Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 9

  “What…what do you want from me?”

  As a mother, he could give her nothing. He’d long lost the opportunity for kindness and comfort. Now, she was only worth the money and connections she could provide him.

  Voices startled him. People were gathered on the porch. He didn’t have much time.

  “I need invitations to balls, parties and the like this season.”

  “Why?”

  “Why doesn’t matter!” Martin squatted before her, not to become less intimidating, but to hide from the onlookers. “Just find a way to get my name on as many invitee lists as you can.”

  “And if I don’t?” A tremble lurked beneath the words.

  He peeked around her to see three people coming down the steps and looking this way. “Send the cards to Crawley’s Hotel.” He stood, backed away toward the trees crowding the banks. “You should know better than to cross me.”

  Martin did not wait for a reply, nor to hear what was said to his mother by the servants. He knew enough of this land to skirt around the pond, through a path in the woods and to follow it to the road a quarter mile down.

  Now he had only to wait a day or so for the invitations to arrive at the hotel. Then, he would find Vivian Suttley and bring her back home.

  He would have the wealth and status he deserved. He would not be cast off again.

  “What is she doing?” Catherine’s pungent lavender scent assaulted Ashworth’s nostrils.

  He tensed, taking a step away from her. “I believe she and Pinkley are finding a way to keep the egg warm.”

  “The egg?”

  Yes, the bloody egg Vivian had saved from a fox at Briarwater. Now she tried to build a warm nest for it, keep it secure until it hatched.

  He turned away from the window, though he yearned to watch Vivian longer. “Tell me,” he said as he poured a splash of brandy. “Why are you really here?”

  Skirts rustled as Catherine crossed the room to join him. “I’ve missed you. You’ve not returned to London in all these years and…”

  “And?”

  “And I was curious as to what kept you away.”

  He swallowed the liquid and set the glass on the table. “Surely you were able to talk with my mother.”

  “I did see her now and then.”

  Ashworth nearly snorted. At this point he wasn’t sure which vixen sought out the other, but he was certain it was more than now and then. “So what did my mother tell you of me?”

  Pray God, not Harry. His jaw tightened. His mother promised, on every ring and jewel she owned, not to divulge the secret of her grandson.

  Catherine’s eyes revealed nothing. “The Dowager merely told me of your continued refusal to return to the city. I could not imagine it was merely the shame of your face which keeps you away.”

  Shame. Is that what she thought kept him within these walls? His motivation was far more agonizing than that.

  Resisting the urge to return to the window, Ashworth wandered the parlor room. It was here that he first laid eyes on Vivian. He knew so much more of her, and yet so little, since that fateful day.

  “Shame is not what keeps me from London.”

  “Oh?” Catherine sat on the deteriorating sofa, her back erect, chin forward. She was an elegantly cut gem set within an utterly flawed setting.

  “I have no reason to go back. Nothing is there for me.”

  “A bride?”

  He nearly had that. Until Catherine slammed the door on his face. “Why go there for one? I have my bride here.”

  Her lips pursed. “Yes, Miss Suttley. What do you know of her?”

  Branches swept up against the manor, scratching the stones with an ear-shattering screech. Ashworth watched Catherine’s reaction. Her eyes widened, face blanched. He hid his grin.

  “I know enough of Miss Suttley to know she will not desert me.”

  Catherine stiffened. “Are we back to that? Doesn’t it say something that I’ve journeyed all the way out here to see you again?”

  “After your husband has died.”

  “You certainly didn’t think I would come while he lived, did you? I could not do such a thing.”

  “But you thought of me then?” He knew better, but he enjoyed seeing her indignation. Perhaps he would draw enough ire to have her stomp out of Silverstone.

  She glanced away. “At times I did. I regretted my decision to end our engagement.”

  “You told me yesterday it was your father who put a stop to it.”

  She caught her breath, then recovered. “I’ve made a mistake. I see that now.”

  Lies. All of her words were lies. He went past her and back to the window. Down below, Vivian was arranging straw in a box. Shifting rays of sunlight danced upon the black strands of her hair. He wanted to join her.

  Instead, he crossed his arms. “What do you see now? A man still marked, a house in disrepair. I have nothing for you, Lady Wainscott.”

  “Yes, you do.” She remained on the sofa, her voice carrying through the dust. “You have our memories. We once loved one another.”

  Ashworth stared off at the approaching clouds. The pain of her rejection had long since been replaced by emptiness. Now only Harry could fill that void. “No. I once loved you.”

  He would not get the truth from her today. “I have business I need to attend to.”

  He started for the door but Catherine blocked his path. Her gold hair and pale skin appeared fragile in this harsh environment, yet her lips glistened a vibrant red. “I did love you.”

  If she loved him, his scar and the mystery of that horrible night would not have deterred her. But there was no point in telling her.

  Catherine raised her chin, her lips curving as a gloved hand touched his chest. Green eyes sparkled with overt seduction.

  Though Catherine had matured into a woman, her bosom larger after pregnancy, she held little appeal for him. He once coveted her fair, unblemished skin, her lithe body. But now he coveted nothing.

  Catherine traced a finger along his shoulder. “Things are different now.”

  His jaw clenched as a storm raged in his blood. He wanted her gone from his sight, but his anger yearned for revenge. “You are not safe here.”

  She lifted her chin, her face so close to his own. “I am safe anywhere with you.” Then, her lips touched his.

  She had seen them at the window.

  Lord Ashworth and Lady Wainscott in the parlor looking down as she worked. Despite what Lord Ashworth told her of his feelings regarding Lady Wainscott, Vivian could not stem her fear that he would return to his former love.

  But what of last night?

  Vivian rested against a boulder, her knees suddenly weak. What he had done to her, the passion he had brought from her lips…oh, she scarcely slept afterward. Even now, her nipples ached, heat gathered between her legs.

  She wasn’t a virgin. But she had never known true desire. And now she desired more. Her dreams each night left her quaking for release, Lord Ashworth’s kisses left her breathless.

  There were times when she could think of nothing but having his large hands on her skin, his mouth on her breasts. She considered how hard the muscles on his legs were, how long he could control his urgent needs.

  Above all, she wondered what it would be like to be loved with tenderness.

  And yet, what had started last night with gentle awareness then progressed into passion, ended in an abrupt mystery. Once again he left her cold and alone, once again he would not discuss what had transformed him. He did not trust her.

  She should not trust him.

  Vivian swallowed the sting in her throat and finished cleaning the straw. She carried the last of it to her garden, covering the seeds she recently planted.

  Leaves and twigs crunched behind her. Vivian waited, expecting Pinkley to return. But there was only silence.

  She grinned, her heart fluttering. Perhaps it was Lord Ashworth who had come to disturb her peace. Vivian straightened and turned. “My lord.�
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  But no one was there.

  She shrugged it off to the movements of a fox. But then the rustling sounds came again. This time in the tangle of bushes at the base of the house. Perhaps the animal was trapped.

  Rain splattered about her, daylight rapidly waned. The storm had come over the cliff, but she could not bear to think of a hurt animal trapped in the thicket.

  Vivian reached the overgrown bushes, several feet deep, but found nothing other than leaves and branches. She would have either wade in or crawl in on her knees.

  Wind pushed at her skirts and blew her hair from her braid. Several fat raindrops landed on her shoulders. She wouldn’t have long before the full fury of the tempest was upon her.

  Vivian dropped to her knees, heedless to the damp ground, and crawled into the brush. Branches scratched her face, but the sounds increased. Rustling of leaves, whimpering.

  Thunder clapped.

  A squeal. Or was it a scream? Her heart lodged in her throat. She had to get back there.

  “Shhh, it’s all right,” she called.

  The undergrowth thickened so that Vivian had to flatten to her stomach. She pushed through the wood, the dirt and crawled over stones.

  She had just about reached the manor wall when the deluge began. Even through the dense leaves, the rain pelted her back.

  The crying intensified with the strengthening of the rain. Vivian tried to hurry but she couldn’t crawl any faster. Twigs snapped just beyond her reach. She saw a flash of color—was it clothing?

  Good Lord, was it not an animal, but a person? A child?

  Frantic, Vivian pushed harder, her dress tearing, her face smeared with damp earth.

  A clap of thunder. Another scream.

  Her heart ached. “I—I’m almost there.”

  Finally, her head was out of the branches. Twigs snapped. Water sloshed.

  Scrambling from the underbrush, Vivian pulled herself up against the wall and into the tiny clearing.

  Chapter Ten

  Catherine watched Charles leave the room, the dust floating into the air as he slammed the door to his study.

  She surprised him with that little kiss, did she?

  It took her the entire night to get up the courage to do it. Part of it was the hideous scar on his face, disfiguring a once handsome man. But she was also afraid she still harbored some feelings for him.

  Luckily, she did not. The kiss did nothing for her.

  Thunder clapped overhead, startling her. This wretched weather. It forced her to remain inside this miserable house. True, it was large, even grander than her late husband’s estate.

  But it could not be saved. Too many years of neglect had reduced it to disaster. Catherine had no intention of living in this despicable place, but she would marry Charles.

  Rain gusted against the window, prompting her to peer outside.

  Was that ordinary Miss Suttley still outside with her duck egg? Catherine chuckled as she scanned the yard, but saw no figures foolish enough to be out in the storm.

  She did not believe their lies.

  He had yet to hold Miss Suttley the way he once held her. He did not take her hand or watch her speak. He may have affection for the girl, but more than likely he offered her money in exchange for his deception.

  A draft circled the room, sending chills down Catherine’s spine. She hated this manor. She could bear it only a few more weeks. That should be long enough for her seduction to work, to have their charade exposed, and secure Charles’s hand in marriage.

  Then, with his wealth to pay off the debts Wainscott left behind, Catherine would return to London. Without Viscount Ashworth at her side.

  Why had Catherine invaded his life now? Ashworth was accustomed to the long stretches of silence here at the manor, the small group of people who inhabited this isolated place. Harry was growing and learning, his staff was loyal. Everything was just the way he wanted it.

  He had to get Catherine out of Silverstone. And then he must see that Vivian left. The chaos she created went much deeper than an extra plate at breakfast.

  Vivian! Was she still outside?

  Wind howled and thunder cracked, rousing his nerves. He had no other choice but to check the rear yard, though he clearly did not see her through the window from the parlor.

  Ashworth followed the trail Vivian normally took, descending the rear stairs to the splintered wood door. Even with her repeated use, cobwebs still hung from the ceilings. The steps were slick beneath his shoes, the air damp and musty.

  Cool air greeted him at the landing, where the warped door stood ajar. Rain blew in, creating a small puddle on the worn stones.

  “Vivian?” he called. The two doors behind him were shut tight.

  He pulled the door open, the wind whipping his hair. Sucking in a deep breath, he plunged out into the yard, heading for her garden.

  Silver sheets of rain blew across the hills and against the house. Instantly wet, Ashworth headed up the slope. Thunder rumbled overhead.

  “Vivian!”

  “Here, my lord.”

  He raced to the top of the hill and saw her not at her garden, but against the crumbling walls. She was trapped between the stones and a tangle of underbrush.

  As he got closer, his stomach plummeted. Her dress was ripped, her hair in wet disarray. That beautiful face was smeared with dirt and marred with bloody scratches.

  She’d been attacked!

  Ashworth stood at the other end of the thicket, his pulse crashing like thunder. He wanted to go to her, to hold her in his arms but he may as well have been miles from her.

  “You’re injured.” He could not bring himself to say his other thoughts.

  She sniffled and he just noticed the drops on her cheeks. He’d assumed they were rain, but now he suspected tears.

  “It’s gone,” she said, looking on either side of where she stood.

  “Gone? What’s gone?”

  Vivian brushed hair from her forehead, smearing blood across her skin. “I—I don’t know. I saw something and now it is gone.”

  Ashworth saw nothing but green brush and gray walls. Had she gone mad? Had the desolation of the manor so quickly driven her insane?

  He stretched his hand out, though it fell far short of reaching her. “Something has hurt you, Vivian. Come inside.”

  She blinked. “No, I heard crying. An animal or a…a child. I-I crawled under the brush to rescue it…” Her voice broke. “But it’s gone now.”

  A child? Harry?

  Ashworth’s gut burned, his temples pounded. Had his son been outside? Did she see him?

  He had to get inside and find Harry. First he needed to get Vivian into a warm bath and under heavy blankets.

  Glancing her over, he realized that her torn dress and scratches could have easily been made by the thicket between them. The ache in his stomach eased, but he still worried for her health. She must come inside now.

  “Whatever was there before is now gone. You must come out of this storm.”

  Rain dripped from her hair as she stood there, immobile. But then she nodded and lowered to her knees.

  “Wait.” There must be a better way than having her crawl back under the bushes. He’d force his way through the branches before he let that happen again.

  Vivian shivered as she rose again to her feet. Her lips had turned blue and she nibbled on the lower one. Yet her eyes, blacker than the clouds overhead, shimmered with distraught tears.

  Pain stung his throat as if he’d swallowed a handful of thistles. Breathlessness tightened his lungs. What was she doing to him?

  Ashworth pointed at the wall. “There. Follow the stones downhill to the door.”

  She nodded. Using the solid surface for support, Vivian followed its path to where Ashworth waited for her.

  He wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to do it, but he opened his arms the moment she was free of the thicket. She collapsed against his chest. An urge to brush his lips across her wet hair flared throu
gh him. Instead, he resisted and stared out into the dark, wet afternoon.

  They stood there in the downpour, the sky rumbling. His blood flowed like warm wine. With a troubled sigh, Ashworth pushed away the very peace he’d been seeking.

  Ashworth descended the several flights to where he knew he’d find Harry. Being spoiled by Cook.

  He found him on a wooden chair in the warm, dark kitchen, his face glowing, his red hair damp. Rage and dread mingled in Ashworth chest. Damn this boy and his curiosity. Damn the circumstances that forced him to be hidden away in a crumbling manor.

  Ashworth clenched his fists, forcing his anger into the squeeze. He’d not lose his temper in front of his staff, nor frighten his son.

  “Harry,” he said.

  The boy turned and grinned. “Papa! Look!”

  He ignored his son’s request. “Were you outside Harry? In the storm?”

  “Yes, but just for a moment, I—”

  Ashworth sank to his knees. “You must keep to the house, Harry. I’ve told you this time and time again.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t take any replies from you. Miss Suttley nearly spotted you. What if it had been Lady Wainscott? Do you want to be taken from me?”

  Harry started crying. “No, Papa.”

  Ashworth pulled him into his arms. The gentle warmth of the boy did not cause him the distress he experienced while holding Vivian. There was no vulnerability, no feeling of utter helplessness with his son.

  He kissed his forehead and stood. “What did you want me to see?”

  Harry sniffled, then his smile returned. He pointed to a wooden box next to the oven. “It was out in the rain, so I brought it inside.”

  Ashworth knelt beside the box and pushed aside the straw. A small, dull egg lay nestled in a dry cocoon. A sudden dawning came up him. “You went outside to bring in the duck egg?”

  Harry nodded. “I didn’t want it to get too cold.”