Beauty Tempts the Beast (13 page)

A finger slid in her damp flesh and she shattered.

Intensity burst her tranquility, shocked her awake.

Vivian sat up in her bed, panting. Her pulse thundered in her skull. Or was it the storm still raging outside?

Naked, having tossed her nightdress off earlier, she stared down at her flushed body. Instead of the shame Martin brought, Vivian suddenly felt beautiful. Desirable. Her breath hitched, sensuality bloomed, as her gaze floated over pointed nipples, a smooth stomach and fuzzy, dark hair.

She stretched, like a purring cat, then reached for her blankets.

A wooden floorboard creaked.

She was not alone.

Vivian sat up, her blood chilling.

The far corner of the room was too dark to see if someone stood amongst the shadows. But there had been a noise. She was certain of it.

She swallowed the fear expanding in her throat. There were no monsters. No ghosts. No demons.

Only mortal souls who conspired to rouse terror in her heart. Was one of those souls Lord Ashworth?

“Who’s there?” She pushed the bed curtain aside.

The floor creaked again, a draft of cool air spun through the room, then the tapestry slammed against the wall.

Vivian glanced at the shadows at the door to the hallway, then the door to Lord Ashworth’s room.

Both were closed.

“Make your presence known.”

The fire snapped. Wind whistled. No one answered.

She had enough. She’d been terrorized in the hallway, but she’d not allow it in her bedchamber.

Vivian slid down from the bed and reached for her gown. She quickly pulled it over her head then straightened her shoulders.

“I’ll not sit idle while you spy on me.” She took a step forward. “Be known that I am making my way toward you, so you may as well show yourself.”

But the air was still. The sense of eyes watching her was gone.

She crossed the room with only the light of the fire to guide her, now certain she would find no one standing in the shadows.

The room was empty, save for sleeping spiders.

Someone had been here. She was not going mad. Drafts may whistle about the room, draperies may flutter, fires may dip and brighten, but floorboards did not squeak on their own.

Vivian paced before the tapestry, the wood creaking beneath her feet. Chilly air slipped under her nightdress, blew strands of her hair.

She crossed her arms, nearly shivering, and stopped where the air blew the hardest. How could air blow with such force if she were on the opposite wall from the window? Not only that, the window was closed.

Vivian reached a tentative hand out to the tapestry. The frayed weave was rough against her fingertips as she pushed and poked the fabric. She felt nothing but sturdy wall and then…

“Dear Lord, of course!”

Vivian lifted the edge of the wall-hanging and a blast of air rushed against her skin. The thin, black rectangle in the stones must be an opening to a secret passageway!

A knock at the door startled Vivian. She dropped the tapestry and stepped away from the wall.

“Vivian. May I come in?” Lord Ashworth.

She glanced around for her robe. Where was it? She’d been weak and half-faint when she was brought to bed earlier.

The door latch clicked as Vivian bent to lift open the trunk lid.

“Faith…”

Her knees weakened at the seductive purr in his voice. She rose and turned to face him. A bottomless hunger darkened his stormy eyes, desperation lurked in the tightness of his lips.

Despite her fright of a few moments ago, a dizzying tingle raced down her legs. Her dream came rushing back and the memory of her shattering release stilled her breath. The air between them sizzled, snapped. Drafts surrounded her skin like a lover’s caress, tightened her nipples and dried her mouth.

Vivian stared at him, at the rising chest under his white shirt, and the precise cut of cloth on his muscular legs.

Lord Ashworth cleared his throat then thrust a hand through his hair. “Vivian, I came in to check on you. I heard voices. I…”

His voice trailed off as his gaze swept down the front of her nightgown. She glanced down to see her nipples poking through the thin white fabric.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced away. “I heard a noise. Someone was in my room, watching me.”

“Surely not.”

Vivian lifted her chin, challenged his stare. “I am not hearing things. I know someone was in here.”

He clenched his fists but kept his face unreadable. Something flickered in his eyes. Was it disbelief, anger? She’d not tell him she knew about the secret passage, not until she found out where it led.

“So you are feeling better then?”

His quick change of subject proved his uneasiness in her words.

Vivian nodded, her cheeks warmed. She’d just had the most sensual dream of her life. How would that not make anyone feel better? “I am quite recovered, thank you.”

Lord Ashworth crossed the room and stopped before her. His sandalwood scent surged through her bloodstream. Desire and tension crackled between them. Heat infused her body, scorched her skin. She held her breath and waited for his touch. Her pulse crashed against her eardrums like waves upon a shore.

His hand brushed at her forehead, across the bandage. “Shall I remove this for you, Miss Suttley?”

Down between her legs, a desperate yearning swelled.

Dear Lord, she couldn’t take this any longer. Lord Ashworth had somehow taken away her fear of a man’s touch and now drove her mad with desire. Was she only to find relief in dreams under the cloak of mystery?

Gently, he peeled back the bandage. Vivian studied his lips, the dip in the center, the brush of whiskers along his jaw.

“Ah, there now.” His warm breath sent shivers down her spine. “The cut wasn’t too deep. You shouldn’t have a scar.”

Vivian shrugged. “Having a scar would not bother me.”

Darkness clouded his features, narrowed his eyes. “What do you know of it?”

He spun away but Vivian moved after him. She didn’t intend to offend him, she merely told the truth as she knew it.

She reached out to his face and cupped it with her palm. He was about to brush her off until her fingers traced down the gash on his cheek. He melted.

His eyes fluttered closed, his lips slackened, his breathing went from harsh to calm.

Vivian stroked the line, proving its existence did not give her pause. He was not a monster for it.

Indeed, it only proved he was as mortal as anyone else. And the ripeness of his pain, coupled with the defensive anger, proved he was a man.

Lord Ashworth opened his eyes. His gaze devoured her like a man starving in the desert. He swept down and enveloped her body in his, nudging his leg between her thighs, his mouth slanting upon hers.

Vivian accepted his tongue, tasted a hint of brandy. His kiss was hungry, firm, and yet vulnerable. She gave herself over to his demands, to his quest for control, knowing he yearned to forget his loneliness as she did hers.

His arousal pressed against the curve of her hip. Her inner core throbbed, hurt for his fulfillment.

Lord Ashworth cupped her bottom, pulling her firmly against him, moving her along his shaft.

Quivers scattered through her blood, pinched at her nipples, sparked in her groin. Dear Lord, she was ready to strip herself bare for him.

He rubbed her along his unbending iron, his kiss passionate and dangerous, his tongue plundering her mouth with a hazardous urgency.

One hand left her bottom and snaked its way up her gown to capture her breast. He squeezed it, flicked his thumb across the nipple. Vivian moaned.

His pull on her hastened, his grip tightened.

A wave rose within her, lifted her on her toes, pressed her against his straining erection. She thrust her hips forward.

Lord Ashworth broke off the kiss and nuzzled behind her ear. His tongue lapped at the curve of her neck.

She reached around his waist, holding on to him, feeling his strength and power under her fingertips.

His hands lowered to her hips and yanked her nightdress up her legs. Vivian shuddered as warm, thick fingers caressed her bare thighs, then cradled her bottom. Fingers kneaded her skin, urgent and desperate.

Pain suddenly sliced through her burning hunger. She gasped.

“What is it?” His voice was gruff, yet alarmed.

She clenched her teeth, tried to will the tenderness away. But when he pressed upon the spot again, she could not withhold her whimper.

Lord Ashworth did not ask again. He spun her around and lifted the gown, exposing her flesh to the drafty air.

“Vivian! What’s happened?”

Shame clogged in her throat. Hot tears stung her eyes. “I—I thought they would be gone by now.”

His fingertips glided across the various marks on her bottom and waist, an unexpected sensuality blooming at the gentle caress. The cuts and welts must have diminished to bruises.

He let the gown drop and turned her back to face him. The room stilled, heavy with raw emotion.

Fury contorted Lord Ashworth’s features, deepened his scar. His gray eyes narrowed, dark and perilous.

“Who did this to you, Vivian? Tell me and I will see to it that he never injures you or anyone else again.”

But she could not tell him. She could not let Lord Ashworth know of her connection to Martin Crawford. She used their association to find a safe harbor. Admitting to the relationship would only destroy her sanctity, bring peril to this refuge. Ruin her chance at escape.

His jaw clenched. A vein throbbed at his temple.

Finally, he turned and paced away from her, a tense power caged in his stance. He stopped at the door separating their rooms and cast a glance over his shoulder. A surprising mixture of concern and despondency lurked in his gaze.

“You’ve known a lover, haven’t you?”

Vivian held her breath. Would that be her ultimate dismissal? Would he only wed a virgin? But she could not lie to him, for certainly he would one day learn the truth. Vivian nodded, saying nothing more.

Lord Ashworth’s face relaxed slightly and yet his eyes remained uncertain. She knew not what he thought at the moment, whether her wounds and confession had proved an aid to her cause or thwarted it.

He whispered good night and disappeared into his bedchamber. The click of the door extinguished the low hum pulsing in her bloodstream.

Catherine watched the gloomy sunrise from her window, a troubling abyss widened in her stomach.

Despite being given the “best” room in the manor, she still could not grow accustomed to the peeling wallpaper and fraying tapestries. She had not slept well since she arrived.

Desperation did bizarre things to people. Who would have thought it would lead her back to Charles, back to the man she forced herself to forget?

She once loved him, or loved the thought of being married to him. He had status, prestige and good looks. Her friends were jealous of their courting. He’d been the perfect man. The perfect match. Until that night.

Catherine drew in a shuddering breath and banged her fist on the cold window ledge.

Mystery still surrounded the events of that day. She’d heard various reports from different sources, including Charles, on what occurred. None made much sense. But a few things remained clear in the end.

A prostitute had been killed. Charles was found covered in her blood. A huge gash destroyed his face.

Catherine doubted he had actually killed the woman. The magistrate seemed to believe him, as well.

Yet, the scandal spread through London’s elite faster than the latest fashions. By all accounts, Viscount Ashworth was ruined. In every sense of the word. Catherine and her parents did not want to be connected to the downfall in any way.

And yet, here she stood, in his remote manor. She was not only willing to seduce him but to marry the man. She quite possibly could one day bear his children.

Desperation.

Damn Lord Wainscott and his failed business ventures. Ironic that her first intended husband lost all but his money and the man she married kept all but his money.

“My lady?”

“Come in, Martha.”

Her maid scurried in and did a quick curtsey. “Are you ready to dress, my lady?”

Catherine nodded and stood. She sighed as Martha retrieved her dress for the day and set about preparing the toilet.

She missed her morning rides in Hyde Park, the afternoon calls, the evening dances. She should be making the rounds this year, hunting for the perfect husband to give her what she deserved.

Instead she was in Silverstone Manor, in God-knows-where northern England. The weather was dreadful, the house wretched and her prey resistant.

Damn the dowager, who had made this trip seem like an effortless endeavor. Rekindle Charles’s love for her and capture his hand in marriage. Neither of them anticipated his opposition or that this supposed fiancée would still be present. The Dowager was certain the chit would be long gone by now.

Catherine pulled her gaze from her reflection in the window pane. She did not like who looked back at her. Already the gray dreariness of this place had cast its shadows upon her skin.

“Tell me, Martha, what do you think of Silverstone Manor?”

The girl blanched, her lip trembled. “It-it is right nice, my lady. Very grand indeed.”

“Don’t be concerned you will displease me. I want your honest thoughts. I find it quite dreadful myself.”

Martha’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, my lady. I shivered as we came up the drive and have suffered no peace since we arrived.”

“It has quite an imposing appearance.”

“I-I fear the ghosts.” Martha averted her eyes.

Catherine herself had wondered at the noises echoing in the halls, the drafts wandering through each room. But she did not believe in the mystical.

“No ghosts, Martha, only the poor upkeep of what was once a grandiose manor.”

“Yes, my lady. But there are the rumors…”

“Rumors? Do tell, please.”

Martha bit her lip, her young face puckered in what was either fright or embarrassment. She looked down at her hands. “I’ve heard there is a monster who roams these halls at night.”