Ripe for Pleasure (25 page)

“With you? Why everything, my dear. You have it.”

Viola sucked in a breath and wiped her nose again. The gloves were new, but she was very likely going to die today. Her gloves
didn’t matter. She should be terrified, but there was no room for such an emotion. Anger filled her, welling up inside her
until she was choking on it. She flexed her hands. She could rip out the man’s eyes, but she’d never make it to the door.

“I might be brought round to believing you don’t
know
you have it.”

She flattened her hands across her stomach, pressing in against her stays, trying to stanch the urge to vomit. Her stays were
suddenly too tight, and they seemed to be getting tighter by the moment.

“Lord Leonidas has never mentioned it to me.”

“Would that I could believe you.” He nodded, and the lurking Cooper sent her sprawling onto the floor again. The kick that
followed threw her hard against the wall. She retched, stomach muscles fighting hard against canvas and whalebone.

Leo’s cousin took a step toward her. Light flashed off the paste buckles on his shoes. He knelt down, knee beside her head,
hand forcing her down hard against the floor.

“The evidence is irrefutable.” The musk of his cologne washed over her as he leaned in closer. “The money is—or was—hidden
somewhere in your house. Leo dragged you off to the hinterlands while his friends searched
your house—oh yes, don’t look so surprised, my dear. I watched them do it!—and then your relationship ends most abruptly when
you return to town. So, we find ourselves with a few possibilities. Either Leo found it and no longer needs you. Or he told
you about it, and you decided you no longer need him. Or, my favorite option of all, you already have it. For your sake, I
sincerely hope it’s one of the latter.”

Viola shook her head. “I broke it off. Didn’t know anything about the treasure.”

His eyes narrowed. “Unlikely, a woman of your sort throwing away a duke’s son.”

“A younger son.” She tried to sound as dismissive as possible. Whatever this man’s issues with Leo, jealousy was right at
the forefront. She could almost smell it. It wafted off him as thickly as the horrible musk he doused himself in. “Throckmorton
has more to offer.”

“And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Who has the most to offer. Right now, I’d say that was me.”

He thrust his hand into her hair and held her tight. Viola stiffened and tried to jerk away. His grip tightened until she
could feel hairs being ripped from her scalp one by one.

“You really don’t know. Damnation!”

He tossed her away from him and stood in one quick motion, the skirts of his coat flying out over her head like the wings
of a predatory bird. He paced across the room, worrying at his gloved thumb with his teeth.

“Letter.” Viola choked on the word.

“So he did show them to you?” The man’s smile of relief sent another chill through her.

“No.” She swallowed, tasting blood. “I could write you one. Tell my servants to give you free rein to search the house yourself.”

“I’ve already searched your house. There’s nothing there, which means Leo has it. I wonder what you’re worth to him?”

The door shook on its hinges, the frame flexing and bulging. An unholy baying leaked past it, and Viola found herself smiling,
though it hurt to do so. She knew that bark. The only thing between her, the door, and Pen were two men who had no idea what
was about to befall them.

The dog hit the door again. Leo’s cousin took a step backward, drawing a pistol from the pocket of his coat. Viola pushed
herself up from the floor, lifted the chair, and swung for his head. It connected with the satisfying sound of wood splintering,
and he went sprawling, the gun skittering across the room.

The door gave way with what sounded to Viola like the annunciation of angels—the full-throated growl of one very angry mastiff.
Pen launched herself at Cooper, her snarls drowned out by the man’s screams as she knocked him to the ground.

Leo’s cousin scrambled for the gun, then raced toward her. “You bitch.” He caught her by the arm, fingers digging into her.

The open doorway spilled forth a steady stream of men: Leo at the fore, a disheveled and unshaven Sandison at his shoulder,
other faces both familiar and unknown all around them. The tide pushed them forward, propelled
them inexorably into the room. Her captor’s grip tightened momentarily; then he flung her aside.

Pen took a swipe at one of his cousin’s henchmen, leaving a bloody bite on his thigh. As she raced to Viola, the League surged
in behind Leo, grim determination radiating off them in a palpable wave. Charles met his gaze unflinchingly. No apology, no
plea, just a haze of anger and hate leaking out his eyes, hot as the blast from a blacksmith’s furnace.

How had they come to this? A year ago, he’d have killed to protect his cousin, and today it was likely he was going to kill
him himself. There wasn’t any other way out. Charles raised his gun, thumb cocking the hammer in one fluid motion. The deafening
report of multiple shots concussed the air, clouding it with smoke. The burning scent of sulfur curled up his nostrils like
the stench of the Thames in August.

Leo dropped his pistol, the dull thud as it hit the floor nearly lost in the shuffling clamor of his friends, his cousin’s
strained moan, and the sound of Pen growling deep in her throat as Devere and Sandison subdued the man she’d bitten.

His cousin lay crumpled on the floor, bent over, barely moving. Charles had given him no choice—would have left him in the
same condition, had he been a better shot—but Leo’s mouth was filled with the acrid taste of guilt all the same. The choice
had been clear: Viola or Charles. But that wasn’t to say it had been simple.

How could it be? Love or family. How to choose? How to live with the choice he’d made…

The sudden silence that enveloped the room felt almost unnatural, fraught with tension, like the pregnant moment between a
lightning strike and the inevitable clap of thunder. A floorboard creaked behind him, and the world whirled back into motion.
De Moulines was kneeling beside his cousin, Thane was giving orders in a low rumble, and Viola was sobbing on the floor, arms
wrapped around a panting, smiling, blood-drenched dog.

CHAPTER 28

B
ruises 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…”