by Brooklyn Ann
Vincent tamped down a fresh wave of guilt for mesmerizing her. “It is blocked as well.”
Why did he feel such remorse? He’d been hypnotizing humans every night for centuries. It did them no harm. Because I did it to one I vowed to protect.
They continued down the narrow passage, peering through the holes when opportunity arose. Suddenly, Lydia let out a skull-piercing shriek. She threw her arms around him and pressed herself against his body with enough force to topple a mortal man.
A low growl trickled from his throat as he pulled her closer with one arm and disengaged the other to destroy whatever frightened her. He frowned. He neither saw, smelled, nor sensed anything that would pose a threat.
“What is it, Lydia?”
Her face pressed so tightly against his chest that he couldn’t make out her response. The feel of her mouth against him made his arousal flare painfully. This is wrong.
“I…cannot…hear you,” he bit out in agony.
A semblance of the sweet torture ended as she lifted her head. “It was a spider.” Her grip loosened, and he fought the urge to pull her back.
She uttered a derisive laugh. “I apologize. It is a silly fear, I know. I cannot help my revulsion for the horrid creatures.” Lydia shuddered against him, making him suck in a breath. “May we go back now?”
“Yes.” Vincent prayed his response to her embrace would fade before they emerged.
Lydia chattered amiably as they made their way back to the entrance, her terror forgotten. As they exited the empty bedchamber, she looked up at him with a mischievous grin. “Perhaps I can use the passage to escape my lessons—”
“There you are!” Miss Hobson rounded the corner. “Miss Price, I have been looking all over for you.” Her hawklike gaze darted to Vincent, and she raised a brow. “My lord.”
Vincent’s jaw clenched as he gave her a polite nod. Her scrutiny made him feel like a recalcitrant school lad. “I was giving Miss Price a tour of the rest of the castle.”
Miss Hobson eyed him suspiciously, then she smiled as if his answer pleased her. “I see. Come, Lydia. We must change your frock for supper. Good heavens, it is covered in dust. Someone should have a word with the housekeeper.”
Lydia gave him a conspiratorial smile before she was whisked away. Vincent sighed and leaned against the wall. He was proving to be a terrible guardian.
Seven
The next afternoon, Lydia’s steps carried her to the chamber containing the entrance to the secret passage. She shivered, remembering Deveril’s smile when he took her there…and the firm, secure feel of his body in her arms when she’d seen the spider.
I want him, her inner voice declared with an ache.
For what? Her rational side asked. Lydia knew that when he was with her she felt safe and happy. She knew she wanted to run her fingers through his hair. She wanted to feel his arms around her. She wanted his lips upon hers…and more. If only he weren’t my guardian.
Sighing, she pressed the corner, and the hidden door slid open with its usual protest. The passage seemed to be dimmer than on the previous evening.
She turned back to fetch a candelabrum, then stopped when she heard muffled voices. Someone was in one of the chambers. It had to be Emma. Shoving aside a momentary flicker of guilt, she continued down the passage, following the sounds.
The third viewing hole revealed the pair.
“They say he roams the countryside at night, steals the milk from cows, and stops the chickens from laying their eggs!” a waifish blonde girl exclaimed.
Lydia’s eyes widened. Now this was interesting.
“Hush, Beth,” Emma admonished. Lydia had never before heard such authority in her maid’s voice. “Do you want to get sacked on your first day? Mother cannot afford for you to lose this position.”
“But we are under the roof of the Devil Earl!” Beth wailed.
The Devil Earl? Lydia fought back a gasp. They were talking about her guardian! The man was mysterious, but a devil? Surely not. Devils were not kind. A devil would not give her a home and company and laughter.
Emma sighed with all the exasperation of an elder sibling. “Stop behaving like a ninny. If the stories were true, I would have been dead weeks ago. I also wouldn’t have recommended you when he sought a scullery maid.” She nodded at Beth’s wide gaze. “Yes, I am the one who had you sent here, not mother. And I do not see why you are carrying on so. You won’t ever see him, as you’ll be in the kitchens.”
Beth continued to quaver. “Oh, Emma, I didn’t think. You have to see him every day. Does he—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. Lydia couldn’t hear the rest.
“Of course not!” Emma bristled. “He has been very kind, and I can assure you, he is no monster, much less a lecher.” She chuckled and tweaked Beth’s nose. “I think he may be somewhat cracked, yet I doubt he sucks the breath from babes or changes into a sea dragon during the full moon.”
“What about the lady who is his ward?” Beth prodded. “No one in the village has seen her. Is she mad as well?”
Lydia clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. Beth was not the first to speculate on her mental faculties.
“She is in mourning. Ladies in mourning are not permitted—” Emma broke off and cocked her head toward the door. “Someone is coming. I think it may be Hobson.”
Damn, teatime already. Lydia needed no further warning. She darted through the passage and out of the empty bedchamber just in time to greet her chaperone in the corridor.
She was tempted to question Miss Hobson during tea, though she did not dare, lest she endure a long lecture on eavesdropping. Why are there such silly rumors about the earl? Is that why he isn’t married? Lydia frowned as she sipped her tea, wishing for café au lait.
Right after tea she bundled up in a thick woolen cloak, gathered her supplies, and had Aubert carry her easel outside to the west hill, where the light was best. The late afternoon sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky, though the air held a nipping chill. Lydia hardly noticed, so wrapped up was she in the beauty of Cornwall. Castle Deveril stood like an ancient sentinel poised before the jutting cliffs. The muted roar of the sea danced in her ears like forgotten music, calling her home. Craggy hills adorned with the greenest grass stretched down the coast; she had seen a wild, unkempt garden on the east side of the castle. To the north, a dark, dense forest beckoned her imagination and paintbrush with its haunting shadows streamed with mist.
Now the castle captured her attention. Already she was in love with the ancient fortress. As the sun dropped lower in the sky, the rosy light highlighted the wind-worn curves of ancient slate-gray stone. Sighing at its romantic beauty, she set up the canvas under the spreading limbs of a great oak tree at the summit of the hill, and mixed her paints.
As she painted, Lydia pondered her guardian. Perhaps the villagers’ fear of him was understandable, for he did indeed resemble a character in a gothic novel. Tall, enigmatic, and captivating, the Earl of Deveril was the stuff of dark dreams.
Her fingers itched to render his striking features on canvas. She frowned, mixing colors on her palette. Those stormy eyes and moonstruck hair were meant to be immortalized. A small sigh escaped her at the thought of tracing the shape of his lips.
“Good evening, Lydia,” Deveril called as he crested the hill. “How is the painting?”
A shiver ran down her body. He said her name only when they were alone…as if they shared an intimate secret. Lydia set down her palette and brush and pulled the folds of her cloak tighter. “It is going as well as it could be, with so few hours to capture the dusk. What is your Christian name?” she blurted as she removed the canvas from the easel. “I’ve known you for a week, and I feel I am at a disadvantage.”
“It is Vincent,” he replied in an odd tone. “I didn’t realize you were unaware.”
“Vincent.” She tasted
the word. Now she knew what name to invoke in her dreams. “That is quite a name for a devil. Do you truly steal milk from cows at night and change into a sea monster during the full moon, devouring hapless fishermen along the way?”
Deveril stiffened, and his eyes turned glacial. “Emma has been carrying tales, I see.” Rage deepened his voice to a feral growl. “How dare she try to frighten you after I gave her shelter and employment when your grandmother sacked her? By God, I shall—”
“It was not Emma, my lord. It was her sister who said these things.” Her face burned with guilt as she confessed her indiscretion. “I was in the passage, eavesdropping… Emma then assured her sister that you are not a monster.” Although she believes you are somewhat cracked.
Then, his words struck her. He’d employed Emma after Lady Morley dismissed her. Lydia’s heart warmed at his kind gesture.
Vincent continued to glower. “Perhaps I shall have to find a new scullery maid.”
Lydia shook her head. “I do not think so, for you would only encounter the same problem with the next one. I understand the rumors are widespread.” She attempted to make light of it as she packed away her painting supplies. “You should be flattered to be such a part of local lore. Perhaps one day ‘The Devil Earl’ will be as popular as ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’”
“I do not believe I’ve heard that one before.” The hostility left his countenance, and he leaned against the great oak tree. “Would you tell it to me?”
“Of course.” Relief washed over her. She had not caused Emma or Beth to lose their employment.
Taking a deep breath, she recited the tale. Lydia took extra care to insert appropriate drama when the giant arrived. “‘Fee, Fie, Foe, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.’” She stomped toward Vincent. “‘Be he live or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!’”
When she finished, Vincent applauded. “Now I must add storytelling to your list of accomplishments. We should return to the castle and meet the dressmakers.”
“Not yet, my lord.” Lydia stopped him, unwilling to relinquish the evening’s beauty and his company. “Now you must tell me a story.”
He sighed and nodded. “Very well.” Vincent stepped away from the tree and began. “A young girl was told to bring a basket of food and herbs to her grandmother, who was ill.”
Lydia had heard this tale, yet the way Vincent told it with his melodious voice and sinister narrative had her listening with anticipation. She watched entranced as he adopted the persona of the wolf, stalking around the tree like a sleek predator.
As Vincent neared the end of the story, he stepped closer to her. “‘What big eyes you have,’ said the girl. ‘The better to see you with,’ the wolf replied.”
Lydia sucked in a breath as he circled her, eyes glittering with savage hunger. She could almost believe he was the wolf. Her knees trembled as he continued.
“‘What big teeth you have,’ the girl said next. To which the wolf answered, ‘the better to eat you with.’” Vincent snarled and seized her shoulders.
Heat flared low in her body at his touch. Lydia shivered as she looked up at him. A trick of the moonlight made his teeth appear sharp and deadly. A gasp tore from her throat as he lunged forward. For a moment it seemed he was going to bite her.
She wanted him to.
Instead, his lips caressed her neck as he whispered, “Then the wolf swallowed her whole.”
Liquid tremors wracked her form. She reached up to cling to his shoulders, to beg for more. Vincent stepped back, leaving her to grasp at the air.
Shielding her embarrassment at her reaction, she managed a small giggle. He’d only been telling a story, after all. “In the version my mother told me, the girl got away.”
“Yes, that would be best.” His voice sounded rough. “She should get away.” He fetched her case and easel, avoiding her gaze. “We ought to head back now.”
Lydia took her canvas and followed his long strides down the hill. A strange ache pulsed between her thighs with every step. What was it about Lord Deveril that made her feel this way? In New Orleans, she’d danced with countless beaux, yet none had elicited such a hypnotic response. None made her want to scream in longing for something she only half understood.
Vincent remained silent on the walk back to the castle. Once her painting materials were deposited in Aubert’s arms, he stalked off without looking at her.
Miss Hobson marched into the foyer. “Thank goodness you’ve returned. The dressmakers are waiting in the solar.”
Lydia blinked, watching Vincent’s retreating form. “I’m sorry I had forgotten. I should change.”
“Don’t bother. You’ll only need to undress for the measurement, so just wash your hands and don your gloves. Let’s not keep them waiting.” Despite the stern look in her eyes, the excitement in her voice was distinct. “They have fabrics and fashion plates that are absolutely divine.”
Lydia frowned. Had she done something to upset her guardian? Stomach churning with worry, she rushed up to her chamber and cleaned her hands in the basin. With less haste, she made her way down to the solar. She didn’t want to look at fabric. She wanted to play chess and converse with Vincent. She wanted to hear him laugh and see him smile.
He was speaking with the dressmakers when she entered the solar. They gazed up at Vincent as if he were a god descended from Olympus. Lydia completely understood.
“Have you been offered refreshment?” he asked them politely.
The elder, a young woman with large gray eyes, replied in a far too intimate tone, “We declined, for we had sustenance before we arrived.”
He smiled at the seamstress and her equally lovely companion. Lydia had an unreasonable urge to claw their eyes out. Ethereal and delicate, they epitomized perfect English femininity.
Vincent’s compelling gaze turned to Lydia, banishing her hostility. “Miss Price, I’m pleased to introduce Miss Sally and Miss Maria…Sidwell. Their skills with a needle are unparalleled.”
Lydia managed a polite smile and a demure, murmured platitude as her senses reeled with the realization that he apparently was well acquainted with these women.
“Miss Price.” The Sidwell sisters curtsied in flawless unison, speaking with one voice.
Vincent surveyed them with a strange smile. “You have my eternal gratitude for your assistance in outfitting my ward for the Season.”
She studied them more closely as they looked at him. There was respect in their eyes…and no sign of heat or longing. The tightness in her chest eased.
“And you have ours,” the younger, Maria, replied, glancing at Lydia with such intense curiosity that she shivered. “It will be an honor to adorn such a rare and brilliant flower.”
“That she is, and I am certain you will do her justice. I shall leave you to it.” There was a strange edge of command to his voice.
Her heart fluttered at his agreement that she was “rare and brilliant.” Most important, Vincent didn’t look at them the way he’d looked at her earlier, as if he wanted to devour her. Whatever his relationship with the seamstresses was, it was not the sort of intimacy that would give Lydia unreasonable ire. She warmed to the pair.
As soon as her guardian left, the room seemed to dim. Maria pointed to a stool by the fire. “If you would stand on that, miss, we can remove your gown and take your measurements.”
Frowning, she obeyed. The younger sister appeared to wield more authority, yet the girl looked to be Lydia’s age or even younger. Sally unbuttoned her black wool gown with astoundingly gentle rapidity. As she wrapped the measuring tape around Lydia’s waist, Maria opened a case laden with rolls of fabric.
The bright colors were overwhelming to Lydia after months of wearing only black. Sally exclaimed about Lydia’s figure and coloring, selecting and rejecting bolts of cloth with a practiced eye as Maria showed her illustrations
of the latest fashions. Their choices were bold, brilliant, and divine. She hadn’t realized how weary of mourning she’d grown.
“You will be the Original of this Season,” Maria declared, holding up a panel of violet silk embroidered with silver leaves. Lydia wondered if Vincent would like her in that color.
The novelty soon wore off as she was poked and prodded within an inch of her life. Fittings in England were much more aggressive and tedious than they had been in America. The draftiness of the castle added to Lydia’s discomfort. By the time the session was over, she was covered in goose bumps, despite the blazing fire in the hearth.
Sally cooed sympathetically as she helped her back into her gown with deft speed. Maria packed away the fabric samples and fashion plates with equal dexterity. Lydia marveled at the how quickly their hands moved.
Vincent returned to escort the dressmakers to the carriage. “I have a prior engagement, so I will not be joining you for supper,” he said tersely before he departed.
“They seem competent and skilled enough,” Miss Hobson said to Lydia once they were alone. “The seams of their gowns were invisible. I swear I’ve seen those girls before. Perhaps they worked in Madame Dumont’s dress shop.”
Supper was a dull, bleak affair without Vincent’s presence. Miss Hobson spoke in a steady stream about the preparations for the Season. Lydia could respond only with halfhearted smiles and comments.
An ache grew in her heart when he didn’t return later. Lydia tried to absorb herself in sketching, yet it did little to improve her mood. Eventually, she gave up and went to bed.
What did I do wrong? She sighed, watching the shadows dance on the stone ceiling of her chamber. Did I wound him when I spoke of the Devil Earl rumors? She recalled his anger when he’d thought Emma had been gossiping. That must be it. With all of the villagers afraid of him, he must be very lonely. I will make amends tomorrow.
To her dismay, the next evening Vincent didn’t join her on the west hill, though she stayed and painted until it was too dark to see. Miss Hobson sent a footman to collect her, and Lydia’s heart sank when the earl yet again did not attend supper.