by Deana James
She tucked a blanket around him. "I’ll return, milord. Just let me give the instructions to Millard."
When he sighed, she stooped to kiss his mouth lingerly. His hand came up to caress her shoulder. Then he waved her away.
When she returned, he was snoring softly, his head turned into the pillow, his long hair blending with the whiteness of the linen.
"Sound asleep, old man?'* she muttered. With a quick shake of her head, she calmly stripped and climbed into the bed beside him. She pressed her buttocks spoon fashion into the curve of his belly. Barely disturbed by her intrusion, he mumbled something and put his arm over her waist.
Her teeth ground together in helpless frustration as she lay surrounded by his warmth, his masculine scent, the shape of his male body. Her own needs disturbed her mightily. She pushed herself back against him, butting him in her frustration.
He grunted. His white eyelashes fluttered. Then he muttered something. Angry, she pulled at the knobby, spotted hand, but he merely tightened his grip. A prisoner in the darkness, she stared outward with burning eyes.
************************************
"I don't have time to take care of this now, you foolish woman." Mrs. Felders scarcely glanced at Vivian's request. She thrust the slip of paper back into the girl's hand and continued on her way.
Vivian stared aghast, then hurried after her, catching her arm. Determined not to be put off, she thrust the paper back in the housekeeper's hand. The woman looked her full in the face, her eyes hard as flint. Her thin lips gathered in a pinch-purse, she wadded the note up and let it fall to the floor.
Vivian sucked in her breath, striving to control her frustration. She had never counted on her carefully devised request being discarded. She glanced at the floor, then at the retreating back. The housekeeper swept to the end of the hall. With her hand on the doorknob, she looked back. A smirk curled the usually tight mouth.
Vivian could feel her cheekbones burning as her anger mounted. Unaware that she had clenched her fists, she took a step toward the woman. The smirk disappeared as the housekeeper hastily opened the door and whisked around the edge of it.
Pride demanded that Vivian leave the note crumpled on the floor, but practicality triumphed. Letting her breath out in a sigh, she bent to scoop it up.
"Bravo."
The mocking voice almost toppled her over. She tipped sideways, put her foot on the hem of her skirt * and had to brace her hand against the wall to aid her to her feet.
"And again bravo."
Embarrassment adding to her anger, Vivian spun to face the viscount lounging in the shadows at the end of the hall.
"What grace. What agility." He inclined his head and swept a half-empty bottle of brandy by him as he executed a mockery of a courtly bow. Pushing his long body away from the wall, he strolled toward her. "I would say, my dear sister, that although you lost the battle, you remain unbowed."
The paper rustled against her skirts as she lifted them away from her feet. Frissons of alarm skittered up and down her spine. The faint slurring of his words, the dark circles under his eyes, the unshaven cheeks all bespoke, if the bottle did not, a night of heavy drinking. Did he mean to harm her? Never taking her eyes off him, she backed another step.
"Now don't run," he sneered. "Don't spoil it all. Here I thought I was seeing a bit of courage."
Pride made her straighten. She planted her feet and lifted her chin.
He grinned and came on until he loomed over her, casting his shadow in the dimly lit hallway. His wine-red hair was no longer cut back in its old-fashioned cue but spread over his shoulders in the same manner as his father's. Vivian wondered if his father's had been red as well. He wore no stock. His shirt hung open almost to his waist, its drawstrings dangling.
Her eyes dropped to the dark red whorls of hair on his chest, coming together in the center and arrowing down to his pants. She swallowed convulsively. He was so close she could catch his scent as well as the brandy on his breath. Her heart stepped up its rhythm. Her skin prickled. Her eyes flew to his face.
He chuckled. "Ah-ah, Sister What's-Your-Name. Carnal feelings aren't allowed beneath that black wool."
She flushed.
His teeth flashed white, the front one on the left a little out of line. "Do you like my chest, Sister? Poor little nun. Never seen one before, have you?"
She could not help herself. She fell back a step from his piercing eyes. They were dark eyes. She could not be certain of their color. Were they black or brown? They seemed to lock on her own and read her secrets. She tore and to her horror dropped her eyes to his chest. She took another step backward into a piece of furniture.
He followed her, bringing his chest closer to her eyes. Less than a foot separated them. She felt dizzy. Tension built into unfamiliar pain in her belly.
"Poor little sister." His voice was soft, slurring liquid. It made her shiver.
Desperately, she turned her face aside, presenting him her profile.
"A silent woman," he mused. He put just the tips of three fingers under her chin. "Ah, do I detect a bruise on your cheek? Mea culpa, my lady."
She shivered as he applied just the tiniest bit of pressure. It was enough to turn her face to him. His eyes looked deep into hers. "And all untouched. Until I touched you last night. But I don't think you enjoyed that kiss. Again mea culpa."
She took a deep breath. It was a mistake. He tilled her senses. Sight, scent, sound, touch. Only one remained. And she was no longer afraid. Why, she could not say. Why did she want-
He bent his wine-dark head. His hair fell forward. Their lips met behind its dark silken curtains.
His lips were firm and sweet. Sweet. The sensation tantalized her. Unable to stop herself, she pushed the tip of her tongue between her lips. Just to taste a little more, she excused herself. Just a little more of that exquisite warmth and sweetness.
He growled. The sound rumbled out of his chest, startling her. She drew back, but he put his hand to the back of her head and followed her mouth with his own.
She pushed her hands ineffectually against his chest and twisted to no avail. Why had she let him? What in heaven's name had compelled her to kiss him? His thighs trapped her against the furniture, a heavy table of English oak.
His tongue thrust into her mouth, hot, demanding. It pushed her own aside and drank with a deep caressing motion. She was drowning, she was fainting. Her heart pounded, blood roared in her head.
"For God's sake!" He stepped back as she slipped from beneath his hand, leaving her veil in his fingers. Bonelessly, she crumpled to the floor. Her silvery-blond hair rippling around her.
He stared from veil to girl in amazement. She had fainted. His kiss had terrified her, or overcome her so that she had lost her senses. Down on one knee beside her, he touched the back of his fingers to her neck. The pulse was steady. The thought of kissing a virgin until she fainted tickled him. He raised the brandy bottle in a silent toast. As he turned it up to drink, his father's voice brought him around.
"Not enough maids to dally with, Piers? You must assault a nun?"
He pivoted and came to his feet with a little laugh. "She dared me with her chin in the air. And then-By God! She kissed me back."
The earl smiled slightly. "Kissed you back. Imagine that. Not a cold, shrinking virgin at all."
Piers took the drink he had been intending to have when his father interrupted him. "Oh, she's virginal enough. Never been kissed. Till now. Never been held. Till now."
"But daring," the earl reminded him. "Kissed you back."
"Right. New breed of girl in the nunneries these days."
"You're very drunk, my boy."
"You're very right, my father. "The emphasis on the words made it a curse. "But I intend to get much drunker. Too drunk to be in the same room with you when you put Mother's body into the icy church vault."
Vivian stirred, pushing herself up on one elbow, staring around her dazedly. Piers dropped the veil in front of h
er and stepped back. "I would offer to help you to your feet, Sister, but I fear the touch of my ravaging hands would send you off into a fit from which you might never recover."
Her hands flew to her head, then reached for the veil, flaring it around her as she covered her hair.
"Too bad," he mocked. "It really is a sin against your God's creation to cover such a beautiful color. Don’t you agree, Larne?"
She pushed herself to her feet, swaying, embarrassment reddening her cheeks.
"Oh, I agree, Piers. Wholeheartedly."
She swung around at the earl's voice so close behind her. The oak table, once her nemesis, now braced her hips. Still like a doe caught in the hunter's net, she stared from one to the other, her eyes enormous.
"And such a sweet mouth, and such a delicate color to the skin," he continued. "Was the mouth sweet?"
Piers raised the bottle to his mouth and drank again. "Sweet as ..." He swayed back on his heels. "Oh, sweet as any one of a number of sweet things. I would have to be Shakespeare to name them."
Vivian pushed herself away from the table. Too embarrassed to meet their eyes, she inclined her head and took a step to move between them. Something crackled beneath her foot. She lifted it and stepped back.
The note!
Too frightened to maintain even a semblance of pride, she stooped for it and handed it to the earl. Her head remained down while he read it. But her eyes never left his gnarled, stained fingers.
He sighed before folding the note and slipping it into a pocket of his velvet coat. "I'm sorry that you want to leave us so soon, Miss Marleigh."
She started at the sound of her name. How had he known?
He smiled thinly, revealing teeth stained yellow and brown like his fingernails. "However, I beg your indulgence. As you must realize, my house is in confusion. People coming and going offering condolences. A gathering here for the funeral. All our carriages are at this moment being hung with crepe to show the proper respect as we ride to the church."
She shook her head. Desperately, she pointed to his coat pocket where the note had disappeared.
"Ah, my dear, I would do much to help you, but I cannot do so at this time. May I suggest that you return to your room and-er-offer up prayers for the souls of the dead. I will appreciate your efforts. My countess's passing has left a great void in my life. I am all but overcome with grief."
Behind her Piers uttered a name so foul that Vivian jumped. Fury blazed from the old man's eyes directed at his son, who strode back down the hall and slammed the door behind him.
With an avenue of escape open, Vivian too backed away down it.
"I cannot set you on the road for several days, Vivian Marleigh." His breathing was faster than normal. The lines around his mouth and between his eyes seemed deeper than before. "I ask you return to your room and assume the virtue of patience. In good time you will be taken care of."
Her spirits sinking, Vivian gathered the remnants of her dignity around her. Inclining her head in acquiesence, she walked back down the hall.
He watched her with a smile on his face until she had disappeared. Not until he was alone, did he allow himself to pull a linen kerchief from his sleeve and wipe his face with it. As he took his hand away from his face, he studied its violent tremors dispassionately.
He had not much time. And so many plans to effect.
Chapter 3
Through the window Vivian watched the carriages winding their way back up the snowy road. Black crepe streamed from the carriage lamps and fluttered from the sleeves and hats of the drivers.
Was the viscount slumped in one of those carriages? Or had he been able to drink himself into insensibility as he had wanted? Somehow she doubted that he had been able to do so. He had been too steady on his feet, his speech too sensible, his anger too real. Anger so bitter would be hard to drown in sweet brandy.
She shivered and came away from the window to huddle in the wing-back chair. A fire burned in the grate, just barely large enough to create a circle of warmth. The coal scuttle on the hearth was nearly empty. She would have to go for more. And for food as well. No servant had appeared with a meager tray, for the house had not broken fast before the countess's funeral.
Vivian tipped the remaining lumps into the grate and arranged them on top of the glowing bed. She would wait until the last of the coal was consumed, and the carriages had begun to drive away. Her stomach rumbled a faint protest, but she patted it and leaned forward in the chair to warm her hands.
Someone knocked at the door. "Milady.'*
Vivian hesitated, last night's confrontation making her wary. The knock came again and the handle turned. With a sigh she rose to unlock the door and open it a couple of inches.
The valet Watkins bowed respectfully. "The earl has requested your presence for the cold collation."
She stared at him then shook her head. Not for anything would she go down into the midst of the gloom.
Watkins put his hand on the door to prevent her closing it. "He is most insistent, milady." He hesitated. "Best come on. He’ll just send someone else who'll bring you, if you know what I mean."
Vivian did not know, but she could imagine. She gestured for him to wait. Behind the door she smoothed the heavy wool garments and arranged her veil. Although she had not taken the vows, she would not disgrace the habit that protected her.
Putting her most placid expression on her face, she opened the door.
Watkins broke into a smile. "Very good, milady. Soft and easy and butter wont melt in your mouth. That's the ticket."
They had a bit of confusion as to who should precede whom down the hall. In the end Vivian went ahead because Watkins begged her to do so. "The earl might not take kindly to me walking into the room first."
The murmur of voices and the discreet clink of silver and glassware guided her. Watkins swung open the door, and she stepped into a long room, the Larnaervon portrait gallery. Two tables were spread, one at each end with food and beverages.
The hum of conversation dropped momentarily as the guests became aware of her presence. The earl smiled urbanely and came to meet her. Before he reached her, she caught a glimpse of Piers slumped in a chair, his hair a dark flame in the gray light from the tall window. Mrs. Felders, clad in black, stood at the end of one of the tables, her sharp eyes following the two footmen where they passed trays among the guests.
All these impressions registered, then her gaze was concentrated on a heavyset man, part of a group at the far end of the room.
Larnaervon followed her stare. "I believe you know each other."
Vivian's eyebrows rose as she recognized Sebastian Dawlish, her cousin thrice removed and her guardian. As if feeling her scrutiny, he looked in her direction. At first he saw merely the figure in the nun's habit. His eyes moved on, then flashed back. He gaped as he recognized her. His heavy jowls reddened. Hastily, he set down his plate of food and hurried across the room to meet her.
At her shoulder the earl chuckled. One gnarled hand closed gently but firmly around her upper arm. She could feel the perpetual tremors of his infirm body through the thick wool.
Dawlish halted in front of them, his brows drawn together in a frown. His eyes flashed angrily as they fastened on the earl's hand. **Vivian. What-what are you doing here?"
"She came as a nurse from that convent you put her in, Sebastian." The earl's fingers squeezed her arm as if sending some sort of signal. A warning to be cautious?
"A nurse. But why? She's not a nurse."
Larnaervon's smile peeled back over his teeth like an old wolfs. "I must confess a little plot here. It was I who requested that she come to my wife's bedside. Perhaps you did not know that you had a connection with my dear Georgina, Vivian. You were so young at the time of the accident."
"She was ill," Sebastian stammered. "Very ill."
"To be sure. Nevertheless, your grandmother, dear girl, was the countess's godmother." He heaved an affected sigh.
"Vivian!" Seb
astian's jowls turned a vivid puce.
"I'm sure you had no idea, but at the time of the accident, I tried to have myself and my dear wife named your guardians, Vivian," the earl continued smoothly. "Alas, my request was denied."
Sebastian stiffened angrily. "I was her blood relation. You, sir, professed a connection that was suspect at best."
The earl assumed a martyred air. "I assure you that the connection was very real. And my dear Georgina so wanted a daughter."
Vivian cast the earl a startled sidewise glance. His repeated references to his "dear Georgina" belied the hate-filled scene between the two of them just before the countess's death.
Sebastian tried again to take her arm. "You shouldn't be here at all, my dear. How dare those people send you out into the countryside? You were in the quiet and seclusion of the abbey to rest and recuperate."
Shoulder hunched against the grappling fingers, the earl continued as if Dawlish had not spoken. "Although my request to be your guardian was denied, my dear, I have always maintained a close watch on your interests. When my wife became mortally ill, I determined to grant her anything at all that would help her to her eternal rest."
Vivian could not repress a shiver. By inference he painted a picture of a peaceful and loving end. The countess's death had been horrible. Horrible.
The earl smiled down into her face. "I hope you