In the days that followed Melbourne's feeding from Victoria, he was euphoric. She recovered quickly, and was herself invigorated to the point where their couplings were the most intense he could remember. But soon enough, she would need fresh blood again.

They ventured out to more prisons, travelling further afield if necessary. Victoria fed voraciously, and he watched and remembered. It used to be like that for him. How sweet it was, that capitulation of the victim, the knowledge that you would deliver death through pleasure, the seep of dark red liquid into you, the taste of it …

The taste.

And when he bit her, fresh from a feeding of her own, his envy was stirred more readily yet. When he tasted her blood, replenished and rich, he recalled the time when he would feast as he needed, taking where he wanted.

Oh, it was good.

Everywhere now he sensed it: the beat of blood, the pulse of life. Everyone who moved, everyone who breathed … he could have them. He could quench his increasingly frantic thirst.

He wanted it again.

There was only so much self-deceit he could subdue. He wanted. He wanted the thrill of guile and deceit, of lulling the victim into security and acceptance, and of that sweet surrender when their flesh succumbed under his fangs.

He took to walking, long, determined walks through the twisting streets of London. When Victoria was busy with royal duties, when Westminster was quiet, he would walk and walk, cursing his own weakness.

People would pass him, women would turn to him, their eyes bright with the lure of fleshly pleasure and furtive trysts behind hastily closed doors. How easy it once was. How easy it could be again. He saw them. He felt it – their heart beats, the throb of their blood. It was inescapable, pounding in his ears with an insistence which stirred his own depravity.

One night, he found himself at an inn at the docks, far from the prying eyes of Westminster and the Palace. His collar was up, the night was dark. He slunk in a back door and sat in the dimmest corner. Nobody marked him; their own business was so nefarious that backs were turned and eyes averted. He would order a drink. Perhaps his thirst would be a little quenched that way.

A girl approached him, hands on swaying hips, her dark blonde hair piled in unruly locks on her head. She smiled down but he avoided her flirtatious gaze. 'What can I get you, sir?'

'Claret.'

She scoffed. 'You'll be lucky.'

'Anything red then.'

'Not much call for it, but we might have something stashed away. I'll see what I can do.'

She sashayed away and he was relieved that the pulsating of her blood faded with her departure. He closed his eyes. Wine would have to suffice.

The girl returned soon enough after and placed a glass of red liquid down before him.

'You're in luck. Can't vouch for its quality, mind.'

She hovered while he took his first sip. The wine was sharp and vinegary and made his cheeks shrink. But he needed something. He took another drink. He must have grimaced.

'You don't look like you're enjoying it much,' she declared with a lilting laugh. 'I'll be sure to order in the finest Petrus next time, just for you.'

He lifted his gaze and met with large blue eyes. He couldn't deny her allure. She was clever, clearly, and he lamented briefly that she was consigned to serving and not studying. She had an open, inquiring face, but knowing enough for there to be a spark in the eyes which he responded to.

'I cannot deny that I have had better.'

'I'm sure you have,' she crooned. 'Why don't you let me get you something else then?'

'What do you suggest?'

'Depends on what you like … My Lord.'

'How do you know my title?'

At this she pulled out the stool opposite and sank down onto it. Her breasts, smooth and rounded as they were pushed from her bodice, caught his eye and she knew it.

'I might be surrounded by drunkards and half-wits … but I keep up with what's going on in Westminster … Prime Minister.'

He tutted. 'And here I was thinking I could be anonymous.'

'Not with me, you can't, sir.'

'Well … as you know who I am … I should know who you are.'

She smiled beguilingly. 'My name's Abigail, My Lord.'

'Then good evening to you … Abigail. And William will suffice.'

'Oh, I've seen those cartoons of you and the Queen – you, the little woolly thing trotting behind … Mr William Lamb.'

He scoffed and took another drink, despite the acrid taste. 'There are worse things.'

'You like that, do you?' She leaned in, her voice deepening alluringly. 'Being at her beck and call? Being her little pet?'

He smirked. 'How very forward you are, Abigail.'

'Why not?'

'You have a tongue on you.'

'Oh, William … don't I just …'

He looked at her. Oh, he could have her. He could have a great deal of fun with her even, and in his youth he would have, with no compunction whatsoever. But he would not betray Victoria in that way.

Not in that way.

But his gaze was drawn to the girl opposite.

She had a pretty neck, long and pale. And contained in it …

Beat.

Pulse.

Beat.

Pulse.

Victoria had had so many after all. So many young men bitten and sucked dry. Surely, just one? Didn't he deserve it?

Abigail bit her lip and held his gaze.

'You didn't come here for the wine, William Lamb.' She reached across and stroked a single finger along his forefinger. 'We have rooms upstairs … I'm sure you'd love to see them.'

'No.'

She scoffed. 'Oh, come, sweet William, you need a break from all those debates and decisions … you won't regret it.'

'Not a room. Outside.'

Her scoff turned into a laugh. 'Like it dirty, do you? Is that how they breed 'em in Westminster these days? I can do it however you want. I just thought a fine gentleman like you would like a nice bed to lie down in.'

'Perhaps I am not a fine gentleman.'

She smirked again. 'And that's the best news I've had all day.' Abigail leaned across the table and whispered in his ear, 'I'll meet you in the yard in five minutes. It's just through this door here. No one but me comes round there. No one'll see. Dark as hell it is, you'll like that. If you can't see … you'll just have to feel.'

He met her eyes. 'Five minutes.'

And she got up and slipped away from him.

William could scarcely breathe, but there was no turning back. The decision was made. And God, he needed it.

He picked up the glass of wine and, despite its acrid taste, poured the remaining contents rapidly down his throat.

Then, pulling his cloak tight around him, he slipped from the darkness of the corner of the inn to the darkness outside. Abigail was right, the yard was impenetrably gloomy and any windows overlooking it were shuttered or black. He could go about his business unheeded.

She kept to her word and appeared silently and sweetly five minutes later.

Abigail smiled up at him and placed her hands on his abdomen before sliding them slowly up to his shoulders. It was not ineffective. 'Who would've thought it? The Prime Minister himself. And I have to say, the handsomest Prime Minister there could be. Still … I always demand the best.'

'I'm pleased to hear it.'

And she curled her hands around his neck and pulled him down towards her pliant lips.

He did hesitate, briefly. He had not kissed another since before Victoria. But this was a kiss as a means to an end, no more. Victoria had kissed many of the young men before biting them. He enjoyed looking on. He assumed she would like to watch him now doing similar. He imagined her doing so and met the girl's lips.

She was soft and tasted of strawberries. He enjoyed it and deepened the kiss.

She gave a little sigh and he enjoyed it more. He held her head and toyed with her tongue. His hand slid down and found a breast. It was smaller than Victoria's but he liked it greatly. His cock stirred to attention immediately. He could forget himself in her, although conscience would soon get the better of him. He could not countenance infidelity, but was quite happy to suck the blood out of this girl until she was dead.

She moaned against him; he had long been able to make women emit noises of abandon. It was music to his ears, and so he stroked along her waist and rubbed his thumb over her breast. He could feel her nipple tight and prominent through her thin bodice and shift, and when he did that her breath caught and she pushed wantonly against his rigid cock. What did it matter if he eked this out a little before the inevitable? He reached his hand easily inside her ruched top and eased her breast out.

'You're a good 'un, who'd a thought it,' she sighed and guided his head to her breast. As he was about to kill her, he thought the least he could do was give her some goodness first, and so he let his tongue run idly over the taut nub, eliciting a sigh of unbridled pleasure, before taking it between his lips and sucking concertedly for some time. It sat nicely on his tongue, he could only admit, and she rubbed her fingers slowly over his scalp with a comforting sensuality with which he indulged himself.

One of her hands remained in his hair but her other slid down between his legs. She pressed and rubbed along him and he allowed that, but when her hand started to release him, he knew he should act. There were certain extravagances he would not permit himself. Giving pleasure was one thing, receiving it a betrayal too far. (Although this girl's blood would be a pleasure beyond reckoning which he would receive, but that he conveniently forgot.)

Melbourne closed his hand around her wrist and moved it away from his cock. Abigail expressed confusion, and he let her tight, damp nipple pop from his mouth and drew himself up again.

'Sir?' she queried, a frown of bewilderment on her face. 'You ain't got nothing to be ashamed of, let me tell you. I'm surprised you haven't split your seams. Let me keep you happy.'

'Oh … you will.' He cupped her face, a tenderness in advance of what was to come, and stroked with his thumbs. 'Thank you.'

She frowned again and he moved a hand back to her breast and toyed with the nipple again. She liked that. Her head fell back with a sigh of contentment, and at last he let his head drop to her neck. He kissed it, that was all, soft, warm kisses, little licks and sucks, perhaps the occasional graze of his teeth. (He prided himself on occasions such as this on being able to retain his fangs until they were truly needed).

'Ohh,' she purred, twining her fingers through his hair. 'I like that … I like that … You carry on like that and you'll get me off just as you're doing.'

He didn't doubt it. Just not quite in the way she realised.

He rolled and pinched the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it was as hard as an acorn and, at last, when her sighs had reached a peak of bliss, he gave in to his darkest needs and drew back his lips to let his fangs emerge. Oh, she was soft and pale and giving and her blood pulsed ever harder around her lustful body. It called to him, and why deny himself now? No one would know.

And so, flexing his fingers and pulling her harder into him, he let the tips of his fangs catch her flesh. She would not know what it was at first. She would suspect he was merely grazing her.

She gasped a little. Only a little, barely audibly.

He deepened the bite. His fangs penetrated. He felt that beautiful surrender of skin under them. Christ, it had been so long. Too long.

She gasped again. Louder, but she did not pull back. In fact, she held him tighter upon her. Oh, he would enjoy this.

He bit harder, full penetration.

'Oww!' she cried this time: shock and surprise and pain.

He sank them deeper yet and then he sucked.

Her blood flowed.

Sweet, rich, red and warm. God above, the glory of it!

He sucked hard and her renewed cry was still pain, but now mingled with surprise and wonder, different to the first.

'Ohh, what? What is that? It hurts, oh, it hurts!'

But her bewilderment was rapturous. She was adapting; she was curious. She would be feeling it: that paradox of sensation, that shimmering haze between ecstasy and agony. He still had a hand on her breast and soon enough her gasps of pain shifted to mere moans.

And her blood …

Fresh, young, pure human blood.

At last.

At last.

It had been decades. Why had he denied himself? Why had he subdued his inclinations and needs? Victoria sated hers, was it so bad to do the same?

He pulled the girl in against him and sank his fangs yet deeper. He could feel the rising shiver of pleasure building in her. He loved the inevitability of it, how her ending would be met with ecstasy, and how he would bestow both. He had forgotten that gleam power of that kind bestowed.

He pushed her back against the brick wall and braced himself fast with one hand against it, fingers splayed, while he remained affixed to her neck, sucking and drinking the blood from her.

Abigail mewled now, not an unappealing sound. And although her strength was diminishing, she still held onto him. She was adoring it.

Briefly, he considered turning her. She was exactly the type he and Byron would have taken and turned all that time ago.

But, no. He could do without further complication. And the binding tie between them, which would be forged by turning her, was one he could do without.

But, before her death, she would come hard. As a gentleman, if he were nothing else, he would at least ensure that.

He considered touching her sex. He admitted he was curious and wanted to feel the extent of her lust and abandon, but she was clearly more than sated with his attention to her breast and his prolonged feeding from her. And there was Victoria.

Guilt caught him and he bit harder in response, causing a yelp of shocked pain. But it soon settled to moans of pleasure again.

She was nearly gone, he could tell. She was drifting on a plain of euphoric oblivion – enfolded in a hazy gauze between life and death.

And as her blood flowed into him, too much lost to maintain life, but so sweet as to cause pleasure to flow out of her along with it, she came.

She shook on him with the last of her awareness, pleasure shuddering through her with remarkable force seeing as she was nearing her last breath.

And when the last pulse of rapture had gone from her, she slumped in his arms. She was dead.

He continued taking for some time, until she was nearly empty of blood. And at last he stepped back and, barely aware of her corpse, let her drop heavily to the ground.

Melbourne, through deep replenishing gasps of breath, stood tall, lifting his head to the star-filled sky. Stretching out his neck in a snakelike motion, his eyes rolled back in his head and he extended his arms to the sides, palms open like some demonic Christ-figure.

He was triumphant.

Why had he waited? Why had he denied himself? For a moment, he gloried in his own rediscovered narcissism.

At length, after he had let the full effect of her blood seep through him, he glanced down. She lay, quite pale and still, only the two puncture wounds at her neck evidence of any ill effects at all. Blood still seeped from them, but she had little left and it would soon cease. He reached into his coat pocket for the knife he carried with him and carefully cut through the wounds to leave instead a slit in her throat. He reached into her pocket and took the coins he found there. It would seem at first glance to be a common murder for the takings of the inn. The lack of much blood would be a mystery, but the authorities could ponder that one. He had been sufficiently careful to hide himself in the inn, concealed in a dark corner. Abigail had been the only one to engage directly with him. There would be no suspicion.

He wished her a silent farewell – more out of habit than anything; it would not befit a Prime Minister to quit someone without protocol – and left her. It was only when he reached Horse Guards that guilt hit.

And it struck him hard, so hard that he had to double up and brace himself against a lamp post. The London air was thick with fog and putrid to his senses. He closed his eyes and Abigail's face, wide-eyed, staring, devoid of life, filled his vision.

Melbourne lamented his conscience; it had long been a stumbling point. Byron had taunted him with it at every opportunity. And the thought of that gave him resolution. He would not let that man have any further sway on him. He glanced up, the Palace lights beckoning at the end of the Mall, and walked purposefully back. After washing thoroughly and changing his clothes, he made his way silently to the Queen's chambers and slipped into bed beside her.

Victoria stirred immediately and turned her head to kiss him.

'Where have you been? The slaughterhouse?' she asked.

'Yes,' he lied (it was remarkably easy, he found with some surprise). His hand stroked over the delicious dip of her waist and rise of her thigh. After the events of the night, his cock still demanded attention and the feel of her perfect rump pressing itself so willingly against him was impossible to ignore. He hardened immediately and wanted her with every ounce of his being.

'Hmm,' she hummed, purring assent as he kissed along her neck and drew a hand around to find her breast.

Abigail's breasts had been a new and brief delight, but he could never get enough of his lover's.

She drew her upper leg forward so that he could edge close, and he eased into her. Victoria released a long sigh and breathed out, 'Yes, oh my love, yes.'

William Lamb would only love her, would only enter her. Even if he fed, even if he devoured others, she was the only one. It would be for her, only for her. She was his all. But being inside her made him reconsider what had happened. Tonight had been foolish. He must not fail her again. As he moved in her now, his need and his love more powerful after his feeding, he knew that.

However, his blood replenished, he had never felt so potent, it cannot be denied. He turned her suddenly onto her front and pulled her up onto her knees. She gasped in surprise as he plunged into her from behind, but he gave her no scope for doubt. Grasping her hips, he moved powerfully in her, determined, brutal to the point of demanding her climax.

It did not take long. She wailed with the strength of it, coming so hard on his cock that he laughed in triumph. His own climax followed immediately, shockingly harsh, robbing him of what sense remained. His seed burst explosively into her, long and hot, and he rejoiced in her taking of it all.

Almost immediately, she slumped forward and he fell from her. Victoria turned onto her back and looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

She opened her mouth to say something but all that emerged was an awed, 'Dear God …'

'Sleep,' he murmured, kissing her softly.

She turned over, pulled the covers over her, and did so.

Melbourne remained awake, staring above him at the canopy.

For a man who had been dead 257 years, he had never felt so alive.