lead to his ruin.
A soft yelp lifted his head. She shook her hand, then rubbed her palm. He should find her the proper tools, gloves and a rake. He should tell her to leave it. This house was meant for misery and neglect.
Instead, he stepped forward. Her tantalizing scent and vibrant loveliness proved irresistible.
“Oh!” she cried, her injured hand on her heart. “My lord.”
“You are hurt.”
She gave a weak smile, strands of hair blowing about her cheeks. “It is nothing. I’ve suffered worse.”
“Have you?”
Vivian turned away. “It is nothing, my lord. Just some scratches from the thorns.”
Ashworth reached for her hand and his fingers accidentally brushed the gentle swell of her breasts. An impulse rose to cup them fully. Drowsy heat breathed life into his groin.
Instead, he brought her palm up to his face for a closer inspection. Indeed, scratches marred her hand.
She gasped when he brushed his thumb across them.
“Shall I let go?” he murmured.
“No.” Her voice was a whisper, an invitation.
Obliging her request, Ashworth lowered his lips to her outstretched palm, skimming across her cuts with the gentle touch of a butterfly. He meant to let go at that point, but Vivian whimpered, a sound he’d heard from her throat last night as she lay across his bed.
In a flare of a passion, he ran his tongue along the scratches. The sharp trace of blood did not deter him, not when the rest of her hand was so soft, so smooth. Ashworth kissed the damaged palm, then each finger. His lips pressed against her wrist, where her pulse trembled.
“Vivian…” Her name slipped from his mouth as he kissed his way up her arm. She tasted of earth and salt and wild honeysuckle. All that he longed for, all that he resisted, dwelled here, hot beneath his mouth.
Desire smoldered beneath his faltering control and hardened his flesh.
Then her sleeve blocked his progress.
Ashworth lifted his head and found her gaze fixed upon him with raw emotions. Hunger. Curiosity.
Uncertainty?
And was it any wonder with the way he assaulted her here at the garden. The way he took advantage of her in his room and then frightened her away. She must think him a monster.
Ashworth dropped her arm and backed away from her. He was a monster. And she? A beautiful maiden he planned to use for his own agenda. Then discard.
Ashworth stared at the glass in his hand. The house was still, not even the whisper of a draft.
The lone candle flickered a yellow tint onto the liquid as he lifted it to his lips. It was the first time in years he actually considered not drinking it. The first time nightmares seemed more welcoming than erotic dreams.
Those sensual dreams brought him no peace. Only a torturous fire in his groin and no way to relieve it. His hand ended the pain, but not the agony.
The liquid slid down his throat, leaving it raw.
Ashworth locked his bedchamber door then tucked the key into a hidden drawer in his wardrobe.
Perhaps that would be enough to keep him to his room tonight.
What other option did he have?
Vivian gripped the candleholder tightly as she turned down a third passageway. The small flame illuminated old stone rather than plaster, a sure sign she was in an unfamiliar and ancient wing of the house.
More and more she believed this manor had once been a castle or keep of centuries past.
She lifted the light higher, but saw only a fluttering tapestry and faded oil paintings on the walls. No doors.
Somewhere in this huge, elaborate dwelling there must be a library. Oh Lord, she hoped so. She needed a book to read to help her fall asleep.
Vivian bit her lip and turned back the way she came, searching for other halls or shut doors. Between her concern over Lady Wainscott’s arrival and uncertainty regarding her disturbing dreams, Vivian had tossed and turned on her bed for nearly an hour. Even the spiders had fallen asleep.
Nerves taut, she tried a door at the end of long hall. Locked. Another
A soft yelp lifted his head. She shook her hand, then rubbed her palm. He should find her the proper tools, gloves and a rake. He should tell her to leave it. This house was meant for misery and neglect.
Instead, he stepped forward. Her tantalizing scent and vibrant loveliness proved irresistible.
“Oh!” she cried, her injured hand on her heart. “My lord.”
“You are hurt.”
She gave a weak smile, strands of hair blowing about her cheeks. “It is nothing. I’ve suffered worse.”
“Have you?”
Vivian turned away. “It is nothing, my lord. Just some scratches from the thorns.”
Ashworth reached for her hand and his fingers accidentally brushed the gentle swell of her breasts. An impulse rose to cup them fully. Drowsy heat breathed life into his groin.
Instead, he brought her palm up to his face for a closer inspection. Indeed, scratches marred her hand.
She gasped when he brushed his thumb across them.
“Shall I let go?” he murmured.
“No.” Her voice was a whisper, an invitation.
Obliging her request, Ashworth lowered his lips to her outstretched palm, skimming across her cuts with the gentle touch of a butterfly. He meant to let go at that point, but Vivian whimpered, a sound he’d heard from her throat last night as she lay across his bed.
In a flare of a passion, he ran his tongue along the scratches. The sharp trace of blood did not deter him, not when the rest of her hand was so soft, so smooth. Ashworth kissed the damaged palm, then each finger. His lips pressed against her wrist, where her pulse trembled.
“Vivian…” Her name slipped from his mouth as he kissed his way up her arm. She tasted of earth and salt and wild honeysuckle. All that he longed for, all that he resisted, dwelled here, hot beneath his mouth.
Desire smoldered beneath his faltering control and hardened his flesh.
Then her sleeve blocked his progress.
Ashworth lifted his head and found her gaze fixed upon him with raw emotions. Hunger. Curiosity.
Uncertainty?
And was it any wonder with the way he assaulted her here at the garden. The way he took advantage of her in his room and then frightened her away. She must think him a monster.
Ashworth dropped her arm and backed away from her. He was a monster. And she? A beautiful maiden he planned to use for his own agenda. Then discard.
Ashworth stared at the glass in his hand. The house was still, not even the whisper of a draft.
The lone candle flickered a yellow tint onto the liquid as he lifted it to his lips. It was the first time in years he actually considered not drinking it. The first time nightmares seemed more welcoming than erotic dreams.
Those sensual dreams brought him no peace. Only a torturous fire in his groin and no way to relieve it. His hand ended the pain, but not the agony.
The liquid slid down his throat, leaving it raw.
Ashworth locked his bedchamber door then tucked the key into a hidden drawer in his wardrobe.
Perhaps that would be enough to keep him to his room tonight.
What other option did he have?
Vivian gripped the candleholder tightly as she turned down a third passageway. The small flame illuminated old stone rather than plaster, a sure sign she was in an unfamiliar and ancient wing of the house.
More and more she believed this manor had once been a castle or keep of centuries past.
She lifted the light higher, but saw only a fluttering tapestry and faded oil paintings on the walls. No doors.
Somewhere in this huge, elaborate dwelling there must be a library. Oh Lord, she hoped so. She needed a book to read to help her fall asleep.
Vivian bit her lip and turned back the way she came, searching for other halls or shut doors. Between her concern over Lady Wainscott’s arrival and uncertainty regarding her disturbing dreams, Vivian had tossed and turned on her bed for nearly an hour. Even the spiders had fallen asleep.
Nerves taut, she tried a door at the end of long hall. Locked. Another
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