“I would find it much easier if you would brush my hair.”
Ashworth clenched his jaw. A spring coiled in his gut, winding him tighter. Desire flushed through every cell of his body, but panic tempered the heat. “I could call for Mrs. Plimpton.”
“She cannot be spared.”
“Certainly there is a servant here who can attend you.”
“Please, I know only you.”
Did she realize what she asked? He was a man. A man who had shied away from a woman’s touch for too long. What he would give to try again.
Ashworth took the brush from Vivian’s hands as she stood, pretending to ignore the unease in her eyes. She turned to face the snapping fire and presented him with her silken shoulders.
He ran the brush lightly through her waist-length hair and forced himself to resist the urge to skim across her bottom. In fact, he had to resist touching her anywhere. But the hunger pounded within him like a violent storm, his pulsing flesh ached for release.
Over and over he slid the brush through her tresses, unable to stop, unable to speak.
“My lord?” Her voice was fragile, vulnerable. She spun quickly, suddenly landing within his arms. Her breasts pressed upon chest. The scent of her tempted his restraint.
She was seducing him. He wasn’t a fool. But how could he not react? How could he not take the chance that he might find relief in her warmth? But he would not let her have control.
Ashworth dropped the brush and yanked her hard against him, making certain she understood his desire. Her eyes widened but she did not fight him. He would test how far she was willing to go.
Bypassing her pliant mouth, he grazed her ear with his lips. He licked the curve, inhaled the sweetness of feminine beauty. She tensed briefly, then melted against him.
His hands reached for the cloth wound around her. He wanted to cast it away, lower her to the floor and have his way with her. Why should he not?
Then her arms reached behind him and her palms flattened against his back. It took him a moment to realize that she was embracing him. Ashworth lifted his head and placed a kiss upon her wet hair.
Vivian did not linger. She slid her hands downward, where her fingers brushed the band of his breeches.
Reawakened, he swooped down and lifted her into his arms. Her dark eyes did not leave his. An unfamiliar ache burrowed into his chest. An ache urging him to hold her tight. He’d ignored it. He must.
His breath halted as his gaze traveled the length of her, from her sleek shoulders to her shadowed breasts, past the towel, then down to her well-formed legs.
But those curves which lay beneath the towel…?
He whispered her name then kissed her lightly upon the lips.
She reached for his neck, pulling him down to her.
Passion swelled.
Ashworth ravaged her mouth, suckled on her tongue. He kissed her neck, the hollow space at the base of her throat.
Sitting up, he pulled off his shirt then tossed it to the floor.
She was lovely. Unlike the sheltered white skin of the girls his mother usually sent from London, Vivian’s was the color of warm tea.
He nudged her legs apart and settled his hips between them. A draft circled through the air and glided across his back. The candles dipped then brightened again, elongating the shadow between her breasts. He lowered his lips to the valley, kissing her softness, skimming his tongue along the cleft of her delicious skin.
He wanted more. More.
Rain gusted against the rattling window.
A woman screamed.
Ashworth jerked his head up. He stared at Vivian’s face. Her head lay upon his pillow, eyes closed, lips slightly parted and swollen from his kisses. Uncertain perhaps, but not terrified.
Resuming his quest, he tugged on her wrap. He must have it gone. But it stuck tight. “Vivian,” he breathed. Her eyebrows creased but she arched her back. The towel came free.
Ashworth stared at her beauty, mesmerized. She was beautiful. Incredible. Perfect.
He enclosed his lips over an enchanting pink nipple and it sprang to life in his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the knot, as if he were rolling a small pebble.
Blood.
He recoiled, stared down at her skin. Had he bitten her? But no redness marred her skin. She was perfect. Every place he looked upon her, she was perfect.
Slashes. Screams. Blood.
He blinked, but this time the image did not vanish from Vivian’s body. Everywhere, crimson fluid spurted from gaping wounds. He looked down to see his hands covered in it. A nauseating odor stung at his nostrils. Nearby, someone wailed.
Ashworth sprang up from the bed.
“My lord?”
He shook his head, but he still saw her covered in a red haze. Ice choked his veins. Cramps ravaged his gut. Bile burned in his throat.
Vivian sat up, covering herself. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Ashworth back away, bumped into a chair. “Leave me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Go. Now.” He spun away from her and braced himself against the window ledge. Rain thrashed at the panes. Lightening fractured the night.
“Have I done something to upset you?” She came close. Stood directly behind him. He could destroy her with a quick blow of his arm.
Warm fingers settled upon his bare shoulder. “Lord Ashworth?”
“LEAVE ME!”
At last she scurried to gather her things. Hurried footsteps faded and then the door slammed.
He panted, struggled for a normal breath. He’d prayed Vivian would be different, that her innocence and beauty would be enough to heal him. He had been mistaken. He would not be fool enough to challenge his destiny again.
The Monster was doomed to live alone.
Ashworth yanked on the rope for Pinkley.
Vivian tried to slow her frenzied pulse. Her eyes were damp but no tears fell. She was more confused than frightened.
She yanked her chemise on, pushed the bed curtains aside and scrambled onto the blanket. Her hair twisted around her shoulders, knotted and damp.
What had happened? How had he turned so quickly?
She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs. Rain gusted.
Lord Ashworth hadn’t been violent. No. He appeared frightened. Terrified even. He yelled because she’d persisted and not left when he’d asked.
She was even more puzzled at her body’s reaction to his touch. Even now, her breasts tingled from his caress. Her mouth thirsted for his kiss.
Trepidation and dark memories had shadowed her attempt at seduction, yet a part of her found pleasure too. That gave her hope.
Vivian sank deeper into the bed.
Whatever came over Lord Ashworth tonight must not sway her purpose. He wouldn’t frighten her from here with a snarl and a shout. She’d endured worse from Martin.
Vivian expected nightmares that night. Instead, she found herself naked again in the meadow of wildflowers.
The heady aroma of colorful blooms swirled in her nose. A shadow fell across her as the stranger discovered her, his form covered by a shapeless coat. He lowered himself to a knee beside her, stroking her face with his warm fingers. She turned away, watching storm clouds collect in the distance.
He refused to give up. Lying down beside her, his arm reached across her shoulders, turning her to face him. She could not see anything but the hood of the coat. And yet, she smiled, surrendering her reluctance, inviting him to caress her.
Hot fingers slid from her shoulders to her waist, then around to cup her bottom. Vivian whimpered, her hips tilting toward him, her body aching to be filled.
“Please.” The flowers surrounding her swayed on the breeze of her word.
Trails of fire blazed across her skin as his hand moved up to envelope her breast. His thumb flickered over her nipple, sending spasms to her toes, an inferno to her stomach. She was helpless at his stroke, weightless in his arms.
�
�Kiss me.” Vivian reached out to his face, desperate to touch him. But he recoiled, then stumbled back.
“Where are you going?” She propped up on an elbow.
He disappeared into the sea of flowers. Lightening pulled her attention back to the sky. Lying back, Vivian stared at the rain falling straight down upon her. Coldness bled into her skin, chasing her internal fire.
Thunder exploded overhead.
Vivian awoke, shivering.
Between the flashes of lightening and the dying fire, she looked about the shadowed room. The tapestry quivered, cobwebs danced, but no mortal assaulted her. Somewhere far beneath the chilled skin, her body hummed. But she was alone.
Tomorrow, she would stand her ground. Lord Ashworth could not send her away.
Chapter Five
Ashworth sank to his knees. Though a suffocating blackness enveloped him, he knew where he was. The same spot he’d been last night. With the same throbbing erection.
Damn.
The potion was a wonder drug. It helped him sleep at night, cured him of the devastating nightmares. Every morning he’d awaken to find himself well-rested and free from dreams.
But then Vivian arrived.
Now scorching dreams of desire blazed in his veins. Now he roamed the darkened hallways of Silverstone. But if he denied himself the elixir, he would relive the horror of that London night within ghastly, vivid dreams.
Ashworth pushed himself to stand. He had to send Vivian from here. The Monster must live alone.
Vivian tapped her nails on the dining room table. Lord Ashworth slept late. She’d learned that in two days.
She stared at the dry scone on her plate. Although the strong scent of bacon permeated the air, she wasn’t terribly hungry.
Heavy footsteps lifted her attention. Her stomach fluttered as Lord Ashworth entered the room. Aside from his deep scar, his face was as beautiful as ever, though smudges of purple underlined his eyes. It was as if she had imagined his sudden change last night. Dressed in his customary breeches and plain white shirt, he looked harmless. And dangerously charming.
Without a greeting, he sat at the far end the table. She watched him wave to the shadows beyond the door and Mrs. Plimpton immediately poured him some tea. Finally, after a few sips, he looked up and noticed her.
“Sleep well, Vivian?”
Only if dreaming about her body being warmed and caressed by a stranger was called sleeping well. She nodded, but was unable to dismiss the quiver in her belly. “Yes, my lord.” She dared not ask him how his night progressed after she left.
Mrs. Plimpton set a platter of scones before him and he reached for one. Chewing, he said, “I have some coins for you. Enough to take you back from where you came.”
Her chest squeezed, her lungs stop functioning. He had not changed his mind. “No.”
“No?” His gaze narrowed, but his next response was interrupted when the servant named Pinkley shuffled into the room. He carried a tarnished silver platter. An envelope teetered precariously on its surface. “Post came for ye, mi’lord.”
Lord Ashworth sighed and took the letter. “Thank you, Pinkley. You may go now.”
The old man gave her an evil glare, then hobbled from the room.
Vivian ignored Pinkley and studied the paper in Lord Ashworth’s hand. “What is that on the corner?”
He flipped over the envelope. “Ah, this is the Penny Black.”
She leaned forward. “Penny Black?”
“Have you not recently mailed a letter? This has changed our world. A sender pays for postage, not the recipient.”
If that were indeed the case, Vivian could send her mother letters! She’d not wanted her mother to have to pay for the correspondence, but neither did she want her to go without any communication.
Lord Ashworth glanced at the writing on the envelope, a scowl brewing on his features. His eyes darkened as he slipped out the letter. With each word he read, his face grew ruddier, his scar deeper.
“Bloody hell!” he growled and shoved a hand through his hair. “Damn, damn, damn.”
She watched his face carefully. The narrowing of his gaze and flat line of his lips told of anger, not the shocked terror of last night.
He sprang up from his chair and paced the worn carpet before the buffet, his thunderous expression chasing away the sun.
Still angry he would not permit her to stay, Vivian provoked him further. “May I eat my breakfast in peace?”
He stormed over to her and stood above her, his stomach level with her eyes. A vein throbbed on his temple. The purple gash on his cheek blazed with an unnatural light. However, his intent at frightening her did not work. She did not feel the threat of his rage, not the powerful waves of fury or dangerous calm which emanated from Martin at every moment.
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 sta
rted, 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.
Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 4