Ripe for Pleasure

by Isobel Carr

Bruises flushed to life as Viola slid into the bath. She hissed and forced more of her battered body into the steaming water. After the grandeur of the bath at Dyrham, a wooden tub in her room seemed almost a punishment.

  Nance approached with a sponge, and Viola waved her away. She didn’t want anyone touching her, not even her maid. She gripped the cloth-draped rim of the tub, bent forward, and rested her forehead on her arm. Steam washed over her, curling up to caress her face. It permeated her hair until tendrils sagged down around her, the tips slipping into the water.

  Her wounds from the last attack had barely healed, and here she was, more battered than she’d ever been in her life. Her brain wouldn’t stop making excuses for Leo, inventing scenarios and reasons for his deceptions, playing devil’s advocate with a vengeance. But no matter what twisted explanation she reached for, it evaporated before she could fully grasp it, dancing away from her tired brain like a ghostly light on the moors.

  He’d used her. That was the only truth. He’d used her, put her in danger, left her unaware and exposed… That horrible truth balanced on a knife’s edge with the undeniable fact that she loved him. The two incongruous facts seesawed back and forth, leaving her shaken and sick to the core.

  How could she love such a man? And more importantly, how could she stop? Because she had to stop, had to dig the feelings out and crush them under her heel as you would an adder in the garden.

  The door opened. The familiar sound of boot heels on the floor made her stiffen, every muscle taut, poised for flight. A hushed interchange, as though beside a deathbed. The swish of fabric as Nance exited. The snick of the door closing behind her.

  Viola kept her head down. If she looked up, she’d either burst into tears or spring from the bath and claw his eyes out.

  The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor was followed by a creak as he disposed himself beside the tub. Even now he intruded, claimed his place, imposed on her peace. He sat quietly, his simple presence filling the room like a heavy-handed concerto pounded out on a perfectly tuned pianoforte.

  “You can have the house.” Her breath made ripples in the water. “The both of you.” He and his damned cousin, who’d been hauled away with a curse for them both on his lips.

  He could have the house, if only he’d leave now. Leave now and not touch her. Leave now and not make her struggle with this, not make her face it.

  His only reply was the application of the sponge to her back. Viola pressed her forehead more firmly into her arm and bit her lip. How could she want him, love him, hate him all at the same time? How was it possible not to disintegrate amidst such conflict?

  “I don’t want the house,” he said, each word skittering across her damp skin, distinct and insistent. “And even if Charles lives, giving it to him won’t solve anything.”

  Viola turned her head so she could see him out of her one good eye. Through the curtain of her hair, he looked like a repentant angel: He’d removed his coat at some point since he’d brought her home, along with his cravat. His waistcoat gaped open, all but the last button disengaged. The sponge continued up and down her spine, a steady, reassuring touch in a world that no longer held any such promise.

  “But you want the prince’s treasure.”

  Leo winced as something that felt oddly like tears balled up behind his sternum. It wasn’t a question. Viola turned her face back toward the water, dismissing him. What excuse could he possibly offer? Yes, he still wanted the treasure, but not at this cost. In his selfish heart of hearts, he wanted her and the treasure both. The sad reality was, he wasn’t likely to get either, and deservedly so.

  Myriad bruises formed a map across her pale skin. Each dark spot marking a betrayal, each scratch and welt marking a path from one lie to another. The whole of it was a brutal reminder that he’d not only failed her, he’d failed himself. Charles, too, if it came right down to it. He sluiced water over each and every mark. When he lifted her hair, she sat up, staring at him blankly.

  There was blood on her face, a bruise blooming across one cheek, from the arch of her cheekbone all the way to her jaw, and one eye was swollen nearly shut. He’d seen men survive a bare knuckles boxing match with less to show for it.

  At this point, nothing but the truth would do. “Yes, I want the treasure. I need it, in fact. But I’m not certain it exists anymore.”

  Viola sucked in a breath, like a swimmer emerging from the waves. “So all this has been for nothing? The attacks, the fire, Ned—oh God, Ned.” She covered her mouth with her hand, inhaling sharply through her fingers. The water mixed with the dried blood, sending red rivulets down her face and neck. He soaked a towel and handed it to her.

  Her face disappeared, hands molding the cloth to her like some ancient, mournful pieta. “All this time, you let me believe it was Sir Hugo behind those men. Sir Hugo and my damn manuscript that got Ned killed. But it was your cousin. And you.”

  The urge to deny fault burned, but Leo couldn’t. He’d set it all in motion. “Yes, I’m as much to blame as Charles, though I took a different tack. I tried to tell Charles his way was too risky, too cruel. I did try to protect you,” he added.

  “I suppose you did. But as you needed me, I would hardly call your protection altruistic. What happens now? What happens if your family finds out you shot your cousin? Possibly killed him…” Her voice trailed away.

  His heartbeat faltered. “They won’t find out. Charles won’t tell them. Can’t tell them. And if he dies, well, Sandison told the doctor it was a drunken duel. My parents would never understand. Charles is like a son, like a brother…”

  “And you love him.”

  Leo nodded and held out a towel. That was the worst of it. He did—even after seeing what Charles had done to Viola, and the horrors he’d unleashed upon her staff and neighbors. It simply didn’t seem real, didn’t seem possible, that it had been Charles.

  If his family found out, they’d think it was over money. Something petty and rude. He’d never make them understand that the treasure had become the least of it.

  Maybe Beau, but not the rest. Not his brother. Certainly not his parents.

  Viola rose unsteadily, and he helped her from the tub. Steam rose off her skin as though she were diffusing into the air. The urge to grab her, to establish that she was real and his, surged through him. He crammed it down, ruthlessly.

  “I love him, but I chose you.”

  Her single open eye pinned him in place as neatly as if he were an exotic insect in a display box. “And you’re not sure if you can forgive yourself.”

  “No.” Leo shook his head, hair slipping from his queue to hang about his face. “I know I won’t be able to forgive myself for even the smallest part of it. Not what I did to Charles; not for what I did to you.”

  Viola nodded in an entirely noncommittal way and gingerly pulled on her dressing gown. She wrung the water from her hair, a spiraling stream spilling back into the tub.

  “I’m not sure I can forgive you either. Damnable, isn’t it? Love and hate getting tangled up this way.”

  Leo held his breath, not entirely sure that she’d said what he thought. Had she been referring to them, or to him and Charles? She didn’t wait for a response, retreating to her dressing table where various pots of salve had been left by her maid.

  “But do you think it worth finding out?” His question fell into the room, heavy as a stone sinking in water.

  Viola studied her face in the mirror, fingering her various cuts and bruises, ignoring him completely. Ignoring things was an art, and she was a master in it. Finally she selected one of the small pots and began anointing her bruises with the salve inside it. When she was done, she turned her head to face him.

  “One of the things life has taught me, my lord, is to never discard anything of value. Does it make you wince to be thought of as a thing? To be weighted and accessed as a commodity? Good. Yes, I think it worth finding out, but I make you no promises of forgiveness or understanding. I don’t even
promise to treat you nicely. Hell, I can’t swear I won’t stab you in your sleep.”

  “Hate, love, and the urge to do murder. All the makings of a true Vaughn.”

  Viola’s head snapped around, but she didn’t reply. Leo watched quietly as she returned to drying her hair.

  It was more than he had any right to expect, though far less than he wanted. She didn’t owe him a damn thing, but having sacrificed his cousin—his family—he couldn’t help but want more from her, of her. He’d pledged himself to her in that moment, body and soul, and he wanted that in return. Craved it, bone deep.

  As for the possibility of being murdered in his sleep, he’d expect no less from any woman in his family if she were treated so abominably. Why should Viola be any different?

  CHAPTER 29

  Their return to Dyrham was a ludicrous affair that nearly made her wish she’d chosen to remain in town: four easy stages, in the best-sprung coach she’d ever experienced, the seats folded out into a sumptuous bed where she and Pen could curl up and nap the miles away.

  Leo handled her as though she were fragile as fine wine, not to be shaken or unduly disturbed. His servants treated her likewise. Only Pen could be trusted to cram her way in, pushing and shoving and demanding attention in her domineering and irresistible way.

  The lime avenue alerted her that they’d reached the outskirts of the estate. Pen turned in a restless circle and began to pant. The familiar arch of limbs and leaves stirred an ache of longing behind her sternum. Ridiculous to have become so attached to a house in such a short time.

  The coach rolled to a stop, and Pen raised her head, ears pricked, tail churning with excitement. The coach swayed ever so slightly as the footmen jumped down. The door opened, and Pen scrambled out, happy to be home.

  Viola’s breath caught. Dyrham wasn’t home, whether her dog realized that or not. Leo had been right when he’d asserted that London was no place for her to recuperate. Too many chances for someone to see her, for rumors to start, for someone to ask questions. But all the same, she suddenly wished she’d answered differently and had gone instead to stay with Lady Ligonier.

  She wanted this to an extent that frightened her. Wanted Leo, too, despite his many betrayals. What might she be willing to give up to have it? To have him? And would it be worth it in the end?

  She’d broken so many of her rules with him, for him.

  Her poached egg arrived with its usual desultory promptness. A week of sleeping in, wandering about her room, and being kept on nursery rations had her ready to rip the paper from the walls.

  The entire household tiptoed around as though she were at death’s door. Everything was hushed, well-oiled, fully functional, but deadly dull. The letter announcing that Lord Leonidas’s cousin would live had only seemed to makes things worse.

  She dumped the egg into the saucer of her teacup and fed it to Pen. The dog swallowed it whole and turned to wipe her face across Viola’s dressing gown. Viola stared down at the bits of drool and egg liberally smeared across her knee. At least this one was linen and easily laundered. Silk was going to have to be banished from her wardrobe entirely unless her income from the second installment of her memoir filled her coffers to unknown heights.

  Or perhaps she could start a new fashion: watered silk, à la chien. She rubbed the egg off with a towel from her dressing table. Was there any point in getting dressed today? She turned the idea over in her head.

  If she didn’t leave this room soon, she was going to go mad. So yes, there was a very good reason to get dressed, even if Leo might not approve. He’d been free to come and go, while she’d been caged like some animal in the Duke of Richmond’s menagerie.

  A chemise gown worn over her jumps would be decent enough for the close gardens. She wouldn’t even venture so far as the folly. She just needed fresh air in her lungs and sunlight on her skin, to look at something other than these four walls and the distant, teasing canopy of trees and the sparkling twist of water.

  An hour later, Viola was seated under a bower of laburnum, Pen lying at her feet, watching the butterflies and bees with hawklike interest. It had taken resolution to bully her way past her maid and Leo’s butler, but she’d done it.

  Off to one side, she could see the duchess’s tower. Occasionally, a groom would appear past the corner of the stable block, exercising one of the horses. She saw Oleander, and Quiz, and a flash of blood bay that could only be Meteor. At one point, Nance and Sampson wandered by in the distance.

  Nance had been more than eager to return to Dyrham, and it seemed that her feelings were returned in full by Leo’s footman. Would Leo mind if Viola stole his footman? She’d need one of her own if she left Leo, and Sampson was the obvious choice.

  Nance had rushed to the kitchen upon their return and rescued the Midsummer-men from the rafters. She’d found both pairs sweetly entwined, and she’d put great stock in them. Viola had wrapped her own in paper and tucked it into a drawer, feeling foolish in the extreme as she did so.

  Two dried twigs, tied together and bent in until the flowering heads were united. Nothing but a country superstition, but she couldn’t bring herself to toss hers out any more than Nance could.

  A bee tumbled slowly from flower to flower, its soft hum providing a lazy contrast to its activity. Viola breathed deeply and concentrated on the feeling of the sun working its way through the layers of her clothing… She woke to Lord Leonidas’s chuckle and the sound of Pen’s feet churning the gravel walk as she greeted him.

  “Not as recovered as you thought, eh?” His long-fingered hand caressed the dog’s ear, pulling it softly while Pen leaned into him with all her might.

  Viola covered her answering yawn with her hand. “I needed air.” Her body hummed in tune with the bees at the sight of him. The sun turned his hair into a dark halo and caught the slight burr of his beard, shadowing his jaw. Shallowness was a sin she’d have to lay claim to, covetousness, too.

  “Walls starting to close in on you?”

  She nodded. It would all be so much easier if only he weren’t so beautiful. It caught one off guard. His green eye was merry again, something it hadn’t been even before her abduction. When was the last time she’d seen that particular glint? For the life of her, she simply couldn’t remember. Her traitorous heart set her pulse fluttering.

  Damn it all, she didn’t want to want him.

  A smile tugged at her mouth, and she gave in, even though the motion pulled at her still-healing lower lip. He was a scoundrel, and he’d nearly got her killed, but that teasing green eye was impossible to resist.

  Weak, wanton, and a fool. That’s what she’d become. What she’d been reduced to. And she was likely to remain so for as long as the world allowed her. Outside Dyrham, she might come to her senses, but while here, never. Had he known that when he’d swept her out of town? His wicked green eye implied he had.

  Leo took Viola’s answering smile as an invitation to linger. Since her abduction, she’d been haughty, reticent, angry, dismissive; anything other than welcoming and soft. And he couldn’t blame her, though he wanted the lady with the knowing smile back far more than it was safe for a man to want something.

  What was it his grandmother always said about provoking the gods? Something about hubris being a man’s downfall? He couldn’t quite remember, but it amounted to not setting one’s heart on something too hard. The swelling around her eye had entirely disappeared, leaving just a purple-black ring. The bruise on her cheek had faded, too, nothing but a sallowness edged in grayish lavender to show where it had been.

  Leo tamped down the rising flood of guilt. She didn’t want his apologies, and they wouldn’t do his cousin a damn bit of good. He’d been given a choice worthy of Solomon, and he’d made it.

  He flicked back the skirt of his coat and sat, straddling the bench where she’d been dozing. She sighed and leaned into him, much as her dog had done moments before. Her head settled on his shoulder, and one hand gripped his waistcoat, fingers curling
inside. He could remember his nephews in just such a pose, sleepy and content as he carried them to the nursery.

  He wrapped both arms around her and rested his head atop hers. He’d been planning on chasing his invalid back into the house, but this was infinitely preferable. Her hair smelled faintly of citrus, lemons or orange blossom. He buried his nose in her hair, content to wonder, content to wallow in the thrill of simply being allowed to do so.

  After several minutes, Viola turned her head slightly and kissed him, lips firm, almost demanding. A tremor ran through her. Leo groaned and kissed her back. It had been forever since he’d touched her, and he’d not been sure he’d ever be allowed to again.

  “Come up to the bathhouse.” She slid off his lap and tugged him up. A shadow of her coquettish smile slid across her mouth. God, how he wanted that smile back. He’d give just about anything to see it in all its glory.

  Fingers twined, they wandered slowly through the garden and up to the path that led from the house to the bathhouse. Once inside, she kissed him again, kept kissing him, lips, tongue, and teeth all brought to bear, even as he fumbled with the series of ties at the back of her chemise gown. The gown fell to the floor in a pool of white linen. She backed away, smiling, eyes never leaving his.

  Whatever had happened to her, between them, she was still quite powerfully herself. Still Viola. Wicked charm still infused her eyes. Her naughty dimples appeared for the scantest of moments, flashing like a distant light at sea.

  He stepped toward her, and she shook her head, curls swinging about her shoulders as she ripped the ribbon from her hair. For a moment, she was a Greuze painting—a servant girl in dishabille—then quick fingers tugged loose the ties of her jumps, and they, too, were discarded where they fell. Her shift was off in one quick motion, and she went from Greuze to Fragonard.

  She tossed her shift at him, a heavy cloud in the steam. Leo snatched it out of the air and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. If he were as rich as his father, she’d have a new shift every day, and he’d sleep each night with her used one as a pillowcase, resting his head enveloped in her scent. That was reason enough to find the prince’s damn treasure.