Beauty and the Wolf (3 page)

W
hile Draven slept, a scattering of dark clouds gathered to release a full-blown storm. Thunder boomed and jostled him out of his slumber. As rain pelted the window, he rolled over in bed with a groan.

Thoughts of her frustrated, saddened, and aroused him. He had yearned for her like a dying flower needs water during their separation, but he was thankful that she hadn’t seen him transform on their wedding night. The wolf bite he received the night before they married had condemned him to the dark side. Since then, he’d become doomed to change into a bloodlusting wolf beneath every full moon—for all eternity.

On the nights he shape-shifted, Draven prowled the limits of Dunwich, forcing himself to feast on cows and farm animals instead of seeking human blood. Although he hadn’t killed anyone in his canine form yet, restraining himself was proving to be pure hell. He kept the monster at bay by locking himself inside his suites for twenty-odd days every month—eating, working, and sleeping in complete solitude.

That solitude reminded him of a place he never wanted to visit again. The asylum
.

Detesting himself, Draven slid his feet to the floor and padded to the mullion-paned window. He pushed a hand through his hair as he stared at the road leading away from the estate. Isabella could be arriving any minute. Unless, perhaps, she had decided to stay in London after reading his response to her letter. Of course, his correspondence may have missed her altogether.
Bloody unreliable post.

But knowing what he did of his wife, he surmised that she had received his letter and chose to ignore his warnings not to come. That is why he had refused to send a coach to gather her in Dunwich. The last thing Draven needed was the scent of Isabella’s blood filling the hallways of Thorncliff Towers . . . tempting him. Provoking him.

Ironically, he had written Isabella multiple letters at the start of their separation—begging her to return. Because he never received a reply, he came to the conclusion that she was too scared to come back. He could hardly blame her, yet he couldn’t chance a public transformation while he traveled to London to fetch her.

At that point, he’d been forced to send someone after her. The fearsome ruffian Draven hired had arrived on Isabella’s doorstep as instructed, but she had refused to accompany the strong-arm back to Dunwich. Draven realized then that nothing short of kidnapping Isabella would ensure her return.

As his bloodlust grew more urgent, he had sequestered himself away from the world.

A knock at the door worsened his mood.

“Who is it?” he roared.

“It’s Rogers, sir. Are ye in need of anythin’?”

“God’s balls, Rogers! I told you: I’ll ring for you.”

“But ye haven’t had yer supper, m’lord—”

He fisted his hair. “Bloody hell, man. I said ‘go away’!”

“As ye wish, m’lord.”

When the valet’s footsteps faded, Draven pushed open the window and breathed in the cold night air. A strong draft raked over his body as he studied the rain descending in sheets over the house. It was a depressing scene—one that matched his sense of self-loathing. There was no denying he was a
vârcolac
now, as the Romanians called them.
A werewolf born from the depths of black magic.
He had learned that an all-powerful
rauna
curse held its victim captive until that unfortunate soul offered proof of his penance. It was an identity he—and all his male heirs—were bound to unless he could change his selfish ways and gain compassion. In the meantime, if Draven tasted human blood—even a drop—he would stay a beast forever, with no chance of seeing his human form again.

He’d always blamed the crime he committed in that Gypsy camp for sealing his fate, but now he was beginning to realize that the instigator was his bullheaded arrogance.

He pulled the window shut with a scowl but the crunch of wheels over gravel caught his attention. Pressing his face to the cold glass, he saw a coach come to a halt in the center of the courtyard.

“Isabella . . .” he murmured.

Heart thundering, Draven watched his wife materialize from the coach. As she tipped her bonnet back, he was reminded of how beautiful she was. Thick, auburn locks haloed her oval-shaped face and her dusty-pink lips curled charmingly at the corners. She was a natural beauty whose indescribable radiance had seized him the instant they’d met at that dull party.

When he had spotted her amid a sea of guests, he had presumed that she was far from a dowdy matron beneath her conservative dress. His suspicion had been confirmed on their wedding night. With her outrageous mane freed from its chignon and her delicious curves on display beneath her silk negligee, Isabella had done more than impress him. She had beguiled him.

Of course, there was another, less chivalrous, reason Draven had proposed to her. He’d come across a newspaper article telling of the cursed amulet Sir Harris Farrington found in Egypt and subsequently passed on to his only daughter. The article had inspired Draven to travel to London to seek out Isabella. He figured that if his curse ever came to fruition and his beastly alter ego grew out of control, it would be her fate to stop him. By becoming part of the Egyptian prophecy that destined Isabella to kill her lover, he had gained “insurance” as it were.

He marched to his desk, jerked open one of its drawers, and withdrew the newspaper article in question. After giving it a quick glance, he crumpled the article and tossed it into the roaring fire.

He wanted Isabella to kill him—put him out of his misery—but she was doomed to take her life afterward. Thus, he had been incredibly selfish to marry her . . . and his continuation of their marriage was just as self-serving. Why couldn’t he prove that he’d grown a heart by divorcing her and be done with it?

If he ever hoped to rectify his curse, Draven knew he must seize this chance to show compassion. That involved driving Isabella back to London. Back to safety.

As he resumed his place by the window, lightning illuminated the sky in a sudden burst. Isabella raised her glance to where he stood. He reeled away from the casement and held his breath. Had she seen him staring at her?

He coaxed his head toward the portal again and watched her sink into a puddle of mud. In two days’ time, a full moon would peak. Its threat was stirring his thirst for blood—and his sexual appetite—to a frightening crescendo. That meant Draven must convince his wife to leave as quickly as possible. And he knew precisely how he was going to do it.

Praying that he would be able to resist the scent of Isabella’s blood and the attraction she provoked in him, he ventured out of his suites for the first time in twenty-six days.

I
sabella waited in the doorway while the rain dropped in deafening sheets behind her. The manor’s housekeeper, a woman she remembered as being colder than the Arctic Ocean, stepped into the light.

“Welcome back, Lady Winthrop.” The housekeeper glimpsed Isabella’s low neckline and raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

“Thank you, Mrs. . . .”

“Eaton.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Eaton.” Isabella took in a breath. She hadn’t been at Thorncliff Towers long enough to learn any of the servants’ names. Gathering her collar together for momentary coverage, she offered the housekeeper a small smile. “You . . . you aren’t surprised to see me?”

“Nay. His lordship informed the staff that you might return tonight.”

Draven did receive my letter.
Infuriation heated Isabella’s cheeks but she managed to control the anger in her voice. “The coach driver will be handing over my portmanteau.”

Mrs. Eaton nodded curtly.

Isabella was relieved when the housekeeper backed away to allow her entry. Shaking the wetness from her blue shawl dress, she crossed the threshold. Once she reached the edge of the foyer, she took a moment to survey the room she remembered so well.

Nothing had changed. The antique furniture and fixtures were still shadowed in monochromatic shades of gray and the parquet floors continued to cry out for a good polishing. Her gaze swept the grand staircase as it curved upward.
To Draven’s suites.
Isabella pressed a fingertip to her lips. She could almost feel the sensual scorch of her husband’s mouth and the warmth of his large hands roaming her body.

Shocked at the heat the memory still provided, she forced her eyes back to the darkness of the lower level. She noticed that the candle sconces along the walls were still and that the fluted oil lamps on the entry table remained dark. Was this nonchalant welcome representative of how Draven would receive her?

Isabella laced her fingers together tensely only to shake them loose. As much as she tried to be more carefree, it was difficult for her. Her mother’s prolonged illness coupled with her passing had robbed her of any gaiety. And the promise she’d made to Mum on her deathbed—that she would always take care of Papa—had forced her to abandon her own wants and grow up in a hurry.

Perhaps a cooing, rosy-cheeked baby would restore her joy. She longed for a child—and in this dreary, loveless place, she would certainly welcome a precious son or daughter with her entire soul.

Once the coach driver deposited her belongings on the foyer’s parquet floor, Isabella removed her mud-soaked boots and followed Mrs. Eaton down a corridor. A room to her left caught her eye. Paneled in warm cherry wood and bordered by hundreds of books, it was a well-stocked library. The sight came at her like a rush of fresh air. She adored reading.

An elderly manservant stood inside the room. He was the only member of the household staff she’d been introduced to. After all, he was Draven’s valet who accompanied his master everywhere.

“Welcome back, m’lady,” he said.

“Thank you, Rogers.”

He seemed pleased that she recalled his name. “I’m here to lock up the library. The master don’t want no one in here.”

Isabella started to question him, but the valet gently closed the door in her face.

She followed the straight-backed housekeeper down a long stretch of wall. As she passed a hanging mirror, she stopped and glanced at her reflection.

She managed to rub the last smudge of mud from her cheek and smooth a frizzled curl, but she’d only made a small improvement. It would take at least a dozen salon attendants skilled in coiffures and couture to make her resemble the countess she was supposed to be.

Isabella hastened to the end of the hall where a pair of curtains exposed a comfortably furnished parlor. Illuminated by the patchy light of a fireplace, the room displayed an inviting ambience the others lacked.

The housekeeper stood just inside the room. “Ye’ll be comfortable in ’ere while we see to yer luggage, yer ladyship.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Eaton.”

The woman nodded icily and Isabella began to regret that her father had not accompanied her.

“Yer chambers are the first set of rooms on the second floor. Gwyneth is yer abigail,” Mrs. Eaton said. “She will be visitin’ yer suites to introduce herself.”

“Very well,” Isabella said.

“Oh, and the countess wishes to have a word with ye before ye retire for the night, m’lady.”

Draven’s mother is here?
Isabella let out a groan. Helena was the last person besides her unscrupulous husband she wanted to see.

When Mrs. Eaton left the room, Isabella sat on the divan and removed her travel-stained bonnet. Her stomach rumbled. She had forgone supper during a travel stop in order to pay for the last leg of her journey. Pressing her hand against another hollow gurgle, Isabella listened to a clock in the corner tick away in the silence of the room. The unnerving sound made her wish she were anywhere but here.

Beckoned by the crackling hearth, she strode to the fire. She dried herself in front of the flames and studied the details of the unfamiliar room. Above the mantel hung a portrait of a strapping man standing beside a black stallion. Her pulse accelerated as she raised herself on the tips of her toes and peered up in the dim light.
Could the subject of the painting be Draven?

Indeed it was. The smooth olive skin, the firm jaw, and the muscular shoulders were just as she recalled. Swept back in a collar-length queue, her husband’s hairstyle, though it rebelled against the short curls fashionable today, enhanced his angular cheekbones and full lips. He was inarguably handsome, but it was Draven’s black eyes that rocked Isabella to the very core. In the brief time they’d spent together, she had been unable to pinpoint precisely what they housed.

Anger?

Determination, perhaps?

Or were they void of emotion altogether?

For a moment she tried to envision her husband’s stare as it had devoured her with a sizzling chemistry on their wedding night—before everything had gone horribly wrong.

The swish of the curtains breached her thoughts.

“So, it’s true.” Lady Winthrop pinned Isabella with a stare. “You have returned.”

I
sabella frowned. “Yes, your ladyship.”

Flickering light jumped from the hearth and cast strange shadows across the noblewoman’s face. “You may call me Helena, as I permitted you to do the day you married Draven.”

Although she was attractive in her own right, Isabella’s mother-in-law looked nothing like her son. Rather, Helena resembled a fair-skinned, ill-tempered queen. The countess’s strongly arched eyebrows and flared nostrils gave clues to a challenging character while her chestnut hair richened against the paleness of her complexion. And like a royal studying one of her subjects, the noblewoman took in the sight of Isabella with eyes that spoke a thousand criticisms.

“You look thin,” Lady Helena finally added.

Isabella made no reply. She only hoped the rumbling of her stomach couldn’t be heard from where Lady Winthrop was standing.

“Your return here came as a surprise to Draven and me. We thought we’d never see you again.”

Isabella squared her shoulders. “I had time to rethink my decision to leave your son.”

“Good, considering how you’ve disgraced yourself,” Helena replied. “You are aware that vicious gossip does not fade easily into the woodwork.”

Isabella turned back to the fire and spread her hands above the flames. “I, for one, couldn’t care less what people think.”

“I beg to differ,” Helena said. “Your concern over how Society viewed you led you to marry Draven in the first place.”

She spun around, the warmth of the fire forgotten. “What do you mean by that?”

The dowager’s lips quirked as if she were enjoying herself. “When your father and I discussed your union to Draven, he claimed that he didn’t wish to leave you alone during his trips to Egypt. But we both know the real reason Sir Harris wanted to marry you off, don’t we? Considering that you were twenty-six years old at the time, not to mention your serious nature, he feared you would never attract a suitor in the
ton—
let alone contract a marriage. I gathered you felt the same way.”

Isabella clenched her fists. “I had interested suitors, but no proposals. Those men knew I wasn’t ready to leave my father.”

Helena smiled smugly. “Did I forget to mention the most prominent reason your father was in a rush to marry you off?
Your amulet
.”

Isabella’s hand flew to the stone at her neck. “This amulet gave me the chance to learn which suitors were weakened by superstition,” she said proudly. “But that’s of no consequence now. Draven proposed—and wasn’t it you who arranged our meeting in the first place?”

The countess walked the length of the room in full majesty. “I did no such thing.”

“But Draven said—”

“Of course I had no objection to him marrying you,” Helena told her. “I assume you’ve heard the rumors that my son is mentally ill.”

Isabella’s heartbeat faltered but she kept her reaction contained.

“As those rumors raced around England,” the dowager said, “they made me wonder: what kind of sophisticated and thoroughly particular noblewoman would agree to marry Draven if he were truly mad?”

The insinuation that she was neither sophisticated nor particular boiled Isabella’s blood. “Your opinion cannot hurt me, Helena. Draven married me and that is that.”

Helena ignored her retort. “After what transpired between you and your husband, I’m surprised you are wearing your wedding ring.”

Isabella glanced down at the wide filigree wedding band she had kept stowed in her jewelry box until today. With sparkling sapphires set in pear-shaped petals of platinum, the ring had impressed her during the initial days of her engagement to Draven. Now it meant nothing.

She sent her mother-in-law a cool stare. “Is there anything else you’d care to point out?”

“I see from your inexpensive frock that you have run out of money,” Helena observed.

Isabella touched the worn fabric of her travel dress. So her struggles betrayed her. “Draven and I discussed that my pin money would be used to send my father to Egypt,” Isabella snapped. “Now that money is gone.”

“Your situation will improve now that you have returned. But I doubt that your decision-making skills will improve as well,” Lady Winthrop scoffed.

Isabella ground her back teeth together. She had no desire to continue their verbal joust. “I’ve had a long day. If you’ll excuse me, I will retire to my bedchamber.”

“Before you drift off to sleep, my dear, ponder this: how do you think Draven will react to you now that you have returned? You dishonored him. Perhaps it will take some time for him to warm up to you, if he ever does.”

“I would like to know if you are still in residence here.” Anger seeped into Isabella’s voice.

Helena sucked in the staleness of the room. “I am. I suppose I could live in my Mayfair home, but I prefer not to face my friends in London with the scandal you’ve cast upon Draven and me. Besides, I reasoned that my son needed me after he’d been abandoned by his wife.”

“To say that I’m indifferent to your presence here would be lying, Helena. Good evening,” Isabella said.

The noblewoman shot her a haughty glare as she swept out of the room.

Screeching winds and battering rain vibrated off the rooftop as Isabella reached her suites. Clicking the door shut behind her, she scanned the room and its furnishings. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the space while a lace-skirted vanity stood adjacent to it at an angle. Along the opposite wall, a sturdy chiffonier marked the entry to a private washroom—a luxury Isabella appreciated.

Anxious to relax, she located her portmanteau and the tray of food Mrs. Eaton had sent up. She ate quickly, downed the cordial, then exchanged her damp traveling dress for a nightgown. Refusing help from Gwyneth when the girl knocked on the door, Isabella loosened her hair into a braid and slipped beneath the counterpane of the four-poster with a sigh.

She would have to find Draven tomorrow.

The storm rattled the windowpanes to a strangely soothing melody. As she started to fall asleep, a gust of wind swung the unlocked window frame into the room. When the frame struck the wall with a tremendous bang, she leapt out of bed and rushed toward the window. Wind and rain thrashed her body. Isabella leaned her weight against the heavy frame, but she was unable to close it.

Her nightgown clung to her body, making her breasts peak uncomfortably beneath its cold fabric. Frustration rose in her throat. To her surprise, a hand snaked across the bottom ridge of her bosom and jerked her out of the storm’s path.

She pushed the wet hair from her face and turned to see who had come to her aid. A combination of prickly terror and animal attraction tingled her spine as she found herself staring at her estranged husband. And he didn’t look happy to see her.