“Pardon me,” Vivian said. “I’d like to purchase a stamp and mail this letter.”
“Be with you in a moment.”
Vivian turned back to watch the villagers go by the window. There was a time she was as carefree and untroubled as they appeared. There was a time, before Martin entered her life when she could smile and dream of a future. Now her future depended upon a secluded stranger agreeing to marry her.
“You’re the girl staying up at the manor!”
Vivian swallowed, forcing a grin on her lips. “Good morning, I’m Miss Suttley. I’d like to post this letter.”
The plump woman adjusted her glasses, squinted her blue eyes. “You are the girl up at Silverstone, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am staying at the manor. May I purchase a Penny Black, please?”
But the postmistress made no move to either take her money or get the stamp. “You haven’t married him yet, have you?”
Vivian lifted her chin, straightened her back, but did not answer.
“I didn’t believe so.” A thick hand waved through the air, as if brushing off the absurd notion. “No chaperone up there with you either, is there?”
“A stamp, please.”
“My son works up there. He’s the groomsman. Told me about you, he did.”
The groomsman. That was the boy who helped Lord Ashworth carry up pails of water. No wonder this woman looked at her as if she were nothing more than a streetwalker.
The woman leaned across the counter. “You heard the rumors about that house? They’re true, I tell you. Something isn’t right up there. Not right at all.”
A chill skated down Vivian’s spine at the memory of the confrontation in the dark halls. There was something going on in that house, but whether monster, ghost or foul play, it would not sway Vivian from her purpose.
“As you can see, I am in fine spirits and excellent health.”
The postmistress raised an eyebrow. “That may be, but how is your mind? Have odd dreams haunted you at night? Have the drafts and noises stirred you from slumber?”
Vivian sighed. Perhaps next time a servant should mail her letters. “My mind is still alert and sound.”
“And the master? Lord Ashworth? He’s not frightened you with his behavior or terrifying face?”
Terrifying face? Vivian could only think of the roughness of his chin, the sensual curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes. His scar was a groove upon a spectacular stone, not diminishing its luster but adding to its uniqueness.
“I am perfectly well. Thank you for your concern. Now, a stamp, please.”
“Eh, you’ve only been there a short time.” She reached into a drawer and withdrew the same small stamp Vivian had seen on Lady Wainscott’s letter. “You’ll regret staying in that house, mark my words.”
Vivian slid the coin toward her. “I see no reason why I shall.”
Once the stamp was on the letter, the postmistress glimpsed at it then slid it into one of the lower slots. Still facing the wall of compartments, the woman glanced over her shoulder. “Keep a sharp eye out, Miss Suttley. You may think we only speak of rumors, but even gossip usually begins with a bit of truth.”
In her room that evening, Vivian set the brush down on the dresser and blew out the candle. Wind gusted, tossed clouds around the sky and gave the moon little chance to illuminate her room. Only the subtle glow of the fire led the way to the bed.
She pushed aside the bed curtains when a knock came from Lord Ashworth’s room. “Vivian?”
He wanted to see her at this hour? With no robe nearby to cover over her nightgown, she climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets over top. “Yes? Come in.”
The door separating their two rooms creaked open. Lord Ashworth crossed the room toward her in a pair of breeches and nothing else. The shadows cast dark curves along the angles of chest. Dark hair sprinkled upward from his stomach.
Vivian swallowed as shocking heat pooled between her legs. She still could not comprehend what this man did to her. Thomas’s kisses had stirred hope in escaping Martin, nothing else.
Lord Ashworth shoved his hand through his hair and stood at the end of the bed. “I’m sorry to disturb you this way but a thought had occurred to me.”
“Yes. Go on then.”
“I realize I know very little about you. That if I were asked about your life, I could not answer.”
A breeze blew across the bed, bringing with it his unique scent. Her mouth watered. “And—and you think to do this now?”
“There will not be much other time when you and I are alone.”
“Very well,” she sighed. “What is it you wish to know?”
“First, have you any brothers or sisters?”
“No. I am an only child.”
“I have two sisters, both married, neither one will speak to me.”
Vivian caught her breath at the emotionless manner in which he spoke of his family. It could not be true that they dismissed him from their lives only due to the scar upon his face. And yet, he seemed resigned to their actions, as if he could not care any less.
He pushed the bed curtain aside and sat down on the far end of the bed. The mattress sank beneath his weight. “You father is a baron, yes? What is his full title?”
She did not want to talk about her parents, especially her father. The recent memories were still too raw and implausible. She drew in a shaking breath. “He is Lord Whistlebury, a baron.”
Vivian waited to see if he recognized the name from that one garden party all those years ago. But his expression did not change. “And you come from Staffordshire. A village there?”
Her stomach knotted. Would the village name stir his memory? Would he have any knowledge that Martin Crawford now lived there? She couldn’t chance it. “Does the name matter?”
Lord Ashworth leaned forward, his hands down on either side of her legs. Heat radiated from his skin. His eyes narrowed. “You are hiding something.”
“We both have tales to hide, do we not? Do you wish to share what caused the demise of your relationship with Lady Wainscott?”
Immediately, his jaw tensed, scar pulsed. “No.”
“Then I do not wish to share the name of my village.”
“Nor why you ran from it?”
“I love animals, children and flowers. What else do you need to know?”
Lord Ashworth leaned closer. His scent caved in her reserve. In an instant, her breathing turned shallow. A debate stormed within her blood. The disquiet under her skin yearned for his warmth, yet the
uncertainty of his reactions, his behavior, those damn rumors, troubled her soul. Who was this man? Was he a threat to her?
“My lord, I really do not think—”
“Vivian.” His gaze shifted to her mouth. “I want to taste your lips, feel your skin.”
Awareness quivered between her legs. “But you…”
His hand lifted from the bed and slid its way over the blankets, beginning at the apex of her legs, skimming over her breasts, and then up to her throat. Vivian clenched her teeth, but a whimper escaped into the night air.
He halted, paralyzed by the sound. She could hear his harsh breathing, see his jaw tighten.
Her gaze drifted from the agony written across his furrowed brow down to the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Curious, she glanced below his waist, glimpsing a shadowed rise in his breeches. The sight didn’t frighten her, but shot a dizzying spasm to her toes.
Lord Ashworth caught her stare. “Faith, Vivian…”
He bent forward, pressing her further into the mattress, trapping her with his kiss. His lips nibbled at her mouth, set free any restraint she had left. Vivian opened herself to his invasion, tasted the desire on his tongue. An unbearable pressure climbed inside of her.
She brushed her palm along the hard muscles of his arm, feeling warmth and light sweat on his skin.
Lord Ashworth shifted, leaning his body across her chest, freeing one hand to caress her hair. He
lingered there only briefly before his fingers explored her throat. With a gentle tug, he loosened the bow at her neckline. Cool air swept across her shoulder. Wet fire spread from her neck down to her breast. He circled the nipple with his tongue.
Her body came alive and freed her from any lingering fear or revulsion.
Arching her back, Vivian pressed herself into his suckling lips. She squeezed her eyes closed, but even without the view of his lips on her body, moisture swelled between her legs. Somewhere deep inside a pleasurable torture arose, pushing her past decorum and into desperation.
“Please…” she whimpered, her fingers skimming across his strong shoulders and into his thick hair.
Lord Ashworth lifted his head only long enough to scoot his entire body onto the bed. He lay alongside her, one leg entwined with hers, his unyielding erection pressing insistently against her hip.
His palm cupped her other breast, kneading it, massaging it. He flicked her nipple with his thumb, while his tongue did the same on the other side. Vivian threw her head back, her mouth parting with a guttural sigh.
Lord Ashworth’s large hand pushed down the blankets, then glided atop the nightgown, past her stomach to the aching flesh between her legs. He lifted the material, finding the dampness with efficient ease.
Coyness fled. Vivian raised her hips, reaching for something, anything, to assuage the throbbing so deep inside. His fingers danced over the sensitive nub, winding her tighter with each stroke. “Oh Lord, please…”
He captured her lips with his, thrusting his tongue inside as one of his fingers slipped within her folds. He swallowed her gasp, forced her to ride the wave swelling with each breath she took.
Vivian rocked against his hand. Showers of tingles raced down her legs, up to her nipples. Each flick of his finger pulled her taut. She pointed her toes, arched her back, strained for a release that seemed beyond her grasp.
He left her mouth again and dipped his dark head to her breast. She watched him lap the stiff knot, swirling his tongue over and around the straining peak. Vivian whimpered, moaned, then cried out into the darkness above her.
“Vivian…” his strangled voice accompanied a sudden thrust of his hips. Two fingers plunged deep inside.
She broke.
Not pain. Ecstasy.
Waves of pleasure crashed upon themselves, rippled outward from her center. Her hips rose from the bed, lunging into the air, deepening his stroke.
Vivian turned her head to the pillow and attempted to muffle her cries against the fabric. But the clamor from her throat didn’t fade away until the last surge receded.
She turned to Lord Ashworth, but he leaped up from the bed with her next heartbeat.
“What…what is it?”
He had that same look as before, the horrified eyes, the blanched skin. One would think he saw a terrifying ghost lying before him rather than his false bride. “No, no,” he choked. “Not again!”
He blinked once then backed away from the bed. Before she could call out to him, he was gone from her room with a slam.
Chapter Nine
Vivian was not a virgin.
Ashworth slumped on his bed, his heart raging, his arousal pulsing. Her body accepted his fingers too easily, although he sensed her reaction surprised her. If another man had taken her, he had not given her pleasure.
Passion clearly simmered beneath her cool exterior. A passion which inflamed his lust and brought on the visions.
He took a deep breath. Thankfully, the horrible images were gone. Vivian’s cry of delight had become a scream of terror in his brain. Instead of her lush, inviting skin, he saw her covered in blood. Bile had clogged his throat.
Even as he ran from her, his desire had not dimmed. His blood scalded, knees shook, pulse hammered. He could still smell her essence on his fingers, taste her skin on his tongue.
A draft whispered about the room, cooled his skin. But not his need.
Ashworth dropped back on the mattress. His heartbeat echoed in his skull. Vivian’s pink nipples graced his daydream as he closed his eyes. He recalled running his tongue across their pert loveliness. She tasted of the wild honeysuckle growing on the hillside. Inside her folds, slick warmth swallowed his finger. And as he thrust it over and over, he imagined his erection in its place.
Ashworth clenched his teeth, but it was no use. He unbuttoned his breeches and fisted his pulsating shaft.
Instead of his fingers on his erection, he imagined her damp tunnel enclosing over him. He’d sink deep inside her, filling her, driving her.
Yes, he could envision it all so clearly! Her hips rocking against his. His hands squeezing her breasts, thumbs rolling her nipples. Sharp fingernails tracing down his back, reaching lower…
Tingling raced from his spine, circling his toes, tickling his nipples. Ashworth threw his head back, tightened his grip.
In his fantasy, he could hear her whimpers rising to moans. Finally she’d cry out while her spasms wracked his slick flesh. It would drive him deeper. Faster.
Ashworth moaned and pumped his erection to a hot release.
He slid his hand away and stared at the dark canopy above his head. His breathing shattered the stillness of the night.
Vivian…Vivian!
She tortured him so blessedly, so exquisitely, his whole life was in chaos. Did he want her to leave him to his tightly controlled world or stay and absolve him of his delusions?
He wanted her warmth, yet feared her intimacy. He yearned for her body, yet refused her tenderness.
Suddenly parched, he turned to his nightstand. Pinkley had left his nightly potion, a watered-down laudanum concoction. Without hesitation, Ashworth swallowed the liquid in a gulp.
He needed to find peace. Pray God this potion brought him peace tonight.
***
Martin avoided looking at the brick manor as he walked up the drive. A wave of fury rippled through his blood. The entire trip over he attempted to control the rage he knew would surface. With this hunt for Vivian already gnawing at his nerves, facing his mother would only incense him more.
But he had to come. He had to see her. After all, his mother was the reason he’d become who he was.
It was as if he was to blame for her careless mistake in getting pregnant. She never would answer why she didn’t abandon him when he was a baby instead of a young lad.
A crisp breeze lifted Martin’s hair as he walked around to the back of the house. He’d not knock on the front door, allow a servant to turn him away. No, Martin would see his mother today.
She always sat on the back porch, staring at the trees. Even as a small child, he remembered her watching the branches sway out their tiny flat window. Usually she retreated to her private world after kicking him for ruining her life by being born.
The ground squished beneath his feet, the sky swarmed above his head, building to a storm. He didn’t plan to stay long. Just enough time to get what he needed.
Martin slowed his walk as he approached the rear of the manor. He heard voices chattering. Servants. He pressed himself against a large statue and waited for them to pass.
Finally there was no one but himself and the cool air. Himself and the first woman to abandon him.
A set of steps led up to the terrace, where his mother often drank her tea in the afternoon. He’d come here enough over the years to watch her, to sense her movements and patterns, to decide what to do about her future.
The clank of a tea cup told him she was up there. Just as he suspected. Habits did not change much in the old. The infirm.
A few silent footsteps brought him up the stairs and to her side. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, then dropped with resignation. Shoulders slumped, hands knotted, mouth tensed. Whether it was guilt at what she’d done to him or fear at what he could do again to her, she always reacted to his presence in the same manner.
“Mother.” He looked at her gnarled hand, but didn’t touch it. “It has been a year since we’ve talked.”
/> “Go away. I will yell for someone.”
Martin grinned at her hoarse threat. Without access to a bell—which he blocked from her reach—no one could hear his mother call.
“Why don’t we take a walk?”
Her dark eyes glared. “You’ve seen to it that I can never walk again.”
He straightened. “I meant we can take a stroll. I’ll push you along the pond. I have something to speak with you about.”
“Let go!” She tried to twist around from her chair, but she was too frail and weak to reach him.
He took a hold of the handles and steered her toward the ramp. It had been built a full year after she fell down the terrace steps. Her husband had some strange belief that his wife would get up and walk again. But the woman had not worked hard for anything in her life. Why would she start then?
“You want something from me. You only come when you do.”
A wheel squeaked as he drove her down the ramp and started across the lawn.
“Shall I visit you more often?” His pulse jumped, fire tipped his ears. “Perhaps I should come to see you as often as you came to see me twenty years ago.”
He could see her tense. “I—I told you I tried to find you. I asked all the neighbors where you’d gone. No one knew.”
Rage boiled below the surface of his skin, threatening to crumble his composure. “I waited there six months for you to return. Six months! As winter approached, I grew too cold to sleep in alleys and steal food.”
The wheelchair bumped over dips in the grass, jostling his mother in the seat. She cried out, but then settled when they at last reached the pond’s edge.
“You left me to fend for myself. I was still a boy. A child.” He let go of the handles and walked around to face her. She wouldn’t look at him. “I made my own way. Whatever way I could.” Martin narrowed his eyes. “And I am the one who finally found you.”
“And then ruined my life when you did!” She gasped at her outburst. Her face paled.
His hand shot out as reflex, but he stopped just short of making contact. “I ruined your life from the moment I was born. How often did you tell me that? How often did you kick me to make me pay for your sin? Finally, you just walked out and left me behind.” Martin crossed his arms to keep his impulses in check. “But you found a way to marry yourself into wealth and status. And now I will do the same.”
Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 8
