Feeling her cheeks flush, Vivian turned back to the hole. “You are devious, my lord.”
“Yes, perhaps. But I do what’s necessary.” He took the shovel from her hands. “Now tell me what is necessary.”
She lifted her eyes to his face, startled at the genuine shine of concentration upon it. His gray eyes held determination and a slice of amusement.
“Certainly you aren’t asking to help me turn up this garden.”
“And why not?” His lips bowed, softening the line of his scar. “Do I not look capable of yielding such a tool?”
“Well, yes but—”
“Perhaps you think I lack the skill or the strength to lift the heavy clumps of dirt as you do.”
“No, not at all—”
He drove the point into the soft earth. “Then it must be that you think me too full of myself to sully my hands and clothes.”
Vivian laughed aloud. He was more capable than any man she’d ever met, stronger than any man she might ever meet again. As for getting himself sullied…
“You told me the other night that you did not get dirty as a child.”
The muscles of his shoulders and back flinched beneath his white shirt as he tossed a bit of dirt onto the pile. “I said no such thing.”
“Yes, you did. You told me that I got dirty far more than you ever did as a boy.”
His gaze raked over her dress. Awareness eddied through her bloodstream. Her mouth dried.
“And today you are yet again dirtier than I ever was.”
“But boys are rough and tumble. They like to climb trees and hunt for frogs.” She twirled around, her mind alive with possibilities. “If a boy lived here he would climb that trellis near the kitchen. And he’d find himself at Briarwater each afternoon looking for tadpoles. I’m sure he’d—”
“Miss Suttley.”
Vivian turned back at the whispered words. Pain—and was it sadness?—lurked within his eyes. For a moment, she could see through his careful façade to the vulnerable man underneath. He spoke volumes to her without saying a word. Whether the boy she heard had any relation to Lord Ashworth or not, he had once experienced the overpowering love for a child.
She waited for him to continue. He looked as if he debated telling her something, but then decided against it and went back to his digging.
Vivian eased off the topic of the mysterious boy. “So you spent most summers elsewhere then.”
“No.” He grunted as he lifted a heavy yield of dirt. “I spent many summers here. But I wasn’t permitted to do most things you mentioned. As the oldest son, the only son, I had far too much to study.”
Vivian’s throat tightened. She put her hand on his arm and stilled his movements. “You weren’t permitted to be a child.”
His gaze met hers. She gasped at the rawness she saw within. She brushed his cheek tenderly. “There must first be the boy before there can be the man.”
His dirt-covered hands cupped her jaw. “Vivian…”
“What is it, my lord? What are you afraid to tell me?”
The light breeze blew a scented ribbon of her new flowers between them. Concentrating, he stared at her, struggled within himself.
She wanted him to tell her of the boy, for she would not mention it unless she saw or heard him again.
But Vivian knew that the child was only one of many secrets lurking within the stone walls of that house.
Eventually she would uncover them and bring them to the light of day.
“I do say you lied to me.” The frigid voice of Lady Wainscott ruined Vivian’s chance for the day.
They turned in unison to find her standing at the edge of the upturned garden like an elegant flower.
Her delicate pink stripes and vivid green bows must be the essence of London fashion yet it couldn’t be more outlandish for Silverstone Manor.
Lord Ashworth tensed beside her. “In what manner have I lied, Lady Wainscott?”
“You said you did not employ a gardener. But it appears that you do. You are not only the master here but a servant, as well.” The woman tried to lift her voice with humor but iciness weighed it down.
“Have you come to join us?” Steel replaced softness. Where a moment ago Lord Ashworth was quiet and vulnerable, he once again returned to the gruff man she’d first met.
Lady Wainscott gave a small snort. “While I’m sure it may be fun to dig in the mud now and then, I’m afraid I’m not wearing the appropriate dress.” Vivian cringed as a pair of chilly blue eyes perused her clothing. “But I see Miss Suttley has come abundantly prepared.”
Embarrassment surged into anger. “I have others if you’d care to borrow one.”
The other woman’s face paled at the mere suggestion of it, but she recovered quickly and lifted her chin. “I think perhaps, Miss Suttley, it would behoove you to borrow some of my dresses. As a matter of fact, I have some I was ready to give my maid. I’ll have them sent to your room instead.”
Vivian clenched her hands. The nerve of this woman. It wasn’t as if Vivian didn’t own any nicer dresses or know how to present herself in the proper situations. But when she ran from her home during the night, fear replacing the blood pumping through her heart, she did not have the time to plan or pack everything.
“Miss Suttley.” Lord Ashworth’s voice rang out like village church bells.
She turned to look at him and drew in a sharp intake of breath at the distant mask he now wore. It was as if the previous moments never occurred. She cleared her throat, moving aside the sudden welling of defeat and emptiness. “Yes, my lord?”
“On this point I must agree with Lady Wainscott.” His gaze held hers, not shying away from what appeared to be sudden betrayal. “You are in need of new clothing.”
Vivian clenched her teeth to withhold her ire. Even if that were the case, was it necessary to say it in front of her conniving adversary? Had the man any sense at all or was he starting to feel something for his former love?
She set her chin. “I’ll not wear her cast-offs.” She doubted they would even fit her. And as she said it, she realized that the uptight woman was only goading her. She probably never intended to pass along her clothing.
“Of course not. I can have a dressmaker come to the manor or you can go into town, whichever you choose.”
If the other villagers believed as the postmistress did, Vivian doubted a dressmaker would set foot upon this land. As long as they didn’t lock the gates after her, she saw no other choice than to venture down to the village.
However, she would not let Lord Ashworth get away with injuring her pride so easily. She took the shovel from his hands and stabbed at the dirt.
“I am hopeful, my lord, that you will not expect me to continue working in this garden in a dress such as that.” She lifted the shovel handle to point at the frilly pink and green costume. The sudden motion sent dirt soaring into the air and raining over both people standing behind her.
Vivian stifled a giggle. Lord Ashworth forced his grin into a frown. Lady Wainscott screamed, glared at her with murderous intent and then stomped back to the house.
He brushed the soil from his shirt, still struggling to keep his rigidity in check. “I believe that would have been even more amusing if you had done it deliberately.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “How do you know I did not?”
He swept wayward strands from her face. “Because for all the fire you have burning inside of you, malice is not part of your character.”
Despite the urge to brush her finger across his lips, Vivian remained immobile. “How do you know who I am?”
“You saved an egg from a hungry fox. You saw the possibility of beauty in a patch of dead vines.”
His voice dropped. “You touch me without revulsion.”
She tightened her hold on the shovel, attempted to ignore the frantic beat of her heart. “Yet I do not know who you are.”
His eyes hardened. “You do not want to know.”
“Oh but I do.”
“I—I believe I’ve done something horrible in the past. I don’t want you to be a party to it.”
Could it have something to do with the horrified looks that crossed his face after he touched her? It didn’t matter. He needed tenderness and she needed to give it.
Vivian gave in to the impulse and traced her fingertip down his scar. “Sometimes we are the egg and sometimes we are the fox.”
With the slightest shift, he leaned into her hand. “What I did is more terrifying than any fox, Miss Suttley.”
“Every soul can be saved, my lord.”
His eyes bored into hers, hope and uncertainty transforming pewter to brilliant silver. “Do you truly believe that?”
Every
soul? Could Martin be saved or was he truly evil, not a man but a monster? Or was there a reason for his actions? Had something happened to him once to make him so loathsome?
It was not her place to judge, only to survive. Suddenly she wanted more from life than survival alone.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I believe that. And now you must too.”
“Tell me…” His voice hardened as he turned away from her. “Tell me why I must believe.”
For the child she heard upstairs. For the pain reflecting in his gaze.
“Because I’ll not leave this house until you do.”
She meant, of course, that she’d not leave the house for good. Vivian made her trip to the dress shop that very afternoon. If Lord Ashworth wished to have her dressed more fashionably and he would pay for it, why should she resist?
Yet, as the carriage dropped her off at the corner, Vivian started to wonder if coming to the village again was a mistake. At the sight of the viscount’s emblem, every person on the pavement stopped to look.
Every eye watched her take the few short steps from the vehicle to the shop door.
What reputation did Lord Ashworth hold? Did his terrible act occur here among these people? Or did they only embrace the rumors and feed upon them like starving rats in a trash heap?
Vivian entered the dress shop and her shoulders dropped with a release of tension. The store held feminine, flowery scents. Although the room was no bigger than the dining room at Silverstone Manor, the smells alone were a welcome change.
A customer brushed past Vivian, giving her a quick glare on her way out the door.
Vivian glanced over the fabrics, alive with vivid colors and subdued pastels. How would she know what to choose? It had been so long since she’d had a fancy dress made. After her season in London, there seemed no real reason to spend money on nice clothes. Especially when her father declared he’d found her a husband.
She shivered. She could be Martin’s wife now. Had she not run, she would be in his clutches.
Morning would find her bruised and beaten. Nights would sink her into devastating darkness.
Yes, she’d made the right decision. Lord Ashworth was no monster like the man she’d left. He would keep her safe.
“I’ll not take his credit.”
Vivian looked up to see a shrewd woman with fierce brown eyes staring at her. “Pardon me?”
“The viscount. If’n he sent you without coins, I won’t put your dresses on credit.”
Stunned, Vivian could not bring herself to answer. She merely nodded, knowing the carriage driver held the money necessary to pay for her bill.
Those eyes drew up and down Vivian’s body. “So, what’ll he have you wear?”
“I—I don’t know. A fine dinner dress, I suppose.”
The dressmaker circled her. “Any particular color?”
“No. I mean, he didn’t specify. What do you suggest?”
“For the mistress of a monster?”
“Mistress? Monster?” She wasn’t sure which appalled her more.
The woman fingered a deep red silk. “You’ve heard the rumors, no doubt, and yet you continue to stay at that…that house.”
Vivian lifted her chin. “I am in no harm in that manor, nor am I his mistress.”
The dressmaker snorted. “Lord Ashworth isn’t hiding himself up there for nothing. If he hasn’t done something worth hiding for, then why haven’t we ever seen him?”
“But everyone speaks of his scar. You must have seen him at some point.”
“There’s enough who work up there who’ve spoken of it. Looks like a monster, I’ve heard.”
Looks like a monster. Done something worth hiding for.
Was she the fool not to believe as so many others did? Did she have a real reason to trust Lord Ashworth? Vivian’s stomach plummeted. Every time her confidence soared something else came along to shake it up.
The woman lifted the blood red silk higher. “He refuses to marry, I hear.”
“I am not his mistress.”
“No?” Dark eyebrows rose. “Then why are you there?”
To marry him.
Even to Vivian, it sounded hollow. She could give no other answer. In fact, she couldn’t answer at all.
The dressmaker’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Perhaps you’d care for something in green instead.”
Vivian’s throat suddenly tightened. With a sigh, she nodded.
“Green it is.”
“I’m not fooled, you know.”
Ashworth glanced up from the large stack of paperwork on his desk to see Catherine standing in the study doorway. Having cleaned up from the shower of dirt, she appeared as polished as any fine silverware.
Hell, as any emerald or sapphire.
Silverstone Manor held none of those treasures within its walls.
He looked down with a sigh at another letter from his mother. She continued to insist he rekindle his love affair with Catherine. She was damned determined to give Harry a mother and bring them all to London. She would not master him. No matter what idle threats his mother issued, he would not marry.
“Charles. Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard.” He still did not look at her. Maybe if he ignored her she would go away.
Instead she swept into the study, bathing the room in her lavender scent. “You can’t pretend I am not here.”
Growling, Ashworth crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire. “Can’t I?”
“I am more determined than you realize.”
He lifted his gaze to find her nose wrinkled, hazel eyes staring at his scar. His gut clenched like he’d been dealt a swift blow. “You do not seek my love, you seek my money.”
Her lips pursed. “Are you so certain?”
Rain gusted against the window. The candles dipped, drawing long shadows on the wall.