When she glanced at John, his face was white. But he smiled at her and lifted his glass. “I think this calls for a celebration. Why don’t I see if Cook has any of her special tarts?”
“Well, Vivian, have you nothing to say?”
To say she was stunned would undervalue her true feelings. She had been certain he would ask her to go in the morning. Certain he would be more than ready to have his manor, his life, return to the way it was before she arrived.
She blinked at him.
Charles grinned, his eyes dark with hunger. “Perhaps you would care to discuss it later. In private.”
Vivian nodded. That was it. She needed time to think, to sort out the unsettled gnawing in her gut. Marriage to him was the very thing which brought her here. The sole reason she refused to leave. She should be leaping as Harry was.
Instead, his proposal gave the same cavalier impression as the rest of the conversation. As if he’d just mentioned that trees in the yard needed pruning. He didn’t ask her, didn’t say he loved her, just declared what he wanted.
But how could she be his wife when he would not open himself to her? How could she live here forever when she knew nothing about his past or what brought him to this circumstance?
“Here we are.”
John entered the room followed by a servant girl carrying a tray. He placed a dish before her. “First we serve our newest member of the family.”
She stared at the tart before her, the aroma of apples and currants pleasant, yet nauseating. Her appetite was gone, stolen by shock.
When all had been served, the girl disappeared. Harry dove into his dessert without taking a breath. The others ate too. She just stared at her plate.
“It’s Cook’s specialty,” Charles said between mouthfuls. “You must take a bite or two.”
Vivian nodded and took a taste. The warm apples and sugar melted on her tongue, but there was a bitter trace afterward. It tasted as if Cook had added the wrong spice to the ingredients. No one else seemed to notice or mind.
John lifted his eyebrows. “Well, do tell, Miss Suttley. How does it rate?”
Too polite to make a complaint, Vivian took two more bites then set down her spoon. “I cannot eat another bite. This dinner has been most wonderful.”
She watched the three of them clean their plates, Harry beg for more, and her wine cup refilled. But she’d had enough wine already, for a sudden tiredness pressed down upon her. Her stomach, already shaky from Charles’s statement, twisted and burned.
“I think…” she rubbed her temples. “I think I need to lie down.”
“Vivian, are you ill?”
The flickering candles in the room glowed unnaturally bright, searing her eyes. She must get to her bedchamber.
“Pl-please, excuse me.”
She pushed back from the table and tried her best to make a dignified retreat and not to stumble from the room. She made it down the long hallways, up the grand stairwell, and down the passageway to her room.
Dizzy and nauseous, her door but a few steps away, Vivian sank against a wall. Voices and random moments spun and collided in her brain.
You have set me free. I don’t know how but you’ve done it.
I want to make you my wife.
If you do not leave this place, I will kill you.
She dropped her head to her knees, swallowing the bile slithering up her throat. Oh Lord, she’d not grown ill from the wine or the sudden turn of events.
She’d been poisoned.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Martin climbed into the rented carriage, his jaw throbbing from endless clenching. Dowager Ashworth had done nothing more than turn her nose up at him and walk out of the room. Bitch.
His mother had not been any more help. In fact, she was becoming more and more useless to him.
“21 Grosvenor Square,” he told the driver.
However, his lovely widow friend he’d met at that ball had truly been a fountain of information. Now that he had a child to locate, as well as Vivian, he needed as much of her help as possible.
He would find this child everyone seemed to know about, the boy who could be Ashworth’s son. And his once friend would pay for the betrayal. What better way to draw the man out than by kidnapping the boy? The boy who should be his son. He just had to find that coward.
Martin sat back in the seat and watched the wealthy homes of London speed past. He’d live here one day, or close to it. He may not ever have a title but he could amass the income to buy his way into elite society.
He needed Vivian. Honestly, his widow lover could provide him with more of what he needed to further his goals. She had the class, the title, the home. But then she would have the control. And he would not stand for that.
No, Vivian would do just fine. He’d already claimed her as his own, marked her with his teeth and hands. She was young, beautiful and naive.
“21 Grosvenor Square,” the driver announced, pulling the carriage to a stop.
Martin stepped down into light rain. “I shall return in thirty minutes.”
He’d not fail at this house. She must have the answers he sought, for he knew no one else to contact. Ashworth’s friend, John Hughes, had vanished several years ago and his family would no longer speak of him. All other friends had lost touch with the Viscount.
He banged the heavy knocker. Only Catherine, now the Countess of Wainscott, could have some idea of where Ashworth had gone. And perhaps if he had a child along with him.
The butler led him to the rose-colored parlor. Martin did not sit but waited by the enormous fireplace, inspecting the brass figurines and crystal vases.
Ashworth would have married Catherine had he not decided to visit Mary that night. Bloody fool. He lost his bride, place in society and disappeared into hiding. All for a sample of Mary’s talents.
The sound of rustling skirts drew Martin’s attention. He looked over his shoulder to see Catherine, still exquisite these many years later. Her golden hair shimmered, her skin pure and unblemished. She was one of the marble statues in the main foyer come to life.
Her sharp hazel eyes and amused grin made the hair on his neck rise. “You do not seem surprised to see me.”
“I’m not.”
Martin moved closer, the scent of lavender filling his senses, arousing his groin. “Then perhaps you can tell me why I am here.”
Catherine pointed to a chair. “Won’t you sit?”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Fine then.” She lowered herself to the sofa. “You could only be here to ask me information about Lord Ashworth. You must assume I know of his whereabouts.”
Martin curled his lip. “Perceptive, Lady Wainscott. I’m impressed. Now tell me why it is that I seek him.”
“It has something to do with that whore, of course. Weren’t you the one who introduced them?”
Martin clenched his hands into fists, his pulse quickening. He detested when Mary was called a whore. Yes, she earned her coins that way, but what other way was there on those streets? And, yes, he’d introduced Ashworth to her, but he never expected them to betray him. Or to have a child, by devil! The child that should have been his!
“Her name was Mary Yeardley.”
She raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “But of course.”
“So tell me, Lady Wainscott, do you know where Ashworth resides now?”
“I do.”
Relief buzzed through him. “You can provide me a location?”
“I can. In fact, I could take you there myself should I care to return. But I don’t.”
“Return?”
She nodded, bitterness in her eyes. “I was there not so long ago, you see. Spent several weeks in that awful disaster of a manor. I’ve never been happier to be home.”
Martin sat. This was even better than he expected. “Tell me then, who was there with him? Or does he live alone?”
“Charles wants the world to think he is there alone, but others are there, hidden behi
nd walls and secrets.”
“Who? Who else is there?”
“Well, there is someone there you know. John Hughes.”
So that’s where John disappeared to. He left London, his family, his chance at his inheritance to be with Ashworth in the far countryside? What the hell for? Perhaps Ashworth had a fascination for his own gender like Lord Whistlebury.
Catherine chuckled. “I see you are confused. I was too, believe me. But he is actually in Charles’s employ.”
“As what?”
Her eyes lit up. She was clearly enjoying this conversation, as if she had nothing better to do than divulge all of Ashworth’s dirty secrets. Luckily, he was just the right person to hear them.
“John is there as a tutor.”
A flood of viciousness rushed through his system. So, he’d been right. The baby had been Ashworth’s. Their treachery had gone on longer than he realized, long enough to give them a child. Betrayal of the worst kind.
He swallowed to keep his fury in check. “A tutor, did you say?”
Catherine shifted in her seat, smoothed out her dress. “Unfortunately, I know nothing more than there is a boy there by the name of Harry. I know not his age, nor what he looks like.”
“Harry, eh?”
“So, Mr. Crawford…Martin. I have given you the information I know. Now you can tell me what it is you seek from Charles.”
This time he was the one who laughed. “I seek exactly what you told me.”
“About the child?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you care about this boy?”
Revenge. The boy was proof of Ashworth’s ongoing affair with Mary. He’d pay for his reckless act. What better way to destroy the man than to take his child away? That child would be Martin’s in the end.
The energy of regaining control filled him with a sense of power.
Martin inhaled a deep breath, tasting Catherine’s lavender scent. He licked his lips, briefly perusing her buttermilk skin. Ah, the bright and beautiful marks he could make upon it. “Tell me, Lady Wainscott, why did you go out there to see your former love?”
Her nostrils flared. “I’d rather not discuss that.”
“Because he refused you?” He snorted. “You rejected him first.”
She eyed him coldly. “I had good reason. He did not.”
Martin shrugged, stood. He didn’t care of their relationship, of their pathetic inability to repair the past. He only cared about getting to Ashworth’s lair.
“Thank you for your information. Perhaps I could be of service to you.”
“Yes, actually.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll give you directions to his manor. Are you headed there directly then?”
“Yes. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Catherine smirked. “Well, then, perhaps there is something you could do for me after all.”
He stared at her neck, her bosom, his heart racing again. “What could that be, my lady?”
“Not me.” She lifted her pretty chin. “Set your paws on the woman Ashworth claims is his betrothed.”
“Ah, so there was a reason he snubbed you.”
“I have found myself someone much more worthy. The Earl of Middleborough has asked for my hand. I am much more blessed with this match.”
Martin led the way to the foyer, where the butler retrieved his hat. “Why have me bother with this girl then? Is it that if he won’t have you than he can have no one?”
She scribbled notes on a scented sheet of paper and handed it to him. “The reasons are mine. Just cause him misery. Get rid of her, I don’t care how.”
He chuckled, excited at the possibility of retribution on Ashworth by taking away two of his loves. “I’ll see to it that the lowly chit is no longer good enough for your beloved Charles.”
Catherine laughed. “That lowly chit claimed to be a baron’s daughter. But she behaved and dressed no better than a shop worker.”
Martin paused, his nerves suddenly taut. Could it be…? “Did you say ‘baron’s daughter’?”
“Yes, so she claimed.”
He held his breath. “Her name?”
“Miss Suttley. Why? Do you know her?”
He should have experienced relief. Finally, he knew where Vivian was. Instead a squall of violence gathered in his bloodstream. That bloody bastard had taken both Mary and Vivian from him. While Martin wasted all this time in London, chasing lies and vile memories, Vivian was in his enemy’s manor. Ashworth had probably soiled her by now.
He stormed out of the house, down the steps into a downpour. Rage consumed every piece of his soul as he climbed back into the carriage.
Vivian didn’t end up at that remote manor by accident. No, she overheard Martin say how much he despised the viscount, how he’d hoped he never saw the bastard again. It was the perfect place for her to run from him.
He forced a smirk upon his lips. He’d be there soon. And then there would be hell to pay.
For everyone.
“She’s here, milord.”
Ashworth ran over to Pinkley, who stood guard, like an impenetrable sentinel, over the slumped figure of Vivian.
Heart hammering, Ashworth sank to his knees next to her. “Vivian. Please, what’s happened?”
She whimpered. “So tired.”
He scooped her into his arms, pressing her close to his chest. Pinkley scurried ahead and opened her bedchamber door. “Bring up some tea.”
“Aye, milord.”
Ashworth nudged aside the bed curtains and laid her on the bed. Her face was pale, eyes somewhat sunken. “Was it the wine?”
She blinked haunted eyes at him. “I-I should tell you something.”
He brushed his fingers across her lips. “Shh, tell me later, after you have rested.”
“No, you must understand. I have to tell you now.”
Wind gusted against the walls, quickening drafts through the room. Vivian’s lips trembled.
“You are cold.” He stood, removed her shoes, and pulled the blankets over her. “You must get well soon. We have a wedding to plan.”
Her frigid fingers gripped his hand. “I…I am not so certain there will be a wedding.”
His breath lodged in his throat. Dear Lord, she didn’t think she would die, did she? “You will recover from this. It will pass.”
She managed a smile. “Yes. I am already feeling improved.”
There was a light knock on the door. “The tea, milord.”
Ashworth retrieved the tray. His rapid pulse belied his calm exterior. How could she not want to marry him now? It was her lone reason for remaining here, for driving him mad with chaos and pleasure. She refused to leave, refused his peace. And now that he’d offered it to her, she refused to accept it?
Concern transformed into ire.
He turned to see her up on an elbow, a slight color returning to her cheeks.
“I have offered you what you sought those weeks ago. Now you do not want it?”
“I came to you in a panic, desperate for a solution.”
He crossed his arms, clenched his jaw, but said nothing.
“But things have changed. I have changed. I want more than just this isolated manor and your name.”
“Those were the reasons you stated. Now what do you desire? A fancy house? Trips abroad? Servants to attend you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No. I want to feel fulfilled, have my heart filled with joy.”
“You are saying I cannot give that to you?”
“You will give nothing more than your body.”
Ashworth bristled, then dared to ask the very thing he feared. “You want love?”
Vivian sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, fervor returning her strength. “It isn’t only love. I want trust, devotion, courage. You won’t give me those either.”
Bloody hell, she was rejecting him. Just as Catherine had done. She couldn’t accept him as who he was, she insisted he become something else. Why couldn’t she understand that some secre
ts were better left unsaid?
He was tempted to walk out, drown himself in brandy and sleep until the next sunset. But he would not let her pity him. Instead, he walked over to where she sat upon the bed and stood above her.
“Do you want adoration along with my desire and lust?”
She lifted her chin, her seductive eyes melting his indignation. “I know that you bring me desire. I cannot be near you without my blood humming for your touch.”
He traced a finger down her throat, across her shoulder. “I need you, Vivian. Like your garden needs the rain. Like the flowers need the bees.”
She rested her head against him. “I know that, my lord. But you don’t realize you need more, not only—”
Ashworth would not let her say more. He captured her lips in a kiss. She tasted of the wine, of sweet apples, of intoxicating honeysuckle.
She leaned back, pulling him down with her.
Liquid heat erupted in his veins. He nibbled on her mouth, licked the curve of her ears, cupped her breasts. By God, she would make him whole. He could not rest until she made him complete.
Vivian smoothed her finger down his scar. “Cherish me. Make me believe you cannot live without me.”
Ashworth lifted his face, grinning. “I can easily show you—”
No!
The blood had returned! Bile rose up his throat, choked him.
He leapt back, scrambled from the bed.
“What is it?” She came after him. “It’s happened again, hasn’t it? Tell me what you see.”
He spun away from her, overcome by anguish and misery. He thought she’d cured him of the curse. But it wasn’t gone. Would he never be free from it?
Without looking at her, he headed straight for his adjoining door.
“Don’t you leave me!”
He didn’t stop, but as he went to slam the door behind him, Vivian pushed her way into his room. “I won’t let you run this time.”
He glared at her, bracing himself for the visions, but only determined beauty stared back at him. “Don’t you see? I am not healed. I am still the monster I’ve always been, haunted by memories too painful to speak of.”
“Speak of them and they will be less painful.”
Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 21
