“We need to marry before Uncle Reginald tries to find some loophole in my father’s will.”
“Yes, I have the license.”
Her eyes flew to his. “You do?”
“What did you think I came to London for?” he asked, frowning.
Astrid swallowed. “I don’t know. I assumed it was for business. Culbert didn’t say much other than you had gone. I thought maybe you left because you were angry.” Her eyes snagged on the evening clothing that Fletcher had set out. “Were you going out?”
“No.”
Her fingers dipped to stroke the superfine jacket. “It looks like you were.”
“I was, but I’m not anymore.”
“Beswick,” she began, and he sighed at the address. They were back to formality. She’d called him Thane when she’d first arrived, and the welcome sound of it had made his barren heart fist in his chest. Her beautiful face was devoid of emotion, but he could see those slender fingers of hers winding in her skirts as if they were too undisciplined to be contained by the force of her will. Those expressive hands always gave her away. “Do you have a mistress?”
His mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Here in London. Do you?”
“No.”
“I thought that was why you came to Town. Because I could not…would not…give you what you wanted.” Astrid stared at the ground, her cheeks crimson. “I know when we first spoke about terms and mistresses…”
She gulped and trailed off miserably. Thane wanted to laugh, but he was sure she would not appreciate his humor in the situation. When she’d first propositioned him, he’d only been toying with her to see what she would say. He took her hands in his.
“Astrid, I assure you, I do not have a mistress or mistresses. And I was not on the way out to sow my wicked and wild oats, if that was what you were imagining.” Her blush deepened, and he cleared his throat. “However, as it so happens, I do have something quite important planned. And now, so do you, in fact.”
She glanced down at her dusty, wrinkled riding habit, her brown eyebrows raised in surprise. “I am not dressed for society. What is it?”
“Our wedding.”
She blanched, her voice lowering, though no one was around to hear her confession. “I am wearing breeches, Your Grace.”
Thane’s deep chuckle filled the room. “Somehow, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was nearly over before Astrid could even blink.
And she did indeed appear for her own wedding in a riding habit and breeches. Though she had brought a few of her sturdy gowns with her, Beswick seemed happy enough with her current state of dress. The minor mortification was eclipsed by the solemnity of the moment. Matrimony. To a man she barely knew but somehow trusted enough to hand over everything most dear to her.
Her sister. Her inheritance. Her future.
Her fragile heart, however, she would guard for as long as possible.
A vicar had been sent for, and the nuptials were to take place in Harte House’s empty ballroom. Though she mourned her sister not being present, it was for Isobel’s very sake that their vows were taken so hastily. Astrid would not put it past Beaumont to ruin Isobel given the chance, but her uncle and aunt would not welcome the scandal. Perhaps the earl, too, had secured a special license and intended to wed Isobel.
Well, no matter. She would now be the Duchess of Beswick.
A duchess.
Astrid drew in a smothered breath as the vicar’s terrified eyes rose to the imposing duke—standing without covering over his face—and fell away to begin the service. Oddly, the vicar’s ungoverned reaction made Astrid want to kick him. She understood what he was seeing. Beswick’s appearance was chilling, though she herself had grown used to it.
She saw the man beneath.
Thane repeated his vows in a deep, resonant voice, no hesitation in it. “I, Nathaniel Blakely Sterling Harte, take thee, Astrid Victoria Everleigh, to be my wedded wife.”
His Christian name is Nathaniel?
The vicar cleared his throat. “Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”
Astrid started as the vicar’s eyes fell upon her. He shot her a look as if to ask, Are you certain this is indeed of your own free will? She nearly laughed through her muddled nerves. “I will,” she said.
She sucked in a breath but was distracted by the exquisite sapphire ring the duke slid from his pocket and placed onto her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
“Then, those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” the vicar said.
Thane turned to her, his beautiful eyes a shade of amber that was so clear, she could see a myriad of gilded golden flecks in it. Would he kiss her? It wasn’t the custom, but he never did anything the way it was supposed to be done. She closed her eyes, just as his lips brushed her cheek. “You and Isobel are safe now.”
And then it was done.
Clapping pulled her out of her thoughts as she turned to see Fletcher and the rest of the staff of the townhouse. They were blurred by her tears. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”
“In lieu of a wedding breakfast,” Thane said as she discreetly wiped her eyes, “we shall go to my private club for a wedding supper tonight. The staff will be dismissed from service this evening in celebration.”
As he escorted her upstairs, Astrid leaned in. “I don’t have any clothing appropriate for dinner, Beswick.”
“Thane,” he corrected.
“Not Nathaniel?” she asked with a smile.
Her husband grimaced. “Not if you value your tongue.”
A stunned giggle burst from her at the ferocious but empty threat. “Why do you hate it? It’s a lovely name.”
“I’ve never used it,” he said. “I couldn’t pronounce it when I was a child, and Thane stuck. I’ve always felt it was more…me. My father hated it, but when I refused to answer to any other name for nigh on a year, he eventually gave in as well.”
Astrid had to agree. Thane suited him perfectly. Nathaniel, by contrast, seemed too complicated. Too old-fashioned. Thane carried individuality and strength and an innate simplicity—that what one saw was what one got. If one looked beyond the obvious, that was. Astrid’s glance slid up to the ragged scar splitting his face and the vines of smaller ones creeping down the left side of his cheek and jaw. He was a tapestry of pain but held himself proudly.
Thane.
She ignored the sudden pressure behind her eyes. “I left in such a rush that I didn’t bring a gown for dinner.”
The duke gave her a benign smile and ushered her toward the suite of rooms belonging to the Duchess of Beswick. “Since Agatha is with Isobel, I’ve arranged for the sister of one of the footmen to assist you.” He bowed, mischief in his eyes. “I will see you for dinner shortly…my lady.”
Curious, Astrid walked into her chambers. It was, like everything else in Harte House, exquisitely appointed, in a subtle pale-gold and green color scheme that was pleasing to the eye. An enormous bed sat at the center of the room, its bedposts draped in filmy gauze. A connecting door at one end led to the duke’s own chambers. Her heart stuttered at the thought that the wedding night would have to be consummated, especially to those who might push to have it annulled, but she was grateful that she had her own privacy. For now.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” a young girl said, bobbing a curtsy. “I’m Alice.”
“Good evening, Alice.” Astrid walked toward the bed where the girl stood, her jaw going slack at the sight of the gown on the bed. It was a frothy ice-blue creation of tulle and silk. “Where did that come from?” she whispered.
“From Madame Pinot,” Alice piped up. “She�
Astrid was dumbfounded by the duke’s thoughtfulness. It seemed she had underestimated her new husband, as well as his influence and bottomless coffers if he was able to get a dress in less than an hour and commission an entire wardrobe from a celebrated modiste during the busy start of the Season. She stared at the lovely gown that Madame Pinot must have had on hand and wondered whether it would fit.
“His Grace ordered a bath prepared for you as well.” Alice held out a folded piece of parchment. “Also, a letter came for you, my lady.”
“A letter?” Astrid blinked. “From whom?”
“I’m not sure, Your Grace, but it was delivered to the kitchens a few minutes ago, addressed to Lady Astrid.”
She took the folded piece of foolscap with shaking hands and opened it. Her knees gave out at the sight of the urgently scrawled handwriting, and she collapsed onto the armchair in the sitting area. It was from Isobel, and it was exactly as she had suspected.
My dearest Astrid,
I hope this note finds you well. I’ve just heard from Agatha by way of Fletcher that you arrived in Town only today, and she has promised to see this to you.
First of all, I am well, so do not worry yourself. Please understand that I had to do this, for both our sakes. You should not have to marry under duress, not Beswick, not anyone. I only want for your happiness, Astrid. And mine, too, of course, but never at the expense of yours. You’ve always taken care of me, and it’s my turn now.
In other news, Uncle Reginald is very cross with us but says that I can make it right by securing an expedient match. He says that we are here for the Season so that I may be courted properly and have my choice of suitors. The Earl of Beaumont is also in London, and he remains Uncle’s top candidate for marriage. I have overheard that he means to seek the Prince Regent’s favor to overturn Father’s terms of approval.
Please do not worry about me. If you need to reach me, send word to Agatha. I will be at the Featheringstoke ball a week hence. It is a masquerade. Perhaps I will see you there.
I remain yours, faithfully. Your loving sister, Isobel.
Her sister sounded…normal. Astrid hadn’t expected that, but then again, recent events had been more surprising than not. And Isobel had come to London of her own free will. Perhaps Beswick was correct. Her sister had come from the same willful stock she had. Despite her youth, she was strong and resilient. And she was loyal to a fault.
Astrid’s heart raced as she reread the note. The Featheringstoke ball. It would be a chance to see Isobel for herself, and since it was a masquerade, she would be disguised. She would plan to be in attendance if it killed her. If only to see for herself that her sister was well.
She placed the letter down and followed the maid into the bathing chamber that connected both suites. It seemed somehow far too intimate that she and Beswick would now share such a space. A tub half full of heated water awaited her. It was more than enough for her needs, but she suspected it had been designed with the much larger duke in mind. Astrid couldn’t help the rush of heat along her veins at the scandalous thought that they would both be nude, though at different times, in this very bathing tub.
Undressing quickly, she peeled the dusty riding habit from her body with Alice’s help and then stepped into the deliciously hot water. With a happy sigh, she lathered with the lemon-scented soap that Alice held toward her in a small jar and washed her hair.
The door at the far end of the chamber cracked open, and Astrid squeaked as the master of the house—and her new husband—leaned against the doorjamb. Alice scurried from the room when he gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
He didn’t come any closer, and though the water was opaque with soap suds, his golden stare caressed Astrid from head to toe…even the parts he couldn’t possibly see—causing her to erupt in tingles everywhere. Mortified at her instant reaction to him, she crossed her arms over her tightening breasts.
His broad frame dwarfed the space. He was still dressed in his clothing from earlier, though his cravat looked like it was about to give up the ghost, hanging on to within an inch of its life. His golden-brown hair was endearingly rumpled, curling into one eye and giving him a rakish look. Astrid had to look to pinpoint his facial scars, when all she could see were those brilliant jeweled eyes of his and that firm, sculpted mouth.
“This is my favorite room in this house,” he said softly. He crossed his ankles, one booted foot over the other, and Astrid couldn’t help but notice how snugly his black breeches encased his lean, muscled thighs. Or how the white lawn shirt beneath his open waistcoat hugged the sleek abdominal muscles beneath it.
“It’s lovely,” she managed, entirely too conscious of her own nudity and his disturbing nearness. Not that she expected him to pounce upon her, but she felt defenseless. Astrid cleared her tight throat. “I’m not late, am I?”
“No.”
“Oh,” she replied.
He cleared his throat, a deep flush suffusing his skin. “I know you might wish to wait to…consummate the vows, but given the circumstances, sooner might be in our best interest.”
Her lungs seized. Good Lord, he was talking about their wedding night. While she was naked. In a tub. The sensible part of her knew it had to be done, even for a marriage that would be in name only, but other parts of her quivered and quailed. Astrid reached for detached poise and failed miserably. “Quite so. I agree, Your Grace.”
His eyes held hers. “Thane.”
“Thane,” she repeated, her hand sloshing the water.
He didn’t respond, his burning eyes focused on a point below her chin. The sapphire ring on her finger, she presumed, but her assumption was corrected with one glance down. A peach-tipped nipple peeked from the suds floating on the water’s surface. Mortified, she shifted her hand to cover herself.
“Don’t,” her husband said thickly, moving so fast that when he knelt at the edge of the tub, she bit back a hushed gasp. He stared in fascination, his lips flattened, a muscle flexing in that lean jaw. His index finger rose to circle the bud, causing the wet skin to tighten more. “You’re beautiful.”
Astrid sucked in a ragged breath, but the duke seemed utterly mesmerized. Without a word, he rolled the pebbled peak between two fingers, and she couldn’t hold back her moan as lightning shot from her breasts to her thighs. Unconsciously, she arched her back like a cat, pushing her body into his caress. Wanting more. Wanting all.
“Thane, I ache,” she whispered.
His cheek flexed as he froze, his frame rigid, and then scooped her up into his arms, soaking wet. Astrid didn’t even have the decency to blush as he took her to his adjoining chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He placed her in the middle of his large bed, uncaring of his now drenched sheets, and snuffed out the single candle in the room before she heard the telltale rustle of clothing.
In the moment, she wasn’t afraid. She wanted this. She felt restless, her nerves on edge, warmth pooling through her limbs like honey, that ache inside her demanding to be soothed. After a beat, the mattress dipped under his weight, and as his long body hovered over hers, Astrid almost laughed. If there was a time for her brain to put “naked” and “duke” together, this was it.
Although he wasn’t completely naked. He still wore his shirtsleeves. Astrid could feel the fabric grazing her overly sensitive breasts, and compassion surged through her as she recalled the scars she’d glimpsed for a half second when he’d been in his tub at Beswick Park. But then a pair of lean, hair-roughened, bare thighs slid against hers, and her brain went deliciously blank. He was obviously naked down there. And thick and hard and ready.
Her breath sawed out of her lungs.
She was on the cusp of losing her virginity. Losing the very thing that had plagued her every waking moment ever since Beaumont’s accusations. No! She didn’t want to think about him. Not now, not here. She’d chosen to marry Beswick, and she’d chosen to be here in his bed. Chosen to be his wife. These were her choices…on her terms.
“You’re wet,” he growled.
“I just had a bath,” she said without thinking.
His low laughter warmed her as his fingers brushed her curls at the apex of her thighs, and she almost bowed off the bed. “Here. You’re wet for me.”
Astrid sucked in a breath but lost it the minute those big hands started caressing her bare legs…over her calves, behind her knees, her inner thighs. Thane settled his large body between them, his fingertips finding sensitive areas that made her nerve endings scream, and by the time he returned to the heart of her quivering core, she was an overwrought mess of want.
“God, Astrid, you feel like warmed satin.”
The mattress shifted with his weight—the only warning she had before warm lips kissed her there. Right where it ached the most. She nearly shot off the bed as his tongue swirled against her hot flesh. Suddenly, Astrid wished she could see in the darkness, as she imagined those wide shoulders ensconced between her legs, but all she could do was feel.
And feel and feel and feel.
Thane took his time, mapping each fold like a master cartographer, learning each spot that made her writhe and moan against his unhurried onslaught. Astrid had seen lewd drawings in the pages of erotic books, but nothing prepared her for what such a thing felt like. In the darkness, it felt sinfully decadent. Lush. Raw. Powerful.
“It’s too much, Thane. I can’t…”
“You can,” he said, cool air blowing on the exposed heart of her. And then he proceeded to torture her once more, this time adding fingers to the mix. Astrid’s back arched as his lips and tongue worked against her, lapping, sucking, and circling without mercy, while two of his long fingers sank inside her.
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