward, past the guest rooms of the east wing, through the long gallery lined with portraits of my ancestors.

At last I stopped before the one place in this manor that was absolutely forbidden.

My bedchamber.

I pushed open the wooden door carved with its golden lion. Firelight from the hearth washed the room in a dim amber glow. And there, upon my broad four-poster bed, lay the missing country girl.

She had shed that cumbersome outer dress, wearing only a thin silk shift, sleeping amid my dark velvet bedding like a lost lamb. I stood at the bedside and looked down at her. The firelight flickered across her defenseless face, her lashes casting fragile shadows beneath her eyes. Her vibrant, living presence had brazenly invaded the private space I had kept in solitude for centuries.

Slowly, I sat down on the edge of the bed.

My cold fingers reached out, beyond my control, and pressed against the warmth of her neck. Beneath my fingertips, her artery pulsed strong and steady. In the instant of that touch, the scent of blood pierced through the barrier of her skin and struck straight through my reason.

It had been far too long since I had willingly fed on human blood.

I had always believed that, as one of the first vampires, I possessed absolute self-control. I had no need to tear at a human's throat like those lesser creatures of our kind. Mastering that primal hunger let me feel I still retained something of my human nature—that I remained a gentleman in command of everything.

But now the depths of my gums began to itch, and my sharpened fangs clamored madly to break through that thin layer of skin. Four hundred years of restraint proved fragile as glass before her beating pulse.

I bent down, my cheek drawing close to the hollow of her throat.

She did not shrink away. On the contrary, my body's temperature—far below that of any living person—seemed to bring her comfort, and she nestled into my palm. That utterly defenseless intimacy shattered my last line of defense.

I lowered my head and pressed my lips to her pulsing artery.

Soft. Scalding.

If my fangs pierced even a single millimeter, that incomparable sweetness would flood my mouth.

And just as primal desire was about to devour the last of my reason—

"Stop it, Edward."

Eyes closed, she let a coy little murmur slip from her lips.

It stabbed savagely through my ears, and my feverish appetite froze in an instant. I jerked upright, my fangs retracting at once, replaced by a wave of anger that surged like a rising tide.

Edward.

In my bed, beneath my touch, she was calling my nephew's name.

I stared at her still-sleeping face, the fury in my chest all but boiling over. What was I doing? Had I truly lost control over a mere country girl?

I straightened my somewhat disheveled cuffs and told myself coldly: she was nothing but an uncultured commoner. I was not Edward; I did not share his low, cheap tastes. I had simply gone too long without feeding, and instinct had led me astray, that was all.

The motion of my rising stirred a cold draft, and the sudden drop in temperature woke her. Her lashes fluttered, and her emerald-green eyes slowly opened. When her gaze focused, taking in the dim furnishings around her and finally settling on my face, what little drowsiness remained was torn apart by sheer terror.

"Uncle William—no, Lord Duke."

Instinctively she recoiled, scrambling on hands and feet to flee. In her panic, her ankle caught on the tasseled edge of the coverlet; she lost her balance entirely and tumbled straight off the side of the bed.

By instinct, in the second before her head struck the floor, I reached out and caught the nape of her neck, steadying her. Then, feigning that I had misjudged my strength, I drew her into my arms.

Her heart was pounding at an incredible speed, her cheeks flushed crimson with alarm and shame, her emerald eyes brimming with helplessness. I gazed at that wonderfully vivid face, and suddenly found that my anger had vanished.

Perhaps I had played the perfect mentor for far too long in this tedious world.

And now an exceedingly amusing—and exceedingly foolish—quarry had wandered straight into my territory.

As a predator standing at the very top of the food chain, could I truly let her go so easily? Or feel nothing for her at all?