Chapter Three

A nthony had not planned to attend Lady Renfield's salon. He abjured the intellectual evenings of new music and art and witty repartee. The skill of his tongue had never lain in conversation, but in the bedroom, and his appreciation of art was limited to the various proportions of the female form. However, he penned a hasty acceptance letter to Lady Renfield, countering his earlier polite refusal with profuse apologies.

Though he arrived at the salon late enough to miss the first musical sojourn and just in time for dinner, his Amazon, as Darling had aptly named her, was not in attendance. He concealed his disappointment with a few glasses of port after the meal, and forced himself to stay through the rest of the evening. Lady Renfield was a doting hostess, introducing him to every intellectual gentleman in the room, marveling that Viscount Stirling himself, scion of the ancient and noble Huntington line, had deigned to attend his first Bath salon at her house. He endured a few good natured jabs from the beau monde in attendance about giving up his hedonistic life in the pursuit of art, and returned home ill-tempered and slightly sloshed, releasing his frustration on his valet as the poor man helped him undress. Sleep came as an unwelcome and cold bedfellow, and he wished as he drifted into dreams that he'd ordered his carriage driver to take him to a brothel instead of his own lonely house.

A breeze from the library's open bay windows swept through the room, relieving some of the stale odor. Fresh air. He set his wine glass on a table and moved to the balcony to clear his head. He stood in the doorway a moment, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the night sky, before he noticed that he was not alone. At the far end of the balcony, a statue stood: pale and cold marble in the moonlight. A thin Grecian dress trembled against the stone in the nocturnal draft, and he watched as it clung to the pert breasts, round buttocks, long poised legs. He reached out, caressed the figure's arm, traced the finely carved strands of hair flowing languidly down its back. He kissed the hard neck, cupped the unforgiving breasts. The statue stirred, tendrils of warmth and plush skin weaving their way across its surface. It turned to him, its engraved eyes whispering possessive intent into his soul. He kissed it, the stone mouth warming under his lips. It kissed back, catching his lower lip between its granite flavored teeth and biting down. He tasted blood --

The pain woke Anthony with a start. Morning's light was barely stealing through the bed curtains. He gingerly touched his mouth where his own teeth had closed over his lip, reopening the small wounds his mysterious lady had given him on the library balcony. Wincing, he rang the servants' bell and ordered his butler to bring him a cold compress.