by Deana James
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her pad and pencil.
"Oh, of course. The notes. You must be a very talented writer." He looked around him. "Cleaning this pile. Really cleaning it would be akin to the cleaning the Augean stables." He toasted her again. "Forgive me, if you don't quite measure up to Hercules. Besides, I seriously doubt that this moldering wreck can be changed. Truly, it has been allowed to sink into a hopeless condition." He gestured to the room in which they sat. The lace on his sleeve swayed. "Hopeless and useless." His bitterness was palpable in the twist of his lips and the savage glint of his eye. "This is my-forgive me-our inheritance."
Vivian looked around her. The room did not compare unfavorably with Stone Glenn as she remembered it. It was merely distressingly plain; the furniture, old and not very well cared for.
The silence grew between them. Piers took another sip of brandy. His voice was alcohol warm when he spoke to Watkins. "Beddoes is below."
"Yes, milord. I believe he is with the earl."
"Damn him. Damn them both." Piers cursed evenly as he thrust out the glass for the valet to refill.
Vivian finished her cup of tea and rose.
"Don't go."
She shook her head. A heavy object was being dragged across the floor in the room next door. She pointed in that direction.
"I hear it. I hear it. For God's sake, use your head. Don't go over there in the midst of all that confusion. You'll only add to it."
"He's right, milady," Watkins agreed. "Have another cup of tea. Since you have arrived, milord, I’ll bring more refreshments." He bowed and left them alone.
"I can’t get over your doing this," Piers said when the door had closed behind the valet. "You must be incurably optimistic if you think you can make an impression on this place. Or foregoing that, are you one of those people who likes a fight? I’ve heard of such, but I’ve never met any man nor woman to equal the fortitude you seem to display."
Nervously, she interlocked her fingers and thought about his estimates of her.
Piers studied her expressive face, wondering what lay behind it. At last he cleared his throat. "And will you set them to this room when your room is renovated?" A glass object shattered on the floor next door. "Although from the sound of those renovations, they may be too expensive for us to afford many of them."
Vivian rose and crossed to the window that looked out over the terrace. Pulling back the lace curtains, she revealed the filthy windows. Although the sun was shining at that particular moment, its rays were split and refracted by the dinginess of the panes. Shuddering expressively, she dabbed her index finger across the glass and brought it away dark with soil on its tip. Turning back around to face him, she held up the slim member for his inspection.
He grinned as she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her finger. "A labor of Hercules indeed. But perhaps you are Hercules in female form. What a unique thought. Hercules herself. Or Heraclea. My father calls you Boadicea. The Celtic warrior-queen. But I shall call you Heraclea. Which are you?"
She shrugged. Smiling faintly, she came to him and took his free hand. In its palm she traced her name "Vivian."
"Ah, the sorceress who imprisoned Merlin. Magic, not might." He clasped her hand in his big warm one and brought it to his lips. His kiss on her naked palm drove a bolt of lightning through the soft part of her belly.
"Will you clean my room when you have finished with yours?" he asked with curious softness.
Hastily, she pulled the hand away, feeling color again mount in her cheeks. With an attitude of reverence, she brought her palms together. Bowing her head slightly so that her chin touched the third fingers of her hands, she bent her knee in a deep curtsy. As one before her lord and master, her hands parted and her arms spread wide in a slave's gesture of humble obeisance. Then in one fluid movement, she straightened.
He grinned sardonically. "You are no servant, no slave. No question of that." He put out a hand to catch her own and drew her toward him. His head lolled back in the chair so he could look deep into her eyes. The brandy he had drunk had begun to work.
“No, you'll never be any man's slave. But will you truly be my lady?" He shook his head. His eyes closed for an instant and an expression like pain flickered in his face. **Will you truly be my wife?"
Her glance flickering, Vivian stared down at the drawn face. Suddenly it looked infinitely older and sadder. What she read there sobered her. She bit her lower lip against a wave of sympathy. He was in deadly earnest. He wanted not just his right to her body, but his right to her soul.
************************************
“Take them, Pross." Larnaervon pointed to the stacks of ledgers, the boxes of papers. "Close your entire office. Go down to Stone Glenn and go over the place with a fine tooth comb. Find everything. Or if it's not to be found, discover what happened to it."
"Yes, milord."
Larnaervon limped back to his desk and lowered himself painfully. His head sank between his shoulders, like an eagle brooding. "Get a writ," he said, "to keep Dawlish out. He is not to set foot on the place again. Do you hear?"
"Yes, milord." The solicitor's eyes glinted with excitement he could not quite suppress. The business would make his firm powerful. He would have to engage auditors. His efficiency, his dispatch would be remarked on in the City. Important men would seek his services.
"And not a word of this to my son," the earl warned.
Pross raised his eyebrows. "I-I'm not sure that—”
"Not a word. You will report directly to me." The thin skin stretched white over the knobby knuckles as the earl clenched his fists. "Drunken fool."
Pross hesitated. Good business did not require him to question prosperous clients, yet he knew himself to be treading on dangerous ground. "Perhaps responsibility is what the young man needs," he ventured.
"Responsibility!" The earl gave a short bark of contemptuous laughter. "He was hopeless from the very beginning. Never had a head for business or anything else."
"He spent two years at university," Pross observed mildly.
"He wasted two years at university," the earl snapped. "His mother was determined that he should go, but I was equally determined that he should not be turned in that direction. I have always had a use for his body here."
The old man canted his head up. His eyes narrowed, scanning Pross as if daring the solicitor to make any further remarks.
Pross dropped his eyes. His mind was troubled about what should be told the viscount who was, after all, the lady's husband. Still, the earl paid him handsomely. The man of business gathered up the records and ledgers and went away.
Chapter 13
Addie hastened to answer the knock on Vivian's door. Piers stood there in a black coat and black buckskin trousers. His immaculate white stock was tied in a graceful waterfall. Addie's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes dazzled by his appearance. She dropped an awkward curtsy. **Oh, milord, do come in."
Vivian rose from her dressing table. An uncertain smile on her face, she walked to the center of the room. He was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen. In her heart of hearts she hoped he would find her beautiful. Perhaps they could both be a little bit glad that they had married.
He had seen her in nothing except a nun's habit or a riding dress. Moreover, he had seen her miserable, afraid, angry, hurting. Never had she been able to offer him a voluntary smile. With a conscious effort to please, she smiled for him now.
Before the terrible year of illness and virtual imprisonment, she had dreamed as any young girl would of a London debut. Desperately she wanted to see some hint of admiration in the eyes of the man who was her husband. She was not disappointed.
For the first time Piers saw her garbed in a dress suitable to her station. Of heavy ice-blue watered silk, its high waistline was gathered just below her breasts with silver ribbons. The skirt fell in long shimmering patterns to a deep row of silver fringe. It parted to tantalizingly reveal slend
er, silk-clad ankles and narrow feet encased in slippers of the same ice-blue silk.
His admiration was evident in his slow smile. Not so evident was the potent warmth of desire he felt beneath the admiration. "Milady," he murmured. "I’ve come just in time, I see."
Her smile faded. She blinked and lowered her lashes. How silly to have wanted a less prosaic reaction. Still, she wished she could ask him how he liked the dress, wished she could tell him that this particular ensemble was to have been for her come-out. Because she had fallen ill, she had never gotten to wear it. Now the occasion was past forever.
He frowned as he took both her hands in his. What had he said? Dolt! A compliment. Pay her a compliment. Have you been removed from polite society so long that you have forgotten how to pay one? The girl expected a compliment. He cleared his throat. "That gown is exceptional, my dear. I fear if you had been presented in London society, I would have had to fight a half-dozen duels at least for even a dance."
Her lashes swept up. Her eyes shone with a terrible hope. And then a moment of alarm. How had he read her thoughts? The warmth of his hands began to play strange tricks on her body. Tension coiled in her belly. She tugged gently to free herself.
Piers felt her change of attitude though he could not understand it. One minute she had been a graceful form walking toward him, giving him her hands. Then she had become stiff and nervous. "What's wrong?"
She managed to tug her hands free and step back.
The resistance annoyed him. What ailed the fool girl? Perhaps she really was deficient in some manner. He caught her by the wrist and held her when she would have backed away. "Relax," he snapped. "We've been over this route before. Just because you're all tricked out, I'm not going to spring on you and ravish you before supper. I'm not a monster. I can control my lust for a few more hours."
At the word lust, she tried to twist her wrist away. Her own body was betraying her mind. While her memories fueled her fear, his touch created a heat which she found herself unable to control. Yearnings for she knew not what played havoc with strange places in her body. The tips of her breasts hardened beneath his admiring gaze, and warmth and moisture gathered between her thighs. She looked at him from under her lashes, wishing he would go away, yet wishing he would stay.
"By God, Vivian, I'm a man just like any other. If we had met in society, who can say but that we might have been attracted to one another? Perhaps I would have been enthralled by your beauty had I seen you dancing at Almack's. Perhaps you would have picked me out from among all your other suitors. In any event our marriage was arranged not unlike almost everybody else's and for exactly the same reasons. We are of a class in society where land and money marry for land and money much more often than people marry the people they love." He snorted rudely. "Whatever that may be."
Vivian quit trying to free herself from his grasp and stared at him. Was he apologizing? Was he trying to excuse himself and his father for forcing her into this? Was he merely trying to make her see the way of things-at least from his point of view?
"As for the marriage bed. It was an unmitigated disaster for you, a virgin. But I beg you again. Don't dwell on it. Tonight." He bent his head and kissed her first on the cheek. "Tonight”—he kissed her on the point of her jaw—”tonight”—and last on the lobe of her ear—”I will teach you what you are made to learn. I promise."
Vivian twisted slightly in his grasp. Her fear was evident again, for his breath, smelling of the brandy he had consumed, was fanning her cheek.
"Be still," he commanded. Insistently, he blew his hot breath in her ear and took her lobe between his teeth.
She trembled as chills ran up and down her spine and covered her arms. Another minute and she would be unable to control her excitement as her blood sang in her veins and her heart pounded. Desperate to escape him before he found out, she tried to pull her head away from his mouth.
His temper flared. With an oath he threw one arm around her waist pulling her tightly against his body. The other hand gently struck the cheek she tried to turn away from him. "Stop that."
Her eyes flashed in anger at the blow even though he had not hurt her. More like a pat, it had not even stung, but it had frightened her. "Don't stare at me like that, and don't struggle any longer. I’ve had quite enough of that." His low, deep voice exerted a hypnotic quality. She was helpless to move. "I mean to kiss you now and taste what I plan to enjoy tonight. If you let yourself, if you are indeed the sensible girl I believe you to be, you'll enjoy this, too."
Humiliation rode her hard. She felt the curling heat as his lips caressed hers, coaxed her mouth open, touched the inside of it with his tongue. She drove her fingernails into the palms of her hands in hopes that the pain would help her retain some semblance of control.
To no avail. The warmth grew, she could not get enough of the taste of him. Suddenly, she rose on tiptoes, her body pressing against him, returning his kiss avidly. Heat blazed between them, their clothes weak barriers to their desire. Her hands clutched at the sleeves of his coat, dragging him closer to her.
At last, dizzy with passion, he lifted his head to look into her face. The light revealed her with eyes closed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen with his kisses. Head tipped back, body pliant against him, she stood in the circle of his arms.
"Open your eyes," he whispered. "That's right. That's a good girl."
She raised her eyelids to see him through a mist of tears.
"Beautiful," he breathed, bending his head to her mouth once more. His lips barely touched hers, but so sensitized was she that she flinched. His tongue flicked out, touching, tasting, moving over and over the same spot until she thought she would scream with passion. The pulse at the base of her throat raced, her breasts rose and fell against his chest with her rapid breathing.
Finally, he withdrew his mouth, shaken to the core. His attempt to put on a cynical smile, failed miserably. Like a fool he had excited himself almost unbearably and now would have to sit through dinner in this uncomfortable condition.
Disgusted with himself, he released her and stepped back. Offering her his arm, he bowed stiffly. "Madam, shall we go down to dinner?"
She nodded weakly. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her chest heaved beneath her soft gown.
He swallowed hard. "Then let us be off, or in another minute I’ll have you on that bed and all my good intentions for a long and leisurely lovemaking quite forgotten. As it is I’ll have an uncomfortable dinner."
She put her hand on his arm. If she had had a voice, she would have told him that he had only himself to blame. And she blamed him because she, too, felt uncomfortable with the blood pounding in her temples and every sense throbbing almost painfully.
In the hallway, he sucked in a long cold draught of the chill air and glanced down at her appraisingly. "You look so cool. Silvery hair, white skin, ice-blue gown trimmed with silver. A veritable snow queen. The sorceress Vivian. But underneath all that snow, I begin to suspect hot blood flows. Does it?"
She glared at him and shook her head.
"Sweet liar." He laughed. And then he did a thing shocking only because they had reached the end of the hall and were beginning to descend the staircase. He reached across his chest and closed his hand over the mound of her breast. His fingers and thumb felt her, found the hardened nipple easily and pinched it through its fragile covering of silk and gauze.
Her breath escaped in a gasp. Almost painful weakness made her legs tremble. She tripped, tightening her grip on his arm to keep from falling on the stairs. Then embarrassed, she looked down at his hand and then at the empty hall below. Frantically, she pushed his hand away.
He only laughed harder as he let it fall back to his side. He was still laughing as they came to the bottom of the stairs.
************************************
Her nerves still vibrating, Vivian sat at the supper table staring across the space of white cloth at Piers's stony features. The food was immeasurably better, bu
t her husband had tasted nothing of the clear court bouillon nor the excellent fish served with a small side dish of tiny Brussels sprouts.
Millard stood at attention at the sideboard, his hands at his sides, waiting to give the signal to serve the next course. Mrs. Felders, her hands folded under her apron, her lips pursed in tight disapproval, lingered in the shadows beyond the doorway.
So far the housekeeper had been pleased to see the earl had torn a patch off his son for drinking too much. Still, he had made no comment about the meal. Indeed, apart from rejecting the clear soup with a wave of his hand, he had eaten liberally of the fish and fresh bread and butter. Then, his first hunger satisfied, he had resumed the furious tirade with which he had entered the dining room.
"You're not to drink again," the earl snarled at his son. "I’ve told you. Spirits mar the performance. You have a wife. A breeder by the look of her. When we get a little meat on her bones, she'll bear healthy children." He gestured rudely with his fork.
"Larne," Piers snarled. "I warn you."
"Warn me. Ha!" He looked at Vivian. "He warns me, but he doesn't do anything. Don't ever be afraid of him, m'dear. He only talks." He smiled and forked up another bite of food. "Wouldn't you like to have children, daughter?"
Vivian could feel the color rising in her cheeks. She shot an agonized look at Millard, whose face registered a flash of sympathy before he picked up the tray and left the room, shooing Mrs. Felders before him and closing the door.