Beauty and the Wolf

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MARINA MYLES

eKENSINGTON BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

The publication of my first novel is a dream come true and I am indebted to everyone involved. A huge thank you goes to my fabulous editor,
Peter Senftleben
, who gave me this opportunity and guided
Beauty and the Wolf
so beautifully; my agent,
Louise Fury
, whose good humor, energy, and expertise is beyond admirable; the masterful crew at Kensington; friends and fellow authors,
Beth Kendrick
and
Cathy McDavid
, who offered me tons of keen insight and advice; and my wonderful critique partners,
Terri Molina Dunham
,
Helen King
, and
Stacey Goitia
. (We’ve certainly had some good times at Denny’s and Starbucks!)

Last but not least, I’d like to thank my amazing parents,
Mary Ann
and
Marino Morelli
. They taught me to never give up on anything—and I’m so glad they did!

The moon has the power to tear reason out of man’s
head by depriving him of human and cerebral virtues.

—PARACELSUS, sixteenth-century physician

 

 

 

When stars align at the hand of the Underworld God,
a chosen few are but puppets on strings.

—Ancient Egyptian proverb

 

The realization bubbled to the surface of Lord Draven Winthrop’s liquor-weighted mind. At the gong of the town clock, he shot up in bed and peered at his surroundings. The décor of the small space was unfamiliar, but the stench of stale ale and the sound of muffled laughter told him he was in a room over the tavern.

How had he ended up here—naked?

As he forced his cloudy vision to focus on the bedside clock, he gave another start.
Ten
A.M.
Bloody hell!

In precisely thirty minutes, he was scheduled to exchange wedding vows with Miss Isabella Farrington. That didn’t leave him much time to return to his estate, dress, and reach St. John’s Abbey on the opposite end of town.

He stroked a hand over his face and stopped when he felt the rough fabric of a bandage. An image broke through the fog in his head. The wolf coming out of nowhere last night, toppling him from his horse, and lunging for him before he could get away. He’d gone for his revolver just as the wolf had sunken its teeth into his hand.

Draven reached for the bandage and peeled it back. The wounds were gone.
Am I seeing things?

“Is the roguish Earl of Dunwich having second thoughts about getting married today?” The raven-haired beauty lying beside him propped herself up on one elbow.

He stared at her, trying to remember how he’d ended up in her bed. He had been on his way to the tavern for a drink. She was the barmaid who’d attended to his wounds; he remembered that much.

He also remembered that, despite her beauty, the pleasure in his balls had evaporated and he’d failed to perform for the first time in his life. While the girl’s catlike blue eyes had shone with mischief and her creamy breasts had filled his hands like two, perfect mounds of silk, her lips couldn’t match his fiancée’s plump, glossy mouth. Nor did her nose twitch enchantingly as did Isabella’s when he attempted a joke.

Good God
. Was he developing feelings for the woman he was marrying? It was impossible. Love was something Draven didn’t believe in.

“Are you having second thoughts?” she repeated.

His mouth went dry. Ignoring her question, he climbed out of bed to search for his clothes.

“If you’re to marry, m’lord, I hope you won’t lose your lust for fun.” The barmaid giggled like a schoolgirl. “Perhaps you can come back to my room later so we can finish what we started last night.”

He pointed an unsteady finger at her and smiled. “You’re a tarty one. But I do not intend to disgrace my new bride.”

“You mean to say the Earl of Madness is going to be a respectable man now?” she asked.

The mention of his public nickname made Draven cringe. It wasn’t a secret he had spent time in an asylum when he was sixteen years old. Who wouldn’t have come to the edge of madness after that horrible night in the woods—a night he could barely bring himself to think of? Being released had been a godsend, but it was a wonder he still had his wits about him—under the threat of the Gypsy’s curse, that is.

Why couldn’t he bury the reason for his incarceration along with the rest of his dark past?

He stared at his hand again.
Could there be truth to the blasted hex?

Despite his drunken state and the overzealous barmaid, maybe the wolf attack happened. If it had—and if his curse came to life beneath this evening’s full moon—what would he have gotten his new bride into so bloody soon?

Draven yanked on his clothes and left the tavern room in a hurry. Once he reached his estate, he managed to prepare himself for the wedding—though the preparation was done between rounds of whiskey shots. His late arrival at the abbey garnered him a barrage of contentious stares, but he couldn’t care less. He faced the sour expressions of the guests with his shoulders pinned back. After all, he was Lord Draven Winthrop, infamous rake and nonbeliever in love. His reputation entitled him to carry on as if he was at the worst wedding in the world and that was damn near what was about to take place.

His gaze wavered to the back of the church. There stood his bride. Draped in an understated wedding gown of tiny pearls and lace, Isabella beamed as brightly as the flowers encircling her head. Draven gulped, and as sunlight fell upon his bride’s sheer veil, he saw hope crest in her eyes.

With her shining auburn hair and fine features, she was a beautiful woman—even breathtaking. Why then did she represent a dark cupid about to pierce him with a fatal arrow? Draven was minutes away from losing his freedom, but that wasn’t what was bothering him most. Under the threat of his curse, he couldn’t afford to get too attached to his new wife. It was true that she’d begun to tug at his heartstrings, but he was marrying her for a specific purpose—and he intended to keep things to that.

The first strains of organ music bellowed and Draven’s vision blurred. Isabella slid a foot forward and while she made her way down the aisle, he remembered the wolf bite he’d suffered last night. Suddenly he felt nauseous.

In that moment, Draven experienced a new emotion: fear. As Isabella inched closer, he knew this was all wrong—that he was putting her in danger—yet he accepted her hand when she presented it to him. Turning toward the priest with a knot in his gut, he heard something about Isabella honoring and obeying him, followed by something about him taking her for his lawfully wedded wife. Uttering words he couldn’t be sure were correct, he swiveled to face his bride and groped for her hands. He lost himself in the warmth of her stare before she tilted her pert nose upward in anticipation of his kiss. Responding, he lifted her veil and cupped her small, cameo-shaped face. Then he brought his mouth to her lips. A tremendous spark ignited within him—and he was scared for the second time that day.

Disliking the feeling intensely, Draven forced his heart to freeze into the iceberg it had always been. And as he drew away from the kiss, he was left with nothing but cold insensitivity.

 

Isabella Farrington—now Lady Draven Winthrop, Countess of Dunwich—had only been married for seven hours but she was certain she’d just made the worst mistake of her life. Jostling inside the polished wedding coach that bore the Winthrop crest, she lunged forward in an ungraceful heap when it came to a stop.

Her groom shot her a callous look. “We have arrived.”

Catching a glimpse of her new home through the window, Isabella pressed her fingers together to keep them from shaking. Draven’s scowl prompted her out of the carriage and dread raced along her spine as she looked up at the imposing structure before her.

Set on a sloping bluff, the house known as Thorncliff Towers loomed over her like an enormous, vine-clad fortress. With its sky-high turrets, repressive stone façade, and arcane courtyard, it appeared as unwelcoming as Draven had been inside the carriage.

Her husband exited the coach behind her, a mess of a newly married man. Tugging on the points of his vest beneath his greatcoat of gold brocade, he indicated to the footman to open the front doors. Then, ignoring Isabella completely, he careened across the pebbled driveway in a cloud of port and cigar fumes.

Isabella watched him reach the portico before she gathered her skirts. As she scurried through the open doorway, she nodded to the aged female servant who greeted her. Then, turning her gaze to the manor’s interior, she gave a shudder. Its décor was the epitome of melancholia and neglect. Worn carpets covered yards of scuffed parquet flooring while furniture upholstered in shades of gray filled a vast parlor. An enormous staircase, flanked by gryphon-topped newel posts, anchored the main hall and faced an unlit hearth positioned on another wall.

Draven stood beside Isabella in the foyer. Twilight’s haze slanted through a window and illuminated his profile. From his straight, patrician nose to his darkly curled lashes that brushed the rise of his cheekbones, he
looked
like he could be her Prince Charming. But today her boorish groom had destroyed her dream of living a fairy tale.

Draven had appeared at the altar thirty minutes late, unrecognizable and completely foxed. After mucking their vows—who on earth was Laura?—he had either forgotten or disregarded her one request: a bridal bouquet of red roses. Following an embarrassing reception during which they were served cold finger sandwiches and cheap wine, he actually fell asleep in the carriage on the way to Thorncliff Towers. Mouth agape, he’d snored like a pig.

Now he gave Isabella an impatient frown as he gestured her up the stairs. She climbed the grand staircase in excruciating silence, highly aware of his hand pressed to the small of her back. Amid walls that seemed hushed by dark secrets, the contact—and thoughts of the intimacy soon to come—made her legs quake.

Maybe, she considered, Draven was still too drunk to mind her lack of experience.

Perhaps he’ll fall asleep in the middle of our lovemaking
.

But when Isabella turned around, his sharpened stare plunged those hopes into a dark abyss.

He took the lead once they reached the fourth story of the house. She continued to follow him until they arrived at a set of double doors.

“My bedchamber,” Draven said without flourish.

She crossed her arms while he looked as though he would prefer to be miles away from here.
From her.

“Isn’t it traditional for a groom to come to his bride’s bedchamber on his wedding night?” She couldn’t hide her disappointment at his lack of gallantry.

“I sleep best in my own bed,” he growled. “The sooner you come to know my preferences, the better off we will be.”

Isabella didn’t dare tell him he was more fun when he drank, especially after he had suggested she try the wine at the reception for the same reason.

With barely a look in her direction, he reached for the door handle.

“You have done nothing but humiliate me today,” she said, biting back a full verbal assault. After all, Draven was her only hope for what she desperately needed: financial help for her downtrodden father. “The least you can do is carry me across the threshold.”

Her husband eyed her for a moment, his dark eyes boring into her very soul. “Very well, but it is the last time I shall carry you anywhere.”

Lifting her off the ground as if she were the lightest of feathers, he transported her through the doorway only to plop her on her feet at once. Then he marched to the window and gazed at the night sky awash with clouds. “You can change in there,” he said, pointing to his dressing room without tearing his stare from the window.

Isabella hurried to the box-sized room. The faint odor of tobacco mixed with sandalwood clung to the air. Since she had refused the help of an abigail, she took her time removing her wedding gown and securing it on a hanger in the wardrobe.

She set aside her shame and pulled on a cream-colored negligee he had supplied and stole a look in the mirror. She was a rather plain sight for a bride. With her auburn curls swept off her face in a simple chignon and her face free of rouge and lip-stain, she had put forth little effort this morning.
And why not?
Her mother, dead a year and two months now, hadn’t been there to help—or hug—her as she prepared to marry a man she hardly knew.

Isabella had been introduced to Draven at a cousin’s birthday fête six weeks ago and his unexpected appearance at the Farringtons’ home in London the next day left her to wonder what a man like him could want with her. When he began to court her, he claimed that his title demanded he marry
someone.
Isabella, in return, had seen Draven as her last resort.

Isabella’s eyes shifted to the very object responsible for her social eviction:
The cursed amulet of Princess Tousret.
The trouble began when word of her dark prophecy spread through London. In no time at all, suitors who’d previously shown her interest vanished into thin air. Further ruination occurred when she was released from her governess position.

Brushing her fingertips over the cool stone that hung around her neck, she told herself to think of her father. After all, she was doing all of this for him.

A noteworthy archaeologist, Sir Harris Farrington had spent the family’s last half-penny on a trip to Egypt to find the amulet. He managed to unearth it, but the necklace wasn’t nearly as valuable as it would have been if he’d found its counterpart, the bracelet of Amenhotep. To add to the disaster, Isabella’s father had pushed the limits of the dig by sending three workers into a deep ravine to search for the bracelet. When the workers died, the gross mismanagement of the venture sunk Harris Farrington’s reputation.

After that, finding a sponsor for future digs proved impossible.

Isabella ran a finger along the stone’s thin, silver chain. When her father had given her the necklace for safekeeping, he had begged her never to don it. But she was a skeptic at heart and didn’t believe in curses. She felt that the best way to protect it was to wear it, and now with the pin money Draven had given her as a wedding gift her father would be able to return to Egypt and search for Amenhotep’s bracelet. It was an enchanted piece of jewelry thought to have the power to undo the stone’s prophecy as well as restore her father’s professional viability.

“What’s taking so long?” Draven’s gruff voice penetrated the wall.

“I’ll be out in a moment!” The mirror bounced back the quiver of Isabella’s voice and the paleness of her face.

Just breathe.
To calm her nerves, she unraveled her hair from its tight chignon and smoothed the freed curls.

“I may fall asleep if you don’t come to bed!” Draven’s snarl caused her to jump.