Taking Beauty (Taking Beauty Trilogy Book 1)

by Wild, Nikki

  “Because I damn well want to see the look on your face while I say it,” the old crow snarled. He loved seeing others crushed beneath him, it was a sick delight for him that I always thought was on a list just before chocolate and just after sex. “The boy inside of Evelyn will inherit everything. After all this time, I can be free of you and the horrifying prospect of leaving my legacy to a damned degenerate.”

  “And if I put a fight up on the matter?” I asked, my fists clenched in an attempt to maintain a civil tone. I hated this charade that my father and I had to put between one another in public, hiding the venom we felt toward one another was almost a torture in and of itself. “What then?”

  My father laughed, cawing like a buzzard. I hated everything about that laugh. It was cruel and harsh, the laugh he’d used to give whenever he’d watch me fail. Ever since I was a child I’d heard that high laughter whenever something would happen to cause me harm while I was out playing or involved in some sport or another. It had felt much worse back when I was so desperate for his approval, before I learned that nothing I did would ever be good enough.

  “The only way that a bastard like you can hope to inherit while there is a legitimate heir living is by being the first to marry a respectable woman before I pass—something that you with all your ‘prowess’ couldn’t even manage.” He chuckled as he looked at me over his food. “I’ve won, Tristan. And for the rest of your days you’ll know that a fetus was more worthy of my love than you ever were.”

  He was right.

  He’d found a way to take everything that I had hoped to gain in my life and put it into the arms of a shriveled little fetus. It was as though something that I had waited for all of these years was ripped from my fingers just as I was about to see it be mine. I wanted to scream, to flip over the table and send his food flying, and stab him in the eyes with the fork in his hand. I felt myself getting red in the face, heat rising at the back of my neck as his chuckle turned into another round of raucous laughter.

  “That look,” he laughed, throwing his head back as food fell from between his lips. “That has made me a happier man than anything ever has in my life.” The old man shook his head, a smile cut across his face from ear to ear. “I’ve wanted to see that look on your face—to tell you that you get nothing from me after I’ve died—for as long as you’ve been alive. Now you can go off to where I hoped that whore of a mother would have; out of sight and out of mind.”

  I wasn’t sure how I managed to keep myself under control, to stop myself from leaning across that table and drowning him in his soup, but somehow I managed. I could hardly feel my face, let alone tell what kind of expression I was making as I watched my father laugh as though he’d just heard the best joke on the face of the planet. I was sure that all was lost.

  But then I realized that I had a chance—a slim one, but a chance none-the-less.

  I could get married—find a woman to settle down with and before my father could kick his proverbial bucket—I would be the one to inherit everything. All I’d have to do was find a woman willing, but therein lay the problem in its fullness. Who would be daft enough to even consider marrying me? Especially with the kind of reputation that I had. I couldn’t deny that I was a lover of women, and having that kind of reputation tends to make one undesirable for the purposes of matrimony. But then again there were always those women convinced that they could change men like me, fix us and teach us to be tied down and contained. The thought of it made me squirm but if I could use that to torture my father one last time before he died then it would all be worth it. After all, divorce was always a viable option.

  I couldn’t help but smile as the old man continued to cackle madly, all the while totally unaware that he’d given me all I needed to make him eat every last one of those words. The old bat didn’t think I’d ever be able to keep a woman long enough, that my appetite for the tender company of women would drive any decent find far away; but I knew exactly the person to help me—my father’s own stepdaughter, Gwendolyn.

  “You’re right, Father. I must concede defeat,” I said, a wily smile crossing my face. I watched as my father’s expression fell, unable to see me sulk over the news of this injustice. I’d snatched his victory and I’d snatch it again before he even knew what was happening. “Congratulations. You’ve beaten me in our little game. No use being a poor sport about it. I must be off, however. I have an important appointment and I mustn’t delay with something so trivial as our wife’s prenatal status.”

  I wanted so much to giggle at the fury growing on his face as I trivialized what he considered to be the greatest victory of his life. It was the mark of a petty man that the suffering of others be their own comfort, and my father was most certainly king of all that was petty.

  I stood, flashed him a venomous smile and turned on my heel in military fashion before heading out the doors and out into the street to call a cab. For my plan to work I would need to be on my best behavior, keeping myself out of the spotlight as much as possible to keep the public and most importantly my father out of the loop as I prepared to ruin his entire plan for his future. Before that child was born, I would make sure that I’d make my father regret the day he was born—I know that I certainly did.

  Chapter 67

  The more I stewed over the fact that my mother—a woman of almost fifty years—was pregnant by my stepfather, the more I considered bleaching away the thought with a few bottles of much-too-expensive wine. I honestly couldn’t believe that they’d even managed to pull it off, what with my mother having sworn from hell to horizon that she’d never again go through the burden of childbirth after I’d been born.

  That was the beginning of our very strained relationship. I loved my mother, I supposed, as all children did. But I also recognized that she was a class-A narcissist, and I’d spent my childhood imagining her as both a misunderstood saint, and the monster hiding under my bed.

  For all the “trouble” she’d went through to bring me into this world—something she never, ever let me forget—she expected me to be her crutch in return. I was never doted upon, except in public, where my mother might advance her station in life. I vaguely remembered the few years we’d lived in a New York apartment with a bunny-eared TV set and cans of creamed corn to eat every night. I was very young then, no more than two or three, but trauma has a way of giving even your oldest memories teeth.

  Mother had been so unhappy then. And she’d blamed it, mostly, on me. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, she’d still be that senator’s mistress. I was to blame. I’d created this mess. So in her mind, it was only “fair” that I got her out of it.

  I suppose it was all those soap operas she watched that first gave her the idea as to how she could better herself once again. I was to be part of this charade, perhaps even the most important part—I’d be playing the role of the sophisticated, well-educated daughter who deserved more than the American education system could provide. My mother, by comparison, was the widow of an English attaché who’d perished in the September 11th attacks. Mother was nothing, if not opportunistic. I think her family crest might say something like, “Never let a good tragedy go to waste.”

  This ruse meant I’d had to learn a posh British accent, study endlessly to meet the academic benchmarks of a “gifted European child,” as my mother put it, and endure countless etiquette classes meant to train the upper crust in exhibiting their classist natures with style. This started when I was barely old enough to read, but my mother spared me no leniency, nor did she spare me the back of her hand. Among other things.

  I shook my head, trying not to think about it. She’d changed after she met her new husband, let go of that chain she’d wound around my neck, if only a little. I was still expected to never embarrass the family or sully her name, even indirectly. How a woman so frigid could conceive a child at all was beyond me.

  But apparently one thing had led to another, and now not only was I going to be a big sister, but I was also expected to act t
he part. I was a busy woman, a woman who had better things to do than help my mother especially on any kind of emotional level—if my mother could even comprehend any emotional help I could offer.

  I looked deep into the crystal wineglass in my hand, pondering the ripples that this one little event would have on the rest of my life—hopefully not much, seeing as I was not even set to inherit my stepfather’s assets or title. But there was still a sensation in my gut that filled me with an unexplainable sense of impending dread, as though this small little thing would change more than just the number of heirs my parents had at their disposal.

  I took a long, slow drink from the deep red liquid, letting the taste of the wine flow over my tongue before setting the glass down on the table. I sat there in the dark of my office wondering just how much of the bottle I’d already managed to tear through.

  This shouldn’t be bothering me as much as it is, I thought, leaning back in my comfortable office chair. I let myself become wrapped in the stillness and silence of my empty office. I’d sent Tina home early after the debacle with Lord Adderby, she’d had more than enough to deal with and we were thankfully free of any other appointments that day. I had more than enough time to sit by myself and collect my thoughts after being blindsided so thoroughly by that horrific news.

  Why was I getting so upset about this? It was my mother’s issue, and whether I made it a point of being in my soon-to-be half-sibling’s life was mine. Maybe I felt sorry for the half-formed fetus gestating inside of my emotionally distant mother, wondering if—given his place as a male aristocrat—she hoped that her new son would give her some sense of pride that I could never have done. It was that thought that prompted me to pour myself another glass of wine.

  I closed my eyes and breathed in the quiet air, trying my hardest to fall into a sweet drunken oblivion. At most this was an inconvenience, a minor hiccup in my life that would hopefully affect me only in the slightest of ways. I had my own life apart from my mother and I intended to keep myself out of her silly little play at being the mother of a noble.

  ***

  I was startled from the gentle twilight between waking and sleep by a harsh knock on my door—no, my office door… I was still in my office! I’d almost forgotten where I was, my brain still addled by the copious amounts of wine I’d imbibed before.

  How long have I been asleep? I wondered. I glanced over at my desktop only to find that it was somewhere close to two in the morning.

  Another knock on my door brought me closer to the surface of reality, and I began to wonder who in the world would be at my business at this late hour. And for that matter, how had they gotten past the door by the front desk? If it was some kind of burglar then I doubted they’d have the courtesy of knocking.

  “We’re not open,” I called out to whoever was intruding upon my quiet and somewhat sad round of lonesome drinking. “You’ll have to come back another time, I’m afraid.”

  I strained to listen for whoever might be out there, expecting a reply but only silence followed. I’d almost begun to think that they’d simply left, surprised that one of England’s upper class had been satisfied to have been turned away so easily. However I was soon proven that none of my wishes were going to be honored.

  I heard the sounds of the lock scraping and clicking, and within a moment I saw my door start to swing slowly inward, the scant light pouring in from the waiting room outside. To say that I was furious would have been an understatement. Someone had just walked into my own office without my permission, much less a word of greeting. But something in the back of my head told me that I should be more than annoyed, I should be panicking. Who had just done all this? Was I going to be murdered? The alcohol pumping through my blood made those important questions seem so very trivial as I looked at the masculine silhouette highlighted against the open doorway.

  “I told you that we are closed!” I said, standing shakily from my chair. “Please leave! Come back during normal business hours.”

  The man laughed, a cocky chuckle that brought thoughts to my head that I’d seldom had since I was only a teenager. A shiver ran down my spine. I recognized that laugh, having heard it so many times when I was younger, but it was the face I was having trouble placing. Where did I know that laugh from?

  And then it hit me all at once like a ton of bricks, practically smacking me right in my forehead as I saw that gorgeous face as clear as the last day I’d laid eyes upon it. It couldn’t be him, not after all of this time, not after the fight that he’d had with his father—my father… Well, stepfather, anyway.

  “Tristan?” I asked, squinting my eyes against the light beyond the door.

  “You do remember,” he said, stepping farther into the dark room and closing the door behind him. I was thankful for the darkness, the beginnings of my hangover already starting to rear their head. “And here I thought that you’d forgotten me, after all of this time.”

  Forgotten? Forgotten?

  I was lucky that after several years of my stepbrother’s absence, my thoughts of him had become limited to only once or twice a day.

  Good Lord—forgotten him. As if I could ever forget my first real crush. As if I could forget how badly I’d wanted him, even when I told myself that I didn’t. How he’d made me tremble in the kitchen of our old house, my breath thick in my throat, his voice husky in my ear.

  Come on, love. Don’t you want to piss your mother off?

  “How am I supposed to forget my stepbrother after the exit that you made?” I asked, trying to keep my mouth from hanging agape. Tristan’s sudden rush to join the military was something that none of us had expected—me most of all. And the night that the two of us had nearly... I fumbled for something to discuss other than that time we’d nearly fucked. “That fight you had with your father was legendary. I think there are old women still scandalized by it to this very day.”

  Lord Wolfe was in a rage like I had never seen before in my entire life, bellowing at the top of his lungs, spittle flying from his mouth as Tristan and he stared one another down face to face. Not that fighting between the two of them was uncommon. In fact I almost thought that they both too a certain pleasure in angering the other, seeing how far they could go to push one another into another argument…. I wasn’t sure how Tristan could have stood for that all of his life.

  “What can I say? I like to make a spectacle of myself,” he chuckled again. It was a sound that had angered me so when we were teens together. The way that he could turn anything into a joke.

  Tristan always seemed to have that arrogant smirk on his face, as though he was always one step ahead no matter what. It drove me insane when we were younger, always acting like he knew everything, and yet all the while utterly oblivious to the fact that I had harbored the deepest crush for him than anyone else I’d ever known.

  It was an illicit thing, of course. For all the inbreeding that had plagued the royal lines in the past, the aristocracy was doing its best to rid itself of that image now. The fact that Tristan and I weren’t blood-related hardly mattered when reputation came into play. So I’d weathered the storm of my hormones and tried not to think too hard about my stepbrother’s lilting accent, the mischief in his eyes, or the way his lean muscles rolled when he took off his shirt to go swimming in the lake near his father’s estate.

  But then, there was that one time—that fleeting moment we’d had before he left for the military. The night I’d been certain Tristan was going to undo me, a silly little eighteen-year-old virgin, right there in the pantry well after we were supposed to be in bed…

  I physically waved the memory away. No. Now was not the time to think of that. We were adults now, and we knew better. Or I hoped I did, anyway.

  “You certainly do,” I said, trying to compose myself with all haste. “And still, after all this time, you think that you can just come and go? Leave for years at a time, and not expect me or anyone else to bat an eye?”

  I hadn’t realized that my temper had gotten t
he better of me, my face still tingling from all the blood rushing to it. Even I was shocked by the suddenness of my ire, so many old memories brought up at once had apparently been more than my self-control could handle. I had been holding these feelings in for all this time, bottled away with the hope that I’d never need to confront them ever again. I never realized that my stepbrother would ever return, not so suddenly, at least.

  I cleared my throat and straightened my blouse before addressing him again. “Is there a reason you’ve broken into my office at the godforsaken hours of the morning?”

  “Well, when I broke into your apartment you weren’t there,” he said, his admittance of his own wrongdoing had me boiling again already, and yet that errant bad boy, blasé attitude that he always seemed to flout also had a more… arousing effect, as well. “I thought that if you weren’t at home then you’d be at this posh new office of yours, working until the break of dawn. That was always the way you did things, after all. Valedictorian. Top of your class, and all that.”

  I hated how after all of this time he still could affect me in the most intimate ways, simply by being in my presence. I wanted to slap him with all my strength.

  “What do you want, Tristan?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest, staring daggers at him from across the room. He was so gorgeous I couldn’t deny how I’d want to drag him back to my flat and tear every bit of those clothes off. It was too bad I also wanted to put him through a blender and burn him in an incinerator. Why did we always crave the people who had always been the worst for us?

  “I need your help, otherwise I wouldn’t be breaking in like some common criminal,” he said, rolling his eyes.