Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Leslie Dicken

  Her nerves jumped as she reached the top step. She looked both ways down the long hallway but found she was alone. All doors were closed.

  Certainly there must be a schoolroom up here. She’d heard a child. It was not a trick of the wind or the cry of a cat. Unless ghosts truly roamed these grounds, a child lived in Silverstone Manor. And what child would live here other than the master’s own?

  Instinct told Vivian to turn left. She was certain it was the way the hidden passage had gone. And it would also make sense that the windows facing her garden would be at the center of the house.

  Without shoes she could quietly tiptoe down the hallway. The first door on the right, just past the small alcove with worn chairs, had light shining from beneath it.

  Vivian pressed up against the door. A chair scraped along the floor. Then, she heard the rumble of a man’s voice. She could not make out the words, but she did not think it was Lord Ashworth. No, the tone and inflection were different. Yet it was definitely a grown man. Was it the one she’d seen on the landing by the warped door? The man who’d told her to kick the bottom?

  Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, palms grew sweaty. Who was the man talking to?

  More movement of chairs and other sounds she couldn’t recognize. She held her breath and prayed they would not come to this door. There would be an adjourning door to the nursery, wouldn’t there?

  The man’s voice called out again, this time farther away. He must be over near the windows.

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  Vivian’s heart stopped. This voice was clear, loud, beside the door. And it was clearly a child. A boy, perhaps about seven or eight.

  Dear God, she had been right. A child did live here. The man must be his tutor.

  Vivian moved back from the door and ducked into the alcove in case they came out into the hallway. She should be running down the steps but she couldn’t force herself to go yet. Too many thoughts raced through her brain.

  Who was the boy? Was it Lord Ashworth’s son, or perhaps a nephew? Why would he keep him hidden away, never speak of him? Lord Ashworth had never married, so who was the boy’s mother? Certainly it wouldn’t be Lady Wainscott. Or was that the real reason she came? Did they share a son? No, she didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it.

  Tingles raced up her spine. Goosebumps sprouted on her skin. Outside, rain tapped gently at the window, reminding her of the day she heard crying against the outside wall.

  Had that been the boy, after all? He might have slipped from her grasp just seconds before she arrived.

  Vivian curled up in the chair, where shadows sprawled across her like a warm blanket. She stared across the hall to the opening of the spiral stairwell.

  Somewhere around here was the opening to the secret passage. Was it in the schoolroom?

  Dear Lord, was it the boy who had entered her room the other night? She blushed, remembering lying on the bed naked and flushed from her release. The memory curled heat in her belly but also brought shame to her cheeks. It couldn’t have been the child. Please, no.

  She must find out who entered her room that night. Had they come other times? It could be anyone. Lord Ashworth, the tutor, even old Pinkley.

  A door down the hall opened. The loud squeak sent apprehension slithering into her heart. She pressed herself harder against the cushion and prayed the shadows would conceal her.

  “Go on and get settled, Harry.” The man’s voice echoed down the corridor. “I’ll collect your father while you ready.”

  His father!

  Vivian held her breath as the same blonde, spectacled man she had seen by the rear door passed in front of her and disappeared down the stairwell. He did not see her in the alcove.

  Her pulse chattered, stomach pitched, as she waited to hear the boy. She expected him to return to the schoolroom and pass through to the nursery. Once he did so, she would run down the stairs and back into her room.

  Instead, she heard footsteps coming closer.

  She gripped the armrests of the chair, clenched her teeth to keep silent.

  The small boy, red hair glowing under the flickering candles, passed before her in the passage. He continued toward the other end of the hallway.

  Vivian trapped the air in her lungs, waiting for him to be out of her sight before she would let out a breath.

  He stopped.

  She could do nothing but watch as he turned to her and stared at her with large, round eyes. Instead of the fear she expected, a smile spread across his adorable face.

  “You are the pretty lady with raven wing hair.”

  Vivian didn’t know how to answer. Catherine’s hair was a yellow as a daffodil so the boy—Harry—must mean her. She finally nodded.

  He looked around then whispered, “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  “Oh?” Vivian uncurled from the chair. “And why is that?”

  Harry bit his lip and looked down. Clearly he did not want to tell her what he’d been instructed. “I—I think it’s because you aren’t staying very long.” He blinked. “You won’t tell, will you?”

  The genuine concern in his voice tugged at her heart. She didn’t think she could promise such a thing but she didn’t want him worrying either. “All will be fine, you’ll see.”

  Voices and footsteps echoed on the stairs.

  “Papa!” His eyes widened. “Hurry, go into the school room.” He pointed to the door where she’d listened earlier.

  Vivian rose from the chair and came to where he stood. She chanced a caress at his baby face, brushing her finger along the freckles covering his cheek.

  His skin reddened, then he leaned against her. He behaved as if he never had a mother, or any woman, to hold him tight.

  The chatting on the steps grew louder.

  He stepped away. “There’s a secret passage.” His voice dropped, “Behind the panel near the globe.”

  Then Harry scampered down to the far end of the hall and turned back to wave, his face alive with a huge grin.

  Vivian slipped inside the schoolroom door and shut it just as the sounds reached the top step.

  The voices of Harry’s tutor. And Lord Ashworth.

  Ashworth stood in the center of the hallway. Something was amiss. He couldn’t place his finger on it or name it in any way. But something was different. A scent lingered in the air, faint and elusive. For just a moment he thought it might be honeysuckle.

  But he had to be mistaken. Vivian would not be up here. She had no reason to be. Nor could she find her way around the manor without getting lost.

  “Is something wrong?” John’s blue eyes blinked at him behind the spectacles.

  “Did anything out of the ordinary happen tonight?”

  “Out of the ordinary? What do you mean?”

  Ashworth shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not certain. I have an odd feeling.”

  John raised his brows. “Perhaps because there is no wind tonight. The rain taps softly on the glass rather than its usual thrashing.”

  Ashworth grinned. “That could be it. Still…nothing got broken? No one unusual came up to this floor?”

  “I know of nothing.” John patted his shoulder. “You must be tired. Or at least tired of those women disrupting your life.”

  “Yes, of course, it must be that.”

  They walked down the hall and into Harry’s room. John gave a quick goodnight then left for his own bedchamber.

  Harry had moved into this room at his last birthday, claiming he was too old to sleep in the nursery. It wasn’t true, but Ashworth did not care if the boy wanted his own place away from the schoolroom. He chose the corner room at the end of the hall, with deep blue furnishings and multiple windows. With John and other servants on this floor, Ashworth did not worry for his son’s safety.

  And yet, that distressing sensation still lurked in his gut.

  Harry had changed into his nightclothes and climbed into his bed. Lying back with his head upon the pillow, his son stared at him sole
mnly. He was typically a very happy child, didn’t complain much or question his situation. Tonight his green eyes told a different tale.

  “Papa?”

  Ashworth swallowed, sought a way to distract his son. He reached for the book they had started reading last night and sat on the edge of the bed. “Shall we begin where we left off?”

  “No. I want to ask you questions. May I?”

  “Questions?” Never before had the boy asked anything other than if he could have a sweet before bed or why the sky was blue. What happened tonight?

  Harry sat up and crossed his arms. His lips tightened, eyes narrowed. “Where is my mother?”

  “Your mother is dead, Harry. You’ve asked me that before.”

  “Well, then, who was she?”

  The dry taste of dust filled Ashworth’s mouth, his palms broke into a sweat. What could he tell his son about the woman who gave birth to him? About the woman who did not ask for the responsibility of another life but did what little she could to care for him?

  Ashworth cleared his throat. “Your mother was very pretty. She had long red hair, just a little lighter than yours. She had freckles, too, and the brightest green eyes I had ever seen.”

  Harry relaxed, a smile graced his lips. “Did she love me?”

  “She loved you as much as she could. Did whatever it took to keep you healthy.”

  “Can I have another mother in her place?”

  Ashworth recoiled, a stab pierced his heart. “Another mother?”

  “What about the lady who works in the garden with black hair? Can she be my new mother?”

  “No, Harry—”

  “What about the other lady here? The one in the fancy dresses?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Ashworth stood up, paced the room. His stomach burned with a gnawing emptiness, a pain he did not know how to end.

  “Why not, Papa? Why can’t I have a mother too?”

  Because Ashworth could never love her, because a monster could frighten away her mind, because a wife to him would insist her own son inherit the family wealth. He could not explain any of these to the boy. “You are too young to understand…”

  Harry crawled to the end of his bed and rose up on his knees. Ashworth had never seen his son with such intent, such desperation in his eyes. “I have one more question.”

  Jaw clenched, shoulders tense, Ashworth nodded.

  “How did my mother die?”

  The room blackened as Ashworth gasped for air. Memories of that night assailed him at a harrowing clip. The glint of a blade, the sharp tang of blood. Screams. Cries. Moans.

  “Papa?”

  He fought through the choking visions, stumbled back into a dresser. Blinking, he focused on his son, who stared at him with the same wide-eyed look of curiosity and terror Vivian often wore.

  He wanted to lie but the words wouldn’t form in his mouth. “Someone kill-killed her.”

  Harry began to cry. “Why would they do that?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  His son stared at him with large tears slipping down his cheeks. “Who did it, Papa?”

  Ashworth swallowed the agony. Razors slicing down his throat. “A monster.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Vivian tucked stray hairs behind her ear, watching the large evergreens sway in the wind. There was a unique peace and beauty out amid the trees that she’d never witnessed before seeking out Lord Ashworth.

  “Eh, Miz Suttley.”

  Pinkley’s voice carried out across the yards of brown earth. She rose to her feet and turned to him.

  “Ye wanted to see the master?”

  She asked to have a word with him nearly two days earlier when she learned several of her new saplings were infested and disease-ridden. “Yes, is he able to meet me here in the garden?”

  Pinkley’s white hair blew about in the breeze. “Nay. He asks that you meet him in the study.”

  Vivian glanced down at her old brown dress, once again covered in wet dirt. She was not finished with her chores out here and she wasn’t about to go upstairs to change for him and then have to change once again.

  “Why can he not come out here? I want to show him some of the plantings he purchased.”

  “He requested the study, Miz. Immediately.” And with that he turned and hobbled back to the house.

  Of course, on his time only, however it suited him best.

  She snapped off several branches and leaves of the affected plants and marched around to the front of the manor. No sense tracking her muddy shoes through the house when she could get to his study easily from the main door.

  Despite the daylight filtering in through the window, the study whispered with shadows. Two candelabras sputtered, wax dripping over the sides. The room smelled of him. Sandalwood with berries. It also reeked of brandy.

  Lord Ashworth stood in the far corner, his back to her, and gulped the liquid in a glass. His hair curled carelessly over his collar, his firm jaw darkened with unshaven whiskers. The scar glowed hideously in this wretched lighting, as if reflecting gloom from deep within.

  “Close the door.”

  His words were not slurred and yet Vivian could hear a distinctive tone within them. Something she had not heard from him before. Her stomach pitched, anxious of his true reasons for meeting with her.

  She latched the door closed and lifted her chin. She would state her business with the plants and then leave him to his moods.

  “Lord Ashworth.” She marched forward to stand by his massive desk. “I asked to see you because some of the—”

  “It does not matter.”

  Vivian set the cuttings atop a stack of papers. “I beg your pardon, my lord. But I believe it does matter.”

  He swung around to face her.

  She gasped, brought her hand up her heart.

  What had happened to him in these last few days? His eyes pierced her like the deadliest of swords, but were rimmed with anguish. He had fallen into an abyss of which he had yet to be saved. Something occurred that night she met Harry. For it was after then that Lord Ashworth withdrew from everyone’s presence.

  He marched over to her, his face in a snarl, teeth bared.

  No doubt he expected her to recoil, to run. But Vivian stood fast, swallowed against a tight throat. A rapid heartbeat pulsed at her temples.

  He stood over her with the ferocity of a deadly lion. “I have decided this all must come to an end.”

  She blinked. “An end?”

  “Your presence. Lady Wainscott.” He gripped her shoulders. “I cannot take this disruption any longer.”

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes. “I won’t go.”

  “You deserve better, Vivian. I am a monster, not a man.”

  She wanted to caress his face, but his grasp on her arms prevented it. Instead she lifted her chin, slanted her face. “You are not a monster. You are every bit a man.”

  He closed his eyes. Growled. “Leave, Vivian. Find your refuge elsewhere.”

  She stiffened her back, ready for the challenge. “You can’t make me go.”

  “I can…” His voice was low, hoarse. Silver eyes opened, hooded with smoldering need. “I can make you do whatever I want.”

  With her next heartbeat, his lips were on hers. She could sense his hesitation as he battled against his desires. But he was a man, after all.

  Vivian opened her mouth to him, stroking his velvet tongue with her own. He tasted of the brandy, of emptiness, of sorrow. She gave him what small amount of pleasure she could. Even if passion was fleeting, he could at least indulge in its bliss for a short time.

  Lord Ashworth ravaged her mouth like a drunk gulping his ale. He crushed her against him, forcing his erection upon the softness of her stomach. Her nipples tightened, heat spiraled to the deepness of her core.

  He lifted her up and sat her on the desk, nudging her legs apart. Breathing erratic, he brushed the hair from her face. “You are dirty again.” His fingers traced a line down her cheek.
“It arouses me.”

  Hands, large and powerful, cupped her breasts. Her breath hitched, dampness flooded her upper thighs.

  “Vivian…” Growling, he captured her lips again with a raw intensity. She reached up to encircle her arms about his neck but he captured them with his hands and held them above her head.

  “I will prove to you that I am a monster.” Each word sizzled, wicked and seductive. “You won’t want to stay here.”

  Vivian did not struggle. She licked her lips, raised her eyebrows. “You forget that I know the meaning of a true monster. I cannot be fooled.”

  His eyes narrowed, lips flattened. “I do not refer to the scar.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Lord Ashworth watched her. A vein pulsed on his shining forehead, lips flushed from brutal kisses.

  Then he released her hands and pushed her back on the desk. Papers crumpled under her shoulders, the leaves she brought in scattered to the floor.

  Shadows stole across the length of his face, darkening the strong curve of his jaw. His eyes pinned her with a wild stare.

  She should feel afraid. It was what he wanted to provoke within her. But only desire and compassion mingled in her heart. She acknowledged that this man made her feel wanton, sensual, alive with feminine beauty.

  It was his obvious pain which brought out her compassion. His inner rage drove him to desperation. But he would not succeed in frightening her away.

  Lord Ashworth thrust his hips against the aching spot between her legs; his hard arousal rubbed her sensitive nub. A longing cry rose up her throat but she swallowed it.

  He reached under her skirts and smirked, “This is what a monster does—” He yanked on her petticoats, “—takes whatever he wants.”

  Vivian rose up to her elbows, set her chin. “You cannot take what I freely give.”

  Lord Ashworth stopped cold.

  His hands dropped then he spun away from her. He braced himself against the decaying mantelpiece. “Why? Why do you want to give yourself to me?”

  Vivian slid off the desk and moved to the other end of the fireplace, where sputtering flames did not remove the ever-present chill. “Tell me of what happened when you got your scar. What has turned your world into such loneliness?”