She should not be fascinated by him. It wasn’t fascination, she decided in the same breath. He was like a splinter in her thumb. More like an aggravation.
As she neared the study, her footfalls cushioned by the thick pile of the carpets, Astrid made to announce herself, only to freeze as she heard her own name on the duke’s lips.
“Come now, Fletcher. Lady Astrid is no damsel in distress.”
Hesitating for a few rapid heartbeats, she vacillated between wanting to eavesdrop and doing the proper thing and declaring her presence. But in the end, curiosity—and irritation at his condescending tone—won out over propriety.
She inched closer, the duke’s voice filtering out clearly.
“She was affianced to a snake of a man, for God’s sake.”
His snort was derisive, the sound accompanying his heated words like a dagger to Astrid’s ribs. Oh no, he knew. She pressed a fist to her lips. For some reason, it sounded like he was more upset about her engagement, rather than the gossip or his father’s edict about Everleigh unsuitability. Then again, everything she did seemed to vex him.
“A decade ago,” she heard Fletcher reply. “Admit it: You’re afraid because you’re drawn to her, and now you’ve found a stupid reason to thwart it.”
Astrid held her breath, her heart taking on an erratic pitch.
“Attracted to that shrew? Hardly. She’s more of a beast than I am.”
“Your response to her would say differently,” Fletcher replied snidely.
The duke snorted. “What are you going on about? She’s vexing and irritating and too much of an insufferable know-it-all. I respond to her like I do everyone else.”
“Yes, but you don’t look at her like you do everyone else, do you?”
Silence stretched for a moment as Astrid released a shuddering breath. When the duke spoke again, his voice was dripping in ice. “Once more, Fletcher, you’ve proven that your irritating and unsolicited opinions are completely erroneous.”
Fletcher’s reply was fast and full of amusement. “His Grace doth protest too much, methinks. You’re petrified, plain and simple.”
Thane laughed, the sound devoid of any humor, and once more, his words cut through Astrid like hot blades. “If you think I’m afraid of anyone, man or woman, you’ve gone addlepated. She is the last person in England whom I would ever choose to be the lady of Beswick, even if I was in the market for a wife, which I am not. So stop trying to meddle before I make good on my promise to sack you for good this time.”
“Very well, Your Grace. But you’re wrong about her.”
Astrid warmed at the valet’s stalwart defense, though the duke’s brutally efficient words had done more than enough damage to her pride.
“Do I pay you to disagree with me, Fletcher, or is this another one of your overly generous handouts?”
“The advice is free, though whether you choose to listen is up to you.”
“Let me put this simply, then,” she heard Beswick go on, his voice grim. “Any advice with regards to the lady is unsolicited and unwelcome. I’m not so desperate to be duped into marriage. I might be scarred, but I am a fucking duke.” The thud of a large fist striking wood made Astrid flinch. “No. Hell will freeze over before I marry her—or anyone.”
The widening knot in Astrid’s throat threatened to choke her. His callous words felt like lead ballast, tearing into her without mercy, and she’d let her guard down so thoroughly that she felt the brutal, ugly bite of each one.
God, she couldn’t believe she’d been fantasizing about him not ten minutes earlier! The duke wasn’t some romantically tragic figure who needed saving in some silly fairy tale. He was the cold, cruel villain…the unfeeling monster, inside and out, who chased everyone away.
The sound of movement—a chair scraping along wood floors and heavy footsteps—jolted Astrid’s numbed limbs into action. As she turned to flee toward her chamber, tears stung her eyes. She should have been over the pain of the past by now. But no. It never got easier. The shadow of the scandal would always be a black stain on her existence. In the eyes of the ton, she was ruined. Worthless.
And now apparently worthless in Beswick’s as well.
She would not cry, not for him.
In the safety of her room, Astrid slumped against her bedchamber door, composing herself roughly. With slow breaths, she reached for the cool pragmatism that had been her shield through the first few years following the scandal. It had never failed her, and it would not fail her now. She would persist. She had a job to do, and that was to keep her sister safe.
Beswick was a duke, yes, but he was also a man. And now she knew that he wasn’t immune to her. His cruel words might hurt, but he did look at her differently. She’d been the subject of enough heated glances from the opposite sex to know what that meant.
He wanted her.
And if wedlock to a peer was the only thing that would protect Isobel without fail, Astrid would do whatever it took.
Even if she had to seduce a beast.
Chapter Eight
At dinner the next night, Thane nearly lost his mind, his morals, and his good sense when an angel with a siren’s soul was sent by fate to tempt him to folly.
He’d lost his breath the second Astrid had been announced, his every sexually deprived nerve on fire. Her gown had been simple—a creamy ivory silk with a blond lace overlay—but on Astrid, it had clung to every feminine curve. Curves he’d felt that very first day beneath his hands—a fine bosom, small waist, flared hips—curves that had been buried since under yards of plain, serviceable fabric. The panels of translucent chiffon and lace could have been cannons for all the destruction they’d wrought upon him.
Once he’d gotten past the dress, other hints had been harder to ignore. A glance here, another there. A tart response. A secret smile. Low, throaty laughter. And then there was the way she looked at him. She’d never shied away from his face since that first day, but this was different. He had almost forgotten what it had felt like for a woman to look at him. Eagerly, and with what felt too much like yearning.
What was her game? Because it had to be a game. Astrid had never been so forward.
The absurdity of it—of even contemplating her desiring him—unsettled him. Threw him out of balance. Made him snap and growl throughout the first courses like the uncivilized beast everyone took him for. Even Aunt Mabel had been appalled. She’d chastised him once early on, but his hard glare had silenced her completely.
Astrid had borne his irascible mood with remarkable grace. On occasion, a small pleat would form between her brows, but for the most part, she’d smiled and conversed, waving those elegant hands at every turn. Taunting him with all that he could not have. And hell if he didn’t want it all. Those hands, her mouth, the body under that indecent silk. The excruciating, endless ache in his trousers was proof of it.
Yet another reason for his rapidly fraying temper.
Did she truly think he was so despicable and so desperate that he would be grateful for her attention? For her bold offer? Her arrogant proposition made with the assumption that he wouldn’t be able to find a suitable wife on his own?
Not that he wanted a wife, but still…
Thane clenched his jaw as she sent him a serene smile, tugging her lower lip in between her teeth and demurely lowering her eyelashes. His mind recoiled, but beneath the table, parts of his anatomy leaped with excitement. Christ, even his brain and body were at fucking war.
Conversation had all but dissolved into verbal grunts over the last quarter of an hour. Isobel had left halfway through dinner, claiming a queasy stomach. His aunt had fled after the last course, throwing a sympathetic glance to Astrid and a fulminating one to him, but Thane was well beyond redemption by then.
If a fallen angel had come to lure…she’d succeeded.
He drained his glass as the servants c
“No, thank you, Conrad. I simply could not eat another bite.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Who the flying fuck was Conrad? Thane’s eyes narrowed when the man gazed adoringly at her. Was that the footman’s name? Apart from Fletcher and Culbert, servants at Beswick Park came and went. Thane hired them for their discretion, nothing more, and he certainly did not avail himself of their names. Or watched them fawn over his guests.
“Have you finished flirting with all the servants?” he snapped.
Astrid gave him a cool look. “Is that what I was doing? I thought I was just being courteous and well-mannered.”
“You made the man blush.”
“Well then, at least I can congratulate myself for being moderately successful,” she said in a teasing voice that went straight through his agonized groin. “I am not by any means, you see, an accomplished flirt.”
Jealousy tore through him like a hammer, and he let out a sharp exhale. Good God, was it possible he was jealous of a footman? Thane dismissed the remaining servants with an irritated command. He noticed that Astrid watched their departure with what looked like relief, though he could not be sure whether it was for him or for her. Or for poor sodding Conrad. Thane’s anger folded in on itself as he filled another glass with wine to the brim.
“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” she asked, her stare colliding with his once they were alone. “You seem…aggrieved.”
“I’m fine.” His reply emerged like one caustic grunt of a word.
His mood unraveled further as his eyes caught on the delicate lace overlay of her bodice and the creamy, flushed expanse that rose above it. Had Conrad noticed her radiant skin? Had she wanted him to? Was that why she’d encouraged the man? Thane was spoiling for a fight and he did not know why.
And though every sense warned against opening his mouth, he did it anyway. “That’s an unusual choice of dress for you.”
“Why? Because I’m a spinster? Because I’m tarnished in the eyes of society?” She lifted a slim brow, taking the wind from his sails. “Or because I’m not a blushing debutante? Tell me, Your Grace, which of the above offends your esteemed sensibilities?” Astrid didn’t wait for his answer. “Perhaps I chose white because I like it. It’s a woman’s prerogative, you understand, to wear what she favors. Her wardrobe is one of the few things in her control.”
“And what of a husband? Would he have a say?”
She canted her head. “I imagine so, though I am unmarried, as you well know. I enjoy my freedoms where I can, Your Grace.”
Her previous engagement to Edmund Cain shot back to mind, a fresh wave of jealousy surging with it. The man must have slunk back to England, after leaving his men for dead, only to search out a bride. Had he touched her? Kissed that pert, impudent mouth? Discovered the sinful secrets under those yards of demure white silk? His temper flared.
“Red would be a better choice,” Thane growled, thinking of what he’d read in Fletcher’s report. “For a fallen woman.”
A hint of hurt passed over her eyes before it was gone. “Fallen but not dead. I’m still here, Your Grace, with all my purported sins accounted for. Do you think to judge me for them on account of a simple color?”
The guilt was instantaneous. Pot, meet kettle.
She was right, of course. People judged him on what they saw, and they judged her on what they thought she’d done. Astrid had clearly been the root of a scandal—she’d admitted as much—but whether or not the accusations were true, who was he to punish her for them? No, his reactions stemmed from something else, something he didn’t wish to dwell on too deeply because it felt too much like jealousy.
Thane exhaled. “I suppose one should not throw glass stones when having dinner in glass houses.”
“Unless, of course, one enjoys breaking things.”
It was a dig at his affinity for throwing his father’s porcelain, and he smiled before he thought the better of it. “There is that. It’s quite liberating. You should try it sometime.”
“In your own words, Your Grace, pigs will fly with their tails forward before I lay a harmful finger on any one of those precious antiques.” Astrid let out a musical laugh, shaking her head with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, and Thane couldn’t help himself. He chuckled, too.
He’d said that very thing when they’d first met, and suddenly, Thane felt shame for his behavior. A better man would have apologized, but he wasn’t much of a gentleman, not anymore. Though for some inane reason, she made him want to remember how to be one.
He pushed off his seat and walked to the open terrace doors. “Come,” he told her gruffly. “I wish to show you something.”
For a second, Astrid looked uncertain, but then she gave a short nod and followed silently in his footsteps to the outdoor balcony.
“Where are we going?” she asked after they’d cut back through the darkened gardens and past several well-lit follies.
But she went quiet when the large glass building, and their destination, came into view. The flickering light from internal lamps made the panes of glass glow with internal fire, and he heard her gasp in awe. Thane pushed open the heavy doors, and a rush of warm air and the scent of orange blossoms surrounded them.
“Oh, goodness, what is this place?” she breathed, wonder threading her voice.
“My greenhouse. I built it.”
She gaped at him. “You built this?”
“Yes.”
Inside the glassed-in structure, lush orange trees stood laden with blooms and fruit at its center, the fragrant scent unique and invigorating. Colorful shrubs and plants occupied the rest of it, with a stone footpath cutting through them. Whimsical water features punctuated its meandering shape. Flowers of every hue lay at the edges, climbing intricate trellises set against the paned glass walls.
It was his solitude. His sanctuary. While he’d been at war and later on the Continent, Thane had almost expected what had been only the bones of the conservatory to have fallen into disrepair or neglect, but neither Fletcher nor Culbert had allowed it. When he’d returned, he’d finished it.
“Oh, Thane, it’s incredible,” Astrid breathed as her gaze turned up and up and up, following the path of flowers that climbed on vines all the way to the top. “It’s like we’re in another world.”
He startled at the sound of his given name on her lips, but from her captivated expression, she hadn’t even realized that she’d used it. He instantly wanted to hear it again. Astrid’s eyes were wide with wonder, and it made him ache to give her more. To make her look at him with such softness and admiration in her eyes. He wanted to give her everything.
And that thought made him go cold with dread.
Because he couldn’t.
Fear was a devil with sharp claws and large teeth…and it was relentless.
Had he truly thought showing her this would make her forget what he looked like? Who I’ve become? What had he been thinking? Letting her in wasn’t some miracle that would suddenly turn him into a better man. He was and would always be a beast. Someone to be reviled and isolated. Keeping people at arm’s length was what he did…who he was.
Thane’s entire body compacted into a sick ball of fury, misery, and bitterness. Astrid would never want him in that way. No woman would. Lady Sarah Bolton, whom he had known his whole life, had looked at him with total revulsion at the thought of being touched by him. Stared at him as if he were an animal and fled his presence. No, he could never expose himself to such humiliation again. He whirled to escape the darkness creeping in on him and nearly knocked Astrid over.
With a laugh, she gripped his shoulders to right herself, her elegant fingers landing like hummingbirds on the fabric of his coat. His breath caught. His heart hitched. Time and intent came to a pained halt at the sight of her beautiful, beautiful hands. Touching him. Holding him.
“Thank you for showing me this,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
You’re beautiful, he wanted to say.
He expected her to push him away, but instead her fingers tightened on him. Her face was grave, eyes like pale crystalline chips boring into his. He wanted to drown in the pools of her irises. If he were a poet, he’d describe them as the color of a lake on a winter morning, touched by a pale-blue sky backlit with sunshine. But he wasn’t a poet, far from it. He wasn’t a dreamer. His dreams were nightmares, and she didn’t belong in them.
Thane drew a shattered breath, ready to step aside, when those perfect lips of hers parted, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lower lip. Transfixed, his starved senses reeled as desire swallowed him whole, fracturing practicality and logic, erasing concern and consequence. Demolishing restraint. Obliterating fear.
Leaving only want and need and one inevitable outcome.
He crushed his mouth to hers.
…
The feel of the duke’s lips stole every coherent thought in Astrid’s head. What had started out as a dismal attempt at seduction had dissolved into a pantomime of awkwardness over dinner, but this…this was unexpected. He’d brought her here…to a place that meant something to him. The conservatory was magical. As was the rare glimpse into who this man was, perhaps who he’d been a long time ago before tragedy struck.
And now he was kissing her as if she were the air he needed to breathe. As if she were life and he only subsisted because of her. She breathed in his scent and relished the sweet violence of his mouth, basking in his heated urgency. Astrid’s hands wound up his lapels and twined around his nape into the silky curls above his collar. She met his intensity with a wildness of her own—that fire and fight that he always seemed to bring out in her.
“So sweet,” he groaned into her mouth.
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