Beauty Tempts the Beast (6 page)

Still, Lord Ashworth’s size and sheer strength made her pause. He could harm her easily if so driven…but he wouldn’t. This was the man who once saved her.

“You will hear my rant. This is my house. You are my guest.”

Vivian looked away from the torment reflecting in his eyes. She pushed back from the table.

“According to you, I will not be your guest any longer.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “I would like you to stay…until this guest leaves.”

Her breath caught, heart kicked up its rhythm. He was allowing her stay? Oh Lord, could it be true that she wouldn’t have to run any longer?

Something—or someone—had changed his mind. “Who is this new guest?”

He went to the windows and leaned against them then crossed his arms. No further sunlight graced the walls, only the dim offerings of clouded sky. “Lady Wainscott.”

“Who is she?”

Lord Ashworth turned his attention to the yard below. “Someone I once thought to marry, but then…”

A sigh, but nothing more.

Vivian fought for a sustaining breath. It was the young woman she saw him with that day. What she thought was an innocent trip to the garden with a friendly duke had been interrupted by Lord Ashworth and his betrothed. At twelve, she did not understand much of the argument between the two gentlemen or why she was warned to stay away from the duke. It was months later when Vivian learned that interruption may have saved her life.

And now the woman he once loved was coming to visit. It would be easy for him to fall for her again, easy to overlook the stranger who had invaded his peace.

She swallowed, her throat tight. “Why is it that you want me to remain during her visit?”

He turned his face so that she only saw the glowing length of the scar. “I want her stay to be as short as possible. I would like for her to believe you and I will marry.”

She grew more confused by the moment. “Does this mean we are to be wed as you promised?”

His shoulders tensed. “It shouldn’t take long for her to see that my interest is gone. Once she goes, I will give you whatever riches you desire.”

So his answer was no. Still, this gave her the opportunity to remain here longer. An opportunity to possibly change his mind.

But could she watch this other woman win him over? How could she possibly compete with a woman he once thought to marry?

“I—I do not know, my lord.”

Lord Ashworth said nothing. He still would not turn to her, but stared out the windows. An old clock’s soft ticking rippled through the silent room.

Vivian turned back to the table and took a sip of her juice.

“What will it take to get you to do this for me?” The words were clipped, hard, determined.

A real proposal, a wedding, a promise of your love. Something that will guarantee Martin will never
find me.

But she said none of those. “I’m not certain what can.”

“The garden.”

She twisted to see him. “My lord?”

“What if I provide you with new saplings and flowers? Will you stay until there is life out there again?”

Life in the garden. She could finish the project she started, bring beauty to this dead estate. Her mouth dried with the anticipation of once again planting, of recreating the garden her mother designed.

But could she sacrifice her integrity and bear witness to Lord Ashworth’s former love? She could easily recall the adoration in his eyes that day. Why had they not married?

Suddenly he was before her, dropping to his knees. Her breath stilled as his finger traced her jaw. A thrill swirled in her belly and thrummed in her pulse.

“Vivian.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Only you can bring beauty to Silverstone. Can you stay, just for a time?”

Lord, she was a fool, charmed by a man claiming to be a monster. She only hoped she didn’t regret it later.

Inhaling his sandalwood scent, Vivian licked her lips. “Very well, my lord, I will stay.” Where else would she go?

A grin curved his lips, tempting her to brush her finger against them. Instead, she recoiled from his allure and sat back against the chair. “Until the garden is complete.”

An unfamiliar quiver raced up Ashworth’s spine. He leaned closer to the thickly paned glass, feeling the air swirl between the window and the stones. Vivian cleared the garden down below. Despite that she was little more than a dress and dark hair from this viewpoint on the top floor, he could not take his eyes from her.

“Will we meet her?”

Ashworth glanced at the man beside him, breathing in that ever-present scent of musty books and chalk. Through round lenses of wire-rimmed glasses, warm brown eyes stared back.

“I haven’t decided, John.”

The man jerked his blond head toward the rear of the room. “He’ll learn of her soon.”

“I know.” Ashworth peered down below again, but could not ignore the incessant tickle under his skin. It was unwise to keep Vivian here. A fool’s mission. But how else could he keep Lady Wainscott— Catherine—from invading his heart once more? She had already destroyed it once. He could not allow for it again.

A hand settled on his arm. “Charles.”

Ashworth flinched at his given name. Only his friends and his mother called him that. And now he had only John Hughes to call a friend. The others were lost to shame, humiliation…and horror.

He clenched his teeth, then swallowed. His heart hammered wildly, He could not forget the visions of last night, the sights of Vivian enshrouded in blood. Drawing in a sustaining breath, he turned to a man who should have given up on him long ago. John should have his own bride, his own children. But he gave it all up to tutor Harry. How could Ashworth ever repay him such a debt?

“Catherine is paying us a visit.”

John’s sharp intake of breath spoke of his surprise. “Catherine? After all these years? Why would she come here, didn’t she marry Lord Wainscott?”

“That she did. I assume the man has passed on.”

They watched Vivian below as she pulled heavy branches from one side of the garden to a pile on the far end. A slant of sunlight gleamed off her shimmering black hair as she stopped to wipe her forehead.

“I have asked Miss Suttley to remain at Silverstone until Catherine departs.”

“You need a shield?”

Ashworth sighed, his chest tightening. He didn’t know what he needed. He didn’t know why it was so bloody important to have Vivian stay. Perhaps it was just that he could not face Catherine alone.

A chair scraped the floor then footsteps bounded behind them. “Papa!”

Ashworth turned and knelt just in time for a pair of thin arms to wrap around his neck. The scent of jam and soap and a child’s sweet breath warmed his heart. Ashworth buried his face in the boy’s neck and breathed it all in fully, his throat tightening. What he wouldn’t do for this child, what he hadn’t done already.

Finally, the boy giggled and squirmed. “Lemme go!”

Ashworth released him with a quick tickle. “Finished your morning studies, Harry?”

The boy nodded, his red hair bouncing. Bright green eyes widened. “Did you say someone else was coming?”

Rising to his feet, Ashworth nodded. “Yes, she should be here tomorrow.”

Harry clapped his hands. “Will she bring me a present like grandmother does?”

Spoken like a true seven-year-old. Although, as the boy’s grandmother insisted, other lads saw more of the world than a misty moor and ragged cliffs. Ashworth swallowed his growl. The boy had grown just fine within these ancient walls. He had no need for other children, for a finer education. John taught him all he needed to know.

Ashworth glanced about the room. A globe sat in the far corner, among other framed maps. Several desks and tables were set up for different learning tasks. And everywhere, books and drawing tablets for lessons. What else would some fancy boarding school provide for him?

Harry joined them at the window. He rose up on his toes so that his eyes barely cleared the ledge. “Is she there?”

“Whom?”

“The pretty lady with raven wing hair.”

Ashworth turned a sharp eye on his last remaining friend from school, his breath halted. “He knows of her already?”

John did not withdraw at the glare. “I cannot keep a watch on him every hour of the day. This boy is as slippery as a muddy creek bank. Besides, he can see her out the window just as you can.”

Ashworth glanced down at the bright red hair. Harry was mischievous all right. He longed to visit the lake he saw in the far distance. He certainly gave poor Mrs. Plimpton a few frights. His antics even had Pinkley snickering a time or two. But would he seek out Vivian?

Green eyes lifted up to him. “What’s her name? I think she’s an angel.”

John coughed. Ashworth stared out the window again. “Miss Suttley. But I do not want you finding her.”

“Why not?”

“Because she is not staying long.”

“But maybe she will play with me.”

Ashworth pushed away thoughts of Vivian’s long nails trailing down his back, her supple lips tasting his mouth. He wanted to play with her. Again. But he dared not.

“You must listen to me, Harry. Stay to your rooms.”

“But what about the other lady coming here? Can I meet her?”

Sharp apprehension halted his breath. “Faith, no.”

Catherine could never know about Harry’s existence. If he feared Vivian’s knowledge, Catherine proved the much greater danger. The boy was a secret that could not leave these walls. His heart quaked at the thought of losing Harry. His son gave him purpose, a hope at a future.

Ashworth tousled Harry’s hair. “I realize you are excited to meet new people, but you must stay away from these visitors.”

Innocent eyes darted from him down to the grounds far below. “I’ll do it…as long as you bring me some sweetmeats from Cook.”

John laughed then crossed the room, pretending to straighten the school papers.

“Whatever it takes,” Ashworth answered. “You are an excellent negotiator.”

Harry’s red eyebrows furrowed. “What’s a negotitator?”

“Go learn, my boy. You have an excellent teacher.”

With an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders, Harry left his post by the window and dashed back across the schoolroom.

Ashworth gave Vivian a last glance, decided she’d need help with her chore, and slipped quietly from the room.

He heard her before he saw her. Soft humming carried on the misty breeze. Her song was punctuated by the occasional caw of a bird or rustle of leaves. In the ethereal fog, her voice could be that of a fairy or a lonely ghost.

Vivian pulled more brush to the pile she’d begun. He watched her work for a moment, savoring the slick shine of her cheek, the ruddy color of her skin. She reminded him of the village girls he saw many years ago while at school. He’d lust for their quiet beauty, their unassuming charm. But his friends swayed him, pointing him down different paths. Ones that would eventually lead to his ruin.

A soft yelp lifted his head. She shook her hand, then rubbed her palm. He should find her the proper tools, gloves and a rake. He should tell her to leave it. This house was meant for misery and neglect.

Instead, he stepped forward. Her tantalizing scent and vibrant loveliness proved irresistible.

“Oh!” she cried, her injured hand on her heart. “My lord.”

“You are hurt.”

She gave a weak smile, strands of hair blowing about her cheeks. “It is nothing. I’ve suffered worse.”

“Have you?”

Vivian turned away. “It is nothing, my lord. Just some scratches from the thorns.”

Ashworth reached for her hand and his fingers accidentally brushed the gentle swell of her breasts. An impulse rose to cup them fully. Drowsy heat breathed life into his groin.

Instead, he brought her palm up to his face for a closer inspection. Indeed, scratches marred her hand.

She gasped when he brushed his thumb across them.

“Shall I let go?” he murmured.

“No.” Her voice was a whisper, an invitation.

Obliging her request, Ashworth lowered his lips to her outstretched palm, skimming across her cuts with the gentle touch of a butterfly. He meant to let go at that point, but Vivian whimpered, a sound he’d heard from her throat last night as she lay across his bed.

In a flare of a passion, he ran his tongue along the scratches. The sharp trace of blood did not deter him, not when the rest of her hand was so soft, so smooth. Ashworth kissed the damaged palm, then each finger. His lips pressed against her wrist, where her pulse trembled.

“Vivian…” Her name slipped from his mouth as he kissed his way up her arm. She tasted of earth and salt and wild honeysuckle. All that he longed for, all that he resisted, dwelled here, hot beneath his mouth.

Desire smoldered beneath his faltering control and hardened his flesh.

Then her sleeve blocked his progress.

Ashworth lifted his head and found her gaze fixed upon him with raw emotions. Hunger. Curiosity.

Uncertainty?

And was it any wonder with the way he assaulted her here at the garden. The way he took advantage of her in his room and then frightened her away. She must think him a monster.

Ashworth dropped her arm and backed away from her. He was a monster. And she? A beautiful maiden he planned to use for his own agenda. Then discard.

Ashworth stared at the glass in his hand. The house was still, not even the whisper of a draft.

The lone candle flickered a yellow tint onto the liquid as he lifted it to his lips. It was the first time in years he actually considered not drinking it. The first time nightmares seemed more welcoming than erotic dreams.

Those sensual dreams brought him no peace. Only a torturous fire in his groin and no way to relieve it. His hand ended the pain, but not the agony.

The liquid slid down his throat, leaving it raw.

Ashworth locked his bedchamber door then tucked the key into a hidden drawer in his wardrobe.

Perhaps that would be enough to keep him to his room tonight.

What other option did he have?

Vivian gripped the candleholder tightly as she turned down a third passageway. The small flame illuminated old stone rather than plaster, a sure sign she was in an unfamiliar and ancient wing of the house.