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missing a lamppost as he cast a terrified glance over his shoulder.
    “It appears I’m not the only beast prowling the streets of London tonight.” Julian stroked his chin, visibly struggling with her demand. “Very well,” he finally bit off. “If you insist, I’ll take you to my lodgings. But only if you promise you’ll leave me to rest in peace once you’ve had your way and your say.” Without waiting for her pledge, he offered her his arm.
    Still haunted by the echo of that growl, Portia hesitated for the briefest second before resting her gloved hand in the crook of his arm.
     
    To Portia’s surprise the rickety stairs leading to Julian’s rented lodgings deep in the heart of the Strand led up instead of down. She had expected to find him inhabiting some luxurious cellar flat, much like his secret chamber in the dungeon of Trevelyan Castle, his and Adrian’s boyhood home.
    That chamber had been draped in cashmere and Chinese silk and adorned with Chippendale furniture, numerous busts and paintings, and a marble chess set where he could while away the daylight hours when he wasn’t sleeping in the ornate wooden coffin that dominated the room. Julian had always been a vampire who prized his comforts, creature and otherwise.
    Which was why it was such a shock to her sensibilities when he swept open the door at the top of the shadowy staircase to reveal a narrow, low-ceilinged room that was little more than a garret. The room was furnished with a battered armoire, a shabby wing-chair, and a scarred table flanked by two ladder-back chairs, all carved from the cheapest of pines. A lamp burned low on the table, sending shadows creeping over the peeling paint on the walls. If not for the sheets of thick black crepe draped over the dormer windows, no one would have guessed that there was a vampire in residence.
    In lieu of a coffin, a sagging cast-iron bedstead slumped in one corner. Portia accepted Julian’s unspoken invitation to precede him into the room, averting her eyes from its rumpled bedclothes.
    As she turned to face him, he closed the door and leaned his back against it, surveying her through heavy-lidded eyes. “So little Portia Cabot is all grown up.”
    Warned by the wary edge in his voice that he was none too pleased by the notion, Portia shrugged. “It was bound to happen. I couldn’t stay a naïve young girl besotted with Byron’s poetry forever.”
    “More’s the pity,” Julian muttered.
    Abandoning his post by the door, he brushed past her to get to the table. After blowing the dust out of a pair of mismatched goblets, he poured two drinks from the amber bottle resting next to them. He offered her one of them, his long, elegant fingers cradling the bowl of the goblet.
    She took it and brought it to her nose, eyeing him suspiciously as she sniffed at the ruby red liquid.
    “Don’t worry, it’s only port,” he assured her, a spark of amusement lighting his eyes. “And cheap port at that. But it’s all I can afford at the moment.”
    She took a tentative sip of the musky wine. “Just how much have you had to drink tonight?”
    “Not nearly enough,” he said, leaning against the table and draining his glass in one deep swig. He lifted the empty goblet to her in amocking toast. “I do hope you’ll forgive my ill temper. You interrupted my evening meal and I tend to get a bit cranky when I’m hungry.”
    Portia choked on the port, her eyes widening in horror. “Those women back there at the g-gambling hell? You were going to…eat them?”
    He opened his mouth, then evidently thought better of what he was about to say and closed it again. “If you’re asking me if I was going to kill them, the answer is no. I prefer to think of them as more of a tasty little snack.”
    When her eyes only widened further, he sighed. “There’s only so much rare roast beef and butcher shop blood a vampire can stomach. As I was traveling the world in the past few years, I made a fascinating