Chapter One
England, 1815
Lizzie Tempest owed the Beast nothing.
She glanced down the long drive to the gates. Unless the Felmont family had lied, he was not due to return today, but that didn’t make her feel any safer. The family always lied.
Lizzie looked up at the mournful faces staring down at her from the windows of Felmont’s Folly and couldn’t resist waving to them, forcing them to abandon dignity and return her salute. Ever since she had imprisoned one of them for debt, the other members of the noble Felmont family had grown more careful of offending her.
Gravel crunched underfoot as she made her way around the carriage. The air smelled of freedom and of her Cleveland Bays snorting and fidgeting in their traces, eager to start their journey. Sunlight glistened on the golden stone of Felmont’s Folly as the great house rose out of the landscaped park, gilded by the dawn.
“Do get back in, Lizzie,” Aunt Tempest called from the safety of her seat inside the berline. “If the Felmonts see you walking about, they might all troop out to say their goodbyes again. If I have to suffer their slings and arrows one more time, I shall be glad my husband has cut them off without a penny.” Her voice faded into tremulous indignation while her knitting needles clacked furiously.
Sit in the carriage? Why? It wasn’t going anywhere. Lizzie gave a shudder. They were all conspiring against her. Even the two maids slowly searching the luggage for her aunt’s missing shawl. They all conspired to keep her at the Folly until the Beast returned to claim it for his own.
He did not come to claim her.
She had not forgotten the horrid words he had used the last time she’d seen him. “My dearest Lizzie, I don’t covet your money or your graceless manners. Consider yourself free from any engagement to me.” He’d stared with mocking sadness at her body then leaned closer to whisper, “You could not tempt me to matrimony, not even in my wildest dreams.”
Inside the great house the Felmonts waited for him, locked in verbal duels with each other. If they had been partial to pistols at dawn, the family would have died out long ago. The only thing they all agreed on was their need for her to marry one of them--to keep her fortune in the family.
Lizzie opened the carriage door. “I shall meet you at the gates, Aunt Tempest.”
“Don’t go by yourself! Aunt Tempest seemed shocked at the idea. “Wait until my shawl is found. Get in, Lizzie, I cannot abide a draft.”
“Let me replace it, dear Aunt Tempest,” begged Lizzie. It was no use, she shrugged and laughed. “If you are not at the gates by the time I get there, I shall walk to Bath.”
“Fortune hunters will capture you long before you get to the village,” warned the irate lady.
Lizzie stepped resolutely onto the lawn. She had a dozen outriders waiting outside the gates to protect her.
The cool caress of wet grass felt like silk at her ankles. The sun played about her coal-scuttle bonnet and dark traveling dress. Anyone searching for the possessor of the Tempest fortune would never suspect her.
Inheriting her father’s fortune had been both a blessing and a curse. Life was full of blessings and curses. Her widowed mother marrying Viscount Felmont had truly been a curse, but the blessing was his gothic stone mansion known as Felmont’s Folly.
The great house called as she skirted the edge of the lake. For one last time she turned to admire its golden beauty, to love its towers and golden walls with all her heart.
Fixing the house had been a labor of love, an all engrossing project to take her mind off nursing her mother and stepfather. She might even visit the Folly again, when the Beast was laid in his grave. At the thought of him, she hurried across the lawn towards the distant gates.
A quarter of a mile away the gates opened. Thunder rolled low in the distance.
Not thunder. Horsemen raced down the drive, their mounts lathered. She watched them tear up the lawn as they spread out and galloped towards the Folly. She could clearly see the Beast riding in front of his wolf pack.
Her heart began a thunder of its own.
If he thought she lingered waiting for him, she meant to disabuse him of the notion. Lizzie drew a shaky breath, gathering her dignity against the Beast’s arrogance, against his disdain for her.
Now was not the time to let childish fears surface. At almost twenty-two, she was long past girlish palpitations.
And what was the point of her leaving the outriders outside the park if he meant to ruin the drive and lawn with his pack of inebriated friends? Some of them could hardly stay in the saddle. No doubt the new Viscount Felmont couldn’t wait to begin his beastly debaucheries. Carriages full of whores likely followed him at a more sedate pace.
The Beast dismounted, momentarily lost to view in a noisy crowd of horses and men. His voice, a low rumble, drifted over the lawn. Raucous laughter greeted his words.
The Beast emerged near her berline. He slammed open the door in search of what? Poor Aunt Tempest. A faint cry of female distress brought a cheer from the Beast’s sodden companions.
Drat the man! What had happened to his manners?
Aunt Tempest’s hand pointed in her direction from the carriage window.
Lizzie’s legs froze.
The Beast turned to stride towards her. One man hurried after him. She forced air into her lungs and waited for them to approach. She’d rather die than show fear, or worse, faint at his feet. To her shame, she had done just that the day the Felmonts had celebrated her betrothal to the Beast. Even her mother had found it vastly amusing ... but those days were long gone.
The Beast was hatless, an almost certain sign he was foxed. He moved with his odd loose-limbed grace, his long legs covering more ground though he took fewer strides than his companion. They left a silver trail in the morning dew coating the lawn.
Even the way the Beast walked towards her seemed insulting. She willed herself to be calm.
He stopped. Close enough to touch.
His dark brown hair had been bleached at the ends by a foreign sun, showing a strange reddish color, as if he had been singed in hell’s fire and spat out. Maybe Satan had no use for him either.
He had a handsome face if the Felmont likeness could be overlooked, not that Lizzie intended to try. His mouth was wide and finely sculpted. The skin ran tight around his jaw, which had not seen a razor this day. His deep blue eyes looked down the length of his long nose at her. No, not really at her. He looked around her, to the side of her, and for a moment he studied her wet hem. One side of his mouth drew down in a quirk of disgust.
“Miss Tempest, I am sorry to see you haven’t managed to escape your fate.” His voice swirled around her like honey. She felt the sound of his words long before she made sense of them.
The breeze brought the scent of the Beast to her nose. He had washed not long ago and changed his clothes. He smelled of soap from the Priory, as he always did. Of jasmine almost hidden by the low note of musk. Strange, how the nose remembered such trivial things.
His hand reached out.
Lizzie retreated with dignity. She didn’t want to be touched by the Beast.
He had obviously called at the Priory to fortify himself with brandy, a scent that made her take a further step away from him. The Beast sober was bad enough. She dared not imagine what he must be like deep in his cups. Not that a drunken Felmont was anything new to her.
“Allow me to introduce my friend, Rackham.” He turned to the gentleman standing several yards away. “Miss Elizabeth Tempest, the woman who ruined me. The woman who has pretended to be engaged to me for these last six years so she could do as she pleased with the Folly.”
The slender man stopped dusting at his disheveled town attire. He removed his hat to wave a greeting as if he stood miles away. His fair hair fell over his forehead with boyish charm--he was obviously not a Felmont male.
Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont, the fifth Viscount Felmont, the Beast from the Priory and now the owner of Felmont’s Folly, smiled at her. He smiled at her like the Devil welcoming the damned and drawled in a soft voice, “My dear Lizzie, do I get a kiss of welcome? No? It is with great difficulty I hold myself back.”
Lizzie did not doubt it. All Felmonts lived to satisfy their wicked urges.
He lowered his head to whisper in her sensitive ear, “As you refuse my kiss, I have only to decide which to do next. Burn the house down and let you watch, or help you escape and then burn the house down.” He called to his friend, “Rax, how long do you think the Folly will burn?”
“Gracious, all day and night. Can’t detain a lady for so long,” Mr. Rackham said in an apologetic tone. “Or her horses, they are waiting, too. You had better let Miss Tempest go.”
She didn’t turn to look at him, not when the Beast held her mesmerized by his madness. Burn Felmont’s Folly?
“Be a gentleman, Rax,” the Beast chided. “A lady must be given a choice.”
In a soft rumble, he asked her, “What is it to be, Lizzie? Do you want to watch the house burn first or is it enough that you have ruined me?”
While she took a calming breath, Lizzie let his threat dangle in the air between them. “I ruined you? How amusing.”
There was no use answering a madman with emotion and she had no intention of letting him upset her. She said in a suitably bored voice, “As for the house, burn it to the ground if you must. It is full of your relatives come to welcome you home. Why don’t you burn it down after they are safely out of it and you are safely inside?”
Lizzie heard him give a low rumble of laughter. His obvious surprise at her words gave her a primitive satisfaction. The last time she had seen him, she’d never have dared talk back to him. She had only ever managed to get one coherent sentence out of her mouth when faced with the Beast. Years ago, Lizzie had actually managed to forbid him to look at her face. By some strange quirk of his nature, he had never met her eyes since.
He stepped nearer. She stared at his chest while the brim of her bonnet grazed him well below his shoulder. Lizzie forced herself to look up at him. He towered over her, so close his boots touched either side of her feet.
Her heart thudded.
He snagged her waist with both hands to stay her retreat.
A gasp escaped against her will. He was so close to her she could feel the heat from his body and almost taste the brandy on his breath.
His gaze drifted over her while she trembled in his grip. “Why didn’t you leave when your mother died?” he asked in a voice that echoed down her body to her waist encircled by his hands. “You could have escaped me then.”
Lizzie couldn’t tell if he caressed her or if her shivering made it feel as if he did. Panic rose in her breast at his touch. “Release me! I won’t be held like a tavern wench.”
She raised her hand and slapped his looming face as hard as she could. “Let go!”
She struck him with such force her wrist pained her. Her fingers stung, grazed by the stubble on his chin. She feared she had lost some of her skin.
How did women stand being kissed?
His lean cheek showed the mark of her hand. He’d winced, she was sure of it. The Beast released her waist and reached to tug on the ends of the ribbons under her chin. His forearms brushed against her breasts. Lizzie could have sworn she felt fiery brimstone singe her sensitive flesh through all her clothes.
Her bonnet slid off and fell to the ground. The Beast kicked it away with one slow, deliberate slide against her leg.
She stepped backwards to break the disturbing contact and to allow him to attack her hat if it amused him. She could afford to buy as many bonnets as she wanted.
He followed her, his mocking blue eyes studying her simple coiffure. “Why did you stay? Did I err when I broke our engagement, my love? Do you wish to be mine?”
Her body trembled, not quite under her control, but she managed to answer him in a bored voice. “I have not lain awake languishing for you, Quentin Seraphim.”
He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of amazement. This pleased her.
The first and only time she had ever called him by name, he had thrown her into the lake. He had fought every village boy who tried to taunt him with his name. They had been permitted to call him Dacey or even Dace. Anything else he answered with violence.
He hated his name, Quentin Seraphim, because four baby boys had died at birth before him, so his mother had named him her fifth angel.
She should have called him Lucifer.
In a tone calculated to put the Beast in possession of the facts and bring him to his senses, Lizzie said, “The repairs to the façade were half finished when my stepfather died. To leave it was impossible. When your father inherited Felmont’s Folly, he didn’t have the funds to complete it. I did. None of this had anything to do with you.”
“Did you really think your banker uncles would allow you to squander your wealth without demanding their pound of flesh,” he asked. The Beast turned from her and walked away. He called over his shoulder to his friend, “Let’s burn it, Rax. I cannot pay for it.”
Lizzie ran to bar his way.
The Beast swept her aside. She ran after him, keeping out of arm’s reach.
“Let me explain, Beast.” She dared call him Beast to his face. It gave her heart. “I will sign any document swearing the debt is mine. I assure you, I can afford it.”
“But I cannot afford to pay you back and I’d rather burn in hell’s fire than marry a woman who hates me.” The Beast reached out to take her hand. He pulled her towards the house, retracing the footsteps still visible on the lawn.
The heat from his hand burned through to her bones. The strength with which he compelled her to go with him frightened her. She lashed out and tried to hit his shoulder--she had no wish to lose more skin to his jaw. He leapt out of the way. A glancing blow struck him. To her surprise, he staggered, his face turned ashen under his tanned skin.
His recovery was slow, only her wrist caught in his grip kept him upright. At last he rose to his full height, his gaze settled on her ear. He drew her arm closer to hold her against his side. “Let me speed you on your way,” he rasped in a voice tight with pain. “Stay here, Lizzie, and we will both live our nightmares. Run as far as you can. It’s your only hope.”
Lizzie pulled away to stop the Beast’s thigh from brushing hers. “Do you think I want to stay? Those are my bays waiting for me. Let go!”
He dragged her closer. “Your banker uncles are the enemy, dearest Lizzie, not me. It is by their design that you are still here. They all plot against you.”
She couldn’t match his stride and had to run stumbling at his side. How did he manage to strip her of every ounce of dignity? How did he manage to return her to dithering childhood, when she had been so in awe of him, so fascinated yet repelled.
“Rax,” he called to his friend, “I must find a way to persuade the lady to leave, do you suppose if I insist on a kiss that might do it?”
A yelp of surprise came from Mr. Rackham as he hurried along beside them. “Dace, let her go. She has gone white with fright at the idea.”
Lizzie twisted in the Beast’s grip. “Stop pulling me and stop threatening me! I hate you!”
“What a picture of domestic bliss we’d make. She’s tried to kill me, Rax, have some sympathy.”
Lizzie bit her lip. It was true. She’d been eight years old, determined to murder him before he had chance to drown her again. She’d offered the Beast poisonous toadstool tea. He’d too much sense to drink it.
She stumbled over the edge of the lawn when he pulled her onto the drive. Where had all his friends gone? Why did the servants only stand and stare, didn’t they see the danger she faced?
He captured her flailing hand to hold both her wrists with one large fist. “Easy, Lizzie, I’m trying to help you escape.”
Did he think she wanted to stay? He was devil and fool rolled into one.
“For heaven’s sake! Dace!” Mr. Rackham shouted until the Beast turned his head from his mocking contemplation of her unraveling hair. “Ask Miss Tempest to marry you. There is no point burning it down if she’ll have you. Lovely place. Breathtaking.”
“We discussed this, Rax.” The viscount had lost his drawl.
“Oh heavens, stop! Look at her face! She thinks you are going to commit violence on her person.”
“I never look at Miss Tempest’s face. She has forbidden me to do so. Besides, I have made it clear to Lizzie, I have no desire for her scrawny body. Never did have, never will. A kiss is all I claim.” He avoided her kick to his shins.
They reached the door of her carriage. He opened it with a flourish and gestured to her aunt to get out. Aunt Tempest fled. Clutching knitting and reticule, she escaped up the stairs into Felmont’s Folly with undignified speed.
Lizzie called, “Aunt Tempest!”
The Beast pushed Lizzie towards the berline door. “The lady conspires against you, Lizzie. Flee while you have the chance. Alone!”
She turned and braced herself against the doorframe, almost managing to unman him with a well-aimed kick. She dared not let him enter with her for fear of what he’d do to her in private. Felmonts never stopped at a kiss.
He pried her hands free. One of her ankles twisted and scraped against the steps until he lifted her up, as if she weighed nothing, and carried her into the berline.
Lizzie fought him.
Not able to stand upright, he held her pressed up against his chest with her arms pinioned behind her back.
“Let go! Beast! Fiend!” Strangely, her breasts didn’t seem to mind the contact. Traitors, both of them.
He leaned lower to place her on the seat. “One kiss, Lizzie, then I’ll let you go.”
She kicked at him furiously. Before she had time to realize how she’d managed it, he’d gone. She’d kicked him out. She’d won!
She called to her coachman to hurry.
Her horses started and the carriage shot forward with a jolt. If he were the last man living, she’d never marry that rude, depraved, distempered Felmont Beast.
All rights reserved © 2003-2010 Maggie Jagger
