Too Brazen to Bite: Gothic Love Stories, #5

By Erica Ridley

A hidden secrets, forbidden lovers romance from a New York Times bestselling author: In this gothic castle, even a woman of science isn't immune to the charms of a wickedly handsome, dangerously sexy vampire…

 

The devilishly seductive, irresistibly rakish Mr. Macane is ravishing all the ladies of the ton—despite the fact that he is penniless, untitled—and believed to be a vampire. Hired to disprove such an absurd claim, the skeptical Miss Elspeth Ramsay does not expect to tremble in his presence—until the graze of his teeth on her neck ignites an appetite of her own, and she finds herself biting him back!  Surely this sudden bloodlust can only mean danger for her family and her heart—or a love for eternity...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erica Ridley
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393346425

Erica Ridley

Erica Ridley is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of witty, feel-good historical romance novels. When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Costa Rica, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.

Book preview

Chapter 1

October 1830

Lincolnshire, England

---

To some, the Wedgeworth soirée might appear a splendid crush of debutantes, dandies, and music, but to Miss Elspeth Ramsay—inveterate bluestocking, indifferent spinster, and, most damning of all, tradeswoman —the evening’s crush was simply her latest assignment. She’d been commissioned to enter the world of the ton.

If Ellie were a fidgeter, she might have been nervously smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the nicest of her outdated gowns. She did not fidget. If she were a coquette, perhaps she would be twining one of her wayward curls about her finger whilst simpering at the eligible bachelors. Ellie did not simper. If she were socially ambitious, she might be near to a swoon at being invited to a High Society fête by the daughter of a viscount.

She did not swoon.

Instead, Ellie stood in the farthest corner from the orchestra, surreptitiously surveying the crowd and hoping none of them would notice her in the shadows. After mentally cataloguing and discarding each of the revelers as harmless, she turned to her benefactress with a raised brow.

Well? she said, impatient to calm her client’s irrational fears and escape the oppressive splendor of the ball. Where is he?

Rather than being affronted by this impertinence, Miss Lydia Breckenridge beamed with self-satisfaction. He has not yet arrived. Miss Breckenridge nearly bounced on her satin-slippered feet. I knew you’d be able to discern human from inhuman upon sight, you being an authority on the paranormal—

I am no such thing! Ellie was unable to bear this speech with continued calm. I am a woman of science, Miss Breckenridge. If anything, I am a ‘professional skeptic.’ To date, every such claim I’ve investigated has been quickly proven false, and I don’t doubt this one shall unfold in the same way. As much as she and her mother desperately needed the coin, Ellie couldn’t help but give a slight shake of her head. Vampires, indeed.

But don’t you see? Miss Breckenridge insisted, eyes shining. "That’s what makes your involvement perfect. When even you are forced to admit true evil walks amongst us, the rest will be obliged to take heed."

And do what? Ellie asked sensibly. Drive a stake through his waistcoat?

What a horrid image. Miss Breckenridge’s brow creased. To be honest, I had not thought so far in advance.

Ellie forbore mentioning she doubted her client had thought over any portion of her preposterous belief. Rudeness was never warranted, and besides, she planned to earn the promised ten-pound note. At what point did you first suspect the new earl in town to be a vampire?

No, no, gasped Miss Breckenridge. You’ve got it all wrong.

Ellie blinked. He’s not a vampire?

"He’s not a lord. Miss Breckenridge sniffed. Despite his sobriquet. He’s a younger son of a family in the Scottish Highlands, distantly related to the head of some forgotten medieval clan. He’s no member of the peerage whatsoever. How could he be, if he’s an undead immortal?"

How indeed, Ellie said faintly. How, then, did he cut such a swath?

For a moment, Miss Breckenridge’s eyes turned dreamy. Mártainn Macane may be penniless and a cursed bloodsucker, but he’s devilishly handsome.

Penniless! Ellie exclaimed, forming a much sharper impression of her quarry. His motive might not be much different than hers, but his method stood in stark relief. She had never feigned bloodlust for gain. I deduce he puts himself forward in order to take advantage of innocent debutantes.

Miss Breckenridge gestured at the swirling crowd. No need for such actions, when young and old alike throw themselves and their purses in his path at every opportunity.

Ellie’s lip curled. I presume a ‘gentleman’ cannot be expected to resist such temptations. Are the women aware of his... nature?

Aware? He’s nigh irresistible, Miss Breckenridge confessed in a whisper. Undoubtedly part of his dark magic. The competition to be the devil’s chosen has eclipsed the judgment of every otherwise sensible woman who finds herself caught in his gaze.

Ellie’s client clearly thought herself the heroine of a gothic novel. Either the higher the social rank, the lower the intelligence, or this Mr. Macane was an extremely skillful magician indeed. She’d bet he was nothing more than a two-bit actor who had changed his venue from the streets to soirées. How can he be such a successful villain?

How? Miss Breckenridge blushed prettily. Because he’s bad in a very, very good way. They’ve gone so far as to dub him Lord Lovenip. My brothers tell me the betting books overflow with wagers as to which female he shall claim next. Her eyes widened in horror. Oh, I do hope you yourself do not fall prey to his wicked charms!

Oh, for the love of— Ellie coughed daintily into her fist. Money earned for a fool’s errand was still money earned. She’d be wise not to let her mouth get in the way of the Breckenridge coffers. Have no fear on that front, Miss Breckenridge. I have yet to find the man capable of turning my head.

Her benefactress cast a discerning eye at Ellie’s drooping curls and woefully out-of-fashion gown, managing to convey without a single word that Ellie’s spinsterhood was far more likely due to Ellie’s own inability to turn heads, rather than to any fault inherent in the eligible gentlemen.

Be that as it may, Ellie’s distinct lack of position in Society afforded her the perfect disguise: insignificant wallflower. Unlike third-daughter-of-a-viscount Miss Breckenridge, Ellie had the ability to stay both in sight and unnoticed at gatherings such as this. Granted, this was the first time she’d been commissioned to investigate a vampiric Scotsman, but she held complete confidence that she would definitively refute such nonsense in short order.

Her spine straightened as a wave of whispers rippled through the ballroom like froth chasing the tide. An unnatural hush immediately followed.

Although the orchestra kept playing, the music now had a tinny, street-corner quality, as if the melody were being strained through a battered ear horn. The dancers did not falter, but their steps became disjointed and mechanical, as if they were marionettes painted to resemble aristocracy, rather than the pleasure-seeking lords and ladies they’d been just moments ago.

Ellie’s senses became overwhelmingly acute. Miss Breckenridge’s breathing seemed to echo about the chamber, her perfume suddenly noxious. Ellie’s pulse thundered with such force, she fancied she felt the heat of her blood coursing recklessly through her veins. For the first time in her life, she had the inexplicable desire to flee the premises whilst her heart still beat.

Then there he was.

A leather thong tied thick chestnut hair at the nape of his neck. Seventeen stone of solid muscle sculpted effortlessly into ebony breeches and bone-white muslin. His skin was just as pale, yet managed to convey the strength of marble rather than the fragility of fine china. Impossibly bright sea-green eyes gazed knowingly from beneath dark lashes. Blunt cheekbones accentuated a wide, firm mouth set in a smirk above a strong jaw.

He was too big, too pale, too predatory.

He should not have been beautiful, but he was.

The music bobbled in his wake, losing its rhythm, then tumbled forth at twice the tempo. The sharp-edged lords and ladies loosened their joints until they too were fluid and swirling about the ballroom once again. Widows and debutantes alike spun in and out of his path, inventing steps where there should be none, dipping to expose both cleavage and bared necks, twirling ever closer even when the music ceased.

A giddy countess lost her equilibrium when she could not keep her eyes from him. Without facing in her direction, the alleged vampire righted the countess with a mere touch of his palm against the small of her back. She fainted into her husband’s arms.

The remaining ladies were too entranced by Mártainn Macane to take notice.

Ellie swallowed hard.

Lord Lovenip, indeed. For there could be no other man capable of stirring a stately crowd into such a frenzy with nothing more than a moment of his presence.

With what was surely superhuman strength, Ellie cut her gaze from the man sucking all the air out of the previously well-ventilated ballroom and forced her eyes to her benefactress.

The act of severing the inexplicable connection to the rakish Highlander made Ellie think the unreality of the moment had been entirely in her mind. Once the arresting Scotsman no longer filled her vision, the rest of her senses shifted back to normal. Her pulse no longer clogged her ears, her blood no longer simmered beneath her flesh, and Miss Breckenridge was no longer breathing like—

All right, yes. Miss Breckenridge was still breathing like a broodmare in labor. If her bosoms heaved any more vehemently, they’d fling themselves right out of their fashionably low bodice. Ellie uncurled fingers she didn’t recall clenching and pressed a trembling hand to her own bosom to assure herself she was in no danger of exposing any womanly curves.

None of the other ladies seemed afflicted with such spinsterish sensibilities.

He could have his pick of anyone in the room, Ellie realized with a start. Could and, most likely, did. Young, old, married, widowed—they were all shamelessly, shockingly available if he but wished it.

The well-favored Scot seemed indifferent to the tiny dramas of gentlemen clinging desperately to their negligent wives and turned instead to the buffet of virginal misses fairly leaping from their duennas’ custody and into his arms.

The steps of country-dances led him to one, then another, then yet another, leaving them all flushed and breathless and smitten, panting and clawing for the chance to tumble into his embrace once again, as if addicted to his scent.

It was horrifying and appalling and... more than a little exciting.

Every time he chose a pastel angel from the adoring crowd, Ellie’s flesh tingled as if it had been her hand he had touched. Every time he spun an enraptured young miss out of his arms for a beat or two, Ellie felt the loss of contact down to her bones.

It was as if she could feel what they felt, both the delicious sense of vulnerability as one wide-eyed innocent after another let herself be trapped in his arms, as well as the darker thrill of possession, of mastery, of control over everyone who fell within his line of vision.

Although, as expected, Ellie had seen no signs whatsoever of the handsome