Vampyre | Book I of Bloodlines

LORD WILLIAM SPENCER

Viola

As I drive through the gates leading up to the Emerson Manor, the road gets bumpier, and I can't help but feel a little naked under this new dress, which I guess is technically true.

I don't know how French women do it—even with my little breasts bouncing, I feel my nipples tickling against the blue silk fabric, a new sensation altogether I'm rather starting to enjoy. I even intentionally go over a few bumps for a good tickle and have a good laugh at myself. If someone were to see me, I think they would assume me to be insane. I'm definitely going to end up in an asylum.

My father isn't thrilled about me driving myself to events like this at night. However, the thought of leaving Harold, our 60-year-old chauffeur, alone outside while I'm inside having a "good time" is not acceptable. I received an earful from my father about it, and I'm certain Polly will give me a lecture once she finds out—and she will find out—she has eyes and ears everywhere. Already, people are pointing at me as I park my car among the few others already in the drive.

"Head high, cherie," Sophie's voice echoes in my mind as I step out of the car and do as she says.

"Head high," I whisper to myself as I walk towards the bustling manor.

I hear the whispers and see the side glances almost immediately as I walk into the grand hall and through to the ballroom. Honestly, it was a curious feeling to be the center of attention for different reasons than just being somewhat boyish. I'm sure this dress Sophie found will be the talk on everyone's lips tomorrow morning at breakfast. It's tempting to skip and bounce around to see the old ladies gasp, but I restrain myself—I need to consider my father's reputation. He means everything to me right now, and I wouldn't want to burden his already overflowing plate with my tomfoolery.

Even in a packed ballroom amid the loud music and the sound of people talking and dancing, it doesn't take me long to spot Laura fawning over the new man of the hour. He looms over the unattached ladies standing around him—the words "meat market" come to mind, and I can't help but laugh a little too loudly.

Lord William Spencer is the tallest and broadest man in the room, with slightly longish blond hair pulled into a ponytail. He has somewhat of a feminine edge to his chiseled features, making him look almost ethereal, reminiscent of characters from the fantasy novels I've read about elves, goblins, and wisps. From this distance, I can't tell what color his eyes are, but I'm sure whatever their color, if I were to look into them, I'd fall in and drown just like the rest of these girls.

It's the same story every time. Rumors start circulating and spread like wildfire among the single ladies, filling them with excitement and triggering daydreams. I'll admit, I've indulged in these fantasies too—we're all susceptible. But I'd sooner be trampled by a horse than act on these impulses and shamelessly embarrass myself in public the way they do.

I imagine we all share the same daydream—the one where the most eligible bachelor of the hour glances our way and instantly falls for us; it's unclear what makes us special in his eyes, but he would do anything for us. For the other women, I suspect they daydream of dancing all night till their feet ache. Since I'm a clumsy dancer, my fantasy is a little different and too raunchy—most likely inspired by those inappropriate books I hide in my room. This fantasy I keep to myself.

The new meat seems like a polite enough fellow, if not a little snobby. That's the "Lord" part in him. The longer I watch him, the more I know his problem—he's too handsome to be real, and the women around him don't know how to deal with it—they're affected, and their common sense seems to have left them. Laura's shrill laugh grates on my nerves more than usual as she strokes his ego by laughing at whatever nonsensical thing no doubt came out of his mouth.