Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  “And what lovely beautés they are.” Isabelle glanced into her basket and withdrew two rolls. “Here. They’re still warm. For you and Geoffrey.”

  “Oh, no, no. I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Don’t be silly, monsieur. I insist!”

  Monsieur Belmont nodded, reached forward, and then accepted the rolls. A smile curled his lips and brought an irresistible light to his eyes. The transformation visibly stripped the years from his face.

  “Tell me—how is little Geoffrey coming along?”

  “Quite well! Pox aren’t much more than an itch now.”

  Isabelle smiled at that, enjoying the small talk. Anything to keep the inevitable at bay. “And your father? I suspect he’s faring well?”

  Monsieur Belmont frowned at the word “father,” the empathy in his blue eyes unmistakable. “I can’t say. Each day is so different. So unpredictable.”

  Such is life, she thought. “Well. As always, the two of you shall remain in my prayers.”

  She gave a last smile, gathered her nerves, and headed for the cottage’s front door. Inhaling a rigid breath, she removed her engagement ring from her apron, where she kept it stashed for such occasions, and then slipped it on her finger.

  How despairingly heavy it felt.

  The door emitted a treacherous moan as Isabelle slid inside and struggled to remain discreet. Her heart quickened at the sight of Vicomte Raphael Dumont; she inwardly cursed herself, not believing he could still affect her so. Sinfully handsome, he sat in the rocking chair next to her papa’s, looking every bit the perfect gentleman with his polished, golden hair and cognac eyes.

  But Isabelle knew better.

  His proposal had come as an utter surprise several months back; he’d appeared sincere and truly besotted with her. The memory of his tentative glances and touches still set her heart aflutter. Paired with Papa’s ailing health and the rising costs of medicine, his interest couldn’t have come at a better time. Isabelle had been happy, hopeful—even, dare she admit it, in love.

  Then everything had changed.

  She quickly discovered that, above all things, Vicomte Raphael Dumont was an excellent pretender.

  Foolish dreams and false hopes. How naive and blind I’d been.

  The floorboards creaked.

  Raphael swung toward her, shooting Isabelle a knowing grin that displayed his stark-white teeth. He paced across the drawing room, eliminating the precious space that stood between them. She stiffened with each of his steps and instinctively drew backward until she bumped against the doorjamb. For the first time ever, she longed for her stepsisters’ company. They were quite enamored with Raphael’s charm and golden looks and would have created a buffer between him and Isabelle—albeit, a noisy one. His amber eyes flashed, turning a golden hue; they took in her five-carat engagement ring before sliding down the rest of her body in a leisurely perusal.

  “Ah! That you, Isabelle, ma petite?” Papa’s voice gave Isabelle a start. She attempted to wheel around Raphael’s large body without luck.

  “Yes... I’m back, Papa.”

  “Good, good. Look... look who’s come to see you. Isn’t that a lovely surprise?”

  “Very nice, indeed. Now kindly move aside, monsieur.”

  Raphael swept to the side with a regal bow. Isabelle pushed past him, then pressed a kiss to Papa’s forehead. Mon Dieu, he felt warm again. She set the basket of rolls and fresh fruit on his lap and gently combed the sparse tufts of his hair with her fingertips. “Some fresh bread rolls. Don’t they smell wonderful?”

  “Very much so. Few things bring more pleasure than the feel of fresh-baked rolls on one’s lap.” Papa withdrew one of said rolls, and then continued through a mouthful of bread, “Raphael has kept me company for the past hour.”

  Collecting the basket, Isabelle crossed the room again and struggled to find her voice. Her throat was raw. She felt overwhelmed, alone, trapped. Raphael’s mere presence unnerved her, shocking her back into cold reality. Keeping the antipathy from her tone took a monumental effort. “I see. This is quite unexpected. What are you doing here, Raphael?”

  He gave no response. He merely returned Isabelle’s stare and leaned against the round, chipped table. She turned away and set down the basket, willing her hands to quit shaking. Then she unclasped her cloak—and froze as his unwelcome body heat closed in on her. He towered behind her, intimately near. Her insides coiled into tight knots, and the beat of her pulse blasted in her eardrums.

  Next to hunting, it was one of his favorite sports—toying with her, knowing well that Papa couldn’t see his wandering hands.

  And that Isabelle could hardly voice her resistance. If Papa learned the truth of his nature, he’d throw Raphael out on his head and never allow their marriage to take place.

  “Why don’t you two come sit by the fire?” Papa obliviously asked. Indeed. He gazed directly into the wavering flames, seeing nothing.

  “Yes, Papa. In a moment.”

  “I missed you terribly, you know.” Raphael leaned forward, whispering the words. Hot breaths singed her nape and caused her gut to quiver.

  “I know what you missed.”

  Rotating her body, Raphael made an amused sound and perked a thick, blond brow. “What’s this? I’m not permitted to miss my fiancée. Hmm?”

  Fiancée. Suddenly the five-karat ring felt like a manacle. Her skin crawled as Raphael pressed his torso flush against her back. He swept away her curls and twisted them in his long fingers, kissing the side of her neck with cold lips, his hands everywhere at once...

  “Why... why are you doing this?”

  Raphael spun her body around with a chuckle. He latched on to her left hand in a gesture that could only be described as rough and lewd, and forced her palm against the front of his trousers. His size swelled her hand, causing vomit to climb inside her throat. She swallowed it back and fought to detach herself from the here and now. But his voice was a husky whisper that added to her disgust and kept her anchored in place. “Don’t play daft. I think you know precisely why.”

  Isabelle recoiled her hand, scandalized and shuddering with anger. “You repulse me.”

  “And you intrigue me.” Raphael’s arms crept around her body again. His hands broke through her cloak, provocatively parting the material with a jarring whoosh of air. “Yes, indeed... there’s something about you... something I can’t quite place my finger on... something so alive, so very tempting. You’re different, Isabelle, refreshing—unlike all those blue-blooded chits Father demands I shackle myself to. Just look at you, ma chérie. You’re a diamond among a sea of mere pebbles. And I’d be a damn fool to ever let you slip away,” he said, tightening his grasp. “You are mine.”

  Those words told Isabelle all she needed to know: She’d been thrust in the middle of a father-son battle—one she wanted no part of. He intended to make her his property, an insult to the comte.

  “Spare your false sentiments,” she scoffed, elbowing him in the chest. He gave a small, dark chuckle and loosened his hold a fracture.

  “You wound me, mademoiselle. My affection for you runs deep.”

  Months ago, Isabelle would have fallen for such a line. But this was now.

  His fingertips resumed their perusal, skimming over her hips, her breasts. All the while Papa stared at them while he ate. Detachedly she watched as he broke off a chunk of bread and finished the roll. Raphael’s thumb and forefinger pinched her nipple straight through the garb, twisting the skin, summoning a flash of pain and anger. “Please. Stop. You’ve had your fun. Stop it now, Raphael.”

  “Stop? Stop what?” Raphael asked in a mocking, amused voice. He cupped one of her breasts, and continued through a breathy whisper, “Stop this?” Cupping her other breast with a harsh squeeze, his voice sunk impossibly lower, “Or rather this?”

  “What kind of sadistic monster are you, tormenting me in this way?” She battled to maintain a low whisper, but her frustration emerged like water spilling from a broken
dam. “Knowing well I can’t cry out, can’t even—”

  “Come now, Isabelle. Indulge a bit. Free that fire that stirs within you,” Raphael said as he ran his palm down her arm. Up and down. “The fool is blinder than a mole. He’d never know—”

  Isabelle turned in his grasp and stared daggers into those cool, placid eyes. “Don’t you dare say a word against my father. You hear me?”

  “Or what? Hmm?” Only silence. “That’s what I suspected. Your threats are as empty and pathetic as your tears are.”

  Isabelle silently cursed herself as the tears returned to her eyes. She fought them back and raised her chin, meeting his gaze as an equal—refusing to back down. “You are a monster, Raphael. Make no mistake about that. And one day you shall pay for your cruelty.”

  Pure silence again. Alas, it was unbearable. The loudest silence she’d ever heard. For a moment, Isabelle felt certain Raphael would strike her. But he merely stepped back, smoothed down his navy frock coat, and said, “You need me as much as I need you. You and your worthless, ill-fated father. Never forget that.”

  “Isabelle... now, where’d you run off to, ma petite?”

  “I—I’m sorry.” Isabelle fought to disguise the tremble in her voice. Despite her valiant efforts, it shattered her words into breathy fragments. She clasped her chest and filled her lungs with fortifying breaths. “I’m right here.”

  As deep as Raphael’s words had cut, they bore an unshakable truth: They depended on his funds.

  Raphael traced her jawline with his gloved fingertip—a gesture of both genuine and mock affection. She tensed even further, if that was at all possible, and battled the urge to cry out her rage and frustration. Instead, her eyes fixed on the gilded buttons of his double-breasted frock coat and starch-white cravat. Concealed under that finely tailored clothing, he carried a wretchedness that paralyzed her very soul.

  “Go on, then. Go see your dear papa... while you still can.”

  Exhaling a shaky breath, Isabelle shoved past him and joined Papa by the fire. She crouched in front of him, kissed his warm cheek, and then smoothed her fingertips over his scalp. “You exercised quite an appetite, I see. Feeling any better this morning?” Miraculously her voice sounded normal and unaffected.

  Papa’s wrinkled lips broke into a toothless, childish grin. “Like a man reborn. I must say... Raphael here lifted my spirits.”

  Isabelle gazed into the hearth while silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Hastily wiping them away, she glanced down at the imposing engagement ring, finding no beauty in the glittering diamond or sleek gold band.

  A rough, guttural cough shook Papa’s body. Isabelle reached out and gently clutched his arm. “That’s enough excitement for now. Why don’t you come lie down and rest for a bit?”

  Papa paid no regard to her words. “You are a good man, Monsieur le Vicomte. When I’ve passed on, you’ll take care of my Isabelle for me, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Raphael paused. “How could I do otherwise?”

  Papa exhaled a long breath, as if a burden had physically lifted from his shoulders. “Then I may go in peace.”

  “No. Don’t talk like that. You will get through this. Raphael’s already made arrangements with some of Demrov’s finest physicians.” Isabelle swallowed the lump in her throat and met Raphael’s hard, unwavering gaze. “Haven’t you?”

  His eyes flickered down the front of her bodice—and Isabelle felt his intrusive stare as if it were a tangible thing... as if his fingers were prying into somewhere sacred, forever leaving their taint.

  “I’m sure we could work something out.”

  Reality slammed against her thoughts with a startling force. She realized that to save her loved ones, she’d need to sacrifice much more than her flesh and happiness. Alas, by the time this nightmare ended, she’d be forced to sacrifice her very soul.

  Papa opened his mouth to speak, but his words were cut short as he exploded into another fit of coughs. He raised a trembling hand, which Raphael clasped in midair. “Isabelle is right. You should take care not to exhaust yourself so much.”

  Papa shook his head and gave a full-bodied laugh; in spite of the circumstances, the unexpected and joyful sound lightened Isabelle’s heart. “I’ve always been a stubborn brute. Age hasn’t changed that. Death shan’t change it, either.” Silence hung between the three of them.

  A poignant chill crawled through Isabelle’s veins as she locked on to Raphael’s icy stare. The challenge was unmistakable in his cognac eyes—and it chipped away at her soul.

  Isabelle loved nights such as these the most. Her tiresome stepsisters had departed for the evening, leaving she and Papa in the soothing warmth of each other’s company. Contentment flooded her spirit while they relaxed before the crackling hearth. She watched as the fire tempered into glowing embers. Their bellies still felt warm and soft from the stew, and a pot of tea sat between their two rocking chairs. Tea was a pricey luxury—one they could scarcely afford—and together they found a rare joy in the indulgence.

  The night had drifted by like some dream, and her vile encounter with Raphael felt like a distant nightmare. She and Papa had spent countless hours laughing and reminiscing about when Isabelle had been a girl and the entire world had laid at their feet. Now, a comfortable stillness filled the cottage, broken only by the sounds of the whispering wind and snapping logs. Isabelle stared into the wavering flames and gently caressed the book in her lap, stroking her fingers over its fragile spine; an unexpected sadness, a strange sense of loneliness and solitude, eclipsed her mood.

  Within the confinement of her thoughts, Raphael’s words came storming back and seized her spirit in an iron clasp. Go on, then. Go see your dear papa... while you still can.

  How dare he? Revulsion and red-hot rage flowed through her veins. She gripped the edge of her book until her knuckles grew white and numb.

  “Do you care for him, Isabelle?”

  Papa’s quiet inquiry snapped Isabelle from her train of thoughts. She silently turned to him, then collected her chipped cup from the end table and downed a sip of tea. The warm liquid raced down her throat in a waterfall of spice and mint. “What a silly question. Of course I do.” The lie left a bitter taste in her mouth. She took another sip and battled to still the quaver in her voice. “Why do you ask, Papa?”

  “Because you are my little girl.” He shifted in his chair and released a pained groan. “You shall always be my little girl. You deserve warmth, kindness... a gentle touch. It hurts my heart and fills me with sorrow, knowing you might have found true love with another.”

  Isabelle held her tongue, refusing to expose the truth of Raphael’s character. What was done was done. “Vicomte Dumont is a gentleman and an important person here in Demrov. He—”

  Papa waved off her words like swatting a fly. “Blast it. Never mind all that. That’s not what I’m asking. I—” Hard coughs shook his body. Isabelle set down her cup and gently clutched his arm.

  “Papa. It’s late. Quit being a stubborn mule. You really should—”

  “Now, now. I’m quite fine, ma petite.” He heaved a sigh. A mutiny of emotions surfaced in his glassy stare. “I know why you have accepted Monsieur Dumont’s proposal. I may be blind, but I’m not that blind.” He cracked a small grin, and Isabelle couldn’t help but return the gesture. Then his sightless eyes danced and filled with raw emotion, as if he was watching something beautiful unfold within his mind. The smile on his lips grew with each passing second—and for a heartbeat, he appeared fifteen years younger. “I fell hard for your mother the first time I laid eyes on her. Boy, was she a beauty like I had never seen. Indeed, her beauty stole half my wretched heart. Her spirit stole whatever remained. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her... Nothing we wouldn’t have done for each other.”

  The mention of Maman filled Isabelle with a painful longing. She hadn’t known her mother for very long—she’d died when Isabelle was only seven—though, through Papa’s tender stories, she felt
like an old friend. Papa’s sentimental words rang inside her heart, loud and clear, deafening the world around her. In the back of her mind, the echoes of a fairy tale joined the song and tugged at her core.

  Finding true love. It was a dream Isabelle was willing to sacrifice if it meant buying a couple of more precious years with Papa. More years and more nights like these. Such was a price she’d contentedly pay.

  Visibly overcome with grief, Papa brought two wrinkled fingers against his temple and massaged the frail skin. “You were gifted with your mother’s strength and gentleness, Isabelle. Both her strength and beauty. Never abandon those things, ma petite. But greatest of all, you have her heart. Guard it well.”

  Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She tried to speak, but tumultuous emotions all but constricted her voice. She exhaled a long breath, then managed to whisper two words. “I shall.”

  Papa turned to her as another small, sad smile graced his lips. The hearth’s wavering light softened his features and smoothed out the wrinkles that embedded his skin. Indeed, at that moment, he almost looked vibrant and youthful again. Tender memories tugged at Isabelle’s mind and heart, urging her into another time and place.

  “I should have never married her,” Papa whispered as he shook his downcast head. Isabelle knew he spoke of Theresa, her stepsisters’ late mother. The topic was never breached, yet it often echoed within long silences. “It’s a great regret I have.”

  Isabelle reached out and patted Papa’s trembling hand. “Don’t have any regrets. No regrets—only peace. Peace and hope and love.”

  He smiled as the tears rushed to his sightless eyes again. “You deserve true love. A man’s undying, unconditional love.”

  Now it was Isabelle’s turn to swat the air. “The only man’s love I need is yours,” Isabelle replied as she battled the lonely feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Truthfully.”

  He grinned, surrendering to a rigid sigh. “That you shall have until long after my last breath. Forever and always, ma petite.”