Vivien had never been so alarmed in all her life. Not even when a flash of lightning had startled the horses and the vardo had gone careening down a steep hill with dado hauling futilely on the reins. Not even when she had stumbled into a bee’s nest while playing in the woods and her screams had brought her mother running to her rescue.
Now she had only herself to rely upon. Lady Stokeford clearly did not know how dangerous her grandson could be.
But Vivien knew. The cold fury in the marquess’s blue eyes chilled her. His fingers bit into her arm. In her narrow skirts, she had trouble keeping up with his lengthy strides down the shadowed corridor.
What did this gorgio lord mean to do with her? After her father’s encounter with the trap, she knew too well the cruelties of the English nobility.
“Release me,” she demanded again, trying to dislodge his firm grip. “You’ve no right to touch me.”
He snatched a candle from a shell-shaped wall sconce. In its wavering glow, he scowled like a demon sorcerer. “I have every right. So long as you’re deceiving my grandmother.”
“I’ve taken only what she’s freely given—”
“Save your excuses for someone more gullible.”
Shouldering open a door, he hauled her into a darkened chamber and kicked the door shut. The candle cast a small circle of light that failed to penetrate into the murky depths of a bedchamber. A stale, shut-up odor pervaded the air. Spying the large four-poster bed in the shadows, Vivien felt another stab of fear. When he pivoted away to set the taper on a round oak table, she lunged for the brass handle of the door.
In a flash, his muscled body trapped her against the white-painted panel. She struggled fiercely, panting with effort. Had she been turned toward him, she might have clawed his face, but his size and strength thwarted her. With every breath, she inhaled his scent of horses and leather and something feral, something that set off a pulse-beat low in her loins.
“Be still,” he commanded. “I’ve no intention of hurting you.”
With diabolical tenderness, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. His warm breath blew on her neck, raising prickles over her skin. She went limp, needing all her reserves to control a bone-deep shiver. Her heart surged faster than it had when she had first beheld him, looming in the doorway like a hero of legend, broad of shoulder and darkly handsome in a coat, white shirt and doeskin breeches, his blue eyes burning into her. She had been seized by a great longing, a deep inner warmth, as if her body had recognized its mate.
A fire in the heart.
Impossible. She could not be destined to love this brutish lord.
His fingertips trailed over the whorls of her ear. “Now that’s better,” he said silkily. “I like a woman who’s warm and willing.”
“I’m far from willing,” she snapped. “I curse you. May you die in agony and the crows eat your stinking carcass.”
He chuckled softly in her ear. “Such venom from lips that were made for kissing.”
At the thought of his mouth on hers, a curious quivering ran through her. She felt its effects in her breasts and loins, and all the way down to her toes. “If ever my lips meet yours, it will be to draw blood.”
He laughed again, then went on in that stirring tone. “This scheme of yours will never succeed, Miss Thorne. I suggest you work your wiles on me instead. I’d pay handsomely for your services.” Then he settled himself more snugly against her bottom so that she felt the unmistakable pressure of his male part.
For one searing moment she could think of nothing but the shameful ache that throbbed low in her belly. She knew what it was from hearing the whispered talk among the women of the Rom. It was the need of a woman for her husband.
Then his meaning struck her like a slap. Lord Stokeford desired her in his bed without benefit of marriage. He wanted her to be his whore.
With all her might, she thrust her elbow into his abdomen and stomped on his instep. “Filthy gorgio. Get away from me!”
Swearing, he leapt back, bringing her with him. He thrust her deeper into the musty room so that she stumbled on the plush carpet.
She scanned the darkened bedchamber, seeking another escape route, but there was no connecting door, no other way out except the windows at the far end of the room. She would never have enough time to wrest open the casement and scramble out in this close-fitting gown. Let alone climb down the stone wall in these flimsy silk slippers.
She was trapped.
Vivien spun around to face her adversary. Crossing his arms, Lord Stokeford leaned against the door and watched her in that unnerving way of his. He looked like a man of dubious reputation, his dark hair mussed and his eyes gleaming with secrets. Man-woman secrets.
She pressed her fingers into her damp palms. “Do not ever touch me again.”
His smile mocked her. “You’ve a skill for acting the outraged virgin.”
“Why do you see everything I say or do as false?”
“Because I know women. And because I know the sort of people you come from.”
His superiority made her bristle. The gorgios were the wicked ones! But like so many farmers and villagers and landowners, Lord Stokeford despised the Gypsies. When their band passed along a road, men crossed themselves against the evil eye. Women hurried to take down their clothes drying on the line or to shoo their geese into the barnyard. Their foolish gorgio superstitions had always been a source of amusement for the Rom.
“You know nothing of my people,” Vivien said scornfully. “No man of the Rom would dare to touch a woman as you just did, a woman who didn’t belong to him.”
He laughed derisively. “If you’re so noble a race, then explain why Gypsies have stolen chickens from my tenants and apples from my orchards.”
“We of the Rom don’t recognize boundaries of property. The fruits of the land belong to all of God’s creatures.”
“That’s an excuse for petty thievery. Even as children, Gypsies pretend to be blind or crippled, begging for handouts in the village.”
“Bah. You rich gorgios would rather pretend that poor children do not exist.” Her senses alert, she paced slowly through the shadowed bedchamber. Somehow, she had to find a way to force him to let her go.
“I despise deception in any form,” he said. “And there’s the matter of inventing fortunes for naive old ladies. Great adventure, indeed.”
Vivien cast him a cool glance. So what if she let people believe she possessed special powers? Since girlhood, she had learned the art of evaluating a customer at a glance, gathering clues from their manner and appearance about what they hoped to hear. She liked to think that in exchange for a coin or two, she could make people happy with her harmless, sunny predictions.
But admitting so to Lord Stokeford would only swell his conceit.
Hoping to lure him away from the door, she strolled farther into the gloomy chamber. “I didn’t read the Rosebuds’ palms for money. It was my gift to them.”
“In the hopes of being named as Grandmama’s heir.” His insulting accusation made it easier for her to subdue the clamor of guilt. “Believe what you will. Her ladyship and I know the truth.”
As she’d planned, he prowled after her. “Allow me to make a prediction of my own,” he said. “Your plot will not succeed.”
“As this plot exists only in your mind, my lord, you are certain to be proved correct.”
With a lurch of excitement, Vivien spied something on a dainty writing desk in the shadowed corner. She whirled to face him, keeping her hands hidden behind her while she nimbly palmed the treasure.
In four long strides, he crossed the chamber. “What was that you picked up?”
“Why, nothing. You have a very suspicious nature.”
“I saw you steal something.”
Stopping mere inches from her, he seized her forearm and pulled it forward. She resisted only a little, her gaze caught by the steely contours of his face, his jaw dark with bristles. What was it about this man that made her heart leap and her body weaken? Then he drew her hand from behind her back, and his look of triumph soured.
In her palm lay a gray-feathered quill pen.
“Truly, my lord, you are too miserly,” she said. “Would you begrudge me the loan of this pen?”
“You’ll only use it to forge another letter.” He snatched the implement from her and tossed it back onto the desk.
She took the chance to step away from him, gliding on a meandering, ever closer path toward the door. “I’ll find myself another pen,” she said breezily. “After all, in case you do manage to thwart my plot, I may just write to the Prince Regent and convince him that he’s my father.”
Lord Stokeford let out a snort. “If that’s your idea of sarcasm, then don’t think yourself too clever. You won’t make a fool out of me.”
“I’m sure you can manage that well enough on your own, milord marquess.”
His mouth quirked, and in the meager light, she could not tell if he smiled or grimaced. Then he stalked her again, his steps as unhurried as a wolf certain of his prey. “Enough of this nonsense, Miss Thorne. I want you out of this house. Without another tuppence from my grandmother’s purse.”
“You should show more trust in her choice of companions,” Vivien said, stepping neatly around a stuffed chair. “She’s a far better judge of character than you are.”
“I’ll make it worth your while to leave here, then. Three hundred guineas in your pocket right now, and you disappear forever. I won’t even send the magistrate after you.”
For the barest moment, Vivien was tempted. That was more riches than she’d planned to give to her parents. She could leave this gorgio house immediately and return to her people. Yet as she met the marquess’s chilly gaze, something curdled inside her. He believed her a thief. But she would take only the gorgio money she earned as payment for being a companion to Lady Stokeford.
“Keep your bribe,” she snapped. “I’ve made an honest bargain with your grandmother.”
He scowled. “If you don’t agree to my terms, I’ll have you arrested for fraud. If you’re lucky, you won’t be sentenced to hang. You’ll be transported to a penal colony in Australia, halfway around the world, never to return to England.”
His threat gave her pause. Did he truly have the power to see her imprisoned on trumped-up charges? Would she spend the rest of her days malingering in a dank cell or forced to do hard labor in some wild, unknown land across the seas?
Swallowing hard, Vivien tightened her fingers around the object hidden in the folds of her skirt. She mustn’t let this puffed-up nobleman frighten her into leaving. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” she stated, edging a few steps closer to the door. It was almost within her reach. “Lady Stokeford will not permit you to have me locked up.”
“I’ll find the evidence against you, then. Criminals always leave a trail.”
“Search if you like. You’ll be wasting your time.” Insulted for the last time, Vivien made a dash for escape. This time, she managed to wrest open the door before the marquess caught her.
He pushed his body against hers—this time, breast to chest. There was no mistaking the power of the muscles beneath his fine coat, or the heat of his anger. His gaze scoured her, and in spite of herself, she felt the effects of his animal allure. Curse him, he could make her shiver with just a look.
In a harsh tone, he said, “Running out on me, Miss Thorne? You’re not leaving this room until we resolve this matter. To my satisfaction.”
“No, your lordship, to mine.”
In one swift move, Vivien drew her hand out of her skirt and thrust the small blade in between them, pressing the tip against his groin.
He reared back, though maintaining his hold on her shoulders. “What the devil—!”
She took fierce delight in the surprise that chased the arrogance from his too handsome features. “It’s a knife you gorgios use for sharpening pens. You see, you ought to have checked both my hands.” Vivien tried not to gloat at his look of consternation. “Now, step back slowly. This blade might be small, but one slip and it could geld you.”
Lord Stokeford complied with great care, releasing his grip on her and then retreating, his hands upraised, palms open. Those breathtakingly blue eyes studied her with guarded interest, from the knife in her hand to the defiance on her face.
Then to her amazement, he smiled, lowering his hands to his hips. “Touché, Miss Thorne. You’ve won this round. But it isn’t the end of our battle.”
It was useless trying to convince him of her innocence. “I’ve no interest in your games,” she said. “I’d advise you to return to London lest you wake up one night to find this knife at your throat.”
“If ever you enter my bedchamber, it won’t be for purposes of murder.” The curve of his mouth deepened, a smile of devastating promise. “Should you decide to pay me that visit, you’ll find me in the west wing of the Abbey, second floor, at the end of the main corridor. My bed is more than large enough for two.”
“You are despicable. I would sooner lie with a...a snake.”
He chuckled, and a certain animal alertness in his manner made her uneasy. “You and I shall be closer than you think, my pretty Gypsy. So be forewarned. Henceforth, I’ll be watching your every move.”
The next morning, groggy after a night of restless dreams, Vivien slipped into Lady Stokeford’s apartments only to find the boudoir empty and the draperies still closed against the sunny day. No maidservants bustled about, bringing out various gowns for her ladyship’s inspection or fetching shoes and shawls from a dressing room far larger than any Gypsy caravan.
Vivien frowned. Her ladyship liked for her to visit each day at the hour of nine sharp, and although Vivien still could not fully fathom this gorgio need to regiment time, she had learned to decipher the mysterious movements of a clock.
Perhaps today she had misread the device. Or perhaps the gentle old woman had been distressed by the events of the previous night. Had she overheard her grandson’s quarrel with Vivien?
Silently cursing the marquess, she tiptoed to the doorway of the dim bedchamber. “My lady?” she whispered.
“Yes, dear, I’m awake.” The thready voice came from the huge bed with the elaborate pink silk hangings and carved gilt doves. “Come closer. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Vivien hastened forward to see Lady Stokeford clad in a frilly white nightcap and lacy nightgown and reclining against a mound of feather pillows, the embroidered satin coverlet tucked to her small bosom. In the half-light, her dainty features appeared drawn and pale.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Vivien reached for the dowager’s hand. It nested in her palm like a little wren. “Oh, my lady. Are you ill?”
“’Tis the ravages of old age, my dear.” Lady Stokeford released a wispy sigh. “But don’t let me worry you. I’m a bit weary, that’s all.”
“Did you sleep poorly? I hope you haven’t been fretting.”
“Fretting? Oh, you mean about Michael.” The dowager’s face brightened with interest and she leaned forward. “Tell me, what exactly did that rascal say to you? It was quite a long while before we heard him tramp downstairs and leave the house.”
Vivien bit her lip. Against her will, she remembered the heat of his muscled body pressing into her, and the caress of his fingers on her skin. Other men had desired her and, like Janus, they had cast her looks of lust. But no man had ever touched her like that. She’d been so shaken by the encounter that she hadn’t returned to the Rosebuds; she’d slipped outside for a long walk in the darkness.
Now, she hoped the flush in her cheeks didn’t show. “He...repeated his suspicions about me. He tried to convince me to leave here, but I refused, of course.”
Lady Stokeford pursed her lips. “Well, don’t let him trouble you. Men like to bully and bluster. They remind me of little children sometimes.”
Vivien smiled, though an anxious thought disturbed her. “Do you doubt me, my lady? Because I didn’t falsify that letter, I swear it. If I’m lying to you, may my soul be cursed to wander forever in darkness.”
The dowager patted Vivien’s hand. “Why, my dear girl, you mustn’t distress yourself with such thoughts, not even for a moment! You’re charming and innocent, and in time, Michael is bound to realize his mistake.”
Vivien scowled at the bedside lamp with its painted roses on the glass chimney. The dowager didn’t know that she planned to leave here after two months. “I don’t care what milord marquess thinks of me,” she said. “But I do care if he upsets you.” It was true. Somehow, she’d come to like this gorgio lady. She was kind, at least.
“I know how to handle men,” her ladyship said. “Despite his pigheaded behavior last night, Michael is a fine, admirable gentleman. A bit of a rogue now and then, but perhaps that’s due to the tragedy...”
Surprised, Vivien returned her gaze to the dowager. “Tragedy?”
“The death of his beloved wife three years ago. You see, one night during a wild rainstorm, her coach overturned on a road near London. Leaving their daughter motherless.” Lady Stokeford sadly shook her head. “Michael took the loss dreadfully hard. He settled in London for good, taking my sweet little great-granddaughter with him.”
The marquess had a child? Vivien couldn’t imagine him as a father. Fathers were warm, jolly, comforting creatures. “How old is she?”
“Amy is now four years of age, though I seldom see her. Michael, I fear, has spent his time drinking and gambling and doing whatever else men do to forget their sorrow.”
Vivien sat unmoving on the edge of the mattress. She heartily despised the marquess, yet she found herself wondering about him. Was he still grieving for his wife? Had misfortune turned him into a harsh, unfeeling tyrant?
That was no excuse for his petty arrogance. She would prove him wrong about her. She would earn every pence of her two hundred guineas by being an excellent companion to his grandmother.
Vivien hopped off the bed. “Such talk will only tire you, my lady, when you need cheering up. The room is stuffy, don’t you agree? Fresh air and sunshine always make me feel better.”
“A splendid notion, dear.” Lady Stokeford languidly waved her hand. “If you wouldn’t mind...”
Vivien hurried across the sumptuous chamber to throw back the draperies. After a brief tussle with a window that resisted her attempts to open it, she felt a cool breeze eddy inside, blowing away the mustiness and somehow easing her tension.
Her ladyship inhaled a deep breath. “Ah, you’re right, that’s quite invigorating. And yet...”
“What is it, my lady? Does your head ache? I could fix you a willow bark tea.”
“No, no,” Lady Stokeford said, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I’m merely fatigued. I do believe I shall spend the day right here in bed. It would be quite pleasant, though, if you would read to me.”
Eager to fulfill the request, Vivien started for the door. “You’d like the story of Gulliver’s Travels that Lady Enid lent to me. It’s full of excitement and adventure about giants and little folk.”
The dowager sighed, fretfully plucking at the coverlet. “Forgive me, but I’m not in a humor for fairy tales. There must be something more interesting in this house.”
“I saw a book of sonnets downstairs in the music room. And there’s the Bible in the drawing room. I’ve read many fine stories in there—”
“Pish-posh, poems are too often maudlin and I hear enough sermonizing on Sundays. I had in mind something a trifle more...fun.” As if lost in thought, Lady Stokeford stared down at her folded hands. “Ah, I know just the thing. There was a book I read as a young lady that I should like to hear again. Moll Flanders.”
“Where is it? I’ll be happy to fetch it.”
“No, never mind.” With a shake of her head, the dowager closed her paper-thin eyelids. “I couldn’t ask you to go to any trouble on my behalf.”
“Please, it’s no trouble.”
The dowager opened her eyes just a slit. “Are you quite certain? I fear you would have a bit of a walk.”
Vivien laughed, her spirits soaring at the notion of escaping these confining walls. “I love to walk. In truth, you’d be doing me the favor.”
“Well, if you insist, then. You shall have to go across the river to the library at Stokeford Abbey.” A slight smile touching the corners of her lips, the dowager added, “I fear you’ll have to see my impertinent grandson again.”