The Beast's Bride (The Bluestocking War, #1)

by Eva Devon

  Chapter 27

  The drive down to the country sent Augusta's soul soaring with the sights, but it also left her fairly confused by her enigmatic husband.

  ’Twas as if that conversation in his study had not occurred at all, save for the suggestion to come down to his estates.

  He had climbed into the coach as if they were going on a grand adventure. She'd eyed him as if he were a demon who'd been possessed. But he smiled, and laughed, and regaled her with tales of the area.

  Now he sat beside her in the well-appointed coach, pointing a gloved finger toward the distance.

  "Do you see that?" he queried. "That is an ancient circling of stones that our ancestors put up thousands of years ago. Or so they say.”

  "Truly?" she exclaimed, straining to see the monument on the green plain.

  “Truly,” he said with a suitable degree of awe himself. “Have you read about them?"

  "I have, but I never thought to see some," she enthused. She bit her lip, then ventured, “Could we stop? I think it'd be foolish for me to pass up such an opportunity."

  Without further ado, he banged his cane on the top of the coach and it came to a stop.

  "Come on, then,” he said with the sort of wonder at the world one expected from an explorer. “Let's go and see what the ancients left for us poor present mortals."

  She laughed and immediately loved the feel of the sound bubbling up from her throat. She'd had so little opportunity to go exploring in her life, and this seemed wonderful.

  He popped the coach door open, jumped down to the verdant grass, and turned, whipping his hand up to her. She took it and let him guide her down.

  She bolted down the folding coach step and savored the feel of wild land under her booted foot. The vast rolling plain was so very different than London! There wasn't a building in sight and she drank it in. Wind whipped in from the sea, not so very far away, and she felt awash in clean air and promise.

  “It is so very beautiful,” she breathed, her voice almost swallowed up by the summer breeze.

  “Very,” he agreed, his hand gently holding hers as he led her through the tall, swaying grass. “But the stones. . . The stones are something unique. They outdo everything else."

  She lifted the hem of her gown, careful not to tread on it as they traipsed across the uneven ground. She lifted her gaze, catching sight of a circle of immense stones arranged in a circle. She stopped and gaped. “How do you think they did it?"

  He leaned down towards her and whispered, “Magic."

  He said it with such playful sincerity that she half longed to believe him before she laughed. “Tell me true, Adam!”

  “Magic,” he insisted again, gently tugging her hand and leading her towards the imposing circle. "Did you not know that Merlin brought the stones from Ireland and set them up?"

  "You shall not tease me, sir." She tsked. “I do not believe that you believe in Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table and Arthur."

  A laughed boomed from his throat and danced across the plain. "Indeed I do. And Guinevere too.” He paused and winked at her. “I believe in all of those things and certainly Nimue stole Merlin's powers away. The court was destroyed by an evil son. Yes, one can never trust their relatives."

  "You can't possibly mean that,” she said, loving that the banter had returned between them. “Look at my sisters. They might be silly sometimes, but they're perfectly trustworthy creatures."

  He gazed down at her for a long moment, contemplating her.

  "Are you absolutely certain?” he asked, softly. “I sometimes do wonder if Philippa shoved you into that hallway on purpose."

  She stopped, her heart doing the most dreadful tumble at the idea. "Philippa would never do such a thing,” she protested.

  He cocked his head to the side, with no air of judgement, just consideration upon his visage. “Do you think not? Perhaps Philippa is more mercenary than you?"

  "How could you think such a thing of my sister?" she gasped, tamping down outrage.

  "I shall tease you no more, Augusta!” he exclaimed, grinning. “It's too easy to do. Forgive me for besmirching my sister too.”

  She grinned, relieved. “You are astonishingly easy to tease too, Your Grace."

  "Am I, by God?”

  “Oh yes,” she assured, tilting her head back and holding her bonnet in place with her free hand. “When I put my mind to it, it's quite easy to rile you. All I have to do is tell you that you're a rake, and a roux, and a braggart. You then proceed apace to profess the nefariousness of news sheets and gullibility of the masses.”

  "I don't, do I?"

  "You do. It clearly irks you, your reputation."

  "Well, it offends me because I’m not a villain! I might have enjoyed a life of pleasure, but I never hurt anyone in my pursuit of it."

  “No," she said softly. "I can see that. It is not your way to hurt people. It is your way to help them."

  He grew silent and she realized that she'd embarrassed him.

  It was remarkable to believe that she could embarrass him. But there it was.

  Together they walked through the tall grass towards the towering stones. When one contemplated that these had been put up by people thousands of years before them, it did rather make one feel both small and full of wonder at the glories of the universe.

  "However, did they do it?" she mused.

  He pointed to a set of stones. "When the sun comes at the solstice, the beam strikes right through those two particular stones."

  She shook her head. “How did they manage such a feat?"

  “Your favorite thing. Mathematics," he replied simply.

  "Mathematics?" she echoed, her cheeks heating at the realization that he now knew her quite well.

  "The ancients were great with mathematics and the stars."

  She sighed. "How wonderful. I wish I was capable of such a thing."

  “Augusta.” He tugged her hand, pulling her towards him. He gazed down upon her seriously, their bodies so near that the hem of her skirts brushed his boots. “From everything that I've seen with your skill with mathematics and your pursuit of knowledge, if you wish to put up a tower that reflects the moon, you'd find a way to do it."

  She laughed at that. "What an incredible compliment."

  "It was meant as such,” he said simply. “Now come here and let me show you."

  He led her around the great stone circle. There were no other boulders or stones within sight. Just a copse of trees. How could the objects have been born so far?

  "Did they even have the wheel at the time?" she breathed.

  He bent his head down and whispered, “Magic, I tell you.”

  It was such a silly thing for him to insist, no matter how playfully, and yet she felt that in his boyish soul, perhaps a touch of him wished that it was true.

  Under his spell, holding his hand, she wished it was true too.

  Wouldn't it be wonderful if magic was indeed true?

  If the magic that children aspired to had never vanished and that the world was full of happiness and fairytales. That there was no dark witch waiting to destroy them, or if there was, she would always be defeated?

  No, not in this life.

  In this life, the villains were regular people and often someone one knew. They could crush one with a word or a deed, not some magic spell.

  Then again. . . One could not forget that Camelot had fallen. . Though some did whisper Arthur waited to return one day.

  She was tempted to tell him that she was glad that whatever sadness had stolen over him had vanished, but it seemed a dangerous thing to do.

  Instead, she held his hand a little more tightly and admired the site he’d brought her to see. He pulled her against him then and cocked his head, looking down at her. "You know, they believed in ancient rights."

  The feel of his hard body against hers made her feel so very alive. She all but hummed with it. “What kind of ancient rights?"

  "In birth, in death, in aw
akening, in spring.” His voice was a delightful rumble, pairing with the breeze dancing through the grass.

  “Well,” she began, trying not to be too distracted by his hard muscles pressed against her breasts and abdomen, or the way his granite-like thighs brushed her own limbs. "It's a very wise idea to have rituals and rights. It keeps one going." She cleared her throat. “For instance, I have my daily walk, which is a ritual in of itself."

  He laughed, though it was clear it was out of pleasure and not cynicism. "I do admire your long walks every day."

  She nodded, glad that he understood. "If I don't take them, I go absolutely mad."

  His lips quirked. “You'll have many opportunities in the country to keep yourself from going mad then."

  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ”I hope you'll come with me."

  "I suppose I can try,” he said slowly, even as a distant look shadowed his eyes for a moment. He gave a small shake of his head before saying, “I do enjoy a good walk myself and your company is better than most."

  "Why thank you, good sir," she teased, though doubts slid through her.

  What demon was plaguing him? For she felt certain, she had just seen a glimmer of it again.

  Slowly, his brow furrowing with confusion, he cupped her face in his hands. "Augusta, how is it that you draw me so?"

  "I don't know," she said, "but you do the same to me and I'm most amazed, for I never thought that you would."

  “You feel it too?" he queried, not with hope but, dare she say, dread?

  "Yes, truly,” she confirmed, trying to understand him. "I saw you from afar before, but your handsomeness only irritated me. But then. . .” she said, "when I was forced to know you and you drove me mad with your irritating words and claims of your life outside of your rakishness, I could not help but begin to be seduced by you."

  "I’ve seduced you, have I?” he drawled. "I'll keep seducing you then. Every night."

  "Why not seduce me now?" she whispered. “In the day?”

  "Here?" he queried, strangely balking for a man so reputed for his rakishness. He straightened and teased, "Are you a wanton wife now?”

  She had been bold so far. He’d claimed to admire her for it, and so she decided to keep on.

  But it was absolutely terrifying, putting herself forward. "Yes," she said. "Whyever not? As long as I am your wanton wife.”

  Instead of the confident, strong man that she expected, that strange look crossed over his face again.

  "Augusta," he choked out, "we cannot.”

  He tore his gaze from hers, and he searched the horizon as if looking for a lifeline to rescue him from her.

  “The coach is waiting,” he surmised at last.

  She flinched inwardly.

  The rejection hurt.

  Why, she wanted to ask!

  Why couldn't he be close to her during the day? Why was it only the hours of night in which he could show her his thoughts and feelings and allow her to be close to him?

  Suddenly she felt cold, despite the warm air about them.

  She did not wish to show how hurt she was and so she managed to force a smile to her face and nod. But she couldn't lie. She was a terrible liar and that smile in itself was hard enough. So she did not speak.

  He offered her his arm, his long coat no longer close enough to brush her skirts. He kept a polite. . . Distance.

  She took it and stared straight ahead, determined not to be perturbed. Determined not to let her throat and eyes burn with the realization that she was falling in love with her husband. And that he would likely never love her back.

  No, she was made of stronger stuff. She wouldn’t succumb to thoughts of woe. This was merely a setback. Besides, she had so much to be grateful for in her life. She could hardly dislike him for it. He'd never promised her love and she didn't need it. Truly. She never had. And she never would, no matter how her heart might long for it.

  Chapter 28

  Adam wanted to throttle himself.

  Damnation! If only he could have done as she asked.

  If only he could have kissed her in that moment, but he could not.

  If only was for bloody fools.

  He could not bring himself to wrap his arms around her and kiss her in the way that he absolutely longed to.

  It had seemed to him as if he did, it would be breaking another line, another rule, another vow that he had made to himself and to the memories of his past.

  As they grew closer and closer to the estate, memories besieged him.

  Each mile forward was like being pressed back. . . Into a tomb of memory. And with each mile forward, he found it harder and harder to breathe or even look at Augusta. And when he had looked upon her?

  Good God, it hurt.

  Augusta was stunning.

  She looked so excited and so full of determination to help people.

  The idea to form a school for girls?

  Brilliant.

  He could scarce believe that he had not thought of it himself.

  As a matter of fact, he was quite angry with himself for not having done so in the past.

  Young women deserved a future just as young men did, and he was so proud of Augusta for deciding to make it happen on his estates.

  Augusta was, in short, a woman of parts. The very best of the best. And he couldn’t deny it.

  The coach rattled across the ducal estate’s gravel drive. They'd been on the long road towards the great house for half a day and finally they had come up to the imposing edifice.

  The nearest town was five miles away and that was still on the estate land.

  The trees lining the drive were beautiful and full, a lush, bright green this particular summer day.

  The old ancient oaks and ash with arching branches bathed them in beautiful shadows which managed to keep away the summer sun.

  As they came out onto the curve in the gravel drive, she gasped. The house, he agreed, was enormous.

  It was also an odd, if magnificent, house.

  For the front of it appeared brand new.

  It had been done in the French style, a stunning masterpiece, but what she did not know was that on the backside of the estate house, it looked like a massive castle right out of the medieval days of glory.

  It looked thus. . . Because it was.

  It had been built at the time of King John and rivaled some of the greatest castles in the country.

  But his grandfather had decided it would be a splendid idea to modernize. Though it gave the pile of stones a hodgepodge feel, Adam didn't mind the fact that he was looking on a modern day Versailles on this particular side of the house.

  There was a buttery sort of warmth to it that made the place look terribly inviting. Whereas the other side looked as if there should be a dragon about and an army waiting to invade with swords, cannons, and crossbows.

  "This is your house," she stated, eyes wide.

  He laughed. "Yes, if you would like to call it a house. It is more like a mausoleum, in truth."

  "I don't believe it for a moment," she protested, her chin tilting upwards as she leaned forward, peering out the window to take in the entirety of the edifice. "It's absolutely beautiful."

  "Thank you," he said. "My ancestors would be deeply grateful to hear it."

  The coach rolled up to a stop and an army of servants descended the steps to greet them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his wife drawing in a slow breath, squaring her shoulders which were always perfectly squared, and most definitely bolstering herself.

  The fact that she cared so much reached in and touched his soul. He hated it and yet he had to acknowledge her determination. “They’ll adore you, Augusta. For you'll be a marvelous mistress."

  She folded her hands in her lap, eyes still trained on the servants awaiting them. “I'm glad you think so."

  "I know so," he said firmly, wishing to give her his support even if he couldn’t give her his heart. "The way you organize and sort
things? You will take care of each and every one of them and ensure that they all have good lives.”

  She cocked her head to the side, pinning him with a gaze that was a complete surprise. Her eyes danced with wisdom and assessment. “Much like you, Adam, whether you wish to admit it or not. Most lords do not care a whit about their servants’ lives."

  "It's a terrible state of affairs,” he agreed, “but if my servants can be happy, I'd be most pleased. And I will be forever grateful to you for making them so.”

  "I've never had many servants before,” she admitted, “but the very idea of having people wait upon me who are neglected? It is insupportable.”

  It was a wonderful thing about Augusta, her indignation on behalf of those many would deem beneath her, and her care of other people. It was clear to him that she'd always cared deeply about her sisters. Her severity and pragmatism had been necessitated by her father’s extravagance and lack of practicality.

  She would care about his servants’ lives, and he feared she was beginning to care about him.

  How could he make her stop?

  He did not know how.

  To his horror, he realized that his tart, prudish wife cared about others. Cared far more deeply than most.

  It was clear that she already cared about Lady Montcrief and he admired her for that as well.

  A footman, dressed in pressed green livery, opened the door to the coach.

  Adam jumped down, his boots crunching on the gravel.

  As soon as his feet touched the ground, his insides wound tight and he had to suck in a breath. He surveyed his welcoming servants and gave them all a nod of respect. He looked up at the house. This place. . . This place was one which had been a source of great discomfort to him over the years.

  He gave it a daring stare, willing it to do its worst.

  Perhaps that was a poor idea, for it certainly had done a great deal of harm in the past, but he had grown in the years. Or so he told himself and standing here with Augusta by his side, he was no longer willing to allow it to darken their day.

  He turned to her and offered his gloved hand. Her own kid-gloved fingers touched his.

  Augusta popped her head out of the coach and, with an air of capability, stepped down beside him.