Beauty Tempts the Beast (23 page)

Catherine leaned against the wardrobe. “But I was almost married to your best friend.”

“Almost.”

“So, you are bitter at my snub as well.”

At that, he raised an eyebrow. “Actually no. I never wanted him to marry you. I was quite relieved when you broke off of the engagement.”

“Oh really?” John thought she wasn’t good enough? Or perhaps he wanted her for himself. She wasn’t above certain things to get information she needed.

She glanced down at the swell of her breasts, then caught his gaze. “I am available again.”

John laughed. “No, I think not.”

Catherine gasped as her blood curdled into a rage. She marched over to him, hands on her hips. “You tell me what a man your age is doing out in this God-forsaken excuse for a house instead of finding himself a wife.”

He shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

“Do you?” She nodded toward the schoolroom door. “Would it have anything to do with a child here?

Perhaps one by the name of Harry?”

He flinched. She could see he tried not to, but he couldn’t stop the shock at hearing the name. So she has been right. A boy named Harry lived here. But who was he?

“So Charles asked you—paid you handsomely I’ll wager—to come teach this child. He wanted someone he could trust, not an outsider.”

John crossed his arms. “I’ve asked you to leave.”

“Why are you hiding this? Why is Charles keeping this boy a secret?”

“You’ll not get your answers from me.”

She glanced about the room, noting the worn dresser and scuffed floors. “Your loyalty is touching and yet is this really what you want? You live like a servant, not a gentleman.”

“I don’t need worldly goods.”

“You should have joined the clergy then and yet here you are.”

John removed his glasses and set them on his bedside table. “Here I am, for reasons which you will never know.”

“It must have something to do with that boy.”

“Go back to your room, Catherine. Go back to London. There is nothing here for you.”

“Perhaps. But I do enjoy a good mystery, don’t you?”

“I enjoy solitude and privacy, just as Lord Ashworth does.”

She snorted. “You mean loneliness and isolation.”

He rubbed his eyes. “There is nothing more for you to learn tonight. I beg you to let me retire.”

Catherine lifted her chin and gave a careless shrug. “You realize, the more one tries to hide something, the more curious others become.”

John’s face contorted. He snatched her arm and pushed her to the door. “Take up your questioning with Charles. I am merely in his employ.”

Catherine yanked herself free. “You can be certain that I will do just that.”

Vivian surveyed the landscape. The garden was just as she hoped it would be. Just the right amount of shade trees, flowering bushes and hints of color to bloom next summer. Charles had replaced the diseased plants without ever speaking to her about it.

Of course, he’d said very little to her in the last few days. She swallowed against a tightening throat.

Charles had completely withdrawn from her again.

Her nipples ached with memories of that night, of his fingers pressing into her hips, his arousal deep inside of her.

Vivian brushed the dirt from her hands. If Charles would not tell her his secret pain and if he saw no reason to send Lady Wainscott away, then why continue to stay? She’d finished the bloody garden, as she promised.

A gnawing in her gut forced her attention to the upper windows. Harry.

That little imp had burrowed his way into her heart already. He snuck through the secret passageway each evening to tell her about the progress of the duckling. He brought books for her to read. He stole cookies for her to relish. Harry did not tell her whether his father had stopped visiting him recently, but the attention the boy showed her had increased tenfold.

A breeze gusted, bringing the scent of rain. Vivian gathered her gardening utensils and headed back for the house. She didn’t know what she would say to Charles when she found him, but speak to him she would.

His silence, Lady Wainscott’s smug glares and the looming presence of loneliness had become more than she could stand. Could she possibly find refuge elsewhere?

Vivian glanced again at the top windows, where a face pressed up against the glass. Her heart wrenched. The solitary gargoyle jutted from the roof just above. Together the lonely pair seemed an odd match in this isolated manor.

She straightened her back and slipped inside the warped rear door. Before turning left and heading up the staircase, the two locked doors on the right caught her attention.

What was down there? Who was the man who’d emerged from that door?

She tested one handle and found it locked. But the second one startled her by turning freely. The door opened to stairs dropping off into darkness. But when she peered in further, a faint glow of light beckoned from the deep.

Curiosity overtook any apprehension and Vivian slowly descended the steps, making sure to shut the door behind her. Surprisingly no creaks or groans marked her footsteps.

At the landing she could make out several rows of shelves. A few scattered bottles lay covered in a thick layer of grime. Spiders stretched their webs across the empty rows, waiting for unsuspecting victims.

A wine cellar.

Vivian breathed in the damp, dusty air that tasted as if it had been trapped for a thousand years.

The light she had seen glowed beyond a stone archway. She must find Charles, end this miserable awkwardness between them. And yet, that light summoned her, drawing her forth as if a rope were tied about her waist.

Vivian gasped as she entered the next chamber. This room held more playthings than she could count.

Rocking horses. Balls. Jacks. A train set. They littered the walls, as if she’d stepped into a toy store.

Puzzles. Soldiers. Drums and a horn.

Dear Lord, this must be a playroom for Harry. Perhaps for days when the weather was frightful. Or, for when company arrived and his father must hide him away.

Tears collected in her eyes. Harry was such a happy boy, one of mischief and delight. Why did Charles keep him in this isolated manor, far away from others who might love him?

She’d seen enough.

Vivian straightened her shoulders and crossed under the archway toward the stairs.

The light vanished.

Darkness dropped around her like the shroud of a heavy blanket. Vivian fought for air, reached her hands out to feel for something. Anything.

She could see nothing. Not her fingers before her face, not shadows against the wall.

Fear rose up her throat and lodged into a sob.

Her heart stopped as a noise creaked behind her. Something stood at her back, breath warm on her head. Powerful hands clamped onto her arms.

Vivian struggled, but she was held firm, her skin bruised with a ferocious power. “Re—release me!”

“Get out of this house.” The monster spoke to her, words murmured deep with hatred.

She smelled a man’s soap, a hint of sandalwood. Dear God, could this be Charles? “Who—who are you?”

He wrapped one arm about her shoulders, yanking her back against his chest. The other hand closed about her throat. “Go or you will never see daylight again.”

His fingers tightened, slowly cutting off her air supply. Bright spots swam before her eyes. She started to struggle but found it useless.

Her mother. Harry.

Their faces, voices, smiles rose up in her mind. She had to see them again. They needed her. She needed them.

Vivian stomped the heel of her shoe back, connecting with the foot of the man behind her. He howled, his hands falling away from her body.

She stumbled forward into the blackness, anywhere away from his reach.

“Damn you, bitch.” Pain increased the loathing in his voice, though the words themselves were no more than a whisper. “Mark my words. If you do not leave this place, I will kill you.”

Vivian held her breath, her whimper, and remained still, lest he make a move for her again.

Finally, he let out a low growl and she heard him retreat into the back chamber. Sounds of toys being crushed under foot and items being knocked over followed his withdrawal. The noises grew dimmer as he somehow made his way farther into the depths of the cellar. Then, there was nothing. Another secret passageway must have helped him to escape.

Vivian stood in the utter darkness as her pulse roared in her ears, the taste of unshed tears flooded her mouth. She tried to remember the layout of this first room but she could not. Her only focus had been the rows of empty wine storage and the many spider webs. Once she had seen the light and chamber of toys, she had not paid attention to anything else.

She trembled. Had it been this cold before? Would there be a chair in her path?

Vivian took a step forward, her hands before her as a shield. She walked in the abyss of a moonless sky, with no stars to guide her, no sensations to orient her. She took a few hesitating steps and found nothing in her path. In fact, nothing marked her course for several strides.

Then Vivian’s toe banged on a hard object. She stumbled then fell forward, landing on her knees. The stone floor jarred and bruised her bones, eliciting a cry of pain and outrage.

Tears burned in her eyes as she turned over onto her bottom and pulled her legs up to her chest.

Vivian huddl ed into a ball and rested a cheek on sore knees.

She’d been buried alive in a tomb, forced to endure petrifying darkness.

Where no one could hear her scream.

Ashworth felt like a bloody idiot. But when he saw Catherine heading down the long hallway, a smirk on her lips and a gleam in her eye, he had to escape. His male pride suffered but he could not tolerate her voice, her snide comments, her goading questions.

He took two steps at a time down the rear stairwell. Catherine would never come down these steps, which were caked with mud and adorned with fluttering cobwebs.

He stepped onto the worn stone floor, where drops of water collected before the warped door. The door Vivian often used to access her garden. The door which had remained closed until she arrived and demanded it opened.

Vivian.

An anchor weighed in his gut.

For the past three nights he had thought of nothing but her luscious body over his, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. As it had then, his flesh hardened. Even without watching their union, he could imagine it in his mind, feel it along the hardness of his staff. He’d hoped that one incident would have cured him of this desperate need, but he only craved more. More.

Shame and guilt snaked through his bloodstream and he clenched his hands into fists. He hadn’t thought of her needs, hadn’t given her the adoration she deserved.

He was a fool. A wretched, tormented, lascivious fool.

“Charles?”

Damn. Catherine must have seen him nip down that stairwell. She still stood at the top, possibly debating whether to dirty her dress by attempting to descend them. It depended on how important it was that she confront him.

“Lord Ashworth. Did you come down this way? Answer me, please.”

Like bloody hell he would.

Ashworth glanced about him. He had four choices. Go back up the stairs and face the witch. Go out the back door and into the yard, where she would most likely follow him. Or go through one of these other two doors. One led to the old kitchen he had shut down when he had the new one built. The other led to the wine cellar, where Harry played when the weather was too unpleasant.

Her footsteps moved away. Still, he snatched the lamp sitting on an ancient table in the corner and lit it with the matches from the drawer.

The handle to the door was unlocked. John and Harry must be in the schoolroom instead. It didn’t matter. He could easily lose himself in the shadowed rooms for an hour. Hell, he’d even been known to put together a puzzle or two.

Ashworth entered the stairwell and closed the door behind him, locking it carefully in case Catherine chose to follow.

“Is—is someone there?”

Was that raw, desperate voice from Vivian?

His heart shuddered as he bounded down the stairs. The light extended on a few feet before him. Was she down here in the pitch darkness?

“Miss Suttley?”

“He—here, my lord.”

Her voice shook.

Ashworth swallowed, maneuvered around an old sofa and table and found her drawn up into a ball on the floor. The light from the lamp stuck long shadows across her face, tearing at his soul. Her shining eyes resembled a lost, frightened child. Alone. Bewildered. Vulnerable.

An impulse ached to pull her into his arms, but he forced it away. It had been several days since he had spoken to her. Damn if he didn’t fear her reaction to what they’d done.

He set the lamp down upon the table. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head but didn’t rise.

“What are you doing down here, Miss Suttley? And in the dark…?”

“My curiosity call—called to me. A light had been burning when I arrived…” Her voice trailed off but one of her hands rose up to her throat.

Her curiosity. If given the opportunity she’d turn over every stone in the yard, open every book in this house, disturb every half-dead soul. “What happened to the light?”

Vivian glanced away, unwilling to tell him what transpired to leave her in such a state of distress. No matter. He was here now and she could go.

“Come.” He held his hand out to her. “Stand. Now you can see your way back.”

She accepted his hand and rose from the floor. The fear which had previously stolen over her vanished with the lift of her chin. “I still wish to speak with you. Is there somewhere else we can be alone?”

Why would she seek him out? To berate him for his shameless lack of tenderness? To call him on his avoidance of her presence?

“Follow me.” He led them up the steps and down a back hallway to an antechamber of the unused great hall. With only one heavily draped window, the room was nearly as dark as the wine cellar. He lit a small lamp.

Vivian immediately lowered herself to the sofa. “Sit.” She pointed to the open spot beside her. “I don’t care for you towering over me like that.”