Wicked Little Secrets (26 page)

“I’m full of surprises, love.” He pulled off his glove and gently ran his fingertip under her eyes, brushing her tears away. “Don’t cry. You know how it hurts me.”

“I’m so overwrought. Too much has happened.”

“I know,” he whispered and then took her elbow and led her to an arbor of sorts made by a neighbor’s unclipped ivy hanging over the wall.

His fingers tightened around her arm. “Listen, if that Willie chap comes by tomorrow, be sure to let me know.”

“How?”

“Leave a note at—oh wait—dammit!” he spat, took off his hat, and ran his hands through his hair. “I forgot that I have to be at the Imperial Society for History tomorrow. The meetings last several eternities, and I’m supposed to speak on Roman bridge construction.”

Vivienne smiled, happy for a moment to think about something other than her aunt and blackmail. “Such as the time Caesar built the bridge across the Rhine to intimidate the Gauls. That’s one of my favorite stories from history.”

“Are you trying to make me fall madly, obsessively, and completely in love with you?”

As
I
am
with
you?
she thought. “I wish I could go. I would wager you are a fascinating lecturer.”

“I will give you the abbreviated version tomorrow night. Can you meet me at the wall around 10:30 in the evening? Your aunt should be in bed by then.”

“I’ll try.” Though she knew she would build her own bridge over the deep, cold waters of the Rhine to be there.

She gazed at his face. The bruise on his jaw had turned a deep yellow with a brown center, and the new one on his cheekbone was a feathery purple on the edges. “You said you would take care of things. Please be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt anymore.” She rose to her tiptoes and gingerly kissed his wounded jaw, feeling the rasp of his masculine skin.

“Dangerous,” he murmured. His arms encircled her waist and drew her against him as he pressed his lips on hers. She didn’t have enough strength to fight in that brutal battle between how she should behave and the wild urges of her body. She surrendered to the warmth and peace he gave her, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth to let him inside her.

The rattle of a coal service cart turning into the alley, a door being shut, Garth snorting about her feet—all seemed to be far in the distance. She tightened her hold on his biceps, her lips and tongue frantically moving against his.

His body stiffened, and he grasped her shoulders and gently pushed her against the wall. His chest heaved with his ragged breath, and his eyes glowed like burning cinders. “Woman, I warned you that I was as depraved as Lawrence James.”

She put her hand behind his neck and tried to pull him down to her hungry lips, but he covered her mouth with his hand. “Please go home,” he said quietly.

She didn’t move. Her world would be cold and overwhelming without him. She never wanted to leave him; he thrilled her, made her laugh, and talked to her. He never got frustrated with her like her father or condescended to her like her fiancé. She wished she was marrying him instead of John. He filled her mind and heart, making her so full she would have no desire to stray from Dashiell as she had from John.

That heavy cross of guilt fell back on her conscience. “I’m horrible for kissing you,” she said. “I prayed that I would be good. Obviously I can’t.”

He reached to touch her, but his fingers stopped a few inches from her face, and then he dropped his arm to his side. His features screwed up as if he were in pain. “You’re not the only one struggling,” he said and lightly brushed against her shoulder as he walked away.

Tears blurred Vivienne’s eyes. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her gown, feeling ashamed for sinning with Dashiell again. For heaven’s sake, she had prayed for the last forty-eight hours to be forgiven for their previous wicked kiss. Now she had to start all over again; no doubt God was losing patience with His hopeless little lamb.

“Let’s go home.” She picked up Garth, whimpering at her hem, and hugged him.

Fourteen

The Imperial Society for History, Cartography, Exploration, and Related Matters kept rooms on Piccadilly Street. The building had been constructed not ten years ago, but the great hall had been modeled after its medieval ancestors. Heavy oak paneling and murals of William the Conqueror and Henry V in battle decorated the walls. Three rather barbaric-looking iron chandeliers hung down on chains from the ceiling.

Dashiell arrived in the late morning and sat in the back of the room. He was the last of seven lecturers. He shifted about in his wooden seat, restless, his eyes trained on the great clock rising over the stage. Hours passed and speakers came and went from the podium, their words flowing through his ears, making no impression on his brain. He thought only of Vivienne. The way her lashes had fanned her cheeks and the parting of her lips as she rose to kiss him under the ivy. How she wrinkled her adorable nose when she teased him at Katherine’s house.

He would solve her blackmail problem and free her from John. His eyes scanned the audience of gentlemen slumped back in their chairs, arms crossed, faces blank, as they listened to the speaker. One of them had to make a fine husband for her, provided he understood that if he made Vivienne shed one tiny tear, Dashiell would scuttle his nob.

He wondered how his life would be in the coming years. No doubt, he would continue drifting around the world and women’s beds in his usual detached fashion, whereas Vivienne would be married and have a family. He tried to imagine her as a mother. With her high spirits and curiosity, her children would adore her. He felt a primal surge of anger that she wouldn’t have his children. In his heart, she was his and always would be, no matter whom she married. This was the best way he could love her.

***

At dinner, Aunt Gertrude dangled pieces of roasted hare from her fingers and played the “Who’s Mama’s favorite doggie?” game. Garth would stand on his hind legs like a circus dog to reach the meat.

Meanwhile, Vivienne, who had barely slept for worrying, stared at her pea soup, her eyelids slowly closing, her head drooping.
Don’t fall asleep!
she admonished herself, jerking herself upright. She took a gulp of tea and then another, hoping it would give her enough energy to stay awake until Dashiell returned.

“My dear, are you getting ill?” her aunt asked, concerned.

“Probably. I don’t think I should leave tomorrow.”

Her aunt would have none of it. “Go lie down after supper. I shall have Banks bring you
Dr. Oliver’s Elixir for Tranquil Slumber.
That should help you. I know you want to be with your family.”

No, I want to be with Dashiell.
But she knew tonight was the last time they could ever be together. She wondered if he would try to kiss her and if she should let him, for fear that one little kiss would lead to a great many bigger and more dangerous seductive acts that she had no will to resist.

The thud of the front door closing echoed in the room. Garth came down to all fours, raised his head to sniff the air, and released a low growl.

Miss Banks slipped into the dining room. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But Mr. Vandergrift is a’waitin’ in the parlor. Now, don’t you ladies be a’frettin’, but he seems quite upset.”

Vivienne’s spoon slipped from her fingers, hit the side of the soup bowl, and fell on the floor. Garth sprinted under the housekeeper’s skirt and out of the room.

“Good heavens,” said her aunt. “We shall be there directly.” She looked at her niece. “I wonder what could be the matter?”

He
could
have
found
out
about
the
blackmail
or
your
husband’s spanking or your paintings on exhibition at the Royal Academy or my father’s debts or that I fondled Dashiell. Any or all of those
. “I don’t know,” Vivienne stammered.

Vivienne clutched her aunt’s arm as they entered the parlor. Garth had trapped John by the mantel. The dog was hunched on his front paws, his curly tail high, barking at the man’s shoes. Vivienne gasped. A white bandage covered John’s nose, and a purple bruise swelled around his left eye which glared at her like blue flames. “Get this stupid hound away from me!” he ordered.

“Mr. Vandergrift!” her aunt cried, shocked. “Come here, you naughty hound.” She tried to bend, but her corset was too tight.

Vivienne knelt down and grabbed the dog by its collar. Garth dug his paws into the carpet, straining against his captor, intent on getting at the man.

“Miss Taylor,” John said coldly, straightening his cravat. “Tell me, do you have relations with Lord Dashiell?”

“What!” her aunt cried. “How can you say such a thing? My little Vivvie promised me that she would have nothing to do with that scoundrel.”

“And I recall that you made the same promise to me,” he said to Vivienne, a dark, knowing tone slithering under his words. “Have you kept your word?”

All eyes turned to Vivienne; even Garth quieted and studied her.

“Yes,” she whispered, the lie searing her throat.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he said. “You could repeat your answer.”

“Yes!” she cried.

“Really, you are acting like a jealous youth, Mr. Vandergrift,” her aunt said. “Vivienne adores you. She would never disobey you.”

“Ahh.” He wagged a finger. “Miss Taylor, did I ask you explicitly not to leave the square?”

“Yes.” She could feel herself being reeled into his trap.

“Then can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon?” he said slowly. Vivienne opened her mouth but couldn’t form any words. Inside, her mind screamed.
You’ve done it. You’ve ruined your family. They are going to lose everything. Those men are going to hurt your papa. Because of you!

“Why, she was here yesterday,” her aunt stated, ignorant of the truth. “We went to church together and then Vivienne stayed home, no doubt reading the nice book you gave her.”

“And… and I helped bathe Garth,” Vivienne added weakly.

“Sir, you are upsetting yourself for no reason,” her aunt assured him.

“Really?” he said. “Well, I asked Mr. Montag to inquire into her father’s company. This morning, he showed me the actual documents from Mr. Taylor’s creditors detailing the extent of his debt.” The edge of his teeth glinted beneath his tight lips. “Twenty thousand pounds.” He paused, letting the number hang heavy in the air. “I was humiliated before Mr. Montag.”

The floor appeared to tilt, like a boat riding a wave. Vivienne gripped Garth’s collar, trying to keep herself upright.

“W-what?” Her aunt dropped her cane and pressed her hand to her mouth as she staggered to the side table by her chair. “My nerves. Where is the Milner’s tonic?” She fumbled through her bottles, knocking some onto the floor.

“How long did you think you could hold such a sum from me?” John thundered at Vivienne. “Until after our wedding day when I was trapped?”

“We just need one or two orders,” Vivienne explained. “Enough to make a few hundred pounds for payment.”

“Indeed, sir, I can speak for Mr. Taylor,” her aunt said, taking a large gulp of something in a green bottle. “He will honor his debts. But surely, there has been a misunderstanding. Surely.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid her father’s financial problems are not all that concerns me.” His spoke in an eerily cool voice, his left eye glittering from its bruised socket. “I had my manservant follow you yesterday afternoon when you were supposedly at home.”

Vivienne’s hard swallow was audible.

“He claims that you brazenly embraced Lord Dashiell in Cavendish Square. Can you deny this?”

“Sir, you are quite mistaken,” Aunt Gertrude cried. “My Vivvie is a virtuous lady. How dare you—”

“My man even described your pug dog, ma’am.”

“No!” her aunt gasped. “Not my Garth.” Aunt Gertrude slumped into her chair. The dog pulled from Vivienne’s grasp and rushed to his mistress’s side, whimpering and pawing at her dress.

“Y-you d-don’t understand,” Vivienne choked, hot tears running down her face.

“I don’t?” John asked. “Well then, please enlighten me as to why you knowingly lied and disobeyed me.”

“I… I…” How could she explain about Lawrence James and the paintings? “I can’t.” Vivienne broke down into sobs, her whole body convulsing. “I just can’t.”

John began to walk around her like a predator after its wounded prey. “Miss Taylor, I admit I was attracted to your beauty in a moment of personal weakness. It wasn’t until a few days into our engagement that I became aware of your severe deficiencies in character. Even then I tried to guide you in the proper course.”

“I’ll be good,” Vivienne pleaded through her tears. “I promise. Just let me try again.”

“I have given you too many chances already. But you cannot be worked on. In your heart, you are a deceitful young lady. Headstrong, ignorant, and foolish. It pains me to say these words in the presence of your aunt, but I must retract my offer of marriage.”

“No!” She reached blindly for him, for though her eyes were open, she couldn’t see. Her hands fell through empty air. “Don’t do this!”

John bowed before Aunt Gertrude. “I’m sorry to cause you such distress.”

“Pray to the Lord, Mr. Vandergrift,” her aunt implored him, her hands clasped together. “
For
if
ye
forgive
men
their
t-trespasses, your heavenly Father will also f-forgive…
” Her voice faltered under her guest’s blistering glare.

“My humblest apologies, but I cannot,” he said. “It is Vivienne who should pray to the Lord for forgiveness. I shall take my leave.” He strode to the hall without even giving Vivienne a glance.

She couldn’t let him go, knowing she had destroyed her entire family. She chased after him, swinging the parlor door shut behind her. She grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry. I’ll be a good wife. Give me another chance. I beg you.”