The Vampire's Mail-Order Bride

“Every time?” his pet gasped.

“Every time,” he confirmed solemnly.

And since his pet was nothing but obedient…

Mihail, not surprisingly, found himself in fucking heaven the next day, the very moment his pet had woken up. As soon as her beautiful dark eyes fluttered open, she had flipped to her side to face him, and her first drowsy question was like manna to a starving man.

Is it too early to engage in copulation?

He had not wasted time with words and simply answered with his mouth covering hers and his cock thrusting deep into her pussy.

Afterwards, he had invited her to join him in the bath, and well…that particular activity lasted a little longer than it should. After giving his pet her second orgasm, he had been just about to pull out when she suddenly wrapped her sleek limbs around him, whispering, ‘One more time, milord?’

It was only when he had realized she would end up late for her class that the marquis had reluctantly called a halt to their activities, and in truth, the only reason he had managed to get his pet moving in time was by giving her his solemn word.

Yes, I promise, milady. I shall drop by your class as often as possible and wait to see if you are going to bite your lip for three seconds.

The mere memory of this had the marquis shifting in his seat, and the movement caused the viscountess to glance at him anxiously. “Is everything alright, milord?”

Mihail coughed. “Quite alright, milady. I apologize for the interruption.”

The meeting ended shortly after, with the viscountess fully supportive of the marquis’ lecture plan. She was not stupid, after all. It was not every day one had a powerful being such as Lord Mihail Gheorgiu as a visiting professor, and merely having his name connected to her school was in itself a conquest. She simply had to keep playing her cards right, and if that meant taking the marquis’ side over any of her students…

Needs must when the devil drives, the viscountess thought, and this couldn’t be any truer in the demon-run kingdom of Chalys.

Eleanor reached for the little silver bell on her desk, and after a few musical rattles, her steward entered her office and bowed in greeting.

“I have a task for you,” she told him briefly. “You will be richly rewarded for your subsequent discretion alone and will be given an added bonus once the task is completed.” She paused to give her steward time to digest this and then added warningly, “If word of it happens to fall on the wrong ears, however, you shall be facing the Marquis of Sangre’s wrath.”

Mr. Whyte carefully considered the matter. “It depends on the reward, milady.” The amount the viscountess named had his eyes widening. “For that amount, I would be inclined to sell my soul,” the steward admitted.

“Then you’ll be pleased to know the task is not at all onerous,” Eleanor commented. “All you must do is ensure that any correspondence addressed to one of our students, Lady Rhapsody Norwood, is first coursed through my office. There must be no exception, Mr. Whyte. Not even a single receipt from her dressmaker or even a pamphlet of the newest perfume to hit town. Nothing must slip through the cracks, or it will be both our heads on the block.”

Chapter Nine

Tuesday lessons began with Art, and this semester had all students running yards of cotton through sewing machines. The goal was to make their own shift, and albeit a fairly simple task, it still had Peyton and Emily sniping at each other like cats and dogs.

“Oh, she has quite the nerve,” Peyton fumed over lunch afterwards. “That excuse about her mother still being sick is getting old. She is making those stories up, and I can prove it.”

Rhapsody lowered her soup spoon at this. “How so?”

“Her mother is a seamstress, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why was she acting like she had never used a sewing machine before?” Peyton asked triumphantly. “She didn’t even know what a spool pin was! She thought it truly was a pin, can you imagine?”

Rhapsody’s forehead creased as she considered her friend’s words. “Maybe they only sew everything by hand…”

Peyton stubbornly shook her head. “And that, too! Have you seen the state of her hands? They are not a working girl’s hands! I am always right about these things, you know that. She’s lying for some reason,” the other girl muttered, “and sooner or later I shall find exactly what it is she’s hiding.”

Peyton’s words continued to dwell in Rhapsody’s mind as she made her way to her next class. If Peyton were right, and Emily was not a seamstress’ daughter, then what could be worse than being poor?

Perhaps…she was a nobleman’s by-blow?

If that were the case, Lady Eleanor would never have accepted her as a student, and it might also be why Emily could be rather prickly and quick-tempered at times. It was her way of discouraging people from asking too many questions, just to remain qualified as a student.