Ripe for Pleasure

CHAPTER 28   



Bruises flushed to life as Viola slid into the bath. She hissed and forced more of her battered body into the steaming water. After the grandeur of the bath at Dyrham, a wooden tub in her room seemed almost a punishment.

Nance approached with a sponge, and Viola waved her away. She didn’t want anyone touching her, not even her maid. She gripped the cloth-draped rim of the tub, bent forward, and rested her forehead on her arm. Steam washed over her, curling up to caress her face. It permeated her hair until tendrils sagged down around her, the tips slipping into the water.

Her wounds from the last attack had barely healed, and here she was, more battered than she’d ever been in her life. Her brain wouldn’t stop making excuses for Leo, inventing scenarios and reasons for his deceptions, playing devil’s advocate with a vengeance. But no matter what twisted explanation she reached for, it evaporated before she could fully grasp it, dancing away from her tired brain like a ghostly light on the moors.

He’d used her. That was the only truth. He’d used her, put her in danger, left her unaware and exposed… That horrible truth balanced on a knife’s edge with the undeniable fact that she loved him. The two incongruous facts seesawed back and forth, leaving her shaken and sick to the core.

How could she love such a man? And more importantly, how could she stop? Because she had to stop, had to dig the feelings out and crush them under her heel as you would an adder in the garden.

The door opened. The familiar sound of boot heels on the floor made her stiffen, every muscle taut, poised for flight. A hushed interchange, as though beside a deathbed. The swish of fabric as Nance exited. The snick of the door closing behind her.

Viola kept her head down. If she looked up, she’d either burst into tears or spring from the bath and claw his eyes out.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor was followed by a creak as he disposed himself beside the tub. Even now he intruded, claimed his place, imposed on her peace. He sat quietly, his simple presence filling the room like a heavy-handed concerto pounded out on a perfectly tuned pianoforte.

“You can have the house.” Her breath made ripples in the water. “The both of you.” He and his damned cousin, who’d been hauled away with a curse for them both on his lips.

He could have the house, if only he’d leave now. Leave now and not touch her. Leave now and not make her struggle with this, not make her face it.

His only reply was the application of the sponge to her back. Viola pressed her forehead more firmly into her arm and bit her lip. How could she want him, love him, hate him all at the same time? How was it possible not to disintegrate amidst such conflict?

“I don’t want the house,” he said, each word skittering across her damp skin, distinct and insistent. “And even if Charles lives, giving it to him won’t solve anything.”

Viola turned her head so she could see him out of her one good eye. Through the curtain of her hair, he looked like a repentant angel: He’d removed his coat at some point since he’d brought her home, along with his cravat. His waistcoat gaped open, all but the last button disengaged. The sponge continued up and down her spine, a steady, reassuring touch in a world that no longer held any such promise.

“But you want the prince’s treasure.”

Leo winced as something that felt oddly like tears balled up behind his sternum. It wasn’t a question. Viola turned her face back toward the water, dismissing him. What excuse could he possibly offer? Yes, he still wanted the treasure, but not at this cost. In his selfish heart of hearts, he wanted her and the treasure both. The sad reality was, he wasn’t likely to get either, and deservedly so.

Myriad bruises formed a map across her pale skin. Each dark spot marking a betrayal, each scratch and welt marking a path from one lie to another. The whole of it was a brutal reminder that he’d not only failed her, he’d failed himself. Charles, too, if it came right down to it. He sluiced water over each and every mark. When he lifted her hair, she sat up, staring at him blankly.

There was blood on her face, a bruise blooming across one cheek, from the arch of her cheekbone all the way to her jaw, and one eye was swollen nearly shut. He’d seen men survive a bare knuckles boxing match with less to show for it.

At this point, nothing but the truth would do. “Yes, I want the treasure. I need it, in fact. But I’m not certain it exists anymore.”

Viola sucked in a breath, like a swimmer emerging from the waves. “So all this has been for nothing? The attacks, the fire, Ned—oh God, Ned.” She covered her mouth with her hand, inhaling sharply through her fingers. The water mixed with the dried blood, sending red rivulets down her face and neck. He soaked a towel and handed it to her.

Her face disappeared, hands molding the cloth to her like some ancient, mournful pieta. “All this time, you let me believe it was Sir Hugo behind those men. Sir Hugo and my damn manuscript that got Ned killed. But it was your cousin. And you.”

The urge to deny fault burned, but Leo couldn’t. He’d set it all in motion. “Yes, I’m as much to blame as Charles, though I took a different tack. I tried to tell Charles his way was too risky, too cruel. I did try to protect you,” he added.

“I suppose you did. But as you needed me, I would hardly call your protection altruistic. What happens now? What happens if your family finds out you shot your cousin? Possibly killed him…” Her voice trailed away.

His heartbeat faltered. “They won’t find out. Charles won’t tell them. Can’t tell them. And if he dies, well, Sandison told the doctor it was a drunken duel. My parents would never understand. Charles is like a son, like a brother…”

“And you love him.”

Leo nodded and held out a towel. That was the worst of it. He did—even after seeing what Charles had done to Viola, and the horrors he’d unleashed upon her staff and neighbors. It simply didn’t seem real, didn’t seem possible, that it had been Charles.

If his family found out, they’d think it was over money. Something petty and rude. He’d never make them understand that the treasure had become the least of it.

Maybe Beau, but not the rest. Not his brother. Certainly not his parents.

Viola rose unsteadily, and he helped her from the tub. Steam rose off her skin as though she were diffusing into the air. The urge to grab her, to establish that she was real and his, surged through him. He crammed it down, ruthlessly.

“I love him, but I chose you.”

Her single open eye pinned him in place as neatly as if he were an exotic insect in a display box. “And you’re not sure if you can forgive yourself.”

“No.” Leo shook his head, hair slipping from his queue to hang about his face. “I know I won’t be able to forgive myself for even the smallest part of it. Not what I did to Charles; not for what I did to you.”


Viola nodded in an entirely noncommittal way and gingerly pulled on her dressing gown. She wrung the water from her hair, a spiraling stream spilling back into the tub.

“I’m not sure I can forgive you either. Damnable, isn’t it? Love and hate getting tangled up this way.”

Leo held his breath, not entirely sure that she’d said what he thought. Had she been referring to them, or to him and Charles? She didn’t wait for a response, retreating to her dressing table where various pots of salve had been left by her maid.

“But do you think it worth finding out?” His question fell into the room, heavy as a stone sinking in water.

Viola studied her face in the mirror, fingering her various cuts and bruises, ignoring him completely. Ignoring things was an art, and she was a master in it. Finally she selected one of the small pots and began anointing her bruises with the salve inside it. When she was done, she turned her head to face him.

“One of the things life has taught me, my lord, is to never discard anything of value. Does it make you wince to be thought of as a thing? To be weighted and accessed as a commodity? Good. Yes, I think it worth finding out, but I make you no promises of forgiveness or understanding. I don’t even promise to treat you nicely. Hell, I can’t swear I won’t stab you in your sleep.”

“Hate, love, and the urge to do murder. All the makings of a true Vaughn.”

Viola’s head snapped around, but she didn’t reply. Leo watched quietly as she returned to drying her hair.

It was more than he had any right to expect, though far less than he wanted. She didn’t owe him a damn thing, but having sacrificed his cousin—his family—he couldn’t help but want more from her, of her. He’d pledged himself to her in that moment, body and soul, and he wanted that in return. Craved it, bone deep.

As for the possibility of being murdered in his sleep, he’d expect no less from any woman in his family if she were treated so abominably. Why should Viola be any different?