A sudden movement below in the garden caught Asher's attention. His bride was playing fetch-the-stick with her ugly mutt and his butler's grandson, Dickey. He could see Spot jump after the stick. He could see Jane jump, her lush breasts bouncing. He could see Dick jump. He could feel dick jump.
"Bloody hell!" It was considerably declasse for a vampire to lust after his wife, he admitted reluctantly, adjusting the bulge in his pants. It was even worse for said wife to be a Van Helsing. She wasn't even a diamond of the first water. In fact, his wife couldn't even be called a carat. She had freckles, for heaven's sake!
Asher shook his head. He liked his women pale,. whiter than himself if he could find them that way. Yet there was something about Jane, some indomitable spirit that resided in her eyes and soul. Some mystery lurked around the corner to be solved. He had to admit that she looked quite fine standing below in his garden, as if she hadn't a care in the world.
Why should she care that she hasn't seen you in four nights? Asher thought sardonically. He certainly hadn't cared to see her. He had thought distance would clear his head, would lessen his desire. Instead, his longing for her had grown to a fierce need, an aching need, which was utterly despicable. "Lusting for a Van Helsing!" he snorted.
He scowled. He had a right to be angry about this forced marriage. He didn't want to solve anything about Jane. No, in fact, he didn't even want to have dinner with her tonight. He had been avoiding her, Jetting his anger ease gradually as he returned to his old haunts, feasting on sensual delights.
Just last night he had gorged himself on a five-course meal at the Birds of Paradise Club. The club was an exclusive brothel catering to the more exotic, perfect for the hedonistic supernatural predator. It was an exciting place where gentlemen both mortal and otherworldly could find plucky whores of their choice, dressed in feathers and plumes, like sitting ducks in a row—or laying ducks in a row, as the case might be. Asher had sampled a tasty black-haired warbler, a delicious brunette partridge, a delightfully redheaded wagtail, a plump feather-headed goose and a silvery-blond soiled dove.
Yes, he had filled their bodies with his hunting cock and sipped the full-bodied blend of their blood. It had been a night to remember, to reminisce about at the Dead Poets' Society: an exclusive vampire haunt where the more literate and clever of his kind met in secret, as gentlemen are wont to do. At the Dead Poets' Society vampires discussed all subjects of the night, placed bets, conversed about upcoming events, discovered who was biting whom, played cards and discussed, naturally, all the supernatural gossip of the ton.
Yet, the past two times he'd gone to his club, he'd been silently quoting Coleridge: "7 feel 'as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.'"
This melancholy feeling had only deepened today, causing Asher some concern. He was growing older. He had seen too many sunsets to count. He had felt too many dawns dragging him down to deathlike sleep. He had seen a score of kings come and go. He had been friends with a few, and disposed of a few others. Ennui was dogging his heels.
Changes. Many changes had come and gone, places and people, as the centuries crept past. Inventions, like Babbage's analytical machine, and Fulton's harnessing the power of steam. Art had become more dreamlike in quality, while music became more uplifting. Everything moved toward the future, even the changing seasons. He had loved so many women that they all ran together in a formless image of red lips, slender necks and white thighs. As of late, his pleasure was harder to seek, and boredom was his ever-present enemy perched upon his shoulder.
Lately there had been a small but insistent voice in the back of his mind calling Jane's name. Asher knew he owed his unwanted wife little to nothing, certainly not his loyalty or fidelity. Yet, he had made that solemn vow in church to love and protect her. In the three-hundred-plus years of his life, he had only broken two vows. Both had been life-and-death situations.
Cocking his head, he studied Jane closely as she walked about the garden, her misbegotten mutt following her. She was certainly no beauty in the eyes of the ton, yet she drew him in a way he could not dismiss.
Despite the marital vow he had sworn, last night's feast of flesh and blood at the brothel had been solely to get back at his wife, and to help expunge his anger. Still, her face remained firmly lodged in his head. Suddenly every sodden jacket, freckle and sight of a swan gracefully gliding across the lake in Hyde Park reminded him of Jane. It was strangely sweet, yet disconcerting, how thoughts of his wife clung to him like twining vines of honeysuckle.
"I will not feel guilty. I will carouse at all hours of the night and sleep with whom I wish. Bite as many beautiful women as I wish," he told himself angrily. He was a male vampire in his prime, and he had every reason to seek his lusty diversions. He was the master of the undead of London. Other males, both dead and alive, envied him, and all manner and species of female threw themselves at him. No one could tell him what to do with his life. Certainly not a back-stabbing Van Helsing. It had been that way for centuries. So why was he feeling so downcast tonight?
Intrigued in spite of himself, Asher observed as his wife approached that enormous freak of her big bird. He arched a brow as the avian lowered its huge head to be petted. His wife stretched up on her tiptoes to carry on a conversation with it, unaware that she was being observed. It was true: She wasn't much of a vampire hunter if she couldn't feel his hungry eyes upon her.
She spoke confidently, in a tone too low for even Asher to hear, gabbing away at the bird. The big ugly beast lowered its head again, and Jane placed a kiss on its fuzzy head. The ostrich shoved her lightly, and Asher could hear Jane's laughter ring out. She had a marvelous laugh, he admitted. His breeches tightened further.
"Damnation!" he snarled to his empty bedroom. Jane was an albatross around his neck. Just because she was intelligent and witty was no reason to want to bed the wench. Lusting after her was insane! But she did have the most incredible breasts. And her eyes were fascinating, not to mention the silken waterfall of her long burnished brown hair. And her neck was to die for.
The image of Jane brushing her hair, and how Asher wanted to see it spread all around his bride as he spent himself inside her, stiffened his erection further.
"Bloody bride! Bloody breasts! Bloody hell!" he cursed. Pie had awakened hard in his coffin, wanting to sink his fangs into Jane's neck and his arousal into her virgin body. Yes, he had been having wet dreams about his wife, fool that he was. He wanted to take her and she wanted to stake him. No matter Jane's sweet words of loyalty, nor Clair and Huntsley's assurances, Asher couldn't trust Jane any further than he could throw her.
Well, much less than that, as he could probably throw the short mortal pretty far.
Frustrated, he cursed a red streak for several moments, venting his spleen. He apparently had a voracious hunger for his bride, yet she was oblivious to the pain he was in, walking stiffly and having trouble sitting down comfortably with the bulge in his breeches. What a breach! A good wife would show concern for her husband's pants. In his fit of pique, he didn't reason that he hadn't seen Jane recently for her to help.
Instead he grieved for Clair. For Clair, he would have been willing to be married for eternity… eventually.
" 'Alone, alone. All, all alone, alone on a wide wide sea.'" Asher quoted Coleridge. He had been solo so long, sitting in the silence of his crypt. He had no one to share laughter or jests with, to discuss the gossip of the ton. He had no one to share his coffin or to pledge his scarred and bleeding heart to. He had few close friends, only acquaintances, and only one or two loves.