Vivian swallowed the questions plaguing her tongue. Little about this manor made any sense, including why its lord kept himself hidden within its walls.
Making her way around proved no easy task. Between the knee-high grass and crumbling stones, she faced a hearty walk. By the time she reached the overgrown patch she had seen from the window, Vivian’s face was flushed with exertion. At least her effort helped keep the chill at bay.
A quick glance at the sky showed slate clouds rather than the morning sun. She may not have long before rain would drive her back inside.
Finally, Vivian arrived at the tangle of vines and leaves. A hedge must have enclosed the area once, but now it was overgrown and diseased. Without gloves and shears, she began to clear away as much of the dead foliage as possible.
Tiny flowers surprised her now and then as she moved brush aside, more for their resilience than for their vivid color among the gray and molded surroundings. It was a wonder that anything could thrive in this environment. This house.
Vivian glanced back at the manor, to its spires which pierced the bleak sky like ugly tarnished swords. No beauty adorned the exterior, all carvings had worn away. A single unmatched gargoyle jutted from a corner, its partner forever lost to the tangle of thicket at the house’s foundation. Ancient, weathered stone, partially covered by rotting ivy, presented itself to any outsiders were they foolish enough to come up the long drive.
Sighing, she turned back to the work at hand but a movement caught her eye. At first, it seemed a hawk had flown from one rooftop to another. She checked again at the top windows.
A face. Her breath lodged in her throat. Was someone watching her?
Thunder rumbled nearby, echoing the boom of her heartbeat. A blink later and the face was gone. Oh God, she had to get out of here or she’d lose her mind.
No. To go home was unthinkable.
For her sake—her mother’s sake—Vivian must convince Lord Ashworth to let her stay at Silverstone Manor.
At this point, she was desperate enough to try anything.
Martin Crawford pushed his way past the butler of Suttley House and headed straight for the staircase. The furious pulse of his heartbeat drowned out the servant’s cries to have him wait downstairs.
He’d find that double-crossing bastard and strangle him. Baron or not, Vivian’s father would pay for this sudden turn of events.
Moans rumbled beyond the wooden door at the hall’s end. Lord Whistlebury’s bedchamber. Martin wrinkled his nose and bared his teeth, recalling the scene he had witnessed those few months before.
He opened the door without hesitation. Vivian’s father stood with his eyes closed and his hands in the hair of a lad kneeling before him. Groans echoed against the mahogany paneled walls, and for a moment Martin considered allowing the act to find completion. But fury stabbed in his core and demanded priority. Lord Whistlebury would answer to him.
“Where is she?”
The baron gasped and drew back. Both of them looked up at the intruder, the young man appearing confused and frightened. Then, without another sound, the lad sprang up from his knees and scurried from the room.
Martin kicked the door shut. “He’s different than the last one.”
Lord Whistlebury straightened his clothes, then ran a hand through his disheveled gray hair. “You could have waited for me downstairs.”
Martin clenched his jaw. “I’ve waited for my wedding to Vivian long enough. And now your butler tells me she is not here.”
“She…she…”
The hesitation pricked the inferno under Martin’s skin. “She what? Where is she?”
Vivian’s father sank into a stuffed chair by the window. Outside a light rain started, and blew its scent into the room. The air cleared of sweat and sex.
“She left a note saying she was going to London. She said she’d never marry you and that she’d find a husband during the season.”
Martin balled his hands into fists. Spots whirled in his vision. That careless bitch. He swore he’d hunt her down if she left him. He swore she’d pay. No one abandoned Martin Crawford. Not anymore.
He narrowed his eyes at the baron and swallowed the encroaching violence. “We stopped her attempt at a marriage once before. We will do it again. You’ll tell me how I can find her, of course.”
The man hung his head. “Maybe…maybe it is better this way. Vivian is not for you. She is a stubborn girl.”
No. Vivian was perfect. Her exotic beauty stirred his blood. Her resistance only fueled his desires. His taking of her was a promise of their future. No other man was to have what was his.
“Where is she, old man? You promised me a bride.” He nodded his head at the bedchamber door. “Or did you forget our bargain?”
Lord Whistlebury wrung his hands. “Her mother is gone too.”
Martin laughed. His gaze drew in the expansive bed with purple silk coverings. “And why should that bother you? Your tastes run elsewhere, obviously.”
“People will talk…”
Martin crossed the room and stood over the crumpled man, only a shadow of his true self. These aristocrats all believed they had such power with their House of Lords and acres of land. But they spawned children and then left them behind; they indulged in perversions and then fretted over the secret. This man was no different and Martin cared not a whit for Lord Whistlebury’s sexual preferences, nor for his reputation.
But Martin did care about their agreement. He would marry a baron’s daughter. He would have the respect he deserved and he would eliminate whoever got in his way.
Martin narrowed his eyes. “I repeat: where is she? You must know where she has gone.”
Lord Whistlebury’s mouth twitched. His bulbous nose reddened. For a moment, Martin thought the man might cry.
“Shall I let on about your desire for—?”
“No.” The baron wiped his palms across beefy thighs. “She did not tell me where, but I do have a cousin in town. Vivian might have gone there.”
Power surged into Martin’s bloodstream, He curled his lip. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
He sank down into the chair opposite the baron, crossing his long legs at the ankle. Most people eventually saw their way to reason. Martin was not a man to be crossed. Both his mother and Mary Yeardley learned that lesson.
Now it was Vivian Suttley’s turn.
Bringing up warm water was an issue in Silverstone Manor. After the sweat and dirt from the garden, Vivian hoped for a cleansing bath. But it seemed impossible for the servants to bring enough water for even a hipbath.
“Me and Pinkley, we’s too old and weak to carry it,” Mrs. Plimpton had told her. When Vivian inquired as to any other servants, the answer was “none to be spared”.
She would have carried the damn water up herself if she knew where to find its source. And if she were able to leave a trail to find her way back to her room.
Vivian was reaching for cloth from this morning’s toilet when a knock resounded on the heavy door. Perhaps they found a servant to spare. “Enter,” she called.
“I was told you wanted water for a bath.”
Her breath caught. “My lord. I did not expect you to bring the water.”
“Ah, but I have.” He held out two cans then set them on the scuffed floor. “But where is the tub?”
“I am awaiting that, as well.”
Lord Ashworth grinned, his scar softening like the gentle curve of a feather. “It must still be in my bedchamber.”
“But—but you can’t possibly move that yourself.”
Rain tapped at the window as he raised his eyebrows. “Good point. As we’ve not had overnight visitors in such a long time, I had not thought to your needs properly.” After a bow, he said, “Forgive me.”
Vivian nodded, a smile playing upon her lips. Something had altered his mood. Or was this his true nature, the one she remembered? Either way, she needed a plan to convince him to keep her here and the sooner she thought of it, the b
etter.
“So—” She took a few steps closer to him in order to gauge his reaction. He did not move. “—am I to bathe or not?”
“To do so would require you to be in my room.”
“Does that disturb you?”
His chest rose, straining the fabric of the shirt. “Does it disturb you?”
She gathered up the bathing linens left by Mrs. Plimpton. “Of course, you will not be in the room with me.”
Lord Ashworth stared at her for a long, tortuous moment then picked up both cans of steaming water and crossed the room to his adjoining door. “Of course not.” He nodded toward the knob. “If you don’t mind.”
Vivian hurried over and opened the door for him. He led her across the apartment, past his large bed with intricately carved mahogany posts. The black woolen bed hangings had something stitched upon them but its design was no longer discernable. She noticed a walnut cabinet similar to the one in her room as well as an enormous tapestry that took up an entire wall. Obviously the two rooms were created to complement one another with only coloring and small design to differentiate between the sexes.
The sound of splashing water reminded her why she was in his room. The white tub stood several feet from the fireplace, beckoning with its comfort, frightening her with its possibilities. The last time she’d been alone with a man…
“How high do you want the water?”
She glanced inside the basin. His two cans had barely been enough to cover the bottom, and yet she didn’t want him going up and down the stairs for her. Not when she needed to convince him she would not cause him any trouble.
“This should be enough.”
“Nay, you’ll barely get your feet wet.”
“I only need to wipe myself off. I certainly do not need the luxury of a full bath.”
His eyes locked onto hers. His hot stare challenged her comfort. She could comprehend her fright from Martin’s malevolent force, but the viscount’s unsettling disquiet worried her.
Finally, Lord Ashworth retrieved the empty cans and moved toward his door. “Once more.” Then he was gone.
Vivian did her best not to wander his room and intrude on his privacy. Awkwardness enveloped her as she stood there alone. Yet, other than some clothes strewn on chairs and a glass upon the small table beside his bed, nothing here seemed noteworthy.
Why so many feared the man, she did not understand.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and then he burst into the room. A tall slender boy accompanied him, both of them carrying up larger pails of steaming water.
Once the water had been splashed into the tub, the boy cast a wide-eyed glance her way then gathered all containers and hurried from the room. Lord Ashworth did not seem concerned with introducing her.
“Who was that young man?”
He rekindled the fire back to a vigorous life. “My groomsman.”
“But you said you never left the grounds.”
“Nay, but my servants do. We do need supplies from town on occasion.”
Ah, so there were other servants here she had not seen. In a house such as this, there could be dozens hidden beyond locked doors or on other levels.
“Thank you for your kindness. I will be quick. Have you any soap?”
He stared at her, frozen. Until, at last, he walked to a walnut triangular washstand. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing for a lady. Only my own soap.” He reached into a container and withdrew a bar.
Their fingers touched as she took it from him. A mysterious tingle raced along her arm. “Thank you, my lord.”
The shadows flickered along his scar as he stood there, once again immobile. She realized with sudden compassion that he did not know what to do. Visitors were so infrequent here that perhaps he did not entertain mistresses either. And yet, despite the mark along the right side of his face, Lord Ashworth was as beautiful as any Roman god.
He cleared his throat. “Do you, um, need me to aid you with your buttons?”
While she could use his help, the memories of Martin’s fingers closing up her dress after he assaulted her kept Vivian from accepting it.
She moved away. “I can do it alone.”
A warm hand settled on her shoulder. “Please, I want to assist.”
Vivian held her breath. Again she was tormented by the combination of her needs and her emotions. She must convince him to marry her and yet her most recent experience with a man had been a brutal attack.
Lord Ashworth must have taken her silence as an invitation. One by one he slowly unhooked the buttons until he halted about midway down her back. Before she could step aside, his warm fingers slid the dress sideways and brushed her bare skin.
Unexpected shivers raced. Scorching blood pulsed.
She did not understand her body’s reactions. Was it possible for her to break from the cold shell Martin had placed her in and once again embrace another man’s warmth?
“Faith, you are lovely.” His husky voice dried her mouth, trembled her knees. “I will leave you to your bath. Please call for me when you are finished.”
His departure was marked by a blast of chilly air and a slam of the door.
Vivian shook the tumultuous sensations from her body and slipped out of the remainder of her clothes. She sank into the tepid water, quickly unwound her braid, then washed herself with Lord Ashworth’s soap. It was his scent. Sandalwood with the hint of berries.
Vivian drew her knees up and wrapped her arms about her legs. Flames cast dancing lights along the walls, reminding her once again of ghosts seeking mischief. If there were such a thing as ghosts, she hoped they were friendly. She was tired of being afraid.
Silverstone Manor was her deliverance, not her damnation. Lord Ashworth must allow her to stay.
You tempt me. The words had slipped from his lips at breakfast.
She could sacrifice her body to buy her escape, but could she let go of those terrible memories? Was it possible to forget one man’s cruelty in order to seduce another?
Lord, did she have any choice?
Vivian closed her eyes and breathed in the calming aroma of the soap. She could find that strength and courage again. She had it when she convinced Thomas to marry her, when she gave herself to him before their marriage, when her father tore her from his arms. She had it when she fought Martin, when she devised her plan to escape, when she boldly knocked on the door to Silverstone Manor.
A weak woman would have submitted to the man her father gave her to. A weak woman would have allowed herself to be beaten and destroyed.
Vivian was not weak.
She lifted her chin opened her eyes. Lord Ashworth’s room took on a whole new light. The sight of his large bed did not give her tremors, but instead represented a means to an end.
This man would save her from the other. And she would not let her emotions impede that purpose.
Vivian rinsed the bubbles from her body and stepped out of the tub. She wrapped the towel about her middle, leaving her shoulders and legs bare, water dripping down her skin.
A long, deep intake of breath and then, “My lord, you may return now.”
The scrape of a chair, footsteps, and then the door swung open.
Chapter Four
He couldn’t stop thinking about Vivian naked. He imagined every turn of her muscles, every hair, every freckle.
Her voice called out to him. He expected her to take much longer, but what did he know of women’s habits?
Ashworth opened his bedroom door. Then stopped breathing.
Vivian stood before the hearth, a bath linen wrapped around her middle. Her arms glistened, flames creating small drops of fire along her skin. Her knees peeked out from the bottom of the towel, leading the way to long shapely legs.
Lord help him.
Instantly, his erection returned and throbbed intensely against the buttons of his breeches. Parched, he licked his lips.
“It’s cold,” she said, her voice trembling. “Please shut the door against the draft.”
Ashworth bumped the door with his shoulder and it slammed closed. He stared at her, mesmerized, drawing in every inch of her alluring body.
He struggled to find his voice. “Do you need help in dressing?”
Her dimpled chin lifted, exposing the smooth column of her throat. Behind it, her black hair dripped on the stone hearth, the tapping punctuated by the occasional snap of the flames. “I’ve left my chemise in the other room,” she said, “I’m too cold to leave the fire. Would you mind?”
Ashworth blinked. He forced his feet to move. “Where would I find it?”
“In the trunk at the end of the bed. There is a pink ribbon at the top.”
Crossing through the adjoining door, the grip in his chest loosened. To see her standing there, her bare limbs available for his view, her skin glistening with water…he could be unmanned without ever touching her!
Ashworth sorted through her clothes, an odd fascination coming over him at the materials he touched. He’d never seen a woman’s complete wardrobe before.
By the time he located the chemise, he’d gained control over his reactions. She would dress by the fire, then leave his room. He would be safe from her, safe from any urges or memories.
“My lord,” her voice carried through the open door. “A brush also, please.”
Sighing, he glanced about the room. It had been decorated many years ago, long before he’d come to settle here. The room was to be a feminine compliment to his room. But now cobwebs spoiled the corners, dust obscured the mirrors.
He found her brush atop the walnut dresser and, with the chemise, returned to his own bedchamber.
Vivian had pulled a stool over and was sitting upon it, warming herself at the hearth. A firm muscle rounded her calf toward the small bump of her ankle. She had pulled her hair over her shoulder and was raking her fingers through the ends. A hint of her breasts peeked above the towel.
Ashworth swallowed.
He held the brush and dress out to her. “I’ll wait for you in the hall.” Where he could remain harmless.
“Stay.”
Her soft plea halted him.
Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 3