Michael knew he’d gone mad. Like some idiot Romeo, he fought his way up the trellis beneath Vivien’s upper-floor chamber. He hadn’t climbed a wall since he was ten—and certainly never in pursuit of a woman.
A short while ago, he’d been drinking a fine bottle of port without tasting it, pacing the library in the Abbey, unable to rid himself of an innate restlessness. His tenants, his grandmother, his daughter...all these worries had nagged at him. Aside from that, he knew he’d wronged Vivien. He had accused the Gypsy of a crime perpetrated by Thaddeus Tremain.
Michael had gnawed that bitter truth until finally, hoping to clear his head, he’d gone for a walk in the cold night air. His wayward steps had carried him across the bridge and to the Dower House, where he’d spied the gleam of white on Vivien’s balcony.
For an instant, he’d stood blinking his bleary eyes in disbelief, certain he was fantasizing. Sitting there on the balcony, swathed in a blanket and quiet with slumber, was Vivien.
Now, halfway up the wall, he cursed the lunatic impulse that had sent him on this Byronic mission. His shoes groped for toeholds in the rough stone. His fingers grasped the thick stalks of ivy that had thrived there for untold generations. His teeth anchored the stem of a hastily plucked rose.
He grimaced. Romantic tales seldom mentioned that roses had thorns, that the stem tasted nasty, or that the pollen prickled one’s nose.
But if Vivien wanted to be courted, then by God, he’d court her. He’d succeed at that goal at least. He would seduce the Gypsy and be rid of her, once and for all.
Lascivious thoughts lured him upward. Was she naked beneath those blankets? She would be soft and warm with sleep, all her insolence and resistance gone. She would arch toward him, sinuous as a cat eager for a petting. He would touch her...all of her...and this time, she would wrap herself around him while he kissed her and caressed her—
His foot slipped and Michael cursed, his fingers tensing around the ivy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the ground far below, but he clamped down harder on the rose and looked up instead. To his relief, the balcony nearly brushed his head. He stretched up one arm and grasped a stone post, then raised his other hand to do likewise. With a mighty heave, he hoisted himself up and over the railing, his feet landing with a scuffling noise on the narrow escarpment.
Vivien’s head shot up. Her eyes flew open. She gasped.
He started to speak, remembered the rose, and gingerly removed it from his teeth. Turning his head, he spat out a leaf. So much for romance. “Don’t be frightened,” he murmured. “’Tis I, Michael.”
“I know who you are,” she whispered indignantly, scooting back further into the shadows. “But I didn’t invite you into my bedchamber.”
“I haven’t been in your chamber. I came up the wall.”
“The wall?”
“Yes. I climbed the ivy so that I might catch a glimpse of your breathtaking beauty.” He paused a moment, and when she didn’t respond, he added curtly, “This is where you compliment me on my prowess and strength.”
“Why should I?” she hissed. “You manage to strut aplenty all by yourself.”
Unable to discern if she wore a nightdress, or if all that pale fabric was the blanket, he stepped closer. “But I don’t wish to be all by myself, darling. That’s why I’m here.”
Vivien snuggled down further into the oversized coverlet. “Go away.”
She wasn’t making this easy, but when had she ever behaved like his other women? “You can’t mean that,” he crooned in his most charming voice. “Look what I’ve brought you.” Hunkering down beside her, he held out the rose. “A beauty for a beauty.”
She stared, and he thought her eyes softened a bit, though she sat too deep in darkness for him to be certain. Then she shook her head, her loose, dark hair drifting around her shoulders. “We of the Rom do not believe in plucking flowers,” she whispered as if afraid for anyone else to hear. “They belong in nature, where they might grow and thrive.”
“Then nature should worship a goddess like you.” Determined not to be thwarted, Michael leaned forward slightly, brushing the velvety petals across her cheek. He saw her shiver, saw her eyelids droop with unmistakable sensual enjoyment. A breathy little sigh escaped her lips. Triumphant, he knew he’d caught her at a moment when she was vulnerable to his touch.
Before she could don her armor, he brought his mouth to her face, kissing her temple and her cheek. Aroused by her sleep-warm scent, he traced the whorls of her ear with his tongue. She trembled again, making a halfhearted attempt to turn her head away. “Michael, don’t ...”
“I want you, Vivien. I need you so.” Inching closer, he continued his seduction, hot for the feel of her naked skin. He drew back the coverlet, anticipating the heaviness of her breast in his palm—
Through the darkness, he spied a small form cuddled against her.
His blood cooled instantly. He jerked his hand back, staring in momentary befuddlement at Vivien. Then he pushed the coverlet farther down to see the faint shape of a child nestled in the crook of Vivien’s arm.
“Amy?”
“Hush,” Vivien whispered, tenderly rearranging the covers around his daughter. “You’ll waken her.”
A sour taste in his mouth, Michael sat back on his heels and ripped the petals, one by one, off the rose. He couldn’t shake a sense of sordidness. In another moment, he’d have groped Vivien and encountered his daughter instead.
“Bloody hell.” He kept his voice down, though vehemence edged his words. “You should have told me she was with you.”
“You hardly gave me a chance.”
“You could have spoken up at any time.”
“You could have ceased distracting me.”
He crushed a petal between his fingers. In a tersely silken tone, he said, “So I distracted you, did I? That means you like for me to touch you.”
She blew out a breath. “You have a way with women, milord. And I am a woman.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Michael said with great irony. He peered through the gloom, but he could discern only the pale oval of her face and not her expression. “Why the devil are you out here, anyway? More to the point, why is my daughter not in her bed?”
“She had a frightening dream, and she wanted someone to hold her.”
That twisted his gut. He should have been the one Amy had run to, not this Gypsy. His daughter belonged in his home. “Where is Miss Mortimer?”
“Sleeping soundly. Amy asked me to tell her a story.”
He sent the denuded stem sailing over the railing. “It isn’t good for her to sleep out here in the damp chill. She’ll catch a lung fever.”
“On the contrary, the night air will invigorate her.” Vivien raised her chin. “You forget, I’ve slept outside almost every night of my life.”
Of course, you're a vagrant. Just as quickly, he was ashamed of himself. She had comforted his daughter, however unorthodox her methods, and he owed her his gratitude for that.
“Amy can’t stay out here all night,” he muttered. “I’ll carry her back to bed.”
On his knees, he pulled back the covers and slid his hands beneath his daughter. His fingers inadvertently brushed Vivien’s nightgown, and for a flash he was aware of her breasts, heavy and unbound beneath the thin cloth.
Banishing her from his thoughts, Michael concentrated on his daughter, carefully settling her small, sleep-warmed body against him. She mumbled a protest, and he had to smile. How sweet she was, how innocent. The faint starlight touched her button nose and tumbled curls, and as always, he felt a fierce thankfulness that she belonged to him. Amy was the one blessing in his life, and he would allow no one to take her from him.
Rising to his feet, he glanced down at Vivien. She scooted to her knees, then turned to gather up the eiderdown. As she stood up, clutching it like a downy cloud to her bosom, he said, “Show me the way.”
He already knew the location of his daughter’s chambers, of course. But he meant to keep the Gypsy with him.
Vivien led him into her dimly lit bedchamber, where she laid the coverlet on the bed. At the bedside table, she picked up the guttering candle that sat beside a pile of books. Conscious of his precious bundle, Michael kept his gaze firmly averted from the wide four-poster with its pale yellow hangings.
It wasn’t so easy to keep his gaze averted from Vivien.
She glided ahead of him out into the corridor, a tall, slender wraith carrying the candle held high to light their path. Her long dark hair danced with the sway of her hips. Her feet were bare, of course; she seemed to dislike the restriction of shoes. He had to admit he preferred her brazen immodesty. No unwed lady would allow a man to view her in her nightclothes, yet Vivien walked proudly, without a care for propriety.
At the end of the passageway, she opened a door and stepped aside to let him in. The glow of her candle guided him to Amy’s bed, a diminutive four-poster trimmed in lace and ruffles that he knew his grandmother had kept prepared for the visits that had never come to pass. Until now.
From a trundle on the other side of the bed, the rise and fall of snoring emanated from Miss Mortimer. The sound continued unabated as he settled Amy beneath the rumpled sheets and drew the pink coverlet up to her chin. She wriggled into a comfortable position, but didn’t open her eyes. With a tiny sigh, she curled up on her side, her favorite rag doll nestled to her cheek.
As he tucked her in, Michael felt an unmanly rush of love. He kept his face averted, for the meager light of the candle told him Vivien stood close to him. Too close. He didn’t want her to witness any private softness in him.
“Wait by the door,” he muttered.
She didn’t move. He glanced up to see her watching him, her eyes tender in the candlelight. “You truly do love her.”
Tightening his mouth, he said nothing.
But Vivien didn’t seem to expect an answer. Brushing past him, she bent down to place a gentle kiss on his daughter’s brow. In a hushed tone, she said, “Good night, little dove.”
Amy stirred, smiling, her eyelids fluttering. “’Night, Miss Vivi,” she mumbled, then promptly fell deep into slumber again.
A whipcord tension strangled his chest. Vivien had no right to assume a mother’s role. Amy needed only her father. She needed him.
Seizing Vivien’s arm, he marched her out the doorway and into the gloomy corridor. He shut the door with a quiet click. Keeping his voice down, he stated, “It isn’t necessary for you to coddle Amy.”
“Coddle?” Her black brows arching in a scowl, Vivien held up the candle to regard him. “She’s a little girl who needs to be loved.”
“Quite so. And since you’ll only be transient in her life, I’d prefer that you not solicit her affections. Else she’ll be hurt when you leave.”
“When you leave. It’s you who insists upon taking her away from her great-grandmother. For reasons you continue to hide.”
Curse her! With effort, he controlled his rage. He wouldn’t let her draw him into a quarrel where he might let something slip. Deliberately mellowing his voice to a seductive murmur, he said, “Let’s call a truce. I didn’t mean to lash out at you. I’ve been troubled by something else.”
“A guilty conscience, no doubt.”
She was right, damn it. How he loathed admitting the truth. “I owe you an apology. I found out today that Thaddeus Tremain stole those things from my house.” He proceeded to tell her about the account books, the stash of gold and valuables, all the wily ways in which the steward had squeezed money from the tenants.
“Send him to Australia,” she said murderously. “He belongs there. No one should take advantage of people who can’t defend themselves.”
“For once, we’re in complete agreement.”
Her fierce expression gentled, and she regarded him with approval. Her eyes glowed like dark velvet in the candlelight. “I’m glad of that, Michael. I’m surprised to say …”
He glanced at her pouty, kissable lips, and said hoarsely, “Go on.”
“You appear to be a cold man. But sometimes ... I sense that you really do have a heart.”
Her observation made him uneasy. He should exploit the softness he saw on her beautiful face. Yet he hesitated, aware of how young and guileless she appeared to be. She was far from innocent, he reminded himself. He must never forget that she’d forged that letter from Harriet Althorpe, pretending a connection so his grandmother would take her in. He must never forget she’d talked Grandmama into paying her a hundred guineas a month. She was a Gypsy, raised by swindlers and thieves.
“Come, there’s another matter we need to discuss.” Grasping her arm, Michael guided Vivien down the corridor to her chamber. She cast him sidelong glances, suspicious looks tinged with the curiosity he wanted to stir in her. Let her wonder what he intended; it would atone for all the times that he had faced the frustration of guessing her thoughts.
“If you think to keep me from getting to know Amy,” she said as they reached her door, “I warn you, I won’t be threatened.”
He affected a casual laugh. “You misunderstand me. I’d merely like to see you in private.”
Pushing open the door, he started to steer her into the bedchamber, but she dug in her heels. “Whatever it is,” she whispered, “you can say it right here.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bed cloaked in shadows, a bed big enough for two. “I’d rather we were alone,” he said silkily. “My grandmother’s chamber is only two doors down.”
“She’s asleep. Which means you oughtn’t even be here.”
“I want to be here,” he said in a cajoling murmur. “I want to be with you, Vivien. And therein lies my dilemma. I can’t stay away from you.” Without touching her, he inched closer, and her faint musky fragrance heated his blood. “You haunt me, Vivien. When I sleep, I dream of you. When I awaken, I think of you and only you. You’re fast becoming an obsession with me.” That was no romantic embellishment, he knew to his chagrin.
“Don’t say such things to me. I don’t want to hear them.” But she made no attempt to move away; she merely leaned back against the doorjamb, her breasts rising and falling, the candle held out to her side.
“I’ll tell you anyway,” he said. “Tonight I couldn’t keep my mind from you. I was pacing my library, unable to govern my own thoughts, before I decided to take a walk—”
“You were drinking, too.”
“Yes, but I’d sooner get drunk on you, darling.” His gaze on her lips, he bent nearer, his fingers giving in to the temptation to touch the velvety skin of her throat. He wanted to taste her all over, to strip off that damned nightdress and feast himself on her beauty.
She turned her head to the side. “Don’t.”
“Afraid of a kiss?”
When Vivien looked at him again, he could swear there was coyness in her glance. “Yes, I am. Because that isn’t all you want from me, is it, milord marquess?”
“Until you ask for more, I’ll touch you only with my lips.” Seizing his chance, he brushed his mouth over hers.
She drew in a breath, yet she didn’t turn away. With a soft exhalation, she let him kiss her tenderly, sensually, a kiss unlike the practiced ones he gave to his mistresses, who were less clever women than Vivien Thorne and easier to please. He made his kiss all honey and delicacy, a feathery lightness that aroused him to hard, aching lust.
Yearning to caress her all over, Michael dug his fingers into the wooden doorjamb above her. It was torture, but he would court her slowly and deliberately until she lowered her guard. He savored the pliancy of her lips, the minty taste of her mouth, the throaty little sounds she tried to hold back, but couldn’t. She wanted him, he knew with triumph. He would ensure that she succumbed to temptation.
Redoubling his effort, he turned the kiss into a work of art, his tongue making brushstrokes on the canvas of her mouth. They stood so close he could feel her radiant warmth with every muscle and every fiber in him. It was an odd experience not to indulge himself, to take what he wanted, when he wanted. He burned to caress Vivien, yet he must show her he was in control; he must use only his mouth to make her melt with desire. If it took him half the night, he would hear her beg him to bed her...
Her lips left his. One moment he was sipping the nectar of her mouth, and the next, she ducked beneath his arm, leaving behind only a whiff of her womanly fragrance.
His eyes opened, his arms fell, and his brow lowered into a scowl. She swooped into her chamber, the white gown swishing around her bare feet. As she spun around, her dark eyes met his. They were knowing eyes that saw his physical discomfort. “That was quite pleasant, milord. Good night.”
Pleasant? “Don’t shut me out. We aren’t through—”
“Yes, we are.”
Even as Michael took a step toward her, the door closed in his face and the key rattled in the lock. Leaving him alone with his frustrated passion.