Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Leslie Dicken

  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 d
ropped 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. More and more she believed this manor had once been a castle or keep of centuries past.

  She lifted the light higher, but saw only a fluttering tapestry and faded oil paintings on the walls. No doors.

  Somewhere in this huge, elaborate dwelling there must be a library. Oh Lord, she hoped so. She needed a book to read to help her fall asleep.

  Vivian bit her lip and turned back the way she came, searching for other halls or shut doors. Between her concern over Lady Wainscott’s arrival and uncertainty regarding her disturbing dreams, Vivian had tossed and turned on her bed for nearly an hour. Even the spiders had fallen asleep.

  Nerves taut, she tried a door at the end of long hall. Locked. Another dead-end. Could it be that this place had no library? Did Lord Ashworth not read?

  Rounding another corner, Vivian encountered a stairwell. Unlike the grand staircase at the main doors, this small set must be used for servants. It wound upward in a spiral, the walls made of stones, smooth from years of contact.

  She doubted she would find a library up these stairs, but curiosity urged her onward. With the candle half-way gone, Vivian climbed the steps, carefully lifting her nightgown to avoid a fall. Once at the top, she came across a single long hall.

  The house was silent. Not even the moaning of the night winds could penetrate these walls.

  Vivian started to her left, her heart thumping a quiet rhythm against her breast. She was tempted to try the unlit doors until she realized that she had found the servants’ quarters. There was nothing here for her.

  She turned back the other way. It was unwise to be up here, dressed as she was, so late after turning in for the night.

  She reached the staircase when movement down the other hall caught her eye. The form was small, such as a large dog or a young child. Vivian blinked, watched for it again. Her pulse drummed in her ears. It could be a trick of the wind. Maybe it was a phantom or ghost lurking to frighten foolish visitors.

  What if it were the monster Ashworth continued to speak of?

  Her mouth dried. Knees trembled.

  Then, a door at the end of the hall opened and shut. So someone had been in the darkened corners watching her.

  A strangling vice tightening in her throat, Vivian raced down the stairs to the floor below. But once there she could not remember how to return to her rooms. She had turned so many ways she couldn’t find her way back.

  The candle burned lower. Hot wax dripped onto her fingers.

  Following three dead-ends and two full circles, Vivian finally found the plaster covered walls again. Her stomach ached, her jaw hurt from clenching, but at least she was closer.

  Vision blurry from anxious tears, Vivian fought to rein in her panic. As she ventured down another passage, nothing looked familiar. The bitter taste of fear saturated her tongue, but she had to keep going.

  Vivian turned another corner, then bumped hard into a large figure blocking her path.

  Her flame died.

  Chapter Six

  Terrifying blackness. Buried alive.

  Harsh, deep breathing echoed in Vivian’s eardrums. A waft of sandalwood swirled in her nostrils.

  She swayed like an open boat in rough seas.

  For the first time since entering Silverstone Manor, a true, piercing terror gripped her heart.

  She tried to find her voice, to scream, but nothing would come forth. Trapped, paralyzed, she could do nothing but wait.

  Without warning, large hands snatched her upper arms. Strong fingers pressed through the gown’s fabric, bruising her flesh with a death-like grip. She struggled helplessly against his power, twisting, kicking. The candleholder loosened from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

  She closed her eyes, willing the words to form in her mouth. “Wh-whatever it is you seek, please address it now. Else release me so I may find my bed.”

  One hand came free of her arm, leaving the skin to throb from the crushing grasp. She thought he might release her then but instead a finger grazed her chin. Stunned, she gasped, afraid of what he may do next.

  A growl resounded above her head, his ferocity chilling her blood. He released her and thrust her away from him. She stumbled into a wall where the cold stones prevented her tumble.

  Suddenly a glimmer of light flashed from far down the corridor, gradually brightening the walls as it came closer. In an instant, her attacker disappeared in the other direction.

  Vivian stumbled toward the light, her heartbeat frantic. Now that the mystery had passed, panic rushed up her throat. She bit her lip to keep the hysteria away.

  A figure hobbled toward her, his candle illuminating old paintings and chipped murals. At last, she reached him.

  The old servant, Pinkley, stared at her with pale, rheumy eyes, shock registering on his wrinkled face. “Ah, Miz, it’s not wise to be out at this hour.”

  Vivian slowed her breath. “I-I know. I merely wanted a book to read.”

  “Ye should have rung yer bell.”

  But no servant could be spared for her. She learned that lesson well enough yesterday. Not only with the hot bath water, but anytime she had a request, no one seemed to pay her any mind.

  “Could you pl-please show me to my room? I have lost my way.”

  “Aye.” The old man nodded. “Just come from that a-way.”

  He turned around and headed back down from whence he came. She followed him, glancing at the walls as they went by. But nothing looked recognizable. The house was so unremarkable and gloomy there was nothing to mark her attention.

  Finally, Pinkley stopped at a door. “’Ere it is, Miz.”

  Vivian opened the wooden door and slipped inside the room. Familiar blood red curtains hung above the bed. The walnut dresser and massive, ancient tapestry were as she left them. Oddly, she experienced a slight soothing comfort in their presence.

  Vivian shivered. What a fool she was! Who knew what manner of men roamed these unlit corridors. Even without the supposed threat of ghosts and phantoms, real men lived within these walls. Men who could easily attack or injure her. She was not witless enough to believe that Martin was the only such man who thrived by preying on the weaker gender.

  But what of Lord Ashworth? She glanced behind her at their adjourning door, ice again in her veins. It was dark. Had he been the man to seize her in a frightening grip?

  Vivian unbraided her hair and climbed atop the bed. The heavy blankets calmed her anxious heart like tight wrappings calmed a crying infant.

  Still, it would be hours before she could lose herself to sleep.

  “I heard you were lost in the halls last night.”

  Vivian glanced up from her plate of ham and tomatoes. Her midnight eyes measured him, perhaps guessing his questioning. “Yes, I suppose Pinkley told you.”

  “Aye.” Though Ashworth heard it first from Harry. The boy could not wait for breakfast to tell him what he saw late last night. The angel in white had come up to see him, the boy said
. Thankfully, Harry had done as he was bid and had not interacted with Vivian.

  She dabbed her mouth with the napkin, then set it upon the plate. “Am I forbidden from leaving my rooms at night?”

  A muscle ticked on Ashworth’s jaw as a distressing feeling settled in his stomach. Relief that she was not harmed, yet anger at her foolishness. He crossed the room, glowering at her. “It is unwise.”

  “Unwise. But not forbidden.”

  He leaned across the table, flattening his palms on both sides of her dish. Instantly, the odor of the ham vanished and her tantalizing honeysuckle scent rose to torture him. “I have warned you of this house, yet you disregard me.”

  Her quick glance away and momentary biting of her lip told him that something else had happened in the late hours of the night. Had The Monster paid her another visit?

  A knot formed in his gut. “You are keeping something from me.”

  Her gaze returned to his. “No.”

  “I must teach you to lie better or our little folly will be seen through quickly enough.”

  Vivian lifted her chin, the small dimple mocking him. “I will not allow Lady Wainscott to know the truth of our arrangement.”

  Ashworth snorted and stood. If he didn’t do something this morning, Catherine would see through their charade by tea time.

  He waved her over to the recessed nook, where the clouds performed their morning dance with the sun. The sporadic sun shone through the stained glass, sparkling oddly shaped colors on the floor. She followed him, standing in her plain gray dress with her back to the window, hands clasped gently before her.

  “My lord?”

  “Let me assess how well you can lie.”

  She nodded. “Go on.”

  “Do you enjoy my kisses?”

  “My—my lord?”

  His lips twitched. “Answer the question, Vivian. Either with a lie or the truth, but answer it.”

  “Very well then.” That chin tilted ever so slightly. “I will admit that I do enjoy them.”

  The truth. And the answer pleased him. “Did you enjoy my caresses?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Is this a test of my abilities or a need to satisfy your opinion of yourself?”