Focus, you nitwit!
Astrid swallowed and brought her marauding thoughts ruthlessly under control. A fit of nerves hit her hard, one hand rising awkwardly to smooth her hair. No strand had escaped her coiffure, however. She felt his intense gaze track the movement of her palm. He seemed fixated, and her fingers fluttered in midair for an interminable moment before falling back to her lap.
Beswick leaned forward, folding his thick arms across the desk’s surface. Even with the enormous scar that bisected his face, the diamond cut of his aristocratic cheekbones sweeping toward that perfect, luscious mouth commanded attention.
His head tilted in silent ducal command. “If I were to consider your proposal, what would I get out of it?”
“You need my help.” Astrid glanced around the room, touching on the priceless antique dish. “Least of all to catalog your antiquities. But as your wife, beyond my marital duties, I shall endeavor to be a proper hostess, should you seek to entertain. I’m also good with mathematics and can assist in your bookkeeping or estate management. Lastly, it’s clear that a woman’s touch is needed in your household.”
She cringed, aware that she’d just criticized his home, but the duke’s expression remained inscrutable.
“So when would you propose to do it?” he went on smoothly. “Marry?”
Astrid’s heart jumped in surprise. God above, was he amenable? She narrowed her eyes. Or was he toying with her? She released a pent-up breath. “As soon as possible.”
“Do you have terms?”
She nodded and reached into her reticule for the list she had prepared, then placed it on the desk between them. Despite her optimism, she’d known the odds were slim. “In terms of funds, I do have a dowry. I humbly ask for a certain amount of that be put aside for my sister’s Season. In return, I will perform the aforementioned tasks as well as…submit to you as required to procure your heir.” Astrid bit her lip, fighting the sensual quake that rocked through her. “I assume once that is achieved, you will see to your needs elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“I will not begrudge you a mistress, Your Grace.”
…
Thane was glad to be obscured by the shadows. A mistress? Irritation flashed over him. Though many lords kept mistresses in addition to wives, he was not one of them.
At this point, thoroughly pricked pride was all that kept him from showing her the door. Pride and the need to give back as good as she gave. Though his better instincts warned against engaging, he nodded and pushed the inkstand closer to where she could reach it. “You should make a notation of more than one.”
“More than one?”
“Mistress,” he said. “My physical needs are varied. And quite demanding.”
A choked sound met his ears as she reached for the inkpot and the pen, unspooling the piece of foolscap as she did so. The scratch of the pen was loud and heavy as she added an “ES” as a small postscript to the word. “There. Satisfied?”
It hurt to hold his perverse gratification inside. “And we might possibly need to rethink the word ‘submit.’ It’s so outmoded—a wife submitting to her husband as though she has no say. I prefer my duchess to be vocal on what she wants.”
Those pink lips flattened, splotches of bright color flooding her cheeks. “What would you like to add, Your Grace? Positions? Places?” The little astringent bit of muslin huffed an irritated breath. “If you intend to make this a mockery, then we may as well not continue along this path. We are venturing into the realm of the offensive, sir.”
What was offensive was his desire to see her utterly unclothed and open, with nothing but that salty mouth holding him at bay. Thane dug his fingers into his thighs and shook his head to clear it. They both knew that would never happen, no matter her asinine terms. She would flee his ill-tempered presence eventually, just like everyone else.
Thane had only humored her to see how far she would go. He did not intend to marry anyone or to sire any heirs, as he’d told Fletcher, but in truth, he’d been bowled over by her temerity. The eavesdropping Culbert and Fletcher were, too, if their collective indrawn breaths through the cracked door were any signal.
His eyes narrowed. “You never answered my question about why you’re not yet married.”
“I did, but you chose to go off on an unwelcome tangent of ducal innuendo.”
God, but she was tart. He grinned, his earlier umbrage dissolving into wicked enjoyment. “True, but I am a duke, and ducal innuendo is my forte. Please answer the question as you would to a backward child in your care. Say as if you were a governess.”
She frowned at him so hard, he could see the wheels turning in her head.
“I suppose I’ve been compared to worse,” she said eventually. “Well then, I have not yet married because I have not found the right match.”
“No one has asked you?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Wintry eyes met his, her proud chin hiking. “Not that it’s any of your business, Your Grace, but yes, I have been asked.”
“But if you had said yes and married, you wouldn’t be in this position, would you?” he said. “Begging because you were overly choosy.”
“I’m not begging,” she snapped. “And I wasn’t choosy.”
He arched an eyebrow. “No?”
“I was sixteen during my first and only Season. That gentleman did not know me or have any interest in getting to know me. He desired me for my face, my fortune, and my body.”
“Aristocratic marriages are arranged on less.”
She loosed an aggravated breath, but her response was noncommittal. “Perhaps.”
“And now? You decided to buck tradition and do the asking yourself?”
“As I’ve said, Your Grace, this is a business arrangement, no more, no less,” she replied.
“Such sangfroid from one so young.”
“I am five and twenty, so no blushing maiden.”
Thane sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers clutching the desk. Her experience did not matter, of course, but now that the chessboard was set and the game was ferociously in play, there was no backing down. “On that point, what may I ask is the status of your virtue?”
Flames obliterated the aloofness in her eyes. “You are too bold, sir!”
“Come now, in your own words, you are not a blushing maiden, and we are negotiating a marriage contract. A man has to be certain of these things, of whether he will be in possession of a soiled dove or a virtuous swallow.”
Her gasp was loud in the silence, as were those of Culbert and Fletcher. If he wasn’t careful, both of them would burst in here to defend the poor woman from their master’s vulgarity. Not that this woman needed anyone rushing to her defense. Her tongue was her sword, and she wielded it with biting finesse.
Sure enough, a blazing gaze met his. “What, might I ask, is the status of yours?”
“Decidedly unvirtuous.”
That sharp chin of hers elevated a notch. “Then that makes one of us. Clearly I’m nowhere near your sphere of self-proclaimed experience, though I’m hard-pressed to believe any words that come out of your mouth. In my narrow experience, men who boast about their prowess leave much to be desired.”
Thane couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and roared with laughter until tears were brimming in his eyes. No one had ever stood up to him like this slip of a girl. Woman, he amended.
“This was a ridiculous idea,” she muttered, standing to leave and then halting mid-motion as if caught in the midst of some raging internal battle.
She bit at her lips and then sighed heavily, clenching her jaw. When she looked up at him, the sparks of fire had gone from her gaze. What remained was desperation, tinged with despair. She leaned across the desk, and Thane knew she could see every one of his scars at such close proximity, but she did not flinch back or drop her eyes
“Please, Duke, I implore you to consider my offer,” she said.
Despite her choice of words, it was not a plea. This was not someone who begged for anything, but even he could sense her hopelessness. A flicker of a beat in his barren heart wanted him to agree. But his head knew he could not.
Reason returned with swift efficiency. “Lady Astrid, I—”
“Must get ready for a previous engagement,” Fletcher interrupted, bustling in. Both Thane and Lady Astrid turned in surprise. “You can look over the correspondence from the lady later, Your Grace.”
“Fletcher, this is highly irregular—” he began in warning, but as usual, the valet took no notice of him. One wouldn’t fathom that the man actually worked for him or that his employer was the damn duke.
“Come now, my lady,” Culbert said, following in Fletcher’s wake and taking the foolscap from her fingers with an elaborate flourish. “Leave this with His Grace.”
Lady Astrid looked bewildered at the turn of events and the meddling servants. So was Thane, but he knew exactly what Fletcher and Culbert were about. Clearly, they both thought that she was his only chance at any kind of future. But he knew better—he understood his reality. Hungering for impossible outcomes would only lead to despair. And Thane had had enough of despair to last a lifetime.
He had to end this.
“The answer is no,” he growled, halting them in their tracks at the study door. “Not now. Not ever.” He turned to Fletcher and Culbert. “Do not ever presume to know my mind, either of you. Leave my sight before you’re put out on your deuced heels.”
Both men slunk away as he swung back to the silent woman who fixed him with an appalled expression. “Since you found your way into my home uninvited, I trust you know the way out, Lady Astrid. Don’t come back.”
Hard eyes like polished aquamarine met his, holding them. She did not flinch at his aggression or burst into fits. Instead—admirably—she lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid of you, Beswick. You cannot order me about like those poor men.”
“You should be,” he snarled. “And they’re my servants.” Mostly.
Astonishingly, she smiled in the face of his wrath. “Be that as it may, you’ll find that I’m not a woman who can be intimidated by a temper tantrum better suited to a child than a duke. When you come to your senses, feel free to tender your apologies. I shall be at Everleigh House.”
“And pigs will fly with their tails forward.”
She spun on her heel, a wintry gaze spearing him over her shoulder. “I would wish you a good day, Your Grace, but I can see for myself that any kind of civilized manners are categorically wasted on you.”
And with that, she was gone.
Chapter Four
Astrid chewed on her nails, her eyes moving from her book to the window overlooking the front courtyard, not that she was expecting visitors. A small—miniscule—part of her had hoped he’d send a written apology. Beneath that surly, churlish exterior, Beswick had been born a gentleman, after all. But one day had passed, and then two, and now three. She was dreaming if she thought that man had a lick of good breeding left in him.
Which meant the next move was still on her. Blast it. Once more, she cursed her wayward tongue. But no, she had to go and speak her mind and provoke him. And then tell him off. In his own home. And now, thanks to her runaway, ungovernable mouth, she and Isobel were out of options. Unless…she went back to Beswick Park again.
Nausea wound through her belly. She could beg, if she had to. Throw herself at his mercy. She’d never bent to anyone, but for Isobel’s sake, she could. Even to a hard-hearted, rude, ill-mannered brute of a man.
“Well, what was he like?” Isobel asked for the fortieth time, no longer put off by Astrid’s vague answers. “Is he as bad as they say? Cook said that he fired another housekeeper. She says he’s so terrifying, he can’t seem to keep a full household.”
That did not surprise her. She’d seen the shards of porcelain gracing the foyer and several of the dusty corridors. She pursed her lips in thought. Perhaps she could convince Beswick that she would make an excellent housekeeper. It wasn’t the worst idea, even though it was contingent on him hiring her. She hadn’t exactly left the abbey on the best of terms.
Astrid sighed and faced her sister. “Cook should not be gossiping.”
“Was he hideous?” Isobel asked.
“His face is badly scarred from battle,” Astrid said, the twisted ropes of the duke’s many scars coming to mind. “But it’s not as dreadful once the initial shock has worn off.”
Her sister shuddered. “I’ve heard people in the village say that his skin looks like a stitched sack, and he’s so awful to look upon that children have night terrors. His own father had a heart attack and dropped dead when he saw his face.”
“You know better than to listen to rumors, Isobel. He’s not as bad as all that.”
Inside, Astrid’s heart clenched with pity. She’d heard the same stories. No wonder the man was so closed off and prickly. Though in truth, the duke was doing little to dissuade that opinion with his atrocious attitude. People always assumed that if someone looked like a monster, then they had to be monstrous. But as crude and abrasive as he was, Astrid did not feel endangered in his presence. He did make her want to pull her hair out, but that was completely unrelated to his appearance.
Astrid stared blindly at her novel, trying to distract herself from her constant thoughts about the confounding duke. For all her intelligence and insight, she’d read the man wrong. She’d thought with him being a recluse, he would be desperate for a wife and heir. She knew how the aristocracy worked. Noble lines mattered. Primogeniture mattered. She couldn’t fathom any duke worth his salt wanting his ducal heritage to pass into oblivion.
Then again, the Beast of Beswick was no ordinary duke.
Oddly enough, as crude as he was, she’d relished matching wits with him. He was nothing like she’d expected.
Inquiring about her virtue, for heaven’s sake. She’d almost swooned from the sheer gall of it. A secretly delighted part of her had trilled, however, that he hadn’t treated her like a piece of precious china whose feminine ears were in danger of fracturing from a bit of bawdy conversation. Deep down, she’d liked it.
Besides, from what she’d seen at his residence, he needed her as much as she needed him. And not just for the categorization of his antiques, though her fingers itched at the chance to go through the gorgeous collection. She’d also seen how he’d treated his poor servants. The man needed someone to take him in hand…someone to see past the rages and sulks, who wouldn’t let him get away with his bad behavior.
But how could she convince him a match between them was necessary?
There were no other lords in Southend who could come close to standing up to the Earl of Beaumont or her uncle. Otherwise, she would have to put another plan into place. And that entailed pawning jewelry and running away, which wasn’t much of a plan at all for two unmarried women. She needed time to persuade Beswick, to plead her case.
Perhaps she could talk to the duke’s man, Fletcher, about the inventory of Chinese antiques in the meantime. He’d seemed desperate to hire someone. She could barter her skills in exchange for a safe place to stay for her and Isobel. Once again, it wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had. But it still wouldn’t protect Isobel from their uncle’s rights of guardianship if Astrid couldn’t convince the duke and remained unmarried. And then, there was also no guarantee that Fletcher would hire her without his master’s say-so.
God, it’s hopeless!
Astrid focused on her book, determined to put her negative thoughts out of her mind, at least for the moment, when a red-faced maid came bustling up the servant stairs. “Lady Astrid, one of the horses has gotten loose, and Patrick sent me to get you at once, if you please.”
“Which one?” she asked, leaping to her feet, but she already knew. The head groom would send for her only when Temperance or Brutus was giving trouble. Both thoroughbreds had a long history of racing in their veins. Her mare Temperance was decidedly temperamental, despite her name, and Brutus was a mischievous three-year-old that needed a firm but gentle hand. Unlike the rest of the horses, they belonged to her and had been gifts from her father.
“Will you be all right for a moment?” she asked Isobel.
“Of course. Agatha is here,” she said, indicating their shared lady’s maid who sat quietly with a basket of mending.
“I’ll be back in a bit.”
Hitching up her skirts, Astrid raced through the house and down to the stables. Sure enough, it was Brutus who had escaped and was causing trouble. The stallion was surrounded by three grooms, rearing up on his hind legs and snapping with his teeth.
“How did he get out, Patrick?”
“I dunnae ken, my lady,” the big Scottish groom said. “His pen was latched, but it came open on its own. It must have no’ been closed properly. I’ll have a word with the lads.”
Astrid approached the skittish stallion with care. Brutus was unpredictable when he was riled, and she needed enough distance to protect herself if he decided to bite or kick. She’d suffered the ill effects of two badly bruised ribs when she’d made that mistake once when he was a colt. He was much bigger now and no less skittish.
Signaling to the men to back away, Astrid approached, her hands wide. “There, boy,” she crooned. “It’s only me. I won’t hurt you.”
Brutus reared up again, his hooves thrusting out, but it wasn’t wild. After some more male posturing, he allowed her to approach and take hold of his bridle; all the while she kept murmuring soft endearments into his ear. Within minutes, she was leading him back to the stable as quietly as you please.
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