Beast of Beswick

by Amalie Howard

  “Ye’re a miracle worker, ye are, my lady,” Patrick said, his eyes full of wonder and respect. “I swear he was going to take a chunk out of my hide this time.”

  Astrid stroked the horse’s lathered black coat. “He’s just high-strung. Put him in the stall next to Temperance. She seems to calm him some when he gets in these moods.”

  The Scot eyed her. “Do ye ever think to breed them, my lady?”

  “Someday,” she replied with a fond pat to the stallion’s glossy hindquarters. “But not if my uncle intends to sell the foals to the highest bidder. Once Isobel gets settled safely into a new position, perhaps then.”

  Astrid made her way back to the house, thankful that it hadn’t been worse. The horses were two of her most prized and valuable possessions. She halted mid-step at the thought. If worse came to worst, she could sell them, but that, too, would take time. The thought of parting with either of them left her cold, but if it meant Isobel’s happiness and safety, no sacrifice would be too big. Gracious, she’d already offered herself to a duke with a terrible reputation.

  As she went past the courtyard, Astrid squinted at a coach in the drive. Her heart rose and fell in the same breath. It wasn’t an apologetic duke but an entirely unwelcome Beaumont. What was he doing there? Her aunt and uncle had business in the village and weren’t at home. Astrid hefted her skirts and ran, nearly skidding around the corridor where the earl had discovered Isobel in the morning salon.

  “Get Patrick,” she whispered to Agatha who stood close by, her face white.

  “Lord Beaumont,” Astrid said, hoping to God her voice sounded stronger than she felt. “To what do we owe the honor of your unexpected visit?”

  Beaumont turned, a smile forming. “I was invited.”

  “By whom?” she replied with a cool hauteur she did not feel. Fear for her sister swamped her. “My aunt and uncle are not at home.”

  “They expressed an invitation for me to visit today.”

  Astrid’s heart sank. Of course they had. They did not care if a notorious rogue compromised their niece as long as he married her. Notwithstanding that said rogue had already ruined one niece. She kept a tight hold on her unraveling emotions. “I’m sorry, my lord, but you will have to return. Without my aunt as a proper chaperone, I fear this is quite improper.”

  “Surely you can suffice,” he said, “while I call on my future wife?”

  Her skin crawled at his tone, but she forced herself to remain calm. For Isobel’s sake. For both their sakes. “I am also unmarried, my lord. It would not be proper. I must, regretfully, ask you to leave.”

  “I’m not pleased with your lack of proper respect or welcome, Astrid. I am a peer of the realm.”

  “Then do everyone a favor and act like one,” she retorted. “And it’s Lady Astrid to you.”

  With a scowl, Beaumont advanced into the room as if she hadn’t protested his presence at all, but no more than two steps in, he stopped, his eyes fastened on the doorway where Patrick stood with two hefty grooms.

  “Lord Beaumont was just leaving,” Astrid told them.

  “Your uncle will hear of this,” the earl hissed. “Mark my words.”

  But he departed without more of a scene, thankfully. After the carriage left, Astrid slid down into a nearby chair. Her hands shook with delayed fear. She had no doubt that Beaumont would complain to her uncle, and that reprisal would be swift. Would he send Astrid away? Post the banns for Isobel? Oh God, what were they going to do?

  “Astrid?” Isobel whispered. “Will he come back?”

  Her sister’s voice pierced her fog of indecision. Without a doubt, the earl would. There was nothing to be said for it—they had to leave. Astrid composed herself, rose, and met Patrick’s eyes where he still stood in the doorway to the salon. “Saddle Brutus and Temperance and call for the carriage.” Astrid turned to Isobel and her maid, Agatha, her voice low. “Gather our things. Pack anything you can fit into our trunks.”

  “Where are we going?” Isobel asked, wide-eyed.

  Astrid shook her head. There were too many eyes and ears still about. “Somewhere safe.”

  …

  Hell and damnation. Not even the brutal hours-long ride back from London to Beswick Park had chased the bunched energy from Thane’s muscles. He had worked himself to the bone for the past three days, pushing himself further than he’d ever done, and nothing seemed to help.

  He’d taken a trip to London to meet with his estate solicitor, Sir Thornton. The overnight trip had turned into a week, with him restlessly pacing the halls of his London home. He knew why he was in a froth, of course.

  It was because of her.

  Thane supposed it was guilt for sending her away as callously as he had. But the truth was, he couldn’t agree to her proposition. Though he couldn’t stop thinking about it—or her. One bloody hour of conversation, and he craved more of her delicious wit like an opium addict. It was madness. By God, the chit invaded his every waking hour. Sleeping ones as well.

  Before he’d gone to London, he’d ridden over to the Everleigh estate in the dark of night, trying to figure out which bedroom was hers. And then he’d imagined her in a transparent night rail lying in bed, and his renowned self-control had been shot to hell.

  He’d left for Town that very night.

  Thane couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so uncertain. He was a man who’d been valued for his discipline, his unerring ability to know what action needed to be done in the moment. His war unit had been effective because of that mind-set. On the battlefield, it was that certainty that had made him take on six armed Frenchmen alone. In hindsight, in view of his personal sacrifice, it might not have been the best decision, but it had spared the rest of his unit from being slaughtered.

  Throwing his reins to his waiting groom in the mews at Beswick Park, his eyes fixed in the distance on a massive black horse being exercised in a paddock by a large redheaded man he didn’t recognize. When had he acquired another horse? Or a groomsman the size of a small mountain?

  Culbert would know. But as he pushed open the door, no butler was there to greet him. In fact, no one was there. He hadn’t sent notice ahead when he would be arriving, but he was the sodding duke. Certainly some of his ungrateful staff should be present to welcome him home! It was far too early for anyone to be abed. Scowling with displeasure, he went in search of his missing servants.

  On his way to the staircase, he heard what sounded like music and laughter.

  Female laughter.

  His scowl went so tight, it threatened to decapitate his brow from his face. If those two impertinent louts of a butler and valet thought to entertain village wenches in his absence, they were in for a rude awakening. He would follow through on his threats and dismiss them immediately.

  Following the voices, what he saw when he turned the corner into what used to be the ballroom and was now a room of no special purpose made him freeze. It was a veritable crowd. And not villagers. Most of his absent servants, in fact.

  The notes of a jubilant country song filled his ears, the lilting voice accompanied by a tune on the pianoforte. Thane blinked in disbelief. His traitorous butler and valet were dancing a reel! Along with his surly French chef who hated everyone, most of the footmen and the maids, and two well-dressed ladies…one easily identifiable and the other unbeknownst to him.

  Thane ignored the leap of his pulse and the violent need to dismiss everyone from sight. Everyone except her.

  “Will someone please instruct me on what the fuck is going on?”

  …

  Astrid had never seen people scatter so quickly, servants scurrying to their positions at the return of the master of the house. In moments, the boisterous group had dwindled to Fletcher, Culbert, herself, and Isobel. Her eyes flicked to the imposing figure at the door. The duke was still wearing dusty riding clothes as well as his
hat, pulled low. She was grateful for it, though Isobel was staring at him in slack-jawed morbid curiosity, which likely had more to do with his foul, oath-spewing attitude than his sudden appearance.

  Fletcher opened his mouth to respond, but Astrid beat him to it, drawing the fire to her instead. “Language, Your Grace.”

  He tipped his head back just enough for those blazing amber eyes to capture hers. Astrid almost shrank back from the burn of his glare. He was furious. “It’s my house,” he said, that smoky voice doing unnatural things to her senses. “I’ll say what I damn well please.”

  “Not in the presence of gently bred ladies you won’t.” She reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed in a reassuring manner. “My lord duke, may I present my younger sister, Lady Isobel Everleigh.”

  Isobel dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  Astrid could tell he wanted to shout and swear more foully from the look on his face—possibly at her and it was likely deserved—but he gritted his teeth and bowed, keeping his face hidden in the shadow of his hat. “A pleasure.”

  “Mr. Culbert,” Astrid said gently, turning to the butler whose jowls had gone ruddy. “Will you kindly escort my sister to her rooms while I have a word with His Grace?”

  “Astrid?” Isobel whispered, looking scared. “Will he cast us out?”

  “It will be well, Izzy. I promise.”

  Fletcher moved to follow Culbert and Isobel but was cut short with one word from the duke. Frankly, Astrid was happy. She did not want to face the man on her own. Not after she’d invaded his domain without so much as a by-your-leave. Again.

  She drew a breath. “Have you reconsidered my offer, Your Grace?”

  “No.” He glared at her, tearing his hat off and stalking to the mantelpiece. Strangely, the swift sight of his ruined face did not distress her. “My answer is the same.”

  Astrid had fled to Beswick Park after Beaumont’s visit with the intention of changing the duke’s mind, only to learn that he was in London, and then she’d decided to beseech Fletcher for a job or at least somewhere for her and Isobel to stay for a day or two. He had taken pity on them. However, from the look on the duke’s face, his master would not be so easy to convince.

  She had to try. “How many housekeepers will you scare away before you come to your senses? I’ve heard you dismissed another one.”

  “She was incompetent.”

  Astrid lifted an eyebrow. “And the previous three?”

  “I don’t need a housekeeper,” he snarled, lifting a green and white Ming bowl from its stand and throwing it into the hearth, an act that made both her and Fletcher flinch.

  “I can see that you have everything under control,” Astrid said. “Clearly a quick wedding would be in your best interests.”

  A furious stare met hers. “I fail to see how I require your approval for my staffing needs, Lady Astrid, as a wife or otherwise.” The tension rose to the murals on the ceiling as the three of them stood there in silence. Then the duke turned on his heel with a sound of displeasure. “Fletcher, unless I’m paying you to stand there and flirt, I require a bath.”

  “I gave the order for a bath to be readied the moment you arrived.” The cheeky valet smirked with little care for his own well-being. “And flirtation’s always free, Your Grace.”

  The duke’s mouth went flat, and Astrid hurried to intervene. “Your Grace, surely you can see that this—” she began with a frown as he whirled on his heel and strode away, leaving her standing with her mouth open.

  Good God, but he was rude! Where was the man going mid-conversation? What would she and Isobel do if he did not give her an answer? Where would they go?

  “You may follow if you have something more to say,” he told her over his shoulder.

  Head high, she walked past the nearby footmen, two of whom had wonderful singing voices, as Astrid had discovered earlier before Beswick’s arrival. She’d only meant to cheer Isobel up with some music, and then it seemed that everyone else in the dismal manse had needed some cheering as well. It was all her fault, and she would explain it to him, if only she could keep up.

  “Your Grace, please do not take your anger out on the staff,” she gasped, running to match his ground-eating strides. “Or Fletcher.”

  “I am not angry.”

  But he was. She could feel it emanating from him like rolling thunder. He was seething with it. Astrid exchanged a look with Fletcher, who had hurried ahead and was waiting at the entrance of the duke’s private suite, and halted. “I cannot go in there.”

  “It’s a sitting room, Astrid, not a bedchamber,” the duke said coldly.

  The sound of her given name was a startling flick of pleasure along her senses, and she shoved the odd response away to be pulled apart later. “Regardless, it’s not proper.”

  “If you wish to explain your presence here and not see you and your sister booted out on your unwelcome behinds, you will explain wherever I see fit. And right now, I want a fucking bath.”

  She grimaced at the oath. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Your Grace?”

  “My mother is dead,” he said, peering down, amber eyes flaring. “But if it’s kissing you desire, then we should be having another conversation.”

  “I wouldn’t kiss you if you paid me.”

  “And yet you offered much more than that. Which is it, Lady Astrid?”

  She faltered, her face heating, but then tossed her chin. “Lying there and thinking of England is hardly the same.”

  Beswick stopped dead to stare at her, those hot eyes burning into hers, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Good God, had she gone too far? Even Fletcher gaped. But Astrid held her ground, chin high. Someone had to stand up to the duke. His temper was too foul for words, and she was only giving him what he doled out…what he deserved.

  A short, hard huff of breath left his lips, and after an interminable moment, he spun on his heel and stomped past his valet. “Follow me or leave. Your choice.”

  The tension left her body in a wild rush as she stood in the corridor debating what to do. He hadn’t ordered her thrown out, at least. She heard the faint rustle of clothing and froze. No, he wouldn’t be so vulgar, would he? Somehow, she had to convince him to let them stay, even if entering his private quarters wasn’t proper, and even if he made her want to rail and scream like a fishwife.

  Isobel. Beaumont. Safety.

  “I’m waiting,” he called out after long minutes of indecision on her part.

  With a bracing inhale, Astrid inched forward on leaden feet, but the duke was not in the adjoining bedchamber. Fletcher met her eyes with an apologetic expression, but he, too, said nothing, as if he were on uncertain ground himself. His position was at risk, Astrid realized with belated horror, because of her. She could not let him take the fall for having a kind heart, when clearly, his master had none.

  Briskly, she closed the distance to where Fletcher stood. It led to another room. A brightly lit bathing chamber, to be precise. Astrid bit back a gulp. Not at the opulence of the high-backed tub that dominated the room but at the man lounging inside of it, facing away from her. She couldn’t see much over the tub’s sides, but mere feet away, her brain processed that the duke was naked.

  “Speak,” he commanded.

  Hurriedly averting her eyes and banishing the phrase “naked duke” from her vocabulary, she rushed into her explanation, outlining Fletcher’s kindhearted offer and his need for a capable historian. Astrid didn’t miss the side glower that pinned the poor valet in place at the last.

  “He only wished to help,” she said. “If you won’t agree to wed, for your…hospitality for a few paltry months, I will do your inventory. Think of it as employment, if you cannot find it in your heart to consider it charity.”

  When she turned six and twenty, she wouldn’t be so powerless. That money was hers, an
d she would fight tooth and nail to claim it.

  “Look at me,” the duke said.

  Astrid raised her gaze, careful to keep her eyes fastened to his, but peripheral vision was a dratted thing. His sable hair was damp, wet droplets beading his golden-hued skin. She couldn’t see much scarring on the right side of him, and Astrid lost her breath at the sight of a glistening sculpted shoulder. As if sensing her thoughts, Beswick angled his face sharply toward her. She swallowed a gasp at the view in full light but refused to look away even when she felt tears prick her eyes.

  “I don’t want your pity,” he said. “I’d prefer your loathing.”

  “I don’t loathe you.”

  “You might, when I decide what to do with your sister and you,” he said. “You cannot stay here in a bachelor’s residence.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a finger, stalling her, a notch of irritation appearing between his brows. “Not without a proper chaperone. Your sister’s reputation, and yours, will depend on it. I will agree, aside my better judgment, for you to stay here if my aunt, the Duchess of Verne, consents to be in residence for the time you require. You will perform the inventory as agreed, but that is the extent of my generosity.”

  Relief, followed by elation that they would not be cast out, swamped her so much that she took a handful of steps forward before she thought twice. His indrawn hiss stopped her, but it was too late. Her eyes dropped to the clear surface of the water that hid nothing.

  Not the scars and gouges and missing flesh that marred his left arm and peppered his left side. Not the sleek bronze hair covering his massive chest and arrowing down a tapered belly. Not the scarred tapestry of his lower limbs. And certainly not the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

  Astrid did what any self-respecting lady would do. She fled.

  Chapter Five

  Christ, he wanted to fuck her into the wall.

  Lift her lithe body against the bathing chamber door, wrap her legs around his dripping wet body, sheathe himself in her, and come until he had nothing left. Thane groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. Evidently, those parts of him weren’t as dead as he’d thought.