Pulse rampant, Ashworth pushed her backward until she was against the bedpost. He trapped her between his arms then lowered his lips to feast upon her neck. She tasted of flowers and dust and feminine beauty.
He lifted his head and stared at her, breathing wildly as Vivian opened several buttons at her throat.
She was seducing him again. What did she want of him? Could she possibly know that he would give her just about anything to find relief in her warmth?
When the white lace of her chemise peeked from beneath the buttons, Ashworth snatched her wrists and raised them above her head. Pleasure buzzed in his head, fear tore at his heart, rage pounded in his gut.
“Why, Vivian? Why do you torture me this way?”
Her dusky eyes blinked at him. “Because you equally torture me.”
He thrust his hips against her stomach. “Do you feel that? You tempt me into danger.”
She bit her lip, her breasts rising and falling with rapid breaths.
With his free hand, he traced a line down her jaw. “You don’t know what you ask of me, why it is impossible for me to deliver what you seek.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Nothing is impossible. You make your choices as it pleases you.”
“You still want to wed me, Vivian?”
She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
He let her hands drop but did not back away. Her lips were mere inches from his, enticing him beyond reason. But he must have the answers he sought.
“Why?”
The word hung in the air, twirling with the wind gusting at the window.
Vivian sighed, lowered her eyes. “I cannot go back.”
“Because of those marks on you?” His jaw tightened at the thought of the pain she must have endured.
“I left much misery behind.”
“You came to me as an escape?”
“This seemed the perfect place to hide.”
But what or who did she hide from? Ashworth swept several black strands of hair from her face, stared at her mouth. “Yet you’ve no idea what you’ve found.”
“Perhaps not.”
Her vibrant lips lured him into temptation and he nibbled at their succulence. She relaxed against him, pressing her mouth to him with a desperate fervor. Ashworth cupped her jaw in both hands, controlled her every move.
He plunged his tongue inside, sweeping against her in a fury of strokes. Liquid fire erupted in his bones, weakened his knees.
Vivian’s fingertips tickled up his legs like butterfly wings. He moaned, then gasped, as her hand reached in his trousers and closed around his shaft.
Ashworth reared back, clenched his hands into fists. With an intense curiosity, he glanced down at her caress. Her slender fingers moved across the rise in his breeches, stroking the length, then circling him at the tip.
He shuddered. All coherent thought fled.
Immobile, he dared not move away from the excruciatingly sweet sensation. Instead, he watched, his pulse thumped madly in his throat, sweat collected at his collar. When he could bear it no longer, he squeezed his eyes shut. Tension built within him like a powerful storm. A tingle raced throughout his limbs, curled his toes, then sparked into his groin.
The memory of her pink-tipped breasts rose in his mind. He saw himself licking them, imagined his fingers plunging inside of her.
His breathing lurched, his hands gripped her waist.
Vivian moved faster, fondling him with just the right amount of pressure. He wanted to pound himself into her but he dared not move.
“Oh, Vivian…”
Through the crashing of his heartbeat he heard her whimper. She was denying herself in order to please him. He looked down to see her lips bright, her skin slick with sweat. Her arousal impaired his thinking.
Ashworth needed to stop this torture, but he couldn’t. He’d let it go too far, found himself struggling at her mercy. It had been so long since a woman touched him. So long— Vivian’s fingers tickled the tip of his flesh and he exploded with a moan. Scalding fluid emptied from his body in glorious release. He tried to catch his breath and slow his heart.
Finally, he glanced down at her face, surprised to notice only a blank stare in her eyes.
Ashworth blinked, looked again and saw pale, pinched skin. Then blood. Pungent, red liquid.
Everywhere.
His gut cramped, bile rolled in his stomach.
No! Not again.
He stumbled back from her and shook his head. Lungs seizing, he quickly glimpsed at her again.
But this time Vivian was normal, with a flushed face and distraught gaze.
Her hand reached toward him then slowly dropped back to her side. “It happened again, didn’t it?”
Ashworth said nothing, but gulped in mouthfuls of air.
“Why won’t you tell me about it?”
His temples pounded. How could he tell her when he didn’t know himself? Was he a killer? Had he once murdered a woman in the crest of passion? “You…you are not safe here.”
Her eyes softened. “I won’t be frightened of you.”
He swallowed while his heart beat furiously against his ribs. “You—you’ve run from one misfortune to another perhaps far worse. I’ll not let you stay.”
“But Lady Wainscott—”
Ashworth wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “I’ll have her gone from here shortly. And you will be directly behind her.”
Vivian stared at him with those mysterious eyes, her lips set and determined. She would challenge his command. Her motivation to remain was as strong as his was to have her go.
Damn her.
She was an angel. She was the devil.
Vivian sent him to heaven and then plunged him back down to hell.
***
The chandeliers blazed too brightly upon the floor, casting the dancers in an eerie glow. Martin tensed with the rage knotting his stomach. This was the sixth ball he’d attended since his mother sent him a stack of invitations, yet he’d not found Vivian or the baron’s cousin.
The burn of a heated gaze pulled his attention over to the far corner of the room, where a woman stared at him without scruple. Her large breasts peeked above the deep blue bodice of her gown and she raised a dark eyebrow at his interested grin. He licked his lips. His groin tightened.
Martin surmised that his voluptuous, middle-aged admirer was a widow on the prowl. Just what he needed to dispel this gnawing frustration.
He crossed the room as the sounds of the waltz came to an end. Stopping at the refreshment table, Martin pretended to look for something to quench his thirst. What he needed quenched was something entirely different.
The woman slid beside him, her heady scent warmed his blood, aroused his cock. Her gloved hand brushed against his elbow.
“Good evening.” He kept his voice light and pleasant.
“Evening to you, sir.” She opened up her fan and waved it against her face. She was not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but she was enough to satisfy his hunger. “I’m amazed I have not seen you before.”
Martin curled his lip. “I am not often in town.”
“Oh?” The answer seemed to interest her more. She moved slightly so that her breasts now pressed against his arm.
He steeled himself, clenched his teeth. He’d not had a woman since that whore a week ago but he also did not want to be swayed from his purpose. Vivian Suttley was somewhere in this city and he would find her.
“Have you pledged yourself to dance the whole evening?” Her sultry, blue eyes winked at him. “Or do you have the time for a walk in the garden perhaps?”
Martin took a swallow of tart lemonade as if he couldn’t care less for her offer. “Actually, I was looking for someone.”
“Someone? And old friend?”
“You could say that.”
She skimmed her tongue across her lower lip. “I believe I am acquainted with everyone worthy of knowing. Perhaps I can help you.”
Martin straightened his shoulders, finding it odd that she had yet to ask his name. He cared not for hers. He used people the way a farmer used his horse. They could plow his field or take him to town, it didn’t matter to him.
He slid her a sideways glance. “Perhaps you can. Rather than the gardens, are you intimately knowledgeable of this lovely house? The architecture is quite striking.”
His companion smiled, her eyes sparkled. “As a matter of fact, I am. Follow me.”
With the crush of the crowd, Martin doubted their absence would be noticed. Not that he cared for that either. As a man, he was permitted to seek his pleasures, as long as they held within the boundaries. He could not rape a debutante, but he could fornicate with a willing widow.
She proceeded to point out several rooms, none of which he took much note of. A few things caught his eye if he had a mind to pocket them for profit. But right now he had other more pressing matters on his mind.
Achieve pleasure. Locate Vivian.
At the far end of the dimly glowing hallway, the widow opened a door and shut it quickly behind him.
The room was dark, save for the glow of the moon through the windows. The smell of dust and leather told him he was in a library.
“I simply must be the first to have you,” she cooed as her fingers crawled up his chest.
Martin snatched her wrist and slammed her back against the door. Her breath hitched, his cock throbbed. He plundered her mouth, greedily suckling her tongue until she writhed against him.
“You know of everyone you say?” He squeezed her breast.
She whimpered. He didn’t know if it was from tenderness or desire. Nor did he care.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Whom do you search for?”
“Vivian Suttley, the daughter of Lord Whistlebury, baron.”
She reached around and grabbed at his ass, pinching him with the same strength he’d done her.
Reckless fire blazed through his veins. He bent low and licked the tops of her breasts.
“Oh my!” She gasped, bucked her hips. “I think I recall that…that name. When was her first season in London?”
Martin couldn’t remember. His brain was fuzzy. He pressed his lips against her ear. “Last year. No, two years ago.”
The widow reached for his cock. His whole body shuddered as his arousal pulsed in her hand. “Take it off. Oh, please hurry.”
He snatched her wrists again and clenched them behind her back. “Vivian. Tell me where to find her.”
“I…I don’t know. I don’t recall seeing her this year.” Her hips thrust out to him again. “Please…”
Martin reached under her skirt and yanked at the petticoats and other annoying garments blocking his quest. “What about Lady Ethington, Lord Whistlebury’s cousin? Do you know of her?”
She threw her head back, panted. “Yes, damn you. I know of her.”
He let go of her wrists and unbuttoned his pants. His pulse crashed inside his skull. “Which homes does she frequent? Will she come here tonight?”
“No. She won’t be…here…tonight.”
Martin dropped his trousers, pushed her skirt up and out of the way. He lifted her leg then slammed his way inside her waiting heat. He pounded her relentlessly, the ravenous passion welling up to an excruciating fervor.
The widow cried out, her channel convulsing around his cock. But he wasn’t finished.
“Tell…me…how…to…find…Lady…Ethington.”
Martin pulled out of her and in a swift movement, borne from years of practice, bent her across the arm of the nearest chair.
“You’ll not…not find her at the balls.”
Martin licked her bare cheeks, then bit them. She squealed and trembled, excited at the pain he created for her. He nipped the soft skin several more times then straightened. “Where is she?”
“At…at home. She’s an invalid. Hasn’t—hasn’t come to her London house for years.”
Bloody hell! Sharp fury hurtled through his bloodstream, dimming his sight. Which one of them had lied? Vivian or her father?
Wrath merged with sadistic craving. He plunged inside her wetness for lubrication and then forced his slick cock into her tight hole. She screamed, then moaned.
Martin thrust, oblivious to anything but intense rage and blinding lust, until he collapsed in satisfied exhaustion.
Could a flower grow in the shadow of such a menacing structure?
Vivian glanced over at the manor. It stood as severe and daunting as its master. The afternoon sun set on the other side, leaving long shadows to slither through her garden like a wary snake.
If this garden grew, survived, matured, then certainly there was hope for Silverstone Manor. And for its master.
With the majority of the vines and dead brush cleared away, Vivian could now begin her planting.
She’d secured a shovel from Pinkley, resisted his reluctant offer of help, and set out the seeds and saplings.
The temperature was surprisingly warm with only a scant breeze to cool her skin. Vivian glanced upward. No clouds rolled over the cliff, no hint of rain spiced the air. Normally she’d relish such a delightful change in the weather, but today rain would help her garden.
She brushed the hair from her face with the back of her hand and sighed. She’d best get started on her next chore of digging.
“I could have someone out here to help you with that.”
Vivian sucked in her breath, her nerves afire. Without looking behind her, she began to dig her third hole. “Mr. Pinkley offered but I declined his aid.”
Lord Ashworth chuckled. “And yet that does not surprise me.”
Her lips curved but she continued her task. “About Mr. Pinkley offering or me declining?”
His hand captured her elbow, warmth spread to her fingertips. “You refusing, of course.” His voice shimmied down her spine, stealing her breath. “Pinkley does surprise me, however. He told me he didn’t like you.”
Vivian straightened then wheeled around. “He told you such a thing? Why, I’ve been nothing but kind since I arrived.”
Lord Ashworth’s laughter danced through the branches and across her heart. “Pinkley has said nothing of the sort. But I did get you to look at me, didn’t I?”
Vivian’s lips twitched. So perhaps she had been avoiding him for the last day. Not that she’d been rude exactly, just a somewhat shy. Something about what transpired a day or so ago in her room left her feeling a bit uneasy, distracted. For just the tiniest moments, he’d lost control. He’d allowed her to guide him, to bring him pleasure.