Martin straightened, closing his hand over the cool knob of the door. He’d seen enough of London’s underbelly for one night. “What did you say her name was?”
The whore wiped her nose on her arm. “Mary Yeardley.”
***
Odd as it was, the sun brightened with each step Vivian took down the long drive. By the time she’d reached Silverstone’s gate near the village, the air was clear and colors vivid.
She glanced back to the manor to see its ugly spires hidden beneath a heavy layer of clouds. Was it possible that impending doom actually lived above the very structure?
Vivian shook her head. No, ’twas just her imagination. Still, she’d been smart to get away from there today, away while Lady Wainscott rested in her rooms.
The jaunt to the village was still a bit of a walk, and at her brisk pace, she’d warmed up considerably from the drafty chills of the morning breakfast.
Mrs. Plimpton had told her that the post office was only a few streets once she reached the village.
This errand brought a smile to her lips. Ever since she learned that she could send a card and not worry if her mother could pay for it, Vivian had set her mind to dashing off a note as quickly as possible.
Lord Ashworth had even given her the penny needed, but tried repeatedly to have a servant complete the task.
But Vivian was not a prisoner in that house. She’d not allow his self-pity or reclusive behavior prevent her from interacting with others. Especially not when she could enjoy a hearty walk and see new sights.
Vivian started down the main street. Memories of her brief visit to the tavern flickered in her mind like wary ghosts. The village was dark then, her fear and determination heavy. Over and over, people warned her not to enter Silverstone Manor, not to proceed with her mission.
They had nearly swayed her. In fact, she’d planned to pay Lord Ashworth a call the next morning, but feared her mind would be changed if she waited that long. And so she’d gone up his long drive that very evening.
Much had changed in those few days. Much, and yet the crumbling house still held so many mysteries.
Vivian saw the sign for the post office and crossed the street. Only then did she realize people were gaping at her. Stares, whispers, pointing fingers. Everyone knew she was the foolish woman who’d ventured up the hill.
What could she do but lift her chin and continue onward?
Vivian entered the door next to the Post Office sign and came to stand before a worn, wooden counter.
An older woman stood at the back wall, her back to Vivian as she sorted letters into various compartments.
“Pardon me,” Vivian said. “I’d like to purchase a stamp and mail this letter.”
“Be with you in a moment.”
Vivian turned back to watch the villagers go by the window. There was a time she was as carefree and untroubled as they appeared. There was a time, before Martin entered her life when she could smile and dream of a future. Now her future depended upon a secluded stranger agreeing to marry her.
“You’re the girl staying up at the manor!”
Vivian swallowed, forcing a grin on her lips. “Good morning, I’m Miss Suttley. I’d like to post this letter.”
The plump woman adjusted her glasses, squinted her blue eyes. “You are the girl up at Silverstone, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am staying at the manor. May I purchase a Penny Black, please?”
But the postmistress made no move to either take her money or get the stamp. “You haven’t married him yet, have you?”
Vivian lifted her chin, straightened her back, but did not answer.
“I didn’t believe so.” A thick hand waved through the air, as if brushing off the absurd notion. “No chaperone up there with you either, is there?”
“A stamp, please.”
“My son works up there. He’s the groomsman. Told me about you, he did.”
The groomsman. That was the boy who helped Lord Ashworth carry up pails of water. No wonder this woman looked at her as if she were nothing more than a streetwalker.
The woman leaned across the counter. “You heard the rumors about that house? They’re true, I tell you. Something isn’t right up there. Not right at all.”
A chill skated down Vivian’s spine at the memory of the confrontation in the dark halls. There
was
something going on in that house, but whether monster, ghost or foul play, it would not sway Vivian from her purpose.
“As you can see, I am in fine spirits and excellent health.”
The postmistress raised an eyebrow. “That may be, but how is your mind? Have odd dreams haunted you at night? Have the drafts and noises stirred you from slumber?”
Vivian sighed. Perhaps next time a servant should mail her letters. “My mind is still alert and sound.”
“And the master? Lord Ashworth? He’s not frightened you with his behavior or terrifying face?”
Terrifying face? Vivian could only think of the roughness of his chin, the sensual curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes. His scar was a groove upon a spectacular stone, not diminishing its luster but adding to its uniqueness.
“I am perfectly well. Thank you for your concern. Now, a stamp, please.”
“Eh, you’ve only been there a short time.” She reached into a drawer and withdrew the same small stamp Vivian had seen on Lady Wainscott’s letter. “You’ll regret staying in that house, mark my words.”
Vivian slid the coin toward her. “I see no reason why I shall.”
Once the stamp was on the letter, the postmistress glimpsed at it then slid it into one of the lower slots. Still facing the wall of compartments, the woman glanced over her shoulder. “Keep a sharp eye out, Miss Suttley. You may think we only speak of rumors, but even gossip usually begins with a bit of truth.”
In her room that evening, Vivian set the brush down on the dresser and blew out the candle. Wind gusted, tossed clouds around the sky and gave the moon little chance to illuminate her room. Only the subtle glow of the fire led the way to the bed.
She pushed aside the bed curtains when a knock came from Lord Ashworth’s room. “Vivian?”
He wanted to see her at this hour? With no robe nearby to cover over her nightgown, she climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets over top. “Yes? Come in.”
The door separating their two rooms creaked open. Lord Ashworth crossed the room toward her in a pair of breeches and nothing else. The shadows cast dark curves along the angles of chest. Dark hair sprinkled upward from his stomach.
Vivian swallowed as shocking heat pooled between her legs. She still could not comprehend what this man did to her. Thomas’s kisses had stirred hope in escaping Martin, nothing else.
Lord Ashworth shoved his hand through his hair and stood at the end of the bed. “I’m sorry to disturb you this way but a thought had occurred to me.”
“Yes. Go on then.”
“I realize I know very little about you. That if I were asked about your life, I could not answer.”
A breeze blew across the bed, bringing with it his unique scent. Her mouth watered. “And—and you think to do this now?”
“There will not be much other time when you and I are alone.”
“Very well,” she sighed. “What is it you wish to know?”
“First, have you any brothers or sisters?”
“No. I am an only child.”
“I have two sisters, both married, neither one will speak to me.”
Vivian caught her breath at the emotionless manner in which he spoke of his family. It could not be true that they dismissed him from their lives only due to the scar upon his face. And yet, he seemed resigned to their actions, as if he could not care any less.
He pushed the bed curtain aside and sat down on the far end of the bed. The mattress sank beneath his weight. “You father is a baron, yes? What is his full title?”
She did not want to talk about her parents, especially her father. The recent memories were still too raw and implausible. She drew in a shaking breath. “He is Lord Whistlebury, a baron.”
Vivian waited to see if he recognized the name from that one garden party all those years ago. But his expression did not change. “And you come from Staffordshire. A village there?”
Her stomach knotted. Would the village name stir his memory? Would he have any knowledge that Martin Crawford now lived there? She couldn’t chance it. “Does the name matter?”
Lord Ashworth leaned forward, his hands down on either side of her legs. Heat radiated from his skin.
His eyes narrowed. “You are hiding something.”
“We both have tales to hide, do we not? Do you wish to share what caused the demise of your relationship with Lady Wainscott?”
Immediately, his jaw tensed, scar pulsed. “No.”
“Then I do not wish to share the name of my village.”
“Nor why you ran from it?”
“I love animals, children and flowers. What else do you need to know?”
Lord Ashworth leaned closer. His scent caved in her reserve. In an instant, her breathing turned shallow. A debate stormed within her blood. The disquiet under her skin yearned for his warmth, yet the uncertainty of his reactions, his behavior, those damn rumors, troubled her soul. Who was this man? Was he a threat to her?
“My lord, I really do not think—”
“Vivian.” His gaze shifted to her mouth. “I want to taste your lips, feel your skin.”
Awareness quivered between her legs. “But you…”
His hand lifted from the bed and slid its way over the blankets, beginning at the apex of her legs, skimming over her breasts, and then up to her throat. Vivian clenched her teeth, but a whimper escaped into the night air.
He halted, paralyzed by the sound. She could hear his harsh breathing, see his jaw tighten.
Her gaze drifted from the agony written across his furrowed brow down to the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Curious, she glanced below his waist, glimpsing a shadowed rise in his breeches. The sight didn’t frighten her, but shot a dizzying spasm to her toes.
Lord Ashworth caught her stare. “Faith, Vivian…”
He bent forward, pressing her further into the mattress, trapping her with his kiss. His lips nibbled at her mouth, set free any restraint she had left. Vivian opened herself to his invasion, tasted the desire on his tongue. An unbearable pressure climbed inside of her.
She brushed her palm along the hard muscles of his arm, feeling warmth and light sweat on his skin.
Lord Ashworth shifted, leaning his body across her chest, freeing one hand to caress her hair. He lingered there only briefly before his fingers explored her throat. With a gentle tug, he loosened the bow at her neckline. Cool air swept across her shoulder. Wet fire spread from her neck down to her breast. He circled the nipple with his tongue.
Her body came alive and freed her from any lingering fear or revulsion.
Arching her back, Vivian pressed herself into his suckling lips. She squeezed her eyes closed, but even without the view of his lips on her body, moisture swelled between her legs. Somewhere deep inside a pleasurable torture arose, pushing her past decorum and into desperation.
“Please…” she whimpered, her fingers skimming across his strong shoulders and into his thick hair.
Lord Ashworth lifted his head only long enough to scoot his entire body onto the bed. He lay alongside her, one leg entwined with hers, his unyielding erection pressing insistently against her hip.
His palm cupped her other breast, kneading it, massaging it. He flicked her nipple with his thumb, while his tongue did the same on the other side. Vivian threw her head back, her mouth parting with a guttural sigh.
Lord Ashworth’s large hand pushed down the blankets, then glided atop the nightgown, past her stomach to the aching flesh between her legs. He lifted the material, finding the dampness with efficient ease.
Coyness fled. Vivian raised her hips, reaching for something, anything, to assuage the throbbing so deep inside. His fingers danced over the sensitive nub, winding her tighter with each stroke. “Oh Lord, please…”
He captured her lips with his, thrusting his tongue inside as one of his fingers slipped within her folds.
He swallowed her gasp, forced her to ride the wave swelling with each breath she took.
Vivian rocked against his hand. Showers of tingles raced down her legs, up to her nipples. Each flick of his finger pulled her taut. She pointed her toes, arched her back, strained for a release that seemed beyond her grasp.
He left her mouth again and dipped his dark head to her breast. She watched him lap the stiff knot, swirling his tongue over and around the straining peak. Vivian whimpered, moaned, then cried out into the darkness above her.
“Vivian…” his strangled voice accompanied a sudden thrust of his hips. Two fingers plunged deep inside.
She broke.
Not pain. Ecstasy.
Waves of pleasure crashed upon themselves, rippled outward from her center. Her hips rose from the bed, lunging into the air, deepening his stroke.
Vivian turned her head to the pillow and attempted to muffle her cries against the fabric. But the clamor from her throat didn’t fade away until the last surge receded.
She turned to Lord Ashworth, but he leaped up from the bed with her next heartbeat.
“What…what is it?”
He had that same look as before, the horrified eyes, the blanched skin. One would think he saw a terrifying ghost lying before him rather than his false bride. “No, no,” he choked. “Not again!”
He blinked once then backed away from the bed. Before she could call out to him, he was gone from her room with a slam.
Vivian was not a virgin.
Ashworth slumped on his bed, his heart raging, his arousal pulsing. Her body accepted his fingers too easily, although he sensed her reaction surprised her. If another man had taken her, he had not given her pleasure.
Passion clearly simmered beneath her cool exterior. A passion which inflamed his lust and brought on the visions.
He took a deep breath. Thankfully, the horrible images were gone. Vivian’s cry of delight had become a scream of terror in his brain. Instead of her lush, inviting skin, he saw her covered in blood. Bile had clogged his throat.