Lord above, but he made her heart flutter.
Astrid exhaled, and he looked up, their eyes colliding for an inexorable moment before he moved, his lion’s gaze scanning her from bodice to hem, lingering on the creamy expanse of décolletage revealed by the gown, her cinched-in waist, and the elbow-length white kidskin gloves that covered her hands. After an eternity, his gaze lifted to hers once more. His cheeks had grown ruddy, his eyes glazed, and when he spoke, his voice was gravelly. “There’s no word in the history of language to describe how beautiful you are.”
Astrid blushed, her cheeks going dangerously hot. “Thank you, Your Grace, you look incredibly handsome.”
“That’s one I haven’t heard in a while.” Thane’s lip curled in ironic humor, and Astrid felt a stab in the vicinity of her chest. Did he think she would be so callous as to be glib? That she’d meant it in jest? Surely he did not think her so heartless?
“I was sincere.”
“Perhaps we should leave it at well-heeled, Duchess.” His laugh was hollow. “Money, you see, can purchase clothing so exorbitantly expensive that it’s designed to distract from a beastly face. Or that’s what the tailor says anyway.”
After his heartfelt compliment, the biting sarcasm took her by surprise. She did not know what had suddenly set him off, and she didn’t wish to encourage him or become the target of his capricious moods. “Good thing you have lots of it, then,” she said mildly. “We are already late. Shall we go?”
“Of course, though later is better for an arrival.”
When most of the other guests would already be seated, Astrid realized.
In the foyer, where Culbert retrieved their cloaks, she eyed the duke over her shoulder. His eyes had been fastened on the breadth of bare skin at her back, the neckline of the dress dipping scandalously low on her spine into a V shape. Astrid’s skin felt singed just from the burn of his stare. Female satisfaction licked through her as his greedy gaze chased the knots of her spine until they disappeared.
“Do you like my dress?” she asked, hiding her smile. “Madame Pinot informed me that you selected the fabric and color.”
He inhaled a shuddering breath and dragged his hot gaze away. “Fabric that was meant to cover you,” he said with a scowl.
“It is of her own design. Clever, no?”
“That woman is a heretic and should not be allowed near a pair of scissors.”
“Come now, Beswick, surely you’re not turning into a prudish fusspot in your dotage?”
“Did you just call me a…a…fusspot?”
Astrid laughed as he helped her into the coach. “If the shoe fits.”
She’d hoped to make him laugh, tease him a bit, but her hope had been in vain. As he entered the coach, his mouth flattened into a hard white line, and his jaw went rigid. It looked like he’d gone somewhere else in his head. Somewhere dark. A muscle in his cheek took up residence, flexing frantically, a sheen of sweat coating his brow. His gloved fists were clenched on his knees, his posture as stiff as a ship’s mast as the carriage rolled into motion.
“Thane, what’s the matter? Are you well?”
“Yes,” he bit out without looking at her.
“Thane.”
“Not now, Astrid. Pray let us get through this evening without incident.”
She fell silent, seeing his struggle for what it was. He was beyond panicked. Not to compare him to a horse, but it was much the same as when Brutus reacted to a crop. The duke was stiff with terror. Sure, it was in a private box with a private entrance that he paid handsomely for, but it was out in public nonetheless. A gargantuan feat, clearly, for him.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Stone-jawed, he flared his nostrils. “Leave it. I’m here.”
The rest of the short journey to Covent Garden passed in silence, and when they arrived, they were indeed whisked through a private narrow hallway to the Duke of Beswick’s box. It was unlit but for the light that came from elsewhere. The production had already begun, so they sat quietly and quickly to avoid drawing undue attention. Astrid noticed that all the boxes on either side of theirs were empty.
Thane saw her stare. “I bought them all.”
She didn’t even want to think of what that would have cost. The duke did not put a price on privacy.
“Beaumont’s box is over there,” he said in a tight voice.
Astrid reached for her lorgnettes and held them up to her eyes. Her sister, Isobel, was indeed in Beaumont’s box a few levels down. However, their aunt and uncle were not. Upon further scrutiny, she saw that the earl and her sister weren’t quite alone. Agatha, God bless her, sat toward the back. She was only a maid, but Astrid breathed a sigh of relief.
Astrid scanned the other boxes, and true to her word, Aunt Mabel sat in the section adjacent to them. Opening her fan, the duchess’s glance flicked upward unobtrusively over its lace edge, and Astrid nodded back.
Time for the games to begin.
Chapter Twenty-two
Shortly before the start of the performance, Astrid left the duke’s box. Keeping to shadowy passageways, Mabel’s footman, Frederick, escorted Astrid to Madame Diamante’s suite while the famous opera singer was getting ready to perform onstage. She was as sweet as her voice and made herself scarce soon after the quick introductions. Astrid was grateful for both the lady’s and the footman’s discretion. People would froth at the mouths if they knew Beswick himself was here. It would not do for her to be discovered.
She waited in the empty sitting room, counting the seconds. They turned into a full minute, then another, then five. And then ten. Isobel wasn’t coming. Frederick had indicated he would return shortly with her sister, but as the minutes went by, she grew less confident. Had Beaumont restricted her? Refused to let her leave his side? He would be that controlling. Astrid drew a fretful breath and then released it.
Perhaps Frederick was being careful.
Or perhaps Isobel wasn’t coming.
In a mild state of panic, Astrid shook her head. She could not risk being discovered, and every moment that went by, she risked someone running into her before the performance started. Just as she rose to leave, the door cracked open, and her sister’s beautiful face emerged. They embraced quickly. “Astrid, I received your message. Are you well?”
“You have five minutes before the performance starts, Your Grace,” Frederick whispered.
“Thank you,” she said and then turned back to her sister, who looked lovelier than the last time Astrid had seen her. She wore a powder-blue satin gown that flattered her porcelain complexion to perfection. Astrid took her hand and sat, patting the seat beside her. “The question is, how are you, Isobel?”
“Quite well, though I’m certain you know that the Earl of Beaumont has asked Uncle Reggie permission to formally court me. Is that why you wanted to meet?”
Astrid winced at the familiar reference to their uncle. Clearly he still held Isobel in thrall if she was using that nickname. “Partly. How do you feel about his suit?”
“He’s persistent for sure, and he’s been the perfect gentleman.” What looked like a fond smile curved her lips. “Uncle claims no one is good enough for me. And, well, we do have to weed out the fortune hunters.”
Fury sparked across Astrid’s spine at the man’s cheek. He had no qualms about manipulating his own niece, when the truth was that he was the worst fortune hunter of them all. She kept her annoyance hidden. “Have any other young men caught your fancy?”
Isobel blushed. “One or two.”
“Which ones?”
“Viscount Morley is more of an acquaintance, but I do enjoy his company. However, I’ve developed a particular tendre for the Marquess of Roth.”
Astrid hadn’t heard of the viscount, but she was familiar with the marquess. Roth had danced with her at the Featheringstoke ball. Though she did no
t know him well, he was in line for a dukedom, and he was a dashed sight better than Beaumont. And he was an acquaintance of her husband’s.
“Have either of them declared an interest?” she asked.
Isobel hesitated, a calculating look slipping over her features. “Lord Roth might, though he has yet to approach Uncle.” She paused with a tight, proud smile. “I know you think me naive, Astrid, but I do have a working brain in my head. While the Earl of Beaumont has been the very soul of civility, I’m well aware of what both he and Uncle Reggie want. As such, I do not wish to have either of them scaring off any other potential suitors.”
Astrid’s jaw fell open. Sweet, enchanting, sedate Isobel—moving men like chess pieces.
“So you’re here with Beaumont by choice?”
“To be seen, dearest. I’d rather feign interest and be allowed to have a Season than be locked like Rapunzel in a gilded tower. We do what we can with the lot we’ve been given. You taught me that.”
Astrid couldn’t remember the last time she’d been shocked speechless. Perhaps Aunt Mabel hadn’t been that far off the mark when she’d suggested that Isobel wasn’t as helpless as everyone—including Astrid—assumed she was. But all Astrid could think of was the sneaky, underhanded way the earl had manipulated her. And how easily he had destroyed her life.
“Beaumont is cunning,” she said. “If he realizes what you’ve been doing, he will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”
“I can handle Beaumont,” her sister said.
Astrid frowned. “Can you?”
Isobel reached for her hands, gripping them tightly in hers. “I love you, Astrid, but I’m not you. I won’t make the same mistakes you did, and do you know why?” When Astrid flinched and shook her head, she went on. “Because you showed me how not to. You taught me how to be smart. How to have courage.” Her smile was bittersweet. “I love my music and my dancing and my ribbons, and I know sometimes you think I’m just a silly, naive girl, but you have to trust me. Will you trust me?”
Astrid stared in shock at her sister and felt so much pride that her heart nearly burst. Who was this girl? Mabel’s words about having a little faith in the sister she’d raised came back to her. “What can I do?”
“Show up at Lady Hammerton’s spring ball in a fortnight. I’ll be there all week for her house party with Beaumont, Morley, and Roth.” Her sister’s eyes sparkled. “It’s in North Stifford. Come with Beswick if you can manage it.”
Astrid blinked.
All three potential suitors in one place. That can’t be good.
“Izzy, what do you intend to do?”
Isobel’s smile was decidedly wolfish. “I intend to cause a scandal to end all scandals.”
…
For the life of him, Thane could not focus on the performance, nor the lush contralto of Madame Diamante during the aria. He’d been the victim of an inconvenient erection the minute his wife had sauntered into his study looking like sex on legs. Thane had wanted to lay carnal waste to her. Suck on the ridges of that long, elegant spine, heft her skirts and devour the feast he knew lay hidden beneath.
Hell.
He was so fucking hard, he wouldn’t be surprised if his buttons popped loose.
The moment they’d sat and she’d leaned over the balustrade, opera glasses in hand, he’d been fixated on the sensual bare curve of her back, on display in that salacious dress. And he hadn’t been able to focus on anything since. He’d been right about the color. It turned her hair to mahogany and her skin to fresh cream. Thane’s eyes resettled on her vertebrae, his cock throbbing.
A woman’s spine should not be that erotic. But hers was.
To his left, his wife was so wrapped up in the performance that she hadn’t spared him a single glance since her return from her meeting with her sister or guessed at his acute discomfort, and for that he was grateful. The singer’s voice hit a note that made Astrid’s fingers curl and reach out blindly…to land on his knee. The innocent contact was like flint to tinder. His hand held hers in place as her gaze met his. She read the lust there easily, her own irises flaring with matching passion.
Neither of them spoke, eyes locked. And then slowly, slowly, Astrid edged her fingers out from his, returning her attention to the stage. Thane wanted to curse at the loss, but he was mesmerized as she studiously peeled the glove from her right hand, exposing those elegant, slender fingers. And when she replaced that bared hand on his thigh, he nearly expired from shock. Desire and heat collided savagely within him as her fingers crept upward, each frantic heartbeat bringing them closer to where it burned the most. Where he craved it the most. Almost delicately, with one finger, she traced the outline of his length.
Thane swore viciously beneath his breath.
“Astrid,” he rasped.
His vixen of a wife ignored him, deftly unbuttoning several of his buttons, enough so she could reach inside the fall and grasp his straining erection. Her fingers encircled him, her thumb rubbing over his weeping eye at the top of his cock, and then moved back down to stroke him from tip to base. He groaned softly as she repeated the act of sliding upward and then downward, using his own moisture to aid in her carnal exploration.
Her pace quickened, her clever fingers exerting exquisite pressure. Astrid’s breathing was ragged, too, and when he removed his left glove with his teeth to run his fingers over that delectable spine, she arched into his palm, moaning slightly. His orgasm roared upon him the second he touched her velvety skin, and he reached into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. Thane covered her hand with his as he spent himself, his body jerking with the force of his release, pulse after hot pulse emptying into the square of linen.
Thunderous clapping replaced the rushing sound of blood in his ears as the singer completed her act. He wanted to clap, too, but for entirely different reasons. In a sated daze, he watched as Astrid daintily cleaned her hand on an unsoiled edge of the handkerchief and replaced her glove without a sound. The fact that she hadn’t said a single word was almost as stimulating as sex in the darkness.
It was intermission, Thane realized dully when people started moving on the floor of the opera house and in the boxes opposite them. Tucking himself away, he refastened his falls just in time for his aunt to announce herself and poke her head around the velvet drapes.
The old biddy smirked, one eyebrow arching. “Enjoying the opera, dears?”
“Very much,” Astrid replied in a casual tone, though her cheeks were crimson.
“Did you speak with Isobel?” Mabel asked.
Astrid nodded. “Seems you were right that my sister has things well in hand. I confess that I’ve never seen her so determined.”
“That’s just another word for stubborn, dear,” Mabel said with a grin. She nodded to Frederick, who stood outside the box with a tray of refreshments. “Shall we have a drink, then?”
Astrid’s bright eyes skated over his, and she bit her lip as her cheeks burned anew. “Of course, but first I must visit the retiring room.”
That scorching look made Thane want to snatch her up, take her home, and see for himself how aroused she was. How aroused touching him had made her. He didn’t miss his aunt’s sudden interest, either, and for that reason, he simply nodded.
“I shall stay here and keep my dear nephew from accidentally terrorizing anyone in your absence,” Mabel said.
Thane wanted to say something to Astrid before she left, but he couldn’t find the words. In any case, his nosy aunt was there, and she missed nothing. Instead, he dipped his head briefly before Astrid disappeared. He almost wished Aunt Mabel had left him in peace as well, but she did not. She sat and poured two whiskies.
“Go on, say it,” he said.
She smirked. “Say what?”
“That you think I’m infatuated.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
&n
bsp; “You never could lie to me, Nathaniel Harte,” she said.
He winced at the sound of his given name. She was right—his feelings for his wife were fast becoming obsession. Thane sighed. Not becoming—already past. He hungered for her more than anything he’d ever wanted…her smile, her glances, her kisses. What he felt was beyond dangerous. It wasn’t superficial. It was bone-deep. And it was, above all, dangerous.
“If not infatuation, then what?” Mabel asked.
Admiration…passion…affection…love. He couldn’t admit any of those things. Even acknowledging those sentiments made it real. Gave it life beyond what he could control. His helpless gaze met his aunt’s. “I can’t do this.”
“We don’t choose when we fall in love, Thane. Or with whom. We can only decide whether what we feel is worth fighting for. Fate hasn’t been kind to you, that’s true, but you still have breath in your lungs and blood in your veins, so do yourself a favor and live. Otherwise you’re just a walking corpse.” She reached over to pat his shoulder, softening her words. “If you push Astrid away because of some misconstrued notion that you don’t deserve her, then you’re a bigger fool than you know.”
A muscle beating in his cheek, Thane glanced at his aunt, who seemed to have said her piece, two grooved lines appearing between her brows. “Finished?”
She glowered at him. “No, actually, I’m not. You’re my nephew, and I love you, but you need to remove that stubborn head of yours from your arse before you do yourself permanent damage.”
Thane blinked. He couldn’t remember Aunt Mabel being this furious, not since the first days when he’d come back from the Continent and attempted to drown himself in whiskey and self-pity. Much as he had then, Thane resented the intrusion. Resented being scolded like an ill-behaving child.
Beast of Beswick Page 24
