DeButy & the Beast (4 page)

* * *

"Anya," Julian said, his voice nothing if not patient. "Why don't you sit here and have a piece of this wonderful cake?"

He spoke to her as if she were a child, but she knew quite well that her husband did not think of her that way. In spite of his morals, his vow, his insistence that he was not an animal, her husband wanted her. There had been nothing to interest her since arriving at Rose Hill, nothing but the books in her grandmother's library. But this... this would be interesting.

The dining room was large and well furnished and somehow cold, even now as the spring weather turned warm. The long polished table was made of walnut, dark and gleaming, and the buffet against one wall matched it perfectly. There were always fresh flowers on the table, but today, in celebration of her marriage, the arrangement was more elaborate than usual, and a smaller, matching arrangement had been placed on the buffet, next to a layer cake decorated with white frosting and sugared violets. There were two large gilt-framed mirrors in the long dining room, as well as a small oil painting of a dreary landscape. Of hills and a lake, it was a painting Anya found lifeless and boring. The drapes were heavy and a dark, jungle green, and they shut out much of the light, even now in the afternoon, when they had been pulled back to allow some sunlight to break through. She longed to be in the sun. In the garden. Being properly ravished by her husband.

"You will sit beside me?" she asked sweetly as she looked up at her husband.

"If you'd like," he answered. He appeared calm enough, but his throat worked slightly and his cheeks turned just a little pink.

Anya feared her new challenge would be no challenge at all.

She took the chair Julian offered, sitting properly as her grandmother had taught her. Knees together, feet on the floor. Her husband took the chair beside her, and one of the kitchen maids placed a piece of cake in front of each of them. The other girl was in the main parlor, sweeping up what was left of that awful, ugly figurine of an old woman. Surely no one would miss that dreadful piece. And it had felt so good to throw the figurine and watch it shatter.

Julian kept his eyes on the cake. "It looks delicious, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," Anya said sweetly. She waited for Julian to glance her way, as she knew he eventually would, and then she ran her finger through a thick glob of white frosting, carried it upward slowly, and brought her finger to her mouth. Wrapping her lips around that finger she sucked gently, closed her eyes, and moaned. "Delicious," she said as she slowly removed her finger from her mouth and scooped up another glob of icing.

Poor Julian, he went quite red in the face. "You have a... a fork, Anya. Use it."

She glanced around the room. Cousin Valerie was lustily eating her own cake. Seymour ogled the maid who was filling fine glasses with lemonade, and Grandmother was trying to convince the preacher to stay for a piece of cake. None of them were watching the bride and groom, at the moment.

"It tastes better this way, see?" She lifted her finger to his lips, dabbing at his mouth with the white frosting. He grabbed her wrist but it was too late. Her finger was there, the frosting was there, and when he parted his lips, no doubt to tell her to desist, she slipped her finger into his mouth. He had no choice but to close his lips around her finger and suck off the frosting. Her heart beat a little harder as he sucked so briefly against her finger. She felt the tug of his mouth and the warmth of his tongue... everywhere.

"See?" she said as he pulled her hand away. "That is so much tastier than the same frosting taken to your mouth on a cold, silver fork."

"Will you behave?" Julian whispered as he released her and licked a small amount of frosting from his lips.

"No." She laid her recently freed hand on his knee and he twitched.

The preacher took his leave, and Grandmother took her usual place at the head of the table. She smiled so sweetly, Anya was forced to smile back.

"How is the cake?"

"Very tasty," Anya said. "But a poor substitute for—"

"Anya," Julian interrupted.

She smiled and said nothing more, but her hand climbed a little higher up her husband's thigh. Oh, it was a nice, firm thigh, she noticed as she gave it a little squeeze. Beneath the table, he took her hand, lifted it, and placed it firmly on her own knee... where it did not stay long. This time she placed her hand even higher on his leg, and he jumped. His knee banged against the underside of the table.

The table shimmied, just a little, the glasses of lemonade quaked, and all eyes turned to Julian.

"Pardon me," he muttered.

Anya's hand slid up his thigh. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his jacket.

With a surge of energy, Julian pushed his chair back and stood. "You look chilly," he said through clenched teeth. "Here, let me give you my jacket." He began to unbutton the garment, but stopped short of removing it.

"I am not at all chilly," Anya said calmly.

"Humor me." Julian deftly turned so that his back was presented to all those at the table. He slipped off the jacket, stood behind her chair, and slipped it over her shoulders. She even leaned forward to accommodate him.

When he returned to his chair, moving quickly, she could not help but see the bulge in his trousers, the evidence of his desire that he tried so deftly to hide.

"It scratches, a little," she complained, lifting her shoulders to shrug out of the garment.

As she tried to push the jacket off, Julian reached over, grabbed the lapels and pulled them together so that they covered her breasts and caught her hair. "Please," he asked.

Anya was demanding, she did not deny it. She was accustomed to getting what she wanted,
whatever
she wanted, without question. But she was also a woman, and she knew when she had gone far enough.

"If you wish," she answered softly, lifting one arm to snake it through a sleeve, then lifting the other to repeat the process. Once that was done, her husband released his hold on the garment and sighed in relief.

"Julian?" she said, leaning slightly forward. "Would you assist me?"

He shot a suspicious glance her way. "Assist you in what way?"

She lifted her arms. Her hands were hidden beneath the long sleeves of his jacket. "Would you roll up the cuffs so I can eat more of this delicious cake without getting frosting on your wedding clothes? I will, of course, use a fork."

He efficiently and quickly turned the sleeves up until they were well clear of her wrists.

"Thank you,
caro
," she said, her soft words for his ears alone.

Julian moaned lowly and leaned over his wedding cake.

Anya smiled. This was going to be much too easy.

* * *

Julian paced across the Persian rug in the opulent bedroom that was to be his for the next four months. The coverlet and draperies were in shades of deep blue, the fine furniture crafted of mahogany. The lamps would be filled each day, so that he would never have to worry about conserving oil.

He was in such pain, he barely noticed the unaccustomed luxury. His physical arousal had decreased hours ago, but inside—deep inside—something still churned.

A test, he reminded himself once again. Anya was a test, sent to try his courage and his principles and his moral fiber. But who had sent her? God or the devil himself? At the moment, Julian suspected a demonic hand in this particular trial.

The door that connected his chamber with the sitting room opened, and the demon herself walked in. Tonight she had not even bothered with a scarf around her waist. Everything had been taken off. She was all fair skin, red hair, and the gleam of one small gold wedding band.

"Must we sleep in separate rooms?" she asked, pouting prettily.

"Yes," he insisted. Her own bedchamber was on the other side of the sitting room. Too close, he thought as he averted his eyes. Much too close.

Undeterred, she walked to the bed and lifted his nightshirt. "Do you sleep in this?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't want to get chilled in the night."

"It is very warm here. You will not get chilled," she sounded very reasonable, and so he was on guard. "I think you are much too concerned about getting chilled,
cher
. This afternoon in the dining room, tonight in your own bedroom." She sighed. "When a man and wife need
never
be chilled," she added, lowering her voice to a slightly deeper pitch.

He ignored the way his gut clenched, opened his eyes, and looked at her. He would have to learn to deal with the sight of Anya, no matter how unnerving she might be. "It isn't proper to sleep unclothed."

"But it is much more comfortable. My grandmother bought me several nightgowns." Anya wrinkled her nose. "They all scratch. I tried to wear them, I swear I did. But I always woke in the middle of the night and tore them off. I felt like they were choking me, binding me down. Do you never feel that way when you wear your nightgown?"

"Nightshirt," he corrected testily.

Anya gave him a wide smile and lifted the garment to hold before her bare body. "If you insist." She lowered her head and sniffed lightly at one sleeve. "Your nightgown—night
shirt
—is much softer than mine."

"It's old and worn," he confessed.

Anya hugged the garment to her body. "I rather like it."

"You may have it," he said, hoping she would take the nightshirt and go. She made no move to leave the room. "In fact, why don't you try it on right now." Yes, clothing would be good, if she insisted on remaining here.

She lifted the garment and her arms, revealing more than he wanted to see... and he could not make himself look away as she pulled the nightshirt over her head. The linen hung on her, loose and misshapen. So why was she still beautiful, in an impossibly endearing sort of way?

"It is not so scratchy," she admitted, raking her hand over the linen. Her fingers danced over her full breasts and down across her flat belly, the motion making the linen cling to her flesh for an all-too-brief moment. "Not like the nightgowns my grandmother gave me. But if I take your nightshirt, what will you wear to bed to keep from getting a chill?"

"I have another," he said sharply.

Anya very slightly puckered her full lips. "Too bad."

He simply could not bear four months of this. They'd been married a few hours, and already Anya was beating down his defenses. Beating them down, slipping past, sneaking inside...

"Anya," he said sternly, "have a seat. We need to talk."

She ignored the chair he indicated and sat on the side of the bed. She crossed her legs as she had the day before, but fortunately tonight the length of his own nightshirt concealed the forbidden view he had been afforded at that time.

He gathered his courage and faced her. Hands behind his back, he glanced down at her. "I will not allow you to seduce me. We have not married for your amusement."

"Then why have we married?" she asked, wide-eyed and deceptively innocent.

"We have married so that I might make you into a proper young lady. So that you might take your place in society and make your grandmother proud."

"I would rather make you proud," she said, her voice low and slightly husky. "I would rather make you..."

He ignored her. "It looks as if I will have to set some rules for you to follow."

"Rules?" she smiled. "
Marido
, I make rules, I do not follow them."

"You must behave like a proper lady," he continued. "There will be no more episodes where you... touch me beneath the dining room table."

"When can I touch you?"

"Never," he answered quickly.
 

"Never?"

"It would be best if we maintained a platonic relationship."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we will be friends, and that is all." He nodded with a note of finality.

"You do not want me to touch you?" she asked, her voice low. He had expected she might be angry, as she had been that afternoon, but she took the new edict very well.
 

"That is correct."

She left the bed, moving with a cat's grace. "If you wish,
querido
," she said agreeably.

The hairs on the back of Julian's neck stood. "I appreciate your agreement on this issue."

She headed for the door to the sitting room, turning just before she reached it. "You will find that I can be a very agreeable person. Thank you for the nightshirt," she said, running her hand over the soft linen, letting the palm of her hand hug the curves of one breast, her side, one hip. "I like it very much. It smells of you."

His traitorous body reacted as she had no doubt known it would. Who was he kidding? She didn't have to touch his body to tempt him. She could be two rooms away, whisper a word, and he would respond.

"
Marido
," she said, her voice softly accented and so low his ears strained to hear each syllable. "You are here to teach me, I know, but I have a feeling I will become the teacher before many days have passed."

"Anya..."

"You think I am the beast, but be warned. There is a beast waiting within you. It sleeps deep and quiet, but it is there. I see it. It has fangs and claws and it is hungry."

"I do not have—"

"I am going to awaken the beast,
cher
. And then I am going to tame it and make it mine. And then I am going to feed it well." With that, she turned and left the room, tossing back a cheerful, "Sweet dreams."

The devil, Julian thought as he collapsed onto the bed. Anya had most definitely been sent by the devil.

Chapter 3