Beast of Beswick

by Amalie Howard

  With a jaunty nod, he departed, and Astrid went back to her suite. It would have been lovely to see Aunt Mabel, but the duchess must have been tired from the journey if she had retired to her chambers. Astrid called for Alice and set out for Bond Street. She received several odd looks as she descended the coach, ranging from shock to curiosity, and only belatedly realized that Beswick’s bold family crest—a roaring lion with crossed swords—was displayed on the side.

  “Come, Alice,” she said, tugging on her bonnet and entering the shop, which thankfully was empty. She did not want to run into any society ladies, if she could help it. The reclusive, scarred, and scary Duke of Beswick taking a wife would be gossip fodder for the ages.

  “Your Grace,” a musical voice said. “What an honor to have you.”

  “Madame Pinot, I presume,” Astrid said, turning to greet a petite brunette.

  “You presume correctly, Your Grace,” the modiste said, ushering her to a private salon in the back of the shop that was filled with gorgeous bolts of fabric and pages from La Belle Assemblée detailing the latest Parisian and English fashions. “May I offer you some tea? Some wine? Something stronger? Sherry, perhaps?”

  “Tea would be lovely.”

  The modiste gave the order to a waiting assistant and then brought forward some pages with preliminary sketches. Madame Pinot smiled. “The duke was very specific in his requests for colors, but I think you must tell me what you like as well, oui?”

  “His Grace was here?”

  The modiste gave a coy smile. “Earlier. He instructed me to treat you like a queen and spare no expense.” Her smile widened. “It is nice to have such a devoted husband, non?”

  “I suppose,” Astrid replied.

  Barely a word from her husband in days since his declaration, and yet he’d gone out of his way to visit a lady’s modiste to provide carte blanche on his wife’s purchases. Truly, the man was incomprehensible.

  She tilted her chin. “Well, then we better get to spending His Grace’s money.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  Hours—and a half-dozen cups of tea along with a few glasses of sherry—later, Astrid finally emerged from Madame Pinot’s exclusive salon. She’d been measured, taped, and draped to within an inch of her life, but the modiste’s tastes were truly spectacular.

  When Astrid had inquired how she had known her sizing for the premade gown she’d worn, Madame Pinot—or Silvie as she’d insisted she be called—had given a sly smile and said that the duke had provided the measurements. Astrid hadn’t been able to hide her blush.

  The modiste promised to have one of her premade creations altered and sent to Harte House for the Featheringstoke ball. It’d been made for another lady who had had to go into unexpected mourning and would not be needing the gown.

  It was fate, she had declared. Astrid had hesitated at the near-transparent silvery white confection, but Silvie had been adamant that Astrid was meant to be Titania, queen of the fairies. It was ludicrous. The gown even came with a pair of gossamer wings and a mask that covered half her face. The good thing was that she would be unrecognizable.

  “I count on your discretion, Silvie,” she’d murmured before leaving.

  The modiste had laughed. “In my profession, Your Grace, discretion is as important as currency. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  …

  Thane passed yet another sleepless night while his bride of a week slept like a baby on the other side of the wainscoted wall between their chambers. At least, she never made any noises that he could hear, not even when he pressed his ear to the connecting door like an obsessed fool. And he was obsessed. He grilled Fletcher incessantly as to her daily activities, desperate to know every detail.

  “Why don’t you do us all a favor and talk to your wife?” the valet had sniped the day before, and Thane had nearly put him through the wall.

  “Because I’m asking you,” he’d snarled.

  Fletcher had obliged under threat of losing his position, informing him of her walks in the garden, her time exploring Harte House’s library, her meeting with the head of Christie’s for the auction, the letter she had received from her sister, her acceptance of the invitation to the Featheringstoke ball, her successful visit to the modiste, her suppers with his aunt, and the time she cleaned her teeth and retired for bed.

  Thane had almost lost his temper at Fletcher’s sarcasm, but he was more worried about his headstrong, willful wife. He didn’t want her going to any ton events without protection, but he wasn’t very well going to accompany her. He hadn’t attended a ball since he’d left for war. Already at the thought of formal togs, he could feel the garrote of a heavy cravat against his throat and the stifling heat of a ballroom crammed with hundreds of sweaty bodies.

  No, thank you.

  Aunt Mabel would no doubt be ensconced at Astrid’s side, protective battle-ax that she was. It wouldn’t take society long to put two and two together and guess Astrid’s identity. Perhaps Sir Thornton would be amenable to lending a hand. He’d married the daughter of an earl, Lady Claudia, and they were both well received by the ton during the season. The solicitor could keep an extra eye on his stubborn duchess.

  Following his morning ablutions, Thane strode from his bedchamber only to discover from Culbert that Astrid had already had her breakfast and had gone for her usual morning constitutional in the gardens.

  “The duchess,” Culbert informed him, “rose at an ungodly hour, and Lady Verne is still abed.”

  No wonder Thane hadn’t heard anything on the other side of the wall. It was a marginal comfort to know that she, too, had been unable to sleep. He deliberated between finding her and going to his study to work. While he did not take his seat in Parliament for obvious reasons, he still liked to know what was going on. Sir Thornton’s reports on those matters were painstakingly detailed.

  Considering he actually hadn’t seen his wife since the morning before—like two ships sailing past in the dark—a part of him was desperate to take his own measure of her after Fletcher’s mutinous account. And this was his house, after all. His gardens, too.

  It didn’t take him long to find her. Astrid sat on a bench, an apple core in one hand and a book in the other. Thane found that he missed their after-dinner brandies in the conservatory at Beswick Park and their rousing discussions of life and literature.

  Well then, he’d seen her. He should turn around and leave.

  “What are you reading?” he asked instead.

  Ice-blue eyes peeled from the page, the brief uncertainty in them replaced by aloofness. Without responding, she hefted the book for him to read the title. Ironically, it was Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. He’d bought the thing when it’d first been published anonymously a year ago. Percy Bysshe Shelley, a poet and distant acquaintance, had penned the foreword, but Thane had heard rumors that the man’s wife, Mary, was the true mind behind the gruesome story.

  He lifted a shoulder in a cynical shrug. “Felt like comparing notes?”

  “Do you need something, Your Grace?” she returned coolly.

  “He dies,” Thane said. “At the end, the monster dies after he kills everyone.”

  “Thank you, I’ve read it.” She shot him a stony look. “Though if I hadn’t, you would have spoiled the ending for me.”

  “The author was right; he didn’t deserve to live.”

  He didn’t know why he was provoking her, only that he needed to. He wanted to drag some reaction from her, something other than that rigid composure that turned her into an ice sculpture.

  “Why? Because he was different?”

  “He was an abomination.”

  “Who wanted love. He wanted a mate.” Her voice trembled on the last word, and she ducked her head back to her pages. “Isn’t that what we are all searching for? A partner in life? Companionship?”

&nbs
p; “Not everyone.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Mary Shelley, Percy’s wife, was Wollstonecraft’s daughter, did you know? I’ve heard she wrote the novel, not her husband. From women’s rights and the feminine mystique to unnatural monsters and unhappy endings. Quite a leap for a female author, don’t you think?”

  Her expression peaked with curiosity, her mouth parting as though she might respond, but then she chose to ignore him, focusing studiously on her book. After a while, she looked up. “Do you mean to stand there and hover?”

  “I like watching you.”

  “That’s not disturbing at all.” Sighing loudly, Astrid snapped the book shut and stood, looking everywhere but at him. “Very well, I shall leave you to it, Your Grace. I, however, do not enjoy being incinerated by a pair of eyes belonging to a man who has hardly made the effort to say two words to me in the short time we have been married. Clearly, you have much better things to do than manage a wife. Or even pretend you have one.”

  God, I miss her tart tongue.

  She swept past him in a flurry of skirts, and the faint waft of her scent hit him like a log to the head. Without thinking, Thane reached out to grasp her elbow. She gasped but held herself like a statue, clutching her book to her chest.

  “Astrid, look at me.”

  Rebelliously, she did. At a distance, the power of her gaze had been supportable. At close range, the fire in them was lethal. Her mouth twisted into a grimace, and Thane had to fight with every ounce of sanity in him. He wanted to bend his head and kiss the salty defiance from those lips. Set her on that stone bench, toss her skirts over her head, and lash her with his tongue until the only thing left in her eyes was passion.

  “About the Featheringstoke ball—” he growled. He’d meant to tell her about Sir Thornton accompanying her in his stead, but she didn’t let him finish.

  She reared back, her eyes flashing bloody murder. “You cannot think to forbid me to go.”

  Thane forgot everything he’d been about to say, reacting only to her tone. “If that is my prerogative, certainly I can. I am your husband.”

  “In name only.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Name is the only thing that matters.”

  “Go to hell, Beswick.”

  Thane drew her closer to him, tightening his hold on her elbow even as she tried to wrestle out of his grip. He laughed at her. “What a filthy tongue you have, dear. You sound like a peevish child. Are you a child? Do you know what’s usually done to punish such childish displays of temper? Naughty children are put over the knee.”

  Her eyes went wide as she took his meaning, though his fierce little virago didn’t cower one bit. “You wouldn’t.”

  “No, but don’t tempt me.”

  Thane dragged her so close that her upper body was crushed against his, the book sealed between them. Beneath her loosely fastened cloak, her breasts heaved. He wondered if she were having the same arousing thoughts about a thoroughly erotic spanking and being splayed over his knees, her pert bottom bared to the sky. His other hand moved to the small of her back, his last finger grazing the start of that tempting curvature, and held her against him.

  Now that he had her in his arms, Thane could think of little else. Not his decisions, not keeping her at a distance, not engaging with her at all. All his good sense fell by the wayside.

  They stood there for an interminable moment, panting against each other. Her, standing frozen in his arms. Him, fighting desperately not to take her to the ground and give them both the release they craved. Her tongue snaked out to wet her lips, making his body jerk in response.

  “Thane,” she breathed.

  Her eyes were wide with defiance and desire, her mouth parted. Long fingers fisted in the folds of his morning coat, not pushing him away but not encouraging him, either. He would not ask the question he’d asked that day in the library. No, if she wanted him, she would have to be the one to bend this time.

  “If you want me to kiss you, Astrid,” he told her, “you simply have to ask. You made the rules, after all.”

  “You’re a beast.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never claimed to be anything else. If you want me, say please.”

  She grasped at his lapels as she pushed to her tiptoes, her gaze lit with equal parts anger and passion. Thane’s heart thudded in his chest. Would she do it? Would she give in? Her lips parted, and he leaned forward a fraction, his body stiff and aching. Desire hummed between them, so thick he could taste it on his tongue.

  Put us both out of our misery, he willed her.

  Her lips grazed his, a puff of air feathering against his mouth. Glacial eyes lifted to his. “I wouldn’t beg you to kiss me if you were the last man in England.”

  Then she wrenched out of his grasp and whirled away, stalking toward the house.

  A pained chuckle burst from him. Stubborn little minx.

  …

  Good God, but the man turned her into a raving lunatic.

  “Of all the bloody nerve,” she seethed, storming onto the terrace and into the residence. Culbert and the rest of the maids gave her a wide berth, no doubt crossing themselves as she muttered witlessly to herself. “As if I would ever beg to kiss that loathsome, arrogant jackanapes.”

  Although she was angrier with herself for wanting to kiss the man. And she had wanted to, quite desperately. She’d heard the thread of pain in his voice when he’d compared himself to Frankenstein’s monster. Astrid hadn’t meant to hurt him by selecting the book. She’d been curious to see if she felt differently after getting to know Beswick, who lived such a self-imposed solitary existence because deep down he felt that he was a monster.

  Admittedly, she’d flown off the handle about the ball, but he didn’t own her.

  He does, a smart, know-it-all inner voice reminded her.

  As his wife, she was as good as his property. She clenched her jaw—she’d sworn to herself that she would be at no man’s mercy, and here she was, exactly that. Her face heated at the words she’d flung at him. It was a wonder he hadn’t put her over his knee to deliver the punishment he’d described.

  Astrid felt a throbbing pulse deep in her core. The thought of his bare hand on her equally bare behind turned her brain to mash, twisting dark knots of sensation between her legs.

  Sweet Jesus.

  She needed to do something or she would go mad.

  “Culbert,” she said. “I wish to go for a ride.”

  “Of course, Your Grace, I will send one of the footmen to the mews at once.”

  “Tell the man the faster the horse, the better,” she told him, since Brutus and Temperance were both still at Beswick Park. “And no sidesaddles. A regular saddle will do.”

  Culbert frowned at the unusual demand but nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  She was taking a risk riding astride down Rotten Row, but it was still absurdly early for anyone of import to be about. By the time Astrid had changed into her riding habit and breeches, a horse had been saddled and waiting. The mare that was brought around was a racer. Astrid could tell from the sheer size of the chestnut beast, along with its refined head, muscular hindquarters, and long graceful neck. She was a beauty. She pawed at the ground, steam bursting from her nostrils into the slightly chill air.

  “She’s perfect.”

  “This here is Luna,” the attending groom said and leaned in conspiratorially. “As in lunatic,” he amended. “But don’t tell the duke I said that. She used to be one of his favorites before Goliath. She’s a right brute.”

  Astrid grinned. This was the mount she needed—one that demanded a strong hand and an enormous amount of concentration. They would work each other to the bone. She didn’t want to think about anything. Not her marriage. Not the duke. Not the loss of any freedom she’d ever known. The young groom helped to boost her into the saddle, and Astrid took off with him in tow
on another horse.

  She waved to Beswick, who stood on the side terrace, his eyes widening upon seeing her mount. He opened his mouth, but she couldn’t hear a word beyond the rush of wind in her ears.

  “Keep up,” she called back to the groom with a laugh and braced her knees into the mare’s sides.

  Astrid rode like the wind through Hyde Park until she came to the south end and Rotten Row. And then Luna staunchly refused to obey her commands. Astrid was an expert rider—this mare wanted to run. She’d been stabled far too long and relished the exercise. Under normal circumstances, Astrid would have hauled the horse under control, but she wasn’t thinking straight. No one deserved to be trapped. To be caged at someone else’s whim. To wither away and die. She and Luna deserved some modicum of freedom.

  She gave Luna her head.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thane’s heart lodged in his throat as his eyes tracked Astrid’s breakneck pace into the south end of Hyde Park. She was truly insane.

  He’d wanted to take a piece out of the groom’s side when he’d seen that she’d been given Luna. The horse was unpredictable at best and hadn’t been ridden in some months. Normally, he was the only one to handle her, but he’d been busy. Busy marrying a termagant who was going to snap her fool neck.

  “Her seat is incredible,” Fletcher had said, trying to calm him down. “Better than yours, in fact.” He’d cowered at Thane’s glare. “Culbert said she asked for a spirited horse.”

  “Spirited, not demonic,” Thane had muttered.

  But now, though, as he thundered on Goliath in her wake, he did catch sight of her expert seat. For a moment, he felt real relief that she rode astride, because Astrid rode the horse as if they were one, fluid and effortless. He’d seen her on Brutus, but this was a whole other level of proficiency. Thane couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman—or man for that matter—seat a horse so capably. Despite his anger, he felt admiration.

  Until his eyes fell on the broken tree branch in the path.