"I can see that, my lord.  I would have a word with you."

Two black, piercing eyes rose above the top of the volume he was reading. They narrowed as he peered at me.  "What word?"  The Victorian library on the estate echoed the sound of his deep voice.

"Well, I—"

"Oh, naturally!" Lord Byron exclaimed, throwing the book down on the floor. "When would a woman only have ONE word to offer anyone?  One word, in a woman's case is naturally followed by another, and yet another, and—"

"Lord Byron, it would seem as though you have more words than manners, yourself!"  I was angry again.  This was all I needed now.

He smiled wryly at me.  He has damnably handsome, that one.  Dark curls framing his chiseled face gave him such a devilish appearance.  Devilishly handsome.  I still hated him.

"Perhaps you are incapable of helping me."  I turned to walk out of the study.

"My dear."  His voice was so tender behind me I stopped in my tracks.  Lord Byron always did respond to those in need.  Perhaps because it confirmed that to him he was, indeed, superior after all.

"Come sit by the fire.  I didn't realize you were so . . . distressed."  I turned and went to him again and sat down by the ottoman in front of him, by the fire.  I gazed at the bright flames, wishing I could disappear into the blaze.  I felt myself relaxing already.  The dancing of the sparks helped set my mind at ease.  Fire could always do that to me.

"You're troubled, Morgan," he said.  I turned to look into his face, and his dark eyes were reflecting the fire.  At least they seemed to be.

"Oh, Albe," I sighed, using his nickname.  "It's Thomas.  He's such an ass."

Albe patted my hair, and I let my head fall into his lap.  At times he could be so comforting.  If he wished to be.

"If I have heard you correctly over the last few months, I would have assumed that all men were thus ass-essed."

I smiled as he played with my hair.  "You assumed correctly, my lord."

"Would I, as well, fall into that lowly category?"

"You are a man, are you not?"

"So some say.  Then others . . . others assume I have no father, and that my mother was raped by Satan himself."

I jerked my head from him.  "Albe!  You mustn't say such things!"  He enjoyed his reputation immensely.  He was such an ass.

"Oh, but you know me better, don't you, love?"

I turned to face him fully from my seat by the fire.  "Why is it, whenever I come to you for assistance, the conversation gets turned to you and your Grand Self?  Quite possibly, my lord, there are other things and other beings in the world besides you.  Quite possibly things and beings more important, as well."

Lord Byron flung his arms wide.  "Oh, my dear!  Never, in all of future history, will there be anyone as important as I!  Or even half as interesting!  I refuse to believe otherwise!"

I turned to look at the fire once again.  It was a waste of time to come here.  Verbal battle was all I ever got from this man.  Never comfort or solace.  He was an insensitive monster.  So why did I always return to him? For a flicker of a moment, I felt as much hatred for Lord Byron as I felt love for Thomas.

"As scandalous and heartwarming as your poetry may be, my lord, I chance it to say at least that will not survive you!  The world will tire of your incessant self-praise!"  I suddenly felt my head jerk back as he grabbed hold of my hair.  I stifled a scream as I stared up into maddeningly black and angry eyes.  He was standing over me with a glare that would cower a she-wolf.

"Don't ever speak down to me, my lady," he hissed.  "There is nothing I detest more than a woman who deludes herself that she can best me."  So, he had discovered my own poetic attempts, had he then?  Apparently, by having gone through my desk.  I had been sure no one would look there, being mostly full of womanly things, perfumes, jewelry, combs, my grandmother's mirror, a dried rose that Thomas had given me—I thought it a good place to hide such an unwomanly pursuit as my poetry.

So, he felt uneasy, he did.  I yanked my head away from him, pushed him over into the chair (not hard, considering his infirmity) and stood up tall and as regal as I could.  He looked so surprised!

"What I write, or do not, is of no consequence to you, nor is it of consequence to me what you think of it.  Or what you think of me, for that matter!"  I was livid.

Albe sighed as the anger died down in him.  He was one of many passions, many moods.  And his face, as I looked down upon him, became one of a little boy.  He looked up at me, pleading me with his eyes to understand the conflicts raging within him.  Then it was gone again, and his face showed only the incomparable Lord Byron.  Stone cold, with eyes of fire.  The eyes of a maniac.

"Albe," I said gently. "Have you been feeling well?  Has the fever returned?"

He waived my concern away with his hand.  "Oh, dash the fever.  It is nothing a little brandy won't cure.  Here, love, let's stop the squabbling and get down to business."

At that moment, Dr. Polidori came in through the parlor door.  I hadn't heard him come up the old steps in the hall; he must have been standing outside the door for quite some time.  Perhaps listening to our discussion. His jealously of Albe and me was strange and somehow utterly deplorable. The man was disgusting.  I had hated him from the moment I first laid eyes on him, and I was sure it was mutual.

"Ah, Poli!  Pour us a drink, would you?  We were just having the most lovely discussion on the origins of mankind.  Care to join us?"  The doctor sneered at me, but walked over to the decanter by the bookcase.

"I care not to join your . . . discussion . . . my Lord.  I believe I will be retiring for the evening."  Polidori poured two drinks for us, handed them to us, and walked slowly (or, more like, slithered) out the door. "Good evening," he said, as he shut the door behind him.

I could hardly suppress a shudder.

"The good doctor disgusts you, does he not?"  Lord Byron inquired of me.

"The 'good doctor' is disgusting, my lord."

"Ah, well.  You are having trouble with Thomas?"

I took a sip of the brandy, which I could feel begin its warming descent through my body.  I sighed the remaining tension from my muscles.

"It's just that . . . I'm so worried about him.  He's losing his mind."

"He's still playing around with laudanum, I take it."

"Yes.  He seems to have forgotten our love for each other.  He seems to have forgotten how much I love him.  When I do see him, his eyes are glazed and all he can say is, 'I'm sorry, Morgan.' He knows it hurts me terribly to see him so, but I know he hasn't found the strength to stop."

"The man is an escape artist," Albe commented, taking a sip of his brandy.

I hung my head.  I did not know what I expected Albe might have done.  If my love for Thomas had not stopped his addiction, then certainly there was nothing Albe could do, no matter how much Thomas looked up to him.  "I suppose," I said quietly, "that if he doesn't stop soon it will kill him.  I know that I will not stay around to watch it happen."

"And where would you go?"

"I don't know.  I just can't watch him kill himself anymore."

"I suppose you've told him of your thoughts in this regard?"

"Oh, I've threatened and pleaded and cried, but to no avail.  He has a wall I cannot break through.  And I believe I, too, have built a wall these days."  Oh, how I remembered Thomas' sweet lips on mine!  So long ago.  I closed my eyes.  We hadn't touch each other in months.  It felt much as they did now . . . .

"My lord!"  Albe had been gently kissing me, and I had not even been aware!  He pulled back from me, and with a gentle look, peered into my soul.

"Morgan, forget for now.  That is the reason you came to me, was it not?  To forget him?  I will help you forget."  He put his hand behind my head and pulled me forward to meet his lips again.  I resisted at first, but as the warm passion that had been awaiting for Thomas these many months awakened inside me, I could hold back no longer.  I returned his kiss with feverish intensity.

He tasted of such richness.  His lips were full and soft, and his tongue was hungry and searching for mine.  I pulled away from him suddenly.

"Albe, what if Polidori comes back?"

"What if he does?"  He had a such wicked grin.  "Perhaps he would enjoy watching.  In fact, I am sure that he would."

"My lord!"

"Oh, hush, Morgan!"

I suddenly became afraid.  I wanted Thomas.  I started to turn away, but Lord Byron grabbed the top of my bodice and pulled me to him.  I felt his hot fingers against my flesh.  Suddenly, he ripped open the front of my dress.  My breasts came free, and the coolness of the night air in the parlor gave my lord reason to believe he had done the right thing.  Maybe he had.

He gently, without my resisting, cupped his hands over my breasts.  All I heard from him was a throaty, gentle sound.  He pushed me back, back against the far wall with his fondling.  I closed my eyes, reveling in the sensation of touch that I had missed for so long.  I felt something warm on my right nipple, and looked down to see him suckling like a child.  I caressed the top of his curly locks and pulled him to me.  My back was against the wall.

Lord Byron stood up and kissed me full on the lips again.  Oh, how he could kiss!  So gentle, and so deep!  I was getting hungrier for him by the minute.  Without thinking, my legs parted slightly beneath my gown.  I had only come to him in my night shift and bodice, as he had seen me many times thus, by barging into my chambers unannounced.  So I had none of the many petticoats and hoops to keep me from feeling the hardness pressing against my belly.  As soon as my legs parted even slightly, he ground his hips into mine.  I felt a hot wetness waiting for satisfaction.

As Albe pushed me against the wall, he alternately suckled and kissed my neck and lips.  He was so gentle, yet his insistence was driving me mad. With every ounce of passion that drove him on, I matched it with a wave of my own.

I felt him groping at the sides of my gown.  He began pulling it up, and as I felt cool air hit my thighs, I grabbed his hands with my own.  I thought of Thomas.  For one last time.

"No, I—"

He kissed me full on the lips again, and I released my hold.  His hand traveled under my shift, against my skin, to the moistened and swollen womanhood awaiting his touch.  I let out a small moan as he found his target.  My knees almost buckled, but he caught me and pushed me back against the wall again.  I closed my eyes.

"That's it, my love," he whispered huskily.  "Just enjoy yourself.  There are many parts to a woman's joy that no man knows, save myself."  At that moment he thrust his finger inside me, and aye, he did indeed, touch a place inside me that sent fireworks shooting through my groin.  Yet I was not satisfied, but brought to a new level of passion.  I grabbed his dark hair and kissed him deeply.  He pulled his hand away, and I felt him undoing his trousers.  In no time at all, I felt his hot hardness against my bared belly, and then he guided it into me, not all that gently.

Thrust after thrust, he drove into me, pounding me again and again against the rough bookcase.  Yet, I matched his rhythm and hunger with my own, until we both collapsed in a sea of exhaustion upon the floor.

I had at last known satisfaction at the hands of the notorious Lord Byron. Oh, and what satisfaction!  I could love this man!  I turned to him, yet he was already getting up and putting his trousers back on.

"Come, come, my love.  It's getting late, and we mustn't dawdle.  We don't need the maidservants finding you in such disarray."

"But, my lord, I—"

"I will see you in the morning, my lady.  I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I."  He bowed, turned and strode from the room.

"But, Albe—"

"Good night, mistress."  Lord Byron shut the door behind him on his way to his chambers.  I sat bewildered, but, yes, still satisfied.

Mistress indeed!  I smiled contentedly to myself.  "Ass."
 

About the Authoress:

Morgan Kochel is a 37-year-old webpage designer and part-time writer. She has been a fan of gothic fiction and fantasy for many years and has made some in-depth studies into the legend of the Vampyre, both current and modern.

"The mystique of the famous Romantic poet, Lord George Gordon Byron, intrigues me the most, as I consider him to be the ultimate embodiment of the seductive power of the Vampyric Essence."
-Morgan Kochel-

A previous story of hers, entitled, Dark Love, appeared in Issue 3 of Vampire Junction magazine, 1992.  (Copies are available upon request.)

She has been happily married to her husband, a college instructor, for the past five years.  They are parents to five god-like felines, one Sheltie named Zoot and a hedgehog named Basil.  She and her husband reside in Lancaster, PA.