Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Leslie Dicken

  Vivian’s fingers tickled the tip of his flesh and he exploded with a moan. Scalding fluid emptied from his body in glorious release. He tried to catch his breath and slow his heart.

  Finally, he glanced down at her face, surprised to notice only a blank stare in her eyes.

  Ashworth blinked, looked again and saw pale, pinched skin. Then blood. Pungent, red liquid. Everywhere.

  His gut cramped, bile rolled in his stomach.

  No! Not again.

  He stumbled back from her and shook his head. Lungs seizing, he quickly glimpsed at her again.

  But this time Vivian was normal, with a flushed face and distraught gaze.

  Her hand reached toward him then slowly dropped back to her side. “It happened again, didn’t it?”

  Ashworth said nothing, but gulped in mouthfuls of air.

  “Why won’t you tell me about it?”

  His temples pounded. How could he tell her when he didn’t know himself? Was he a killer? Had he once murdered a woman in the crest of passion? “You…you are not safe here.”

  Her eyes softened. “I won’t be frightened of you.”

  He swallowed while his heart beat furiously against his ribs. “You—you’ve run from one misfortune to another perhaps far worse. I’ll not let you stay.”

  “But Lady Wainscott—”

  Ashworth wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “I’ll have her gone from here shortly. And you will be directly behind her.”

  Vivian stared at him with those mysterious eyes, her lips set and determined. She would challenge his command. Her motivation to remain was as strong as his was to have her go.

  Damn her.

  She was an angel. She was the devil.

  Vivian sent him to heaven and then plunged him back down to hell.

  ***

  The chandeliers blazed too brightly upon the floor, casting the dancers in an eerie glow. Martin tensed with the rage knotting his stomach. This was the sixth ball he’d attended since his mother sent him a stack of invitations, yet he’d not found Vivian or the baron’s cousin.

  The burn of a heated gaze pulled his attention over to the far corner of the room, where a woman stared at him without scruple. Her large breasts peeked above the deep blue bodice of her gown and she raised a dark eyebrow at his interested grin. He licked his lips. His groin tightened.

  Martin surmised that his voluptuous, middle-aged admirer was a widow on the prowl. Just what he needed to dispel this gnawing frustration.

  He crossed the room as the sounds of the waltz came to an end. Stopping at the refreshment table, Martin pretended to look for something to quench his thirst. What he needed quenched was something entirely different.

  The woman slid beside him, her heady scent warmed his blood, aroused his cock. Her gloved hand brushed against his elbow.

  “Good evening.” He kept his voice light and pleasant.

  “Evening to you, sir.” She opened up her fan and waved it against her face. She was not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but she was enough to satisfy his hunger. “I’m amazed I have not seen you before.”

  Martin curled his lip. “I am not often in town.”

  “Oh?” The answer seemed to interest her more. She moved slightly so that her breasts now pressed against his arm.

  He steeled himself, clenched his teeth. He’d not had a woman since that whore a week ago but he also did not want to be swayed from his purpose. Vivian Suttley was somewhere in this city and he would find her.

  “Have you pledged yourself to dance the whole evening?” Her sultry, blue eyes winked at him. “Or do you have the time for a walk in the garden perhaps?”

  Martin took a swallow of tart lemonade as if he couldn’t care less for her offer. “Actually, I was looking for someone.”

  “Someone? And old friend?”

  “You could say that.”

  She skimmed her tongue across her lower lip. “I believe I am acquainted with everyone worthy of knowing. Perhaps I can help you.”

  Martin straightened his shoulders, finding it odd that she had yet to ask his name. He cared not for hers. He used people the way a farmer used his horse. They could plow his field or take him to town, it didn’t matter to him.

  He slid her a sideways glance. “Perhaps you can. Rather than the gardens, are you intimately knowledgeable of this lovely house? The architecture is quite striking.”

  His companion smiled, her eyes sparkled. “As a matter of fact, I am. Follow me.”

  With the crush of the crowd, Martin doubted their absence would be noticed. Not that he cared for that either. As a man, he was permitted to seek his pleasures, as long as they held within the boundaries. He could not rape a debutante, but he could fornicate with a willing widow.

  She proceeded to point out several rooms, none of which he took much note of. A few things caught his eye if he had a mind to pocket them for profit. But right now he had other more pressing matters on his mind.

  Achieve pleasure. Locate Vivian.

  At the far end of the dimly glowing hallway, the widow opened a door and shut it quickly behind him. The room was dark, save for the glow of the moon through the windows. The smell of dust and leather told him he was in a library.

  “I simply must be the first to have you,” she cooed as her fingers crawled up his chest.

  Martin snatched her wrist and slammed her back against the door. Her breath hitched, his cock throbbed. He plundered her mouth, greedily suckling her tongue until she writhed against him.

  “You know of everyone you say?” He squeezed her breast.

  She whimpered. He didn’t know if it was from tenderness or desire. Nor did he care.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Whom do you search for?”

  “Vivian Suttley, the daughter of Lord Whistlebury, baron.”

  She reached around and grabbed at his ass, pinching him with the same strength he’d done her. Reckless fire blazed through his veins. He bent low and licked the tops of her breasts.

  “Oh my!” She gasped, bucked her hips. “I think I recall that…that name. When was her first season in London?”

  Martin couldn’t remember. His brain was fuzzy. He pressed his lips against her ear. “Last year. No, two years ago.”

  The widow reached for his cock. His whole body shuddered as his arousal pulsed in her hand. “Take it off. Oh, please hurry.”

  He snatched her wrists again and clenched them behind her back. “Vivian. Tell me where to find her.”

  “I…I don’t know. I don’t recall seeing her this year.” Her hips thrust out to him again. “Please…”

  Martin reached under her skirt and yanked at the petticoats and other annoying garments blocking his quest. “What about Lady Ethington, Lord Whistlebury’s cousin? Do you know of her?”

  She threw her head back, panted. “Yes, damn you. I know of her.”

  He let go of her wrists and unbuttoned his pants. His pulse crashed inside his skull. “Which homes does she frequent? Will she come here tonight?”

  “No. She won’t be…here…tonight.”

  Martin dropped his trousers, pushed her skirt up and out of the way. He lifted her leg then slammed his way inside her waiting heat. He pounded her relentlessly, the ravenous passion welling up to an excruciating fervor.

  The widow cried out, her channel convulsing around his cock. But he wasn’t finished.

  “Tell…me…how…to…find…Lady…Ethington.”

  Martin pulled out of her and in a swift movement, borne from years of practice, bent her across the arm of the nearest chair.

  “You’ll not…not find her at the balls.”

  Martin licked her bare cheeks, then bit them. She squealed and trembled, excited at the pain he created for her. He nipped the soft skin several more times then straightened. “Where is she?”

  “At…at home. She’s an invalid. Hasn’t—hasn’t come to her London house for years.”

  Bloody hell! Sharp fury hurtled through his bloo
dstream, dimming his sight. Which one of them had lied? Vivian or her father?

  Wrath merged with sadistic craving. He plunged inside her wetness for lubrication and then forced his slick cock into her tight hole. She screamed, then moaned.

  Martin thrust, oblivious to anything but intense rage and blinding lust, until he collapsed in satisfied exhaustion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Could a flower grow in the shadow of such a menacing structure?

  Vivian glanced over at the manor. It stood as severe and daunting as its master. The afternoon sun set on the other side, leaving long shadows to slither through her garden like a wary snake.

  If this garden grew, survived, matured, then certainly there was hope for Silverstone Manor. And for its master.

  With the majority of the vines and dead brush cleared away, Vivian could now begin her planting. She’d secured a shovel from Pinkley, resisted his reluctant offer of help, and set out the seeds and saplings.

  The temperature was surprisingly warm with only a scant breeze to cool her skin. Vivian glanced upward. No clouds rolled over the cliff, no hint of rain spiced the air. Normally she’d relish such a delightful change in the weather, but today rain would help her garden.

  She brushed the hair from her face with the back of her hand and sighed. She’d best get started on her next chore of digging.

  “I could have someone out here to help you with that.”

  Vivian sucked in her breath, her nerves afire. Without looking behind her, she began to dig her third hole. “Mr. Pinkley offered but I declined his aid.”

  Lord Ashworth chuckled. “And yet that does not surprise me.”

  Her lips curved but she continued her task. “About Mr. Pinkley offering or me declining?”

  His hand captured her elbow, warmth spread to her fingertips. “You refusing, of course.” His voice shimmied down her spine, stealing her breath. “Pinkley does surprise me, however. He told me he didn’t like you.”

  Vivian straightened then wheeled around. “He told you such a thing? Why, I’ve been nothing but kind since I arrived.”

  Lord Ashworth’s laughter danced through the branches and across her heart. “Pinkley has said nothing of the sort. But I did get you to look at me, didn’t I?”

  Vivian’s lips twitched. So perhaps she had been avoiding him for the last day. Not that she’d been rude exactly, just a somewhat shy. Something about what transpired a day or so ago in her room left her feeling a bit uneasy, distracted. For just the tiniest moments, he’d lost control. He’d allowed her to guide him, to bring him pleasure.

  Feeling her cheeks flush, Vivian turned back to the hole. “You are devious, my lord.”

  “Yes, perhaps. But I do what’s necessary.” He took the shovel from her hands. “Now tell me what is necessary.”

  She lifted her eyes to his face, startled at the genuine shine of concentration upon it. His gray eyes held determination and a slice of amusement.

  “Certainly you aren’t asking to help me turn up this garden.”

  “And why not?” His lips bowed, softening the line of his scar. “Do I not look capable of yielding such a tool?”

  “Well, yes but—”

  “Perhaps you think I lack the skill or the strength to lift the heavy clumps of dirt as you do.”

  “No, not at all—”

  He drove the point into the soft earth. “Then it must be that you think me too full of myself to sully my hands and clothes.”

  Vivian laughed aloud. He was more capable than any man she’d ever met, stronger than any man she might ever meet again. As for getting himself sullied…

  “You told me the other night that you did not get dirty as a child.”

  The muscles of his shoulders and back flinched beneath his white shirt as he tossed a bit of dirt onto the pile. “I said no such thing.”

  “Yes, you did. You told me that I got dirty far more than you ever did as a boy.”

  His gaze raked over her dress. Awareness eddied through her bloodstream. Her mouth dried.

  “And today you are yet again dirtier than I ever was.”

  “But boys are rough and tumble. They like to climb trees and hunt for frogs.” She twirled around, her mind alive with possibilities. “If a boy lived here he would climb that trellis near the kitchen. And he’d find himself at Briarwater each afternoon looking for tadpoles. I’m sure he’d—”

  “Miss Suttley.”

  Vivian turned back at the whispered words. Pain—and was it sadness?—lurked within his eyes. For a moment, she could see through his careful façade to the vulnerable man underneath. He spoke volumes to her without saying a word. Whether the boy she heard had any relation to Lord Ashworth or not, he had once experienced the overpowering love for a child.

  She waited for him to continue. He looked as if he debated telling her something, but then decided against it and went back to his digging.

  Vivian eased off the topic of the mysterious boy. “So you spent most summers elsewhere then.”

  “No.” He grunted as he lifted a heavy yield of dirt. “I spent many summers here. But I wasn’t permitted to do most things you mentioned. As the oldest son, the only son, I had far too much to study.”

  Vivian’s throat tightened. She put her hand on his arm and stilled his movements. “You weren’t permitted to be a child.”

  His gaze met hers. She gasped at the rawness she saw within. She brushed his cheek tenderly. “There must first be the boy before there can be the man.”

  His dirt-covered hands cupped her jaw. “Vivian…”

  “What is it, my lord? What are you afraid to tell me?”

  The light breeze blew a scented ribbon of her new flowers between them. Concentrating, he stared at her, struggled within himself.

  She wanted him to tell her of the boy, for she would not mention it unless she saw or heard him again. But Vivian knew that the child was only one of many secrets lurking within the stone walls of that house. Eventually she would uncover them and bring them to the light of day.

  “I do say you lied to me.” The frigid voice of Lady Wainscott ruined Vivian’s chance for the day.

  They turned in unison to find her standing at the edge of the upturned garden like an elegant flower. Her delicate pink stripes and vivid green bows must be the essence of London fashion yet it couldn’t be more outlandish for Silverstone Manor.

  Lord Ashworth tensed beside her. “In what manner have I lied, Lady Wainscott?”

  “You said you did not employ a gardener. But it appears that you do. You are not only the master here but a servant, as well.” The woman tried to lift her voice with humor but iciness weighed it down.

  “Have you come to join us?” Steel replaced softness. Where a moment ago Lord Ashworth was quiet and vulnerable, he once again returned to the gruff man she’d first met.

  Lady Wainscott gave a small snort. “While I’m sure it may be fun to dig in the mud now and then, I’m afraid I’m not wearing the appropriate dress.” Vivian cringed as a pair of chilly blue eyes perused her clothing. “But I see Miss Suttley has come abundantly prepared.”

  Embarrassment surged into anger. “I have others if you’d care to borrow one.”

  The other woman’s face paled at the mere suggestion of it, but she recovered quickly and lifted her chin. “I think perhaps, Miss Suttley, it would behoove you to borrow some of my dresses. As a matter of fact, I have some I was ready to give my maid. I’ll have them sent to your room instead.”

  Vivian clenched her hands. The nerve of this woman. It wasn’t as if Vivian didn’t own any nicer dresses or know how to present herself in the proper situations. But when she ran from her home during the night, fear replacing the blood pumping through her heart, she did not have the time to plan or pack everything.

  “Miss Suttley.” Lord Ashworth’s voice rang out like village church bells.

  She turned to look at him and drew in a sharp intake of breath at the distant mask he now wore. It was as if t
he previous moments never occurred. She cleared her throat, moving aside the sudden welling of defeat and emptiness. “Yes, my lord?”

  “On this point I must agree with Lady Wainscott.” His gaze held hers, not shying away from what appeared to be sudden betrayal. “You are in need of new clothing.”

  Vivian clenched her teeth to withhold her ire. Even if that were the case, was it necessary to say it in front of her conniving adversary? Had the man any sense at all or was he starting to feel something for his former love?

  She set her chin. “I’ll not wear her cast-offs.” She doubted they would even fit her. And as she said it, she realized that the uptight woman was only goading her. She probably never intended to pass along her clothing.

  “Of course not. I can have a dressmaker come to the manor or you can go into town, whichever you choose.”

  If the other villagers believed as the postmistress did, Vivian doubted a dressmaker would set foot upon this land. As long as they didn’t lock the gates after her, she saw no other choice than to venture down to the village.

  However, she would not let Lord Ashworth get away with injuring her pride so easily. She took the shovel from his hands and stabbed at the dirt.

  “I am hopeful, my lord, that you will not expect me to continue working in this garden in a dress such as that.” She lifted the shovel handle to point at the frilly pink and green costume. The sudden motion sent dirt soaring into the air and raining over both people standing behind her.

  Vivian stifled a giggle. Lord Ashworth forced his grin into a frown. Lady Wainscott screamed, glared at her with murderous intent and then stomped back to the house.

  He brushed the soil from his shirt, still struggling to keep his rigidity in check. “I believe that would have been even more amusing if you had done it deliberately.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “How do you know I did not?”

  He swept wayward strands from her face. “Because for all the fire you have burning inside of you, malice is not part of your character.”

  Despite the urge to brush her finger across his lips, Vivian remained immobile. “How do you know who I am?”

  “You saved an egg from a hungry fox. You saw the possibility of beauty in a patch of dead vines.” His voice dropped. “You touch me without revulsion.”