Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Leslie Dicken

  She reached out for him, undaunted. “But time has—”

  “Too late,” he said, closing his hand around the cold doorknob. “I am engaged to another woman.”

  Without listening for a reply, Ashworth left the parlor and headed straight for Vivian’s bedchamber. With each step, the prickling under his skin eased, but his blood burned. Vivian both comforted and plagued him.

  Ashworth reached her door, his pulse brisk. Knocking, he called her name.

  No answer.

  Perhaps she had fallen asleep. His knuckles rapped louder. “Miss Suttley?”

  Again, nothing.

  Ashworth tested the handle and found it unlocked. He quietly pushed it open but found no one inside. Her bed was still smooth from the servant’s straightening, the fire dim. But the scent of her lingered. Even with the ever-present odor of musty dampness, he could smell her honeysuckle sweetness. If he closed his eyes he could imagine her standing before him, a vision of glowing skin and shapely legs.

  Where had she gone if not here?

  Ashworth retraced his steps down the main corridor. Drafts swirled past him, fluttering tapestries and cobwebs. A few turns brought him to the library, the place Pinkley had said Vivian sought last night. But the dark room was empty.

  He shoved fingers through his hair, his heart beating a whisper of concern.

  “Charles.”

  Ashworth’s swung around at the sound of his name. John stood at the end of the shadowed hall, his frame half-concealed in a doorway. “What is it?”

  “Miss Suttley. I thought you would want to know…”

  Ashworth’s long strides brought him quickly to his son’s tutor. “Where is she?”

  “Outside.”

  Relief percolated through his blood. Ah, of course. Vivian used her time to work on the garden. He should have known. “Thank you, John. I’ll go collect her now.”

  “Wait.” A hand settled on his shoulder. “There is something you must know.”

  A breath hesitated in his throat. He waited for more.

  “She saw me.”

  Ashworth’s gut twisted. “Did she see Harry?”

  “No. But she certainly saw me. I was coming upstairs from breakfast and she was on the landing, trying to open the rear door.”

  Ashworth swallowed. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She didn’t ask who you were or why you were there?”

  John’s hand slipped off, his cheeks slightly flushed. “No. She said nothing. Perhaps she waited for me to speak. But then I heard Harry coming up the stairs, so I quickly withdrew and shut the door.”

  “She will assume you are a servant. I appreciate your honesty.” Ashworth straightened his coat. “I’ll find her in the garden.”

  But Vivian was not in the garden. He’d found the door still slightly ajar from when she left from it, but she was not anywhere in the rear grounds. Ashworth searched behind the overgrown boxwoods and even within an old outbuilding, dangerously close to collapsing.

  He sank upon the cracked pedestal of a fallen statue.

  Why would Vivian leave? It was she who insisted she could not return home. It was she who promised him anything if they married. It was she who seduced him.

  Ashworth licked his lips, wishing he could taste her on them. He wanted her. He needed her. The very essence of her feminine scents and textures stirred something within his soul.

  Ducks quacked as they flew overhead, bringing Ashworth to his feet. With no other direction to guide him, he followed their lead. Past the fallen stone wall, Ashworth climbed the wooded slope of Briar Fell, his pulse tapping at his throat.

  He’d followed this trail many times through years, especially as a boy, when he would wander off to fish. He would be gone hours before any noticed his absence. He wouldn’t have minded the punishment so much if he’d actually caught any fish. But Briarwater never gave him any of its riches.

  Gull cries died away as Ashworth stepped through the willow thicket. Geese and ducks crowded along the rocky beach, but he did not see Vivian.

  He crunched his way toward the clump of towering oak trees, forcing away the panic. What if she had drowned? What if she were lost on the slope? What if he allowed her to come to harm?

  Despite the cool air, sweat formed on his forehead. He would not fail her.

  Wind whistled through the oak leaves, bringing with it the sweet sounds of a woman’s hum. Ashworth’s long strides brought him to a large rock, where Vivian sat calmly. His heart surged forward, his limbs weakened. Her dress was dirtied, her face smudged, but she was safe.

  Vivian did not see him approach, her dark, uncovered head angled down to something in her lap. Her song rippled over the water like the lightest mist, airy and comforting.

  Ashworth swallowed. “Vivian…”

  She looked up, her eyes drawing him in like a hidden treasure cove. His throat closed up with the intense trembling within his chest. She was a mythical mermaid perched along the seashore. “Isn’t it lovely here?”

  He blinked, stunned into silence.

  “Those pretty little flowers.”

  Ashworth looked over to where she pointed. Wild thyme nestled within the crevices of the boulder, the tiny purple flowers a sharp contrast to the gray stone.

  Heedless to the worry she had given him in her disappearance, Vivian lifted her closed fists to him. “Look.”

  He knew she meant for him to bend close, to inspect whatever riches she discovered, but he was immobile. Desire for her drummed in his blood, crashing against his veins like water upon the pebbles. And yet, he feared touching her. He feared wanting her too badly. He feared the haunting agony of what she did to him.

  “It…” Ashworth cleared his throat. “It is time to go. Lady Wainscott awaits our return.”

  “But I am not sure if the mother will return.” Vivian slowly opened her fingers to reveal a duck egg.

  “Leave it.” He could not be concerned with hatching an egg. And he was certain Vivian did not plan to have it for breakfast in the morning.

  Vivian rose to her feet, her eyes bright with temper. “I will not leave this orphan to be lunch for a hungry fox.”

  Ashworth crossed his arms. “Leave it. You were to remain in your room but I had to climb hills to find you.”

  She lifted her chin. “I will not remain a prisoner in my room, nor that house. You may choose to, but I will not.”

  “I stay inside because…” He swallowed the reasoning in a bitter lump. He stayed inside because he was marked. The villagers believed him a monster, why should he not believe it of himself? Besides, no one could know about Harry. If he ventured away from Silverstone Manor for too long, eventually his secret would be out.

  Vivian brushed past him toward the path, her honeysuckle scent eddying through his senses. “The air is chilled,” she said, without looking back. “I shall hurry back and change my dress. And find a home for this lost soul.”

  Ashworth waited, letting her go ahead of him. Chaos churned within him like the building of a storm. His life had been predictable, clear, serene before Vivian arrived. How had it derailed into such disorder?

  And why the hell had Briarwater given her a treasure at her first visit and never once offered one to him?

  Chapter Eight

  She was narrow.

  Vivian tried not to stare down her nose at the woman perched at edge of a chair. Lord Ashworth’s former love was the tightest person Vivian had ever seen. Straight, thin nose, long neck and slender form hidden beneath a deep purple dress.

  “You hail from the south,” Lady Wainscott asked again. Even her voice was stiff, controlled, constricted.

  Vivian nodded. “Staffordshire, my lady.”

  “Your father a baron, you said?”

  Clearly, Lady Wainscott did not recognize her either. It was just as well. She did not want either of them have the ability to contact her father.

  Wind rattled the windows as she lifted her chin. None of
this was a lie. “Yes, he is a baron. I have been presented to the queen.”

  The woman arched a blonde eyebrow. “Ah, have you?” She then shivered. “Do you not feel those drafts in this wretched room?”

  “I do. They are all over the house.” Perhaps they alone would send this woman on her way.

  “Lord Ashworth has been neglectful in his upkeep of the manor.”

  Vivian smiled. She knew that Lord Ashworth did not care for the upkeep. She rather thought he wanted it to go to hell, to appear as dreadful as he suffered inside.

  Lady Wainscott tilted her pointed chin. “How is it that you found no husband during your seasons in London?”

  The direct, sharp question struck like a knife through her stomach. Her cheeks heated. But she could not allow for weakness. She promised him she would stay on. At least until this vixen had left.

  “My father had chosen a husband for me at home instead.”

  “Oh?” A wicked gleam flashed in those hazel eyes. “Then what are you doing here?”

  What the heavens was taking Lord Ashworth so long? He said he had pressing matters to attend to. Thus, Vivian had to face the jaws of the lioness alone as they awaited their evening meal.

  She stood and wandered over to several large windows, never having been in this formal dining room before. All other meals had been taken in her room or in the breakfast room. This space must have once

  been glorious, with an intricately carved ceiling and ornate plasterwork around the fireplace. But now, despite having been tidied for the dinner, the room appeared as neglected as the rest of the house.

  Vivian stared out the glass into the encroaching darkness. Whispers of cool air breathed across her skin. This room faced the front of the manor and she could see beyond the long drive to the village lights far in the distance.

  Finally, she sighed with her response. “The man my father chose for me was unsuitable.” As if one could call a violent manipulator merely unsuitable.

  “Ah,” Lady Wainscott sneered behind her. “But the Viscount Ashworth is suitable for your liking?”

  Vivian had no answer.

  “I’d say you were after his money.”

  Lord Ashworth’s money would be enough to send her far away, to the continent or America even. But Vivian didn’t want to go that far. She didn’t want to live among strange cultures. No, she didn’t covet the viscount’s wealth, only his hand in marriage. With the bad history between he and Martin and his isolation, Lord Ashworth was indeed her perfect match.

  Vivian traced her finger along the cold window ledge, unsettling a layer of dust. “As you can see, Lord Ashworth does not care to spend his money.” She lifted her finger to show Lady Wainscott. “I do not believe I can change him. Do you?”

  A rustling of skirts and the strong scent of lavender brought the countess before her. Sharp, hazel eyes narrowed. “The two of you may think you have an engagement, but I am not conceding.”

  Vivian swallowed the truth dancing on her tongue. There was no engagement. Only this morning, Lord Ashworth wanted her gone. How could she hold up the obvious lie with such an intent predator? She lifted her chin, forced the courage. “What makes you think he will prefer you?”

  Lady Wainscott curled her lips. “He loved me once. Tell me, Miss Suttley, does he love you now?”

  ***

  Her whimpering made his skin crawl.

  “I thought you said you’d played rough before.”

  Martin slid the trousers up his legs and rolled off the bed. The smell of sex and sweat permeated the air. Outside the window light rain tapped on the gutter. The small room had no French wallpaper or deep cushioned chairs like the places he used to visit, just a worn bed and ripped lace curtains.

  He didn’t even remember the whore’s name.

  Martin dug in his pockets, pulled out an extra coin, then flipped it on her pillow. “This is for you. A little something extra.”

  She groaned, but then her hand snatched out from under the blanket and the coin disappeared.

  Martin chuckled. She may be sore now but she seemed to be enjoying his rough handling earlier. “Come now, I told you I’d compensate you.”

  He glanced over her back, smiling at the circular shaped welts. A little nip or two couldn’t be making her moan so much. Perhaps it was the manner in which he drove himself into her.

  The whore rolled onto her side, long yellow hair falling over her shoulder and covering her ample bosom. “Yer the devil.”

  Martin arched a brow. Her opinion of him did not matter. “I’m not the only one of those here in London.”

  “Aye.” The candle dipped, drawing shadows along her ruddy cheeks. “’Tis true.”

  She stared at him with glazed eyes, as if she just saw him for the first time. And perhaps she did, since they never did face each other. Already his cock, though raw, throbbed for more attention.

  Martin stood and pulled on the rest of his clothes. Now that this wench had tempered the rampant lust clouding his mind, he could begin his search for Vivian. He would need to be invited to a few balls and soirees.

  Just knocking on the door of the baron’s cousin wouldn’t do. Not if Vivian had told the world why she’d run.

  No, he’d dealt with that before. Other girls he’d chosen to be his wife had either been pulled away from him due to his lack of historical title or some whimpering prattle the girl told her parents.

  Vivian was perfect. Her father’s indiscretion gave him the ammunition he needed to secure the beauty as his wife.

  But she was gone.

  Anger tightened his gut and sharpened his focus. He’d find that bitch and make her pay. She should have believed him.

  “I knew ye looked familiar t’me.”

  Martin forced his pulse to calm and laced up his shoes. “Don’t all men look the same to you?”

  Her eyes narrowed and then she laughed. “Aye. But ye look like someone from many years ago.”

  He shrugged, already itching to be out of this whorehouse.

  She tried to sit up, winced, and dropped back to her elbows. “I-I was a young girl then. Just come ter London.” Her hair slid over a large, peach nipple. “And me only friend had a regular customer, a true lover. I’d swear ye were ’im.”

  Martin swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “You must be mistaken.”

  She nodded. “Aye, could be.”

  He gathered his hat and coat. No need for concern. No one would believe this streetwalker’s word over that of a gentleman like himself.

  “But ye do look like ‘im.”

  Her incessant chatter combined with the constant tapping on the gutter vexed Martin’s nerves. He clenched his teeth. “What was her name? Your friend?”

  Instead of answering his question, the whore sniffled, her eyes and nose reddening. “’Twas awful how she died. And the baby…”

  Martin froze. The baby.

  He tried to remember, tried to piece together the moments of that night, the sounds that reverberated in his skull. “She had a baby, this friend of yours?”

  “Aye, but he went missing after that night. We think the killer took ’im.”

  His gut clenched. Mary had a baby? Could it be possible? Could it have been his?

  He shook his head but the memories would not return clearly. He remembered the blood, the suffocating heat, the screams. But no baby.

  No, if Mary had his child, she would have told him. She knew his desire for a son. She would have never kept his child from him, even if she’d found another lover.

  This whore didn’t know of what she spoke. Calm once again, he pulled on his hat.

  She sighed. “Aye. Ye must not be the man I remembered.”

  Martin straightened, closing his hand over the cool knob of the door. He’d seen enough of London’s underbelly for one night. “What did you say her name was?”

  The whore wiped her nose on her arm. “Mary Yeardley.”

  ***

  Odd as it was, the sun brightened with
each step Vivian took down the long drive. By the time she’d reached Silverstone’s gate near the village, the air was clear and colors vivid.

  She glanced back to the manor to see its ugly spires hidden beneath a heavy layer of clouds. Was it possible that impending doom actually lived above the very structure?

  Vivian shook her head. No, ’twas just her imagination. Still, she’d been smart to get away from there today, away while Lady Wainscott rested in her rooms.

  The jaunt to the village was still a bit of a walk, and at her brisk pace, she’d warmed up considerably from the drafty chills of the morning breakfast.

  Mrs. Plimpton had told her that the post office was only a few streets once she reached the village.

  This errand brought a smile to her lips. Ever since she learned that she could send a card and not worry if her mother could pay for it, Vivian had set her mind to dashing off a note as quickly as possible. Lord Ashworth had even given her the penny needed, but tried repeatedly to have a servant complete the task.

  But Vivian was not a prisoner in that house. She’d not allow his self-pity or reclusive behavior prevent her from interacting with others. Especially not when she could enjoy a hearty walk and see new sights.

  Vivian started down the main street. Memories of her brief visit to the tavern flickered in her mind like wary ghosts. The village was dark then, her fear and determination heavy. Over and over, people warned her not to enter Silverstone Manor, not to proceed with her mission.

  They had nearly swayed her. In fact, she’d planned to pay Lord Ashworth a call the next morning, but feared her mind would be changed if she waited that long. And so she’d gone up his long drive that very evening.

  Much had changed in those few days. Much, and yet the crumbling house still held so many mysteries.

  Vivian saw the sign for the post office and crossed the street. Only then did she realize people were gaping at her. Stares, whispers, pointing fingers. Everyone knew she was the foolish woman who’d ventured up the hill.

  What could she do but lift her chin and continue onward?

  Vivian entered the door next to the Post Office sign and came to stand before a worn, wooden counter.

  An older woman stood at the back wall, her back to Vivian as she sorted letters into various compartments.