Ripe for Pleasure (8 page)

The sooner she finished her manuscript and handed it over to her publisher the better. Once it was gone, she would be safe.
There would no longer be any reason—logically—to harass her. Though Sir Hugo might burn for revenge when he read his chapter.

Killing her after the book was in production would only ensure it was the biggest hit of not just the Season but possibly
the century. The murder of the Earl of Sandwich’s mistress—also committed as she left the theatre, now that Viola thought
of it—was still being talked of in lurid whispers four years later. If poor Martha had written a memoir, it would have been
a sensation. Viola shivered and thrust the memory of her dead friend away.

The carriage rolled to a clattering stop, and Viola opened her eyes as Mr. Sandison leapt down, the magnificent silver braid
that edged his coat sparkling in the welcoming light of her home.

“Stay inside while we check that the street is clear,” he said before shutting her up again. The distinct sound of knuckles
on wood was followed by muffled conversation.
The coach rocked gently as one of his footmen swung down. Minutes passed in tense silence. The door opened, and Mr. Sandison’s
gloved hand appeared.

“All clear, Mrs. Whedon. Let’s get you inside before that changes.”

Mrs. Draper stood in the doorway, crowding aside Sandison’s bulky footmen like a broody hen making room for her chicks. As
Viola’s foot touched the cold metal of the coach step, she remembered her shoes were missing and that she was wearing only
one stocking.

Mr. Sandison swept her up into his arms. “Pretend I’m Vaughn. Better yet, pretend I’m someone far more handsome and desirable
than my deplorable friend.” He smiled, flirtatious, but harmlessly so, as they ascended the stairs.

In moments, she was in her own boudoir with her maid and housekeeper fussing over her. Mr. Sandison made her a profound leg
and excused himself. “I’ll be downstairs until made superfluous,” he said, before whisking himself out of the room, the skirts
of his coat swinging with an almost jaunty air.

Viola stared at the door. Sandison was enjoying himself. It was appalling, and yet she found herself smiling. What sort of
man enjoyed such an evening?

Dismissing him from her thoughts, Viola crossed the room and collapsed on the seat before her dressing table. Tentatively,
she leaned forward to examine the damage. Blood streaked her hair, covered one side of her face and neck, and crimson and
burgundy rivulets traced a path down her chest to bloom onto her gown like some exotic Chinese flower. Against her powdered
skin and hair, the
effect was garish. She turned her back to her reflection and began to strip off her gloves.

“Mrs. Draper, can you please get me some hot water?”

Her housekeeper nodded her head decisively, enormous nightcap flapping about her ears. She rushed out the door, bellowing
for the maid of all work at the top of her lungs.

Her ladies maid gave her a wan smile as she stood. Viola tossed her gloves on the floor with a shudder. Nance tsked over the
state of her gown as she stripped it off her. “At least your stays haven’t been touched, and I think it’s likely I can get
the few spots on your shift clean if I wash it immediately.”

“Never mind about that.” Viola flicked the pile of expensive silk away from her with her foot. “Burn it all, throw it in the
midden. I don’t care. Just get rid of it.”

Viola pulled on her oldest and most comfortable dressing gown, its frayed velvet cuffs oddly comforting. Mrs. Draper reappeared
with a pitcher of steaming water and an armful of towels. Behind her, little Sally bustled in with a tray of small lemon cheesecakes
and a glass half full of amber liquid.

“Brandy, ma’am. Mr. Sandison’s orders.” She said it as though that made it law.

Viola felt a bubble of laughter swelling within her chest, pushing the cold horror of the evening to the fringes. While her
servants fussed about the room, Viola returned to her dressing table and forced herself to eat. The filling was sweet on her
tongue, the crust simply melted, a thousand layers of buttery flakes. She washed it down with a healthy amount of brandy,
letting the warmth seep
through her, from lips to throat to stomach and out to her frigid limbs.

Nance lit the candles that flanked her mirror, smoke curling up from the twisted length of paper in her hand. Viola turned
her head to the right, and a pristine, if tired, woman gazed out at her. Only the deep circles under her eyes spoke to her
true state. Turning her head to the left revealed the ghostly apparition of a murdered queen. Something right out of Shakespeare.

She picked up a towel, soaked it and rung it out, and began cleaning the blood from her face. The hot water stung, but she
held the cloth firmly to her wound, loosening the clot that matted her hair.

Nance finished disposing of her clothing and returned to brush out her hair, carefully stripping out the powder along with
the tangles. She was making the small clicking sound with her tongue that she always made when distressed. Pin after pin clinked
into the black, japanned box on the table as Nance plucked them from the wreck of her coiffure.

A second towel joined the first in a damp pile draped over the empty ewer before a peremptory knock on the door set Viola’s
heart racing, and Vaughn appeared behind her in the glass. Even in reflection, his eyes burned, and the set of his jaw was
impossible to miss. He hadn’t calmed down one iota since she’d seen him last.

She’d watched him beat a man with his fists, possibly to death. There’d been rage behind his actions, but there had also been
cold calculation, precision, and no hint of indecision.

Viola twisted about to face him. He was dirty, rum
pled, and nearly as blood-streaked as she’d been. But even under all that blood and grime, the hard, masculine planes of his
face were distinct, like an ancient marble statue just reclaimed from the earth. And her impulse was the same as anyone discovering
such a treasure: to revel in its glory.

He was hers, at least for the moment.

“Nance, that will be all.” Viola wet the edge of a clean towel and stood, her robe swirling around her feet in heavy folds.
The click of the door shutting signaled her maid’s swift departure. “Sit.”

She took his arm and pushed him into the small chair she’d just vacated. He tensed, then sank obediently.

Viola passed the towel across his forehead, trying to be gentle. “Are your servants all right?” The splinters of window glass
had sliced his cheek in multiple places.

As with her own wound, the blood made it look far worse than it was. The only real damage was one nasty slice that ran along
his cheekbone like the scratch of some great cat, though it was clear he’d have a black eye come morning.

“Yes.” He winced slightly as the towel passed over the largest cut, his wicked green eye closing tight, tiny rays of smile
lines running down his cheek. “A broken arm and a knife wound that needs stitching are the worst of it. Lucky for us, most
of my family’s footmen are veterans of the King’s Royal Ethiopian Regiment. They’re a bit more useful in a fight than their
London-bred counterparts.”

“Really?” Viola stood back to admire her handiwork. She cocked her head and wiped off one last smudge near his ear, allowing
her fingers to linger on the hard edge of his jaw. The faint burr of whiskers pulled at the fabric of
the towel. “I had wondered why most of your footmen and grooms were Africans.”

“My uncle was one of the officers in charge. Promises were made for their support. Promises that haven’t been kept for the
most part. When he returned after the war, he retired, and now he spends his days finding employment for as many of his men
as he can.”

She ran her thumb over his cheek, holding her breath to prevent herself from leaning forward to kiss his wound as though he
were a child… or a lover. He was in need of a shave; the dark whiskers gave his jaw a faint velvet sheen in the candlelight.
It must be later than she thought, for he’d been immaculate at the theatre.

Lord Leonidas plucked the towel from her grasp and rose. One hand caught her chin and tipped her head for his inspection.
His eyes narrowed, and he dabbed at her neck. Clearly dissatisfied, he tugged the collar of her robe open, exposing her shoulder
and very nearly her breast.

Viola bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Once again, my lord, you’re considerably above my knee.”

“What—”

His look of bewilderment set off a peal of laughter.

“Very funny, my lady.” He thrust her down into the chair and began scrubbing the dried blood from her shoulder with much the
same air as an annoyed governess with a recalcitrant and muddy charge.

“Is your uncle an abolitionist?”

“Of the strictest order.” He soaked a new towel and continued his almost rough ministrations. “No sugar. No rum. No cotton.
Rides about distributing pamphlets. Even paid for his secretary’s memoir to be published last year.”

“He sounds like an admirable man.”

“He is.” Lord Leonidas tossed the towel into the basin and dropped a casual kiss on her still-damp shoulder. Her lungs seized,
shriveling away to nothing inside her chest. “He’s also an incredible bore.”

She shuddered as the ability to breathe returned. “Most reformers are.”

“We’re a wicked, ungrateful pair, you and I.”

“Bound for hell. I’ve known it for years. Makes me all the more determined to enjoy this world.” Viola locked her hand in
his lapel and pulled him toward her, raising her face for a kiss. She needed it. The warmth of it, the reassurance of it,
the celebration of it. Needed it more than she needed to maintain control.

He stiffened, resisting, finally raising one hand to engulf hers. She winced as he removed her hand. Lord Leonidas simply
stood staring at her wrist, cradling it as though it were a captured butterfly.

“You didn’t get that tonight.” His brow furrowed as his thumb made a small circle over the bruise that stood out livid and
ugly just above the bones of her wrist.

“N-n-n-no. It’s from the night those men—”

“But they didn’t leave this.” His voice was flat, a thread of pure anger laced through it. “I did.” His thumb continued running
back and forth over the bruise as though he could wipe it away.

Tears burnt behind her eyes. She willed them away with a shuddering breath. If she started crying now, she didn’t think she’d
be able to stop.

“I’m sorry.” His apology rumbled through her, shocking and warm as the brandy she’d drunk earlier.

“For saving me? Nonsense.”

Something other than tears burned behind his eyes. For a moment, both the blue and the green looked equally sad. Equally defeated.
Viola caught her lip between her teeth, mind racing to understand the fleeting grief. It seemed too intense for something
so small as a bruise.

CHAPTER 8

L
eo swallowed down the anger that had been building all evening. She hadn’t needed saving tonight. This attack had been meant
for him. He wasn’t yet sure if it was a warning, or if his cousin really had meant him harm, but either way, he was ultimately
responsible for Viola’s wounds. All of them. The fact that he’d left his own mark on her simply added an undercurrent of self-loathing
to his rage.

Doubt rattled through his brain, coursed through his blood, pushed farther with every beat of his heart. He squashed it down,
let it mix with embers of anger and subside into a cold, dark lump in the center of his chest.

Now wasn’t the time for repentance. He’d set the wheels in motion, and either his cousin or he would come out the winner in
the end. It would certainly be better for Viola if it were him.

A race to the treasure, that had been easily foreseen. How far his cousin would take things, what he would do to win, Leo
hadn’t been prepared for. A mistake he wouldn’t make a second time.

Leo ran his thumb lightly over her wrist again.

“Come to bed, my lord.” Viola rose and tugged him toward her.

He planted his feet, rooting himself to the floor. The assortment of ointment bottles and small china dishes on her dressing
table rattled softly.