Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 15
What made a carefree man who once rescued strangers into someone who believed himself a monster?
His hostile glare spoke of cloaked secrets, best left to hidden recesses of the mind or prayers to God. He would not tell her today.
His jaw tightened. “You tell me why you believe you know me so well. What manner of man has shown you the true nature of evil?”
She crossed her arms and faced the window. The afternoon clouds had already moved in, increasing the wind and diminishing the daylight.
This was her opportunity to tell him of their first meeting. A time when he looked adoringly at his betrothed, Catherine. A time when her innocence nearly cost her her life and his integrity outweighed any potential scandal.
But what would telling him gain her? Other than having him lament the many losses he’d suffered since then.
“My father gave me to a…a man in exchange for this man’s silence.” She tried to keep the emotion from her voice but her father’s betrayal bled like an open sore in her heart.
“Was it this man or your father whom you feared?”
“I feared the man he gave me to. Evil of the purest kind lives in this man’s soul. But it was my father who hurt me the deepest.”
“Was that the man who gave you those bruises?”
“Yes.”
“Did he rape you?”
Vivian gazed at the village down in the valley. Was it only a few days ago she was down there defending the master of this manor?
“I do not know the answer to your question. I was not a virgin when he took me. I had given my virginity to a boyhood sweetheart I’d hoped to marry. I thought that once this evil man knew I wasn’t pure, he would not pursue me and I could marry in peace.”
“What happened?”
“My father took me directly from my sweetheart’s arms. I had no choice then but to go with this horrible demon. I prayed throughout that intimacy would draw out his tenderness. Instead I saw the true character of his savagery.”
She drew in a breath, swallowed the collecting sob. “He did not remove his clothes, not even his shoes, as he stripped me bare. When his caresses became pinches and his kisses became bites, I ceased my pleas.”
“But he didn’t stop.”
“Perhaps I could have escaped him before it happened, but I told myself I was being punished by God. And so I forced myself to withstand it.”
“Punished?”
She lifted her eyes to his anguished gaze, stunned at the transformation of a man dangerous one moment to a man shattered in the next.
Vivian nodded. “For disobeying my father. But mostly, for my birth.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lord, how she missed London.
Catherine walked through the streets of the small village, a white lace parasol firm in one hand. There was not much here to see save for a dress shop, baker shop, a church at the far end of the main street and a few other odds and ends.
It was obvious no one was used to seeing a woman dressed such as she with the stares she attracted today. Either that, or they wondered about her stay at Silverstone Manor. Lord knew, she thought herself half insane for staying there.
She simply had to get out of that house. Being inside the crumbling walls and dusty furniture was bad enough, but then to have Charles in such a foul mood made it all the worse.
Martha scurried to keep up, a package dangling from each of her arms.
So far no one in this village could tell her any more about the manor or Charles than she already knew. They knew even less about Miss Suttley.
“My lady.”
Disgusted, Catherine turned from some boys creating a ruckus across the street to Martha. “Yes? Did you learn something at the tavern?”
The girl nodded. “One of the maids remembers her from the night she arrived.”
Catherine led them to an alley, then tucked them in a private location on the side of the General Store. “What did she say?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Only that Miss Suttley hailed from the south, from a small village in the Cotswolds.”
Nothing she didn’t already know. “Anything else?”
“Her father is a baron. Lord Whistle…Whistle-something. I can’t recall the rest.”
Catherine stabbed the pavement with her parasol. So far, Miss Suttley and Charles kept their secrets too close to their hearts. There had to be an opening in their armor. Somewhere.
She glanced beyond the buildings to the hill at the far end of the horizon. Silverstone Manor stood like a hideous gargoyle overlooking the village. She didn’t know how the villagers put up with it. You’d think they’d expect more, want better from their lord. Instead, they all whispered with excited repulsion of what must go on inside those walls.
How little they all knew. There was nothing to fear in that house except for the scurrying of mice and the multitude of spiders.
Catherine turned back to Martha. The poor girl appeared paler each day. Apparently she was not taking so well to the countryside. “Tell me again what you’ve learned from the servants of the manor.”
“Very little, my lady. They do not like to speak to me.”
“But you must have something to tell me.”
The girl adjusted the packages she was carrying. Her large eyes loomed over an occasionally pretty face. Today, the sun had brought some color back to Martha’s cheeks, but the pallor still lurked beneath.
“I told you one thing of note yesterday, my lady. There is a gentleman who comes in and out of the servant areas. His hair is yellow, like yours, and he wears spectacles.”
“Yes. You said he was young, the same age perhaps as Lord Ashworth. Have you learned his position at the manor?”
“No, my lady. But I do believe he is high-born. He has glanced at me a time or two but not spoken directly to me.”
The sun broke through the clouds, lengthening shadows and warming their skin. Catherine opened her lace parasol and shielded her face.
A high-born man living in the manor, working as a servant. Of course, when the master himself is shoveling dirt, what else could she expect? Catherine resisted the wry smile on her lips. She could not bear to have her husband act that way. She was raised to mingle with the best of society. What would they think of the disrepair of the house or the unseemly actions of its lord?
She sighed. “So this is all you have for me then? A mysterious man, born of gentry, but whose position within the house is unknown.”
Martha’s lip trembled. “I do—do wonder about something else, my lady.”
“Go on.”
“The cook said a name once or twice I did not recognize.”
Catherine arched a brow. “Could it be the man you just spoke of?”
“I thought so at first. But then he said the name too. They speak it until they remember that I am there, then everyone grows silent.”
Another secret hiding amongst the cobwebs and dust. “What is the name you’ve heard?”
“Harry.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Catherine grinned, suddenly feeling better. The fact that the household staff would immediately stop their conversation when learning a stranger was about was a good indication they had much to hide. This was just the news she was seeking.
Immediately upon their return to the manor, Catherine would seek out Charles and test him with some provocations. Then later tonight she would find the spectacled man with yellow hair.
Everyone had a price.
***
Martin quieted the rage swirling like rotten ale in his gut. He knew coming here would be a mistake, and it would not be the last he made today. But he could not leave any place unchecked. He would find Vivian. And she would regret her unwise plan to abandon him.
The three-story brownstone house loomed larger as he approached. Unlike many of the residences in the area, this one was not alive with guests and revelry. But what could he expect at the home of an ill woman.
Martin knocked on the door, uncertain what to
expect, but prepared for anything. The successes he’d made through the years had come from his ability to think quickly and react efficiently. There had been few people who crossed his path and did not end up serving him in one way or the other.
A stern, white-haired butler answered the door.
“Lady Ethington, please.” Martin held out his card. “Tell her I am a dear friend of her cousin, Lord Whistlebury.”
The man’s nostrils flared. “Lady Ethington is at her country home.”
Martin clenched his jaw, held his anger.
“But her daughter is here. I will see if she will receive you.” The butler took the card and disappeared into the recess of the house.
He waited in the grand foyer, calming himself with the pleasant aroma of cut flowers. Priceless objects glimmered in alcoves, sparkled on tabletops. Easily, he could pocket several expensive items and re-supply his cash. He needed as much as possible for the house he planned to build. The architect’s figures had come in higher than expected.
First, the bride. Then, the house.
“This way, please.”
Martin followed the butler to a blue wallpapered room, where a black-haired woman sat upon the couch. His gut clenched, chest constricted. Vivian? He looked closer. No, this woman had blue eyes and a stouter build.
“Mr. Crawford. Please, have a seat.”
Martin sat across from her. He licked his lips. New prey. Every woman he faced was a new opportunity. His appetite did not distinguish between age or hair-color or build. Every woman had one thing in common. And that was all that mattered.
“I am Miss Blake. My butler tells me you know of our cousin, Lord Whistlebury.”
Martin resisted his snort. He knew much more about that man than anyone should know. Somehow he doubted the family was aware of Alfred’s sexual tendencies.
“He is a good friend of mine, yes. I apologize for arriving at your home unannounced such as this, but I am searching for his daughter.”
Miss Blake’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Vivian! We played together as children. In fact, she stayed with us during her first London season.”
He grinned. Finally, he was making a measure of progress. “Ah, yes, and that is why I believed she may be staying with you now.”
The girl cocked her head in confusion. He liked the way her neck gleamed like alabaster in the light. She would have a pretty red circle if he were to bite it.
His cock stirred.
“Vivian is not here this year. I have not seen her at all. Is something wrong?”
Martin swallowed. “I’m sure all is well. I heard she was in London and wanted to surprise her. I thought to try here first.”
“Oh, it is a shame then.” She stood and looked down at his card. “I will gladly tell her you inquired about her if she were to stop by.”
Now that would not do at all. “I would rather surprise her myself. Would it be possible to send a messenger alerting me of her arrival?”
Miss Blake grinned. “Oh, but of course.”
She led him from the parlor back to the main foyer. Martin stared at the back of her neck, at the brief glimpse of skin on her back. He could not have this one. He was smart enough to realize that. But he could have the fantasy of her crying beneath him.
She stopped at the door. “I do hope she shows, Mr. Crawford.”
He raised an eyebrow as the corner of his lip curled. “As do I, Miss Blake. As do I.”
Chapter Nineteen
A cool blast of air swept through the room. Vivian looked up from the book in her lap to the tapestry at the far end of the room. It dropped behind Harry.
“What are you doing here?” She glanced to the side door, the one leading to Lord Ashworth’s lair. She hadn’t heard him moving about in there yet but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be back soon.
Green eyes rounded, the boy stepped toward her. A twinge of sadness lurked within them, though he blinked it away as he got closer. “I came to tell you something.”
Vivian lifted a brow. “And you couldn’t knock on my regular door?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to you, ’member?”
“Ah.” She patted the footstool at her feet. “Well, what is so important?”
“First, I must be truthful.” His gaze flitted away but then came back determined. “I was outside that day in the rain.”
“What day?”
“When you went crawling under the bushes. I was watching you but then I thought you’d find me.” He sniffled. “Then the storm came and I hid.”
Her heart broke a bit. “I was very worried someone was hurt.”
“But I really wanted to see what you were doing. And then, well, I was afraid you’d see me.”
She brushed a finger along his cheek. “Thank you for telling me now so I won’t always wonder. Was there something else you came in here to let me know?”
His face brightened. “The egg you brought back has hatched!”
She smiled, relief flooding through her. She hadn’t checked on it in days. Once it was moved into the kitchen, a discomfort came over her when she went into the room. The servants stopped what they were doing when she entered, even stopped speaking. It got to the point that she hoped someone was looking after the egg and focused her attention solely on the garden.
“Have you been looking after it for me?”
“I check on it every day. And now it’s come out!”
“Well, we’ll have to give it a name, won’t we?”
“I think it’s a girl.”
Vivian smiled, resisting the urge to brush his hair from his eyes or trace her fingers over his many freckles. “Harry, would you care to name the duckling?”
Suddenly solemn, he nodded. All along he must have been hoping she would offer him that privilege.
“Go on then. What will you call her?”
He looked at his feet, twisted his fingers. “I want to call her Mary.”
“Mary? Not Fluffy or Princess?”
He lifted his gaze, staring straight through her with an intensity no boy his age should possess. “Mary was my mother’s name.”
“Oh.” Vivian could think of nothing else to say. Her heart ached for the sadness of his words, for the loss he endured. She knew nothing of his mother or what this woman meant to Lord Ashworth. But it was clear that her son wanted to honor her in the only way he knew how.
She rose from her chair and pulled him against her. He leaned into her then wrapped his arms about her waist.
He sniffled. “She’s dead, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. I don’t know anything about her. But you can tell me about her if you like.”
Harry stepped back from her and shrugged. “Maybe later.”
“Certainly.”
He climbed up onto the stool and crossed his legs. “Where are your mother and father?”
Her throat tightened. “My mother is staying with a friend, keeping her company. My father…” She looked down at her hands, remembering the sting on her palm when she’d slapped him. She could accept the horrible things he did to her, the things he forced her to endure. But she could not tolerate what he had done to her mother.
“Where is he?” Harry was looking up at her expectantly.
“He—he is back at home, I suppose.”
“Oh. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. Want to see something?”
Vivian nodded.
Harry opened his mouth and pushed his tongue through the opening where his two front teeth were missing. “Now watch this.” He twisted his tongue and it did it again.
She smiled. He certainly had a way of lifting her spirits. “That’s quite impressive, Master Harry. You are very talented.”
He beamed. “Do you want to come see the new baby? Cook is having a time trying to find something to feed her.”
“Baby Mary should be okay without food for a few days. After that, tell Cook to give her some beetles and grass.”
“Why don’t you tell her when you come downstairs? I can show you how pretty she is.”
Vivian gave in to the impulse, and brushed her fingers through Harry’s hair. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me, remember?”
He frowned. “Papa is being so silly.”
She sat beside him on the footstool. “What is his concern, Harry? Do you know?”
The boy shrugged a shoulder, looked away from her. “He thinks someone will take me away from him.”
Vivian’s breath caught. Why would Lord Ashworth believe that someone would take away his own son? Did it have something to do with his talk of being a monster?
A door slammed. They both lifted their heads.
“I think your father has gone into his bedchamber. You’d better go.”
Without hesitation Harry leapt up and hurried over to the secret passageway. Before slipping behind the tapestry, he turned back to her. “Can we visit again?”
She wanted to tell him that it was a bad idea. That she feared Lord Ashworth would truly send her away if he learned of their interactions. And yet, she also longed to spend time with the boy, to give him comfort and peace.
Besides, he was the only sign of hope for this house.
“We’ll find a way. Now go take care of little Mary.”
He gave her a toothless smile and disappeared.
Rage seethed inside Ashworth, twisting and snapping like hapless branches caught in a tempest. He ripped off his jacket, then his shirt. Then, bent and yanked off his shoes.
He wished he had brandy but the only drink was his nightly potion, sitting on his table as a final salvation.
Ashworth spun away from it and instead stared into the fire, bracing his palms on the mantle. The red and yellow flames popped, licking their way up the stone.
The heat warmed his face, fueled the blaze already aflame in his blood.
It was enough that he’d endured the agony of having to tell his son about his mother’s death. For days, he’d relived what he could recall of that night. Even now his stomach cramped at the memory of waking up on the floor of Mary’s room, blood covering him, a knife shimmering in his outstretched hand. When he sat up and looked toward the bed…