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Fitting the key into the lock, he opened the door as quietly as possible. Relief filled him at the sight of her still form on the bed and the sound of her even breathing. He hadn’t the patience to hear more questions for which he did not have answers.

A pang of guilt struck him as he approached the bed, noting that she’d only managed to unfasten a few of the tiny buttons on the back of her gown. Doubtless she was uncomfortable sleeping in such a garment. She would need a lady’s maid to help her with such things…and more clothing, for that matter. Tomorrow they would have to go to her home and fetch her things before someone noted her disappearance. Yet another complication.

Rafe clenched his teeth as he stood over Lady Rosslyn, taking in her tumble of fiery auburn curls, her fine-boned features, the sweep of her lashes, the curve of her lips. Reaching out a shaky hand, he brushed his fingers across that silken mass of hair with a whisper of a touch.

He snatched back his hand with an inner curse. She was too fine to be handled by the likes of him. However, this business had to be done. Raising his index finger to his mouth, he pierced the digit with a fang, watching his blood bead up from the wound. Never in centuries had he imagined performing such an act.

Carefully, Rafe held his finger above Lady Rosslyn’s parted lips, allowing his magical blood to drip into her mouth.

In as low a voice as possible, he recited the words that would bind her to him for the rest of her life. “I, Rafael Villar, interim Lord of London, Mark this mortal, Cassandra Burton, as mine and mine alone. With this Mark I give Cassandra my undying protection. Let all others, immortal and mortal alike, who cross her path sense my Mark and know that to act against her is to act against myself and thus set forth my wrath, as I will avenge what is mine.”

The Mark sang between them with such dark harmony that Rafe stumbled back. Cassandra moaned and her eyes fluttered open.

“What…?” she moaned sleepily.

His breath caught with desire. With her tousled hair and slumberous gaze, she looked like a well-bedded woman. Rafe shook his head. Such thoughts were dangerous.

“Nothing.” He struggled to sound gentle. “Go back to sleep, Countess.”

She murmured something unintelligible and rolled over, groaning in discomfort at her constricting gown. How he wished he could relieve her of it. Instead he headed back to the door and sprawled next to the heavy oak barrier to await the dawn. There would be no sleep for him this day.

Three

29 September 1823

William glanced about furtively as he knocked on Clayton Edmondson’s town-house door. Clayton, Rafael Villar’s second-in-command, answered the door himself. The older vampire seized William by the shoulders and yanked him inside.

“Is it true?” Clayton demanded, eyes glowing with fury.

William nodded, fists clenched in outrage. “You do not know the half of it. She’s a goddamned countess…and Villar seems intent on treating her as such. He made me dust the main floor as if I were a common parlor maid!”

Clayton rubbed his jaw. “That does not sound as if he is keen on killing her.”

“Well, he can’t Change her. I overheard him telling Anthony.”

“What?” the other vampire growled. “Then he should have killed her right away.”

William leaned back and crossed his arms. “He claims he will wait until the Elders answer his report, but I think he is stalling for time to find an excuse to keep her. She is quite the fancy piece, after all.”

“So he is as big a fool as his predecessor,” Clayton mused. “Well, I think it is time to embark on the plan we’d discussed. Find those who you believe would be receptive and tell them to meet at the abandoned warehouse on the wharf Thursday at midnight.”

William arched a brow. “What of my payment?”

Clayton sighed and strode to a cabinet, pulling out a small wooden box. The cloying odor of opium filled the room as he handed William a small cloth-wrapped parcel.

“This is less than last time.”

Fangs bared, Clayton’s snarl made the younger vampire cringe. “If you expect to become my second, you will have to wean yourself off this vile substance by the time I become Lord of this city.”

* * *

Cassandra thrashed in the bed, biting back a cry as memories haunted her dreams with such vivid clarity that it was like reliving them all over again.

Her mother’s face, contorted in pain as she struggled to sing a lullaby…the doctor’s helpless shrug…solemn footmen carrying Mother’s shrouded corpse out of the house…

Papa staring out the window, cold and silent as the statues in the garden…a bottle of port slipping from limp fingers to shatter on the floor…ruby droplets gleaming like blood… There had been no blood when he died a year later. He had simply clutched his chest, muttered a curse, and collapsed…quickly, with no warning. If only Cassandra had known. Perhaps she could have fixed him.

Trembling, Cassandra’s hand is placed in the grip of the Earl of Rosslyn as the parson drones on. No! I don’t love him! I don’t want to be a countess. I want to be a doctor!