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Authors: Isobel Carr
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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.
He couldn’t. Not tonight. Not like this. Capitulation was one thing, but his was something else. And it left him feeling unclean.
Unworthy. Which he supposed he was. He’d never meant for her to be hurt.
A short indulgence—which she’d enjoy every bit as much as he—and then he’d be a rich man. She’d be none the wiser, having
lost something she’d never known she’d had. Something that was hers only by a random act of fate.
When the idea had come to him, it had been simple. Easy. Suddenly it was something else. Something sordid and cheap and unworthy
of a Vaughn. And that nasty realization was all his damn cousin’s fault. Telling her wouldn’t help a thing. She’d banish him
from her presence, leaving herself prey to Charles.
Her hands were on his chest, her face upturned. Damp eyelashes framed those magnificent eyes of hers. Eyes the color of the
Aegean. Eyes that pleaded. Her lips were parted, a sweet entreaty all their own. But there were shadows of exhaustion beneath
her eyes, and the beauty mark she’d worn so saucily as they’d set out for the theatre had
“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.
He couldn’t. Not tonight. Not like this. Capitulation was one thing, but his was something else. And it left him feeling unclean.
Unworthy. Which he supposed he was. He’d never meant for her to be hurt.
A short indulgence—which she’d enjoy every bit as much as he—and then he’d be a rich man. She’d be none the wiser, having
lost something she’d never known she’d had. Something that was hers only by a random act of fate.
When the idea had come to him, it had been simple. Easy. Suddenly it was something else. Something sordid and cheap and unworthy
of a Vaughn. And that nasty realization was all his damn cousin’s fault. Telling her wouldn’t help a thing. She’d banish him
from her presence, leaving herself prey to Charles.
Her hands were on his chest, her face upturned. Damp eyelashes framed those magnificent eyes of hers. Eyes the color of the
Aegean. Eyes that pleaded. Her lips were parted, a sweet entreaty all their own. But there were shadows of exhaustion beneath
her eyes, and the beauty mark she’d worn so saucily as they’d set out for the theatre had
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