Beast of Beswick

by Amalie Howard

  “Fletcher,” he said wearily, knowing the man was still standing there.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “You’ll pay for this. You know that, don’t you?”

  He could feel the grin in the man’s voice even without looking at him. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Good, now get out so I can drown myself in self-pity and frustration.” He slitted open one eye to see his valet wearing a smug grin. “Write my aunt and see if she’s amenable to a long, overdue visit.”

  “I already took the liberty, Your Grace.”

  Of course he had. The wretched man knew his own worth, which was probably why he’d taken in the waif and her sister in the first place.

  “Lady Verne will be arriving in time for dinner,” Fletcher said from the other room.

  Thane frowned. “When did you send a messenger?”

  “Four days ago, Your Grace, when Lady Astrid arrived on your doorstep. I thought it prudent to be prepared in case you decided to offer employment and safe refuge.”

  Safe refuge? Thane nearly hooted with laughter. People didn’t run to him. They ran from him. The Beast of Beswick did not harbor young innocents, nor was he the hero in any story. He was a recluse, a monster of a man, and a beast by all accounts. Having not just one but two highborn, unmarried females in his domain was unthinkable. Absurd, really. Their precious reputations would be smudged in the dirt by morning.

  “And you did not think to send a missive to me in London?”

  Fletcher appeared for one moment in the doorway. “I did, Your Grace. At Harte House. Though you had not been seen since your arrival.”

  No, because he’d been working with Sir Thornton during the day and drowning his demons at The Silver Scythe at night. A vision of frosted aquamarine eyes set in a heartbreakingly lovely face, dark hair scraped back with fastidious precision, and a tart pink mouth framed in a perfect O at the sight of him nude filled his mind.

  Christ, he was a depraved, unfeeling bastard for forcing her to plead her case while he bathed. He hadn’t intended to, of course, but then that sharp tongue of hers had drawn blood: Lying there and thinking of England is hardly the same. Salty minx.

  After Fletcher departed, Thane washed and lay in the water until his skin became the consistency of a prune and the water had cooled considerably. He was still as hard as steel, however. Thane fisted his length and, with a few short strokes, brought himself to release. It felt mildly hollow, but he didn’t care. He’d resort to his own hand a dozen times a day if it meant not obsessing about her…a beautiful woman with the spiciest mouth this side of England, whom he’d just invited to stay under his roof for months.

  Clearly, he was a glutton for punishment.

  He dressed in the clothing that Fletcher had left out for him and descended the stairs. He hoped dinner would be prepared and served, and he wouldn’t walk into another impromptu amateur musicale. Thane shook his head. His country staff, like his London staff, was silent and efficient. The epitome of a duke’s household. The footmen were large, competent, and quiet. The chef was French and proud of it. In the absence of a housekeeper, Culbert kept the maids and everyone else in strict order. But never had Thane seen them partake in such bold, happy revelry, heedless of rank between upper and lower servants, as he had earlier.

  He’d only been gone a bloody week.

  And he knew exactly who was to blame.

  Scowling, Thane grabbed a hat from the foyer as he clomped to the dining room. He didn’t want to scare the younger chit. Isabella or Isabel or some such. He’d only glanced at her briefly, taking in her pretty features. She was indeed a perfect English rose with her golden ringlets and sparkling blue eyes. Though he’d been more concerned with the prickly bit of bramble who had been standing beside her, her sharp chin high and eyes bright. Ready to do battle with the lord of the manor on account of a few paltry servants.

  Astrid.

  Even her name made him feel invigorated, like an icy burst of sea spray from a winter ocean. Hard-nosed and stubborn, she was the opposite of her sister in every way, not just in looks. She was no meek English rose, no sweet-tempered maiden, no delicate miss. She was a fiery hothouse bloom that made his blood burn and drove him to intolerable distraction.

  Culbert was waiting at the entrance of the grand dining room. “Your Grace,” he intoned and pushed open the door. “The Duchess of Verne is already in residence and is awaiting you.”

  Thank God for small mercies. He didn’t want the destruction of a debutante’s reputation on his conscience. The old duchess was alone, he noted with some relief. He wanted to speak to her briefly before his uninvited guests arrived.

  “Aunt Mabel,” he said, walking over to the tiny but plump woman who was sipping on a glass of sherry and flirting with the footmen. He bit back a smile. Some things never changed. At five and sixty, she was incorrigible. Last he’d heard, she’d taken a lover who was half her age. Thane faltered briefly. Perhaps she wasn’t quite the best choice of a chaperone, given her proclivities. Then again, she was family, and she could be trusted.

  And she was accustomed to his face.

  “Darling boy, how are you?” she said, embracing him fondly. “I’ve heard nothing but naughty tales of you for months, living in seclusion and terrorizing your staff. Come now, Beswick, will you not settle down? You’re getting on in age, you know.” She paused, eyeing him. “Why are you wearing a hat for dinner?”

  He bussed her cheek, accepting the glass of cognac from one of the footmen, and ignored everything but for the last question. “One of the young ladies is quite tender in years, and I don’t wish to frighten the spit out of her, Aunt.”

  The duchess didn’t miss a thing, those sharp green eyes fastening to his. “And the other? Fletcher said there were two. Will she not be frightened?”

  “The other is a harpy who is immune to fear,” he muttered, downing his drink. He did not mention that the lady in question had in fact propositioned him with marriage a mere week before. It would likely set darling Aunt Mabel into a fit of histrionic laughter. Or she would force him to the altar herself. “I suspect people tend to cower in that lady’s presence.”

  Mabel’s eyes brightened. “She sounds like my kind of girl.” Thane scowled, and she patted his arm. “That she’s not cowering from you, I mean.” She studied him. “Though it’s remarkable how much I no longer notice your scars. Perhaps I’ve grown used to them.”

  “Or perhaps you’re losing your eyesight in your old age.”

  She swatted him. “Dreadful boy!”

  Thane felt his ill humor slip away. Mabel would manage the undesirable invasion, and if push came to shove, he would simply return to London until it was all over. Which he had no idea when that would be. He recalled the older chit saying something about a twenty-sixth birthday and coming into an inheritance. Months, she’d said. He tried not to balk at being in London during the Season. Not that he had anything to worry about in terms of marriage prospects or being pursued, it was just too overcrowded.

  Thane valued his solitude. And he sodding hated London even when Parliament wasn’t in session.

  “Lady Astrid Everleigh and Lady Isobel Everleigh,” Culbert intoned.

  Thane turned, his gaze touching on the younger girl for a moment and then resettling on the older sister. Both were dressed for dinner, Isobel in a pastel-colored dress and Astrid in a simple dove-gray gown that made her beauty seem more remote, more untouchable. His fingers itched to demolish that ascetic collar, her severe hairstyle, and that tight, dour expression. One that softened marginally when she saw his aunt.

  “Lady Astrid, Lady Isobel, may I present the Duchess of Verne, my aunt.”

  “Aunt?” Astrid murmured as if confused that he had relatives.

  “I wasn’t raised by wolves, if that’s what you were thinking,” he said dryly. “My late father’s sister.”

>   “I wasn’t.” She shot him a black look that could rival any of his and curtsied to his aunt. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”

  “Ladies.” Mabel greeted them with a warm smile.

  Under the duchess’s cordiality and guidance, dinner passed without discomfort. The food, as always, was of exceptional fare. André would die if anything not fit for French court left his kitchen. As it was, the cream of turtle soup was as light as air, the duck à l’orange melted in one’s mouth, and the braised rabbit was succulent. It was a wonder that Thane wasn’t two stone heavier with such rich foods, but he made it a point to stay physically active. After being a soldier for so many years, he refused to live too dissipated a lifestyle.

  Conversation was pleasant, with Mabel and a surprisingly chatty Isobel leading most of the talk. It was strange that the two of them took to each other so well, given the age gap, but not surprising. His aunt could make anyone feel at ease. Even when he’d returned from the war, she’d been the one to hold him firmly and ask him if his brain or his heart or his spirit had been destroyed.

  “Beauty is fleeting, lad,” she’d told him. “You have your life.”

  His response had been predictably grim. “A half life.”

  “It’s only what you make it, my darling. Half, quarter, full. It’s all in your power, and everything you had before, you still do.”

  “I don’t have a face, Aunt.”

  “Then, perhaps you’ll have to depend on your other redeeming qualities for once.”

  Thane almost laughed at the memory. His aunt Mabel was a hoyden with a heart of gold and a core of pure steel. But he’d still disappointed her. Unfortunately, there was nothing left in him that was worth redeeming. His own father hadn’t thought so, and neither did most anyone else.

  He felt eyes on him and glanced up to meet Astrid’s. She hadn’t said more than two words since they’d sat down, though she did not seem unhappy. More pensive. Though that wasn’t quite the right word, either. She seemed focused as though she were in the middle of a performance. “Is the meal to your liking, Lady Astrid?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “It’s delicious.”

  “When do you expect to start the inventory?”

  She faltered as if surprised by the question. Thane lifted an expectant eyebrow. It was how she’d intended to barter for her stay, of course.

  “Tomorrow,” she said crisply. “I’ve already spoken to Fletcher.”

  “Inventory?” Aunt Mabel asked.

  “Father’s cherished antiques,” Thane answered. “I haven’t decided whether to sell or donate the lot of it. They’re just here gathering cobwebs. It was Fletcher’s idea. Me, I’d rather use them for sport. There’s nothing like the sound of shattering porcelain. Quite invigorating, I tell you.”

  Astrid’s lips turned down. “Your Grace, some of those pieces are priceless.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “If only you would listen,” she shot back. “But alas, you would have to stop speaking long enough to do so.”

  Thane sat back in his chair, aware of his aunt’s suddenly interested gaze panning between the two of them. “When a voice is all one has, one tends to indulge.”

  “You know what they say about noise and empty vessels.”

  He couldn’t help it—he gave a dry chuckle. “Touché, my lady.”

  Although Astrid Everleigh was a fascinating contradiction and a spark of life in his otherwise barren landscape, it irked him how much he actually enjoyed the verbal sparring. How much he seemed to enjoy her. And that was a certain recipe for disaster.

  Thane sipped his wine with a frown. Aside his body’s interest, which hadn’t been interested in anyone since the war, she wasn’t afraid of him, and she amused him…a feat in itself. Her protectiveness toward her sister intrigued him. Though she was guarded, he was determined to find out what she was hiding. And what he’d gotten into.

  After dinner, when his aunt decided to retire to her rooms after her journey and Isobel hastened off to bed, only Astrid remained at the table. Thane stood and offered her a glass of brandy, gesturing for her to follow him to the adjoining terrace. Though it was dark, soft lamplight illuminated the grounds, the lush scent of the gardens wafting around them.

  “This is beautiful,” she said, joining him at the balustrade. They stood in silence, sipping their drinks and staring into the shadows, before Astrid spoke again. “I want to thank you, Your Grace, for your kindness.”

  “I am not in the least bit kind, Lady Astrid,” he said quietly, his eyes pinning hers in the darkness. “What are you running from? Tell me the truth.”

  Her gaze fell away, and she took a bracing sip of brandy before answering. “My uncle intends to marry Isobel off, and unfortunately, I do not come into the rest of my inheritance until my twenty-sixth year to take her away. I have no prospects, and my uncle is a greedy man concerned with his own fortunes, no matter the tender years of my sister. Isobel wasn’t safe there.”

  Thane blinked, not entirely sure what he’d been expecting. “Marriage to whom? A peer?”

  “The Earl of Beaumont.”

  He froze. Now that was a name he hadn’t heard in years, and one he wished to keep buried in the past. Though, in truth, he did not have fault with the earl, only his nephew. Thane’s fingers curled in anger around his glass. Last he heard, the pigeon-livered Edmund Cain was hiding on the Continent. After he’d abandoned his post in Thane’s regiment, sacrificing half their unit to a French ambush, Cain had defected to parts unknown.

  “Why are you so against the match?” he asked. “Beaumont might be old, but he’s not objectionable.”

  “My sister is only sixteen. A man like him will destroy her.”

  Thane’s brows rose. He couldn’t say he knew much of Cain’s uncle, but he supposed he might. After all, the man had to be getting on in years, and Isobel was so young. Not that it wasn’t common practice in the aristocracy for peers to take much younger wives.

  “Was that the reason for your proposition?”

  Astrid nodded, sliding him a sideways glance. “Beaumont plans to offer for Isobel before anyone else, and I cannot allow that to happen. If I am to marry, my husband will have the final say in Isobel’s future, not my uncle.” She sighed into her glass. “You were my only avenue of influence to thwart the earl.”

  “Why me?” Thane wanted to kick himself for asking.

  She finished her drink before walking back to the terrace doors and pausing there. Shuttered ice-blue eyes met his, her voice low. “Because sometimes a girl doesn’t need a hero to save her. Sometimes she needs the opposite.”

  …

  Ensconced beside Temperance, Brutus seemed content in his new stall of the roomy stables at Beswick Park. Her mare was calm as well, but Astrid guessed it had to do with the superiority of the staff. Beswick would not demand less than excellence. The superb quality of his horseflesh—two pairs of matched Andalusians, as well as a handful of spirited Arabians—was to be admired as well, though many of the spacious stalls remained empty.

  Patrick had insisted on staying on at Beswick Park and had bunked down in the quarters with the other grooms. Astrid had been glad. She would not have wanted him to suffer at Beaumont’s or her uncle’s hands, given how he’d come to their rescue. She would have to find a way to pay him, perhaps by garnishing some of what she might earn from the sale of their jewels. Or perhaps the duke would be amenable to giving him a job, though she wouldn’t count on it.

  She hadn’t seen Beswick in a week. After the evening she’d told him the truth about Beaumont—as it pertained to Isobel—the duke had disappeared. Culbert had assured her that His Grace had urgent business in London and sent his abject apologies for his sudden departure. Astrid hadn’t been able to stifle her snort at the resigned expression on the butler’s face. She suspected that neither “abject” nor “apology” were
words in the duke’s current lexicon.

  A relieved Isobel had been grateful for the reprieve from any additional close encounters.

  “I’m glad he’s gone,” she’d said that first night. “He’s terrifying.”

  “His servants wouldn’t be so loyal if he were a bad master, Isobel. Furthermore, it’s clear that his aunt cares for him. And you like her well enough, don’t you?”

  “I do,” she’d said. “But his face, Astrid. It’s frightful.”

  “The duke is a war hero, Izzy. A few scars don’t make him unworthy of our compassion or our gratitude.”

  “Yes, but he seemed so angry,” she’d carried on. “So rude and overbearing.”

  Astrid hadn’t bothered to explain that his caustic nature was probably because of reactions to his appearance in the first place. It wouldn’t occur to Isobel that the duke had worn a hat during dinner—eschewing centuries upon centuries of blue-blooded dining etiquette—for her sake. But Astrid had noticed, and her heart had been grateful to him for it. It was a kindness she had not expected.

  It had made her reply to Isobel sharper than she’d intended.

  “We are indebted to His Grace, Isobel,” she’d said. “Think upon where you would be if it wasn’t for his hospitality. In the clutches of a true monster. He could have turned us away, and as such, your contempt is undeserved. Now, go to bed.”

  A chagrined, teary-eyed Isobel had nodded, though she’d found it difficult to sleep in a strange place. Astrid had silently empathized. Her own body had been strangely agitated, a coiling energy brimming within her that had made it difficult to sleep as well. But she knew her disquiet had to do with the duke himself, as if she could feel him prowling the corridors like some territorial wild animal whose boundaries had been crossed.

  Despite that, however, their first week in the duke’s home hadn’t been a hardship. After the first night, Fletcher had insisted that there was not enough room in the servants’ quarters, and as a result, they’d remained in the guest wing. She suspected he was lying but didn’t want to press the matter. The opulence of their chambers had awed both Isobel and their lady’s maid, Agatha, but Astrid was too worried about the duke’s response to even appreciate the exquisite decor. After all, they weren’t actually guests.