Beauty Tempts the Beast by Leslie Dicken Page B

neglected as the rest of the house.
    Vivian stared out the glass into the encroaching darkness. Whispers of cool air breathed across her skin. This room faced the front of the manor and she could see beyond the long drive to the village lights far in the distance.
    Finally, she sighed with her response. “The man my father chose for me was unsuitable.” As if one could call a violent manipulator merely unsuitable.
    “Ah,” Lady Wainscott sneered behind her. “But the Viscount Ashworth is suitable for your liking?”
    Vivian had no answer.
    “I’d say you were after his money.”
    Lord Ashworth’s money would be enough to send her far away, to the continent or America even. But Vivian didn’t want to go that far. She didn’t want to live among strange cultures. No, she didn’t covet the viscount’s wealth, only his hand in marriage. With the bad history between he and Martin and his isolation, Lord Ashworth was indeed her perfect match.
    Vivian traced her finger along the cold window ledge, unsettling a layer of dust. “As you can see, Lord Ashworth does not care to spend his money.” She lifted her finger to show Lady Wainscott. “I do not believe I can change him. Do you?”
    A rustling of skirts and the strong scent of lavender brought the countess before her. Sharp, hazel eyes narrowed. “The two of you may think you have an engagement, but I am not conceding.”
    Vivian swallowed the truth dancing on her tongue. There was no engagement. Only this morning, Lord Ashworth wanted her gone. How could she hold up the obvious lie with such an intent predator? She lifted her chin, forced the courage. “What makes you think he will prefer you?”
    Lady Wainscott curled her lips. “He loved me once. Tell me, Miss Suttley, does he love you now?”

    ***

    Her whimpering made his skin crawl.
    “I thought you said you’d played rough before.”
    Martin slid the trousers up his legs and rolled off the bed. The smell of sex and sweat permeated the air. Outside the window light rain tapped on the gutter. The small room had no French wallpaper or deep cushioned chairs like the places he used to visit, just a worn bed and ripped lace curtains.
    He didn’t even remember the whore’s name.
    Martin dug in his pockets, pulled out an extra coin, then flipped it on her pillow. “This is for you. A little something extra.”
    She groaned, but then her hand snatched out from under the blanket and the coin disappeared.
    Martin chuckled. She may be sore now but she seemed to be enjoying his rough handling earlier.
    “Come now, I told you I’d compensate you.”
    He glanced over her back, smiling at the circular shaped welts. A little nip or two couldn’t be making her moan so much. Perhaps it was the manner in which he drove himself into her.
    The whore rolled onto her side, long yellow hair falling over her shoulder and covering her ample bosom. “Yer the devil.”
    Martin arched a brow. Her opinion of him did not matter. “I’m not the only one of those here in London.”
    “Aye.” The candle dipped, drawing shadows along her ruddy cheeks. “’Tis true.”
    She stared at him with glazed eyes, as if she just saw him for the first time. And perhaps she did, since they never did face each other. Already his cock, though raw, throbbed for more attention.
    Martin stood and pulled on the rest of his clothes. Now that this wench had tempered the rampant lust clouding his mind, he could begin his search for Vivian. He would need to be invited to a few balls and soirees.
    Just knocking on the door of the baron’s cousin wouldn’t do. Not if Vivian had told the world why she’d run.
    No, he’d dealt with that before. Other girls he’d chosen to be his wife had either been pulled away from him due to his lack of historical title or some whimpering prattle the girl told her parents.
    Vivian was perfect. Her father’s indiscretion gave him the ammunition he needed to secure the beauty as his wife.
    But she was gone.
    Anger