Beast of Beswick

by Amalie Howard

  Her eyes flashed blue fire. “I know what you’re trying to do, Beswick, and it won’t work. You see, I actually have a working brain, unlike the other females of your acquaintance.”

  Thane grinned, his arm lowering to capture her waist. “That big brain of yours is what I’m counting on.”

  And then he took her lips with his.

  Chapter Eleven

  Astrid’s very capable brain was supremely incapable of thought, blanketed as she was with a huge, determined duke. And truth was, she didn’t want to. She’d wanted to wrap herself around him and kiss him the moment he’d thundered into the village, and she wasn’t about to deny herself the occasion, no matter how irate she was.

  Dreadful know-it-all man.

  Though sweet Lord in heaven, he knew how to kiss.

  It was as if he were born to it. Born to use that sinful mouth of his in every decadent way. Even now, it nipped at hers, coaxing her lips to part wider, his tongue sliding in and out in silken, teasing strokes. Taking, giving. Demanding, worshipping.

  “Take this down,” he muttered thickly, his hands going to the pins in her hair. She felt the mass tumble down her back and heard his satisfied groan as he dug his fingers into it, cupping her nape in his large palms as his mouth found hers again.

  This was only their second kiss, and though it tasted the same—hot and dark and sweet—it felt different. This kiss was evocative of winter nights in front of a fireplace, of spiced wine and delicious secrets.

  “Say my name,” he whispered between breaths.

  She wanted to resist, but her lips wanted his more. “Thane.”

  The reward was explosive as his mouth slanted hotly over hers. His clever tongue ignited a pulsating ache in her breasts and between her thighs and sent shivers over her skin. She was awash with sensation. With fire, and she wanted to burn.

  Astrid wound boneless arms around his neck and clung to him, even as he lifted her easily into his own and deposited them both into a nearby armchair. Cradling her body to him, his lips left hers to travel down her throat in sensual nudges and bites until all she could do was sigh in pleasure and give in to his skill. Vaguely, she became aware of his straining arousal beneath her thighs, and she murmured a half protest about servants, which he promptly smothered with his mouth.

  She was so lost in the web of passion that she didn’t hear the commotion at the door until it was too late. Far too late.

  “Good God, Astrid, what are you doing?”

  Isobel’s shocked face swam into view when Astrid tore her lips away from Beswick’s. But it wasn’t her sister who made her scramble out of the duke’s lap, it was the veritable entourage behind her. Including her aunt and uncle, Lady Mabel, a gentleman she did not recognize, an openly gloating Fletcher…and Lady Ashley. Astrid cringed at the last. The stylishly appointed lady was the pinnacle of Southend society. And its arbiter.

  Astrid blinked in horror, staring down the tableau of her own ruin.

  Again.

  Lady Ashley’s presence at Beswick Park was no accident.

  Once more, she’d been betrayed by a man, only this time, it wasn’t a lie. And there were witnesses. Witnesses whose expressions ran the usual gambit upon seeing Beswick in the flesh. Fear, loathing, and horror were written on her aunt’s and uncle’s faces, though those were quickly eclipsed by hostility. Isobel and Lady Ashley looked properly scandalized, Lady Mabel stricken. The unfamiliar man wore no expression at all.

  Astrid glared accusingly at the duke, who had risen to stand beside her, her voice a low hiss. “Did you arrange this?”

  She moved to step away, but one muscular arm came down around her, holding her in place. “Not this way.”

  “Explain.”

  The duke nodded to Culbert. “Please show our guests to the morning salon. Lady Astrid and I will be along shortly.”

  “But she is unchaperoned,” a pinch-faced Lady Ashley said. “It’s not proper to be alone with an unmarried lady, Beswick.”

  The expression on the duke’s face was comical, given the scene they’d interrupted. Astrid would have snorted if she weren’t stinging from his betrayal. Nine years ago, she’d only had her word and the truth, and she’d lost everything anyway. Now, being caught in flagrante delicto only compounded what people had once believed of her. That she was a loose woman.

  “I intend to rectify that, Lady Ashley,” he replied calmly.

  “Now, see here,” Uncle Reginald said. “This is demmed outrageous.”

  The low rumbling growl came from the man at her side. Astrid could feel every muscle in the duke’s body bunching as if he were an animal readying to strike. Without thinking, she braced her palm against his, not for any other reason than to prevent bloodshed.

  Lady Mabel cleared her throat, her amber eyes falling to their joined hands, and Astrid hastily dropped her hold. “You have five minutes, nephew.”

  When the room cleared, Astrid lifted her gaze to Beswick’s eyes. It was a mistake. He hid nothing from her in their swirling whiskey-colored depths—not his regret, not his intent, not the embers of desire. A lock of silky brown hair curled onto his cheek, making him look almost boyish, like the young man in his family portraits. Unbelievably, impossibly, she wanted to kiss him again.

  Astrid tore her eyes away and broke free of his clasp. “By my count, you’re down to four minutes, Duke.”

  “Astrid.”

  She clenched her jaw. “Beswick.”

  The corner of his lip twitched at her tart reply, one tawny eyebrow tenting as if to signify the obvious fact that she’d been moaning his given name not moments before.

  He poured two glasses of cognac and offered her one, which she accepted with an ungracious huff. She wasn’t that stubborn. She took a bracing sip and then another. And then an indelicate gulp.

  “Slowly,” he said, watching her over the rim of his own glass.

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Three minutes, Duke.”

  He canted his head after a sip of brandy. “I directed Fletcher to summon Viscount Everleigh the minute I rode for the village. I preferred to have the advantage, should he come barreling in here with demands. Lady Ashley was to be my insurance in case your uncle accused me of abducting you or Isobel.”

  Astrid shook her head. “He wouldn’t go so far. Who would believe such a lie?”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Beswick swilled the rest of the brandy, his face going hard and drawing attention to the ropes of scars beside it. “You don’t think they speak of me in London? They think me a beast. A shadow of a man wrecked by war. Outside and inside. The ton will believe any piece of salacious gossip that makes them salivate. The fact that I possess a coronet only makes it more sensational.”

  Astrid sucked in a breath, her fury forgotten. “You’re a duke.”

  “You say that as if it’s a magic wand.”

  “Isn’t it?” she asked. “You’re one of the most powerful peers in the realm.”

  Beswick smiled, and it was as dark as anything she’d ever seen. She suppressed a shiver. “People don’t like monsters, Astrid.”

  “You’re not a monster.”

  He gestured to himself. “The world sees otherwise.”

  The explanation made sense, though it didn’t take away the sting of his method…that he’d taken her choices from her in a manner that stank of what Beaumont had once done. It wasn’t fair to compare the two situations or the two men, but Astrid couldn’t help feeling deceived.

  “Why marriage?” Taking his empty tumbler, she walked to the mantel and refilled both their glasses from the decanter. She handed one to him, and they sipped in silence. “I seem to recall overhearing something about hell freezing over before you would marry me.”

  “I was wrong then. And angry at what I’d discovered.” His mouth twitched. “I didn’t take you for an eavesdropper.”

 
“Trust me, I hadn’t planned to.”

  He held her stare. “Regardless, we seem to have an indisputable…rapport, and while lust isn’t always a basis for marriage, I’m willing to concede on that point.”

  Her cheeks burned at the bald admission, an instant pulse beginning to throb between her legs. “Lust?”

  “Yes.” Beswick nodded, answering heat sparking in his eyes that made her already erratic throb deepen. “But this isn’t only about that. If it makes it more palatable, then think of protecting Isobel. Isn’t this what you wanted? I’m offering you both a way out.”

  Astrid swallowed hard. He was right. This was what she’d wanted from the start. For Isobel’s sake. But when she’d proposed marriage to him before, she’d meant it to be bound by the practical, sensible terms of an agreement. Before there was any attraction between them and before her decisions had become clouded by sentiment. She knew all too well where such things could lead…and how easily it could turn to heartbreak.

  …

  Astrid looked so conflicted that Thane wanted to pull her into her arms and kiss her into agreement. However, he knew she had to take the last step on her own. He hadn’t lied about the attraction between them being an incentive for marriage, but his deeper intentions had everything to do with protecting her from Cain.

  The moment in the study had gotten away from both of them, and while Thane had not planned for them to be discovered so flagrantly in each other’s arms, the outcome would be the same—a marriage.

  “I have new terms,” Astrid said eventually.

  “I wouldn’t expect you not to.”

  Astrid huffed a breath. “Unlike my previous offer, apart from the necessary consummation of the vows, this will be a marriage in name only.”

  “Done.”

  “One more thing,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. “What happened between us here cannot happen again. Kissing, to be clear.”

  Before he could reply, Aunt Mabel pushed open the library doors, her face anxious. Though the worry wasn’t for them, it seemed. “Hurry, Beswick, before things escalate further. Culbert and Fletcher are not helping matters, and the viscount is voicing all manner of threats.” She breathed in deeply. “You should also know that Beaumont has arrived with the local parish officer in tow.”

  “Beaumont?” Astrid said, striding for the door. “The parish officer? Whatever for? Does he mean to take Isobel?”

  Thane opened his mouth to reassure her, but she’d already sped past his aunt, her face drawn with worry. He caught up with her easily, and when they arrived at the entrance to the morning salon, it was complete chaos. Everyone was shouting, the viscount was red in the face, and Beaumont wore his usual sneer. Apparently, the man hadn’t taken his earlier warning seriously. Thane would simply have to be more convincing.

  He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent. “We have a wedding to plan.”

  The viscount spluttered anew. “Now see here, you bounder, she is my niece. I have the right to thwart any fortune hunters and the like.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Everleigh.” Aunt Mabel looked down the length of her aristocratic nose at him as if he were lower than a slug. “The Hartes have no need of fortune.”

  He reddened but scowled. “The duke falls into the category of the like.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Look at him,” Everleigh scoffed, his disgust plain. “With a face like that, he’d have to coerce any woman to wed him. There’s no way a beautiful niece of mine would have accepted willingly.”

  “She looked rather willing when we arrived, eh, Culbert?” That was from Fletcher, the insubordinate rascal. Thane bit back a smile at Astrid’s instant blush.

  “Begone,” Viscount Everleigh said. “Servants have no place here.”

  Thane hiked an eyebrow. “You’ll forgive me, Everleigh, if I take offense at you ordering about my staff. Fletcher is more than welcome to share his opinion.”

  “Well, I never,” the viscount fumed. “If you think I’m going to give my blessing to this union, you are wrong, sir.”

  “Your Grace,” Lady Ashley corrected.

  The viscount glowered rudely at her. “What?”

  “The duke outranks you and so you must address him as Your Grace, Lord Everleigh,” Lady Ashley said with a sniff of disdain. “It is only proper.”

  “I do not approve of your suit, Your Grace,” Everleigh mocked. “The answer is no.”

  “We don’t need your approval, Uncle.”

  Thane’s gaze pivoted to land on Astrid, who was standing to his right beside her sister, her chin high. She would hold him to task and blister him with her tongue behind closed doors, but she would not dishonor him publicly.

  “I’ve reached my majority, and it says clearly in my father’s will that in my own sound judgment, I may pick a husband of my choosing.” Her smile was tight. “As long as he is of good birth, titled, and not a fortune hunter as we’ve already established, my choice shall stand. The Duke of Beswick is a sound match.”

  “Sound? You’re not of sound judgment, more like it,” he accused. “Look at him,” he shouted again. “He’s a bloody beast who doesn’t even possess the manners to exist in polite society. Is that what you want? To accept that savage creature into your bed?”

  Isobel gasped, her face flushing at her uncle’s crudeness, and the older ladies present tittered with disapproval.

  “Uncle!” Astrid cried, her gaze flying to Thane’s, but he was used to it and more. He kept his expression shuttered, despite the urge to smash his fist into the viscount’s mouth, but he would not give him or Beaumont the satisfaction or an excuse to call his mental capabilities into question. He wouldn’t put it past either man to undermine him with accusations of violence. Founded on the battlefield though such claims might be, Thane would never harm a woman.

  Lady Ashley huffed. “For shame, Lord Everleigh—you venture into the obscene. And in the presence of gently bred ladies, no less. For shame, my lord.”

  “It is the duke who has no shame. He has ruined my precious niece. Forced her.”

  And there it was—accusation number one.

  “Is this true, Your Grace?” the parish officer who had accompanied Beaumont asked, speaking for the first time.

  “Why not ask the lady?” Thane replied. “Lady Astrid is more than capable of speaking for herself.”

  He’d expected her to reply, not to move to his side and take his hand firmly in hers. Thane’s throat felt tight. A tremble passed over her shoulders. “The duke did not force me. I accepted his suit of my own free will.”

  “Good Lord, see how she’s shaking with fear,” Lady Everleigh cried. “I saw it. The girl is terrified. An imbecile could see it!”

  Thane opened his mouth to silence the absurdity once and for all, but Astrid beat him to it. She met her aunt’s crazed eyes with cool composure, the hint of a smile on her lips. “I assure you, Aunt Mildred, it’s not fear that makes me shiver.”

  God. This woman.

  Thane was so fucking proud of her in that moment, he wanted to crush her to him. Fall to his knees and worship her as she deserved. His own avenging angel. Others saw it, too. He could see the sheen of tears in his aunt’s eyes and the surprise in Lady Ashley’s. He ignored the disgust in everyone else’s, as if it was so inconceivable that a living, breathing woman could feel anything but revulsion for him. Thane felt an odd sensation in his chest… as if the organ that used to be there had suddenly started working.

  “You are sick and wicked, child,” Lady Everleigh whispered. “That you would bed the devil himself.”

  “That is enough,” Thane said in a dark, deadly voice. “Leave, all of you.”

  “Isobel, retrieve your things,” the viscount commanded.

  “No,” she said calmly. “I’m staying here with Astrid.”

&nb
sp; Astrid moved toward her sister, but Beaumont blocked her path. “She is betrothed to me,” he said. “Perhaps a double wedding will be in order.”

  “Over my dead body,” Astrid snarled.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” he said. “The settlement has already been reached.”

  Thane’s longtime solicitor, Sir Thornton, cleared his throat. “According to the documents of the late Lord Everleigh, which I’ve secured from Jenkins and Jenkins, the viscount’s prior solicitor, it is clear to me that should Lady Astrid take a husband, he will act as guardian in the interests of both his wife and Lady Isobel.”

  “Isobel is already betrothed,” Everleigh insisted. “It is done.”

  Sir Thornton went on as if the viscount hadn’t spoken. “Since your niece’s nuptials have yet to take place, approval must be granted by Lady Astrid’s husband.”

  “Then we will do it via special license,” Beaumont hissed, reaching for Isobel.

  “Do not lay a finger on her,” Thane said, the soft words as effective as if he’d roared them. “I warned you what would happen, Beaumont, if you came near my fiancée or her sister again. Now pay heed or you will not like the outcome.”

  “Are you calling me out?” he asked, throwing a look to the parish officer. “Dueling is illegal.”

  “Do you wish me to spell it out? Very well. I dislike your style. I dislike your small mind. I dislike the knot in your cravat. I dislike you. Shall I continue? Or have I insulted you enough?”

  A bead of sweat formed on the man’s brow. “You go too far, Beswick.”

  “Do I?”

  Beaumont’s eyes widened, and Thane almost laughed. Had the coxcomb really thought that he would be cowed by the presence of the parish officer? No one terrorized a duke in his own home, much less one like him.

  “By God, Beswick, you’ve gone mad.”

  “No, on the contrary, I’m perfectly sane.” Thane turned to the jowl-faced man standing behind him. “Parish Officer Jones, unless you have something to charge me with, I bid you good day.”

  The man blanched and bowed. “No, I do not, Your Grace. Good day.”