Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  “You know nothing. You never have.” The comte shot to his feet and stepped toward his son, towering over him. Cast in his father’s shadow, the vicomte looked like a little boy. “But know this: Should this disgrace continue, I shall rid you of your allowance. The title will remain yours, as your whore of a mother provided me with no other heir.”

  The vicomte glared at his father’s looming face as his grasp on the glass visibly tightened. “You have always disobeyed me, Raphael. No matter how hard I tried to teach you respect, to turn you into a man from a sniveling brat, you never learned. Now you’ve dragged our name through the mud once again. If only your wretched mother had given me another son, I would disown your inheritance and title completely.”

  The silence stretched on as the vicomte unraveled before Sébastien’s eyes. His hands shook more fiercely than ever before, and Sébastien saw the revulsion in his stare even from where he stood. Then the young man lurched to his feet and closed the distance between him and his father. They stood mere centimeters apart, their chests nearly brushing. Sébastien caught himself holding his breath, so thick was the suspense. He felt like he was watching some melodramatic farce from a box seat.

  The vicomte is going to strike him. Or worse.

  But the vicomte simply shook his head, almost in defeat. Then he shoved past the blockage of his father’s husky body. He chucked the liquor into the hearth; the sound of the splitting glass fractured the quiet, followed by the fierce roar of the fire as the alcohol fueled it. The vicomte propped his hands on the intricately carved mantel while his broad back rose and fell with labored breaths. His gaze lifted, planting on the Dumont coat of arms, which was engraved into that wooden mantel.

  Sébastien watched the smug look of satisfaction spread across the comte’s face—and a part of himself broke for the vicomte. Raphael had clearly dwelled in his father’s shadow all his life, bearing the taint of the comte’s corrupt ways. He empathized with the young man—and it took every gram of his willpower not to strut inside the withdrawing room and voice that very thought.

  “You aren’t crying, are you? You haven’t changed at all. Weakling! I—”

  “Get out!” the young man screamed, whirling toward his father. “Get out of my life!”

  The comte bowed his head in a mock display of formality, downed the rest of his liquor, and then slapped the empty glass onto a table. “I have business to attend to, anyhow. Though if I had half a mind, I’d throw you into those flames for presuming to toss me out of my own home. Without me, you’d be nothing more than an urchin on the streets. Remember that, Raphael. And remember I can take away everything you hold dear. Disgrace me again, and I’ll make your life misery. On my word, you’ll curse your putain mother for ever birthing you.” And without another word or backward glance, the man wheeled away in a flurry of navy brocade and fine silks and stormed toward the archway.

  Sébastien bolted down the corridor and returned to the foyer.

  Nearly an hour had passed before the footman swept inside. Sébastien cringed at the man’s sour expression and emotionless facade. “Vicomte de Dumont is ready to receive you now, monsieur.”

  The footman led Sébastien back to the same withdrawing room he’d spied on only an hour before. The vicomte lounged by the fire, wearing the same expression as when he’d battled with his father, staring blankly into the flames. They’d perished into glowing embers, and each one fought for breath.

  “Monsieur le Vicomte. Sébastien Villeneuve.”

  Raphael swirled his glass of alcohol, took a drag, then tracked his gaze over the footman’s stiff posture. “The hearth is nearly black.” Silence. “Must I instruct your every move, your every fucking breath? Do your job, you good for nothing fool!” Then, under bated breath, he added, “I can’t even hire proper help. No wonder Father questions my worth.”

  The footman stumbled toward the hearth and immediately set off to work. Raphael shook his head in annoyance, then lifted his glass toward Sébastien. The tinkling of ice cubes resounded again and drew Sébastien’s attention. “You—what do you want?”

  Sébastien slinked forward, not sure of how to even breach the subject. He fought to keep the imagery and words from moments ago from his mind, but alas, he heard the comte’s scorn and disdain clearly.

  “Since you’re good enough to ask... a couple thousand francs and a willing lady in my bed would be a decent start,” he replied, hoping his wit would lighten the air and win the vicomte over. Indeed, most people wouldn’t dream of speaking to a nobleman in such a tone—but past experiences had taught Sébastien better. King or queen, prince or pauper, all men enjoyed good-natured banter.

  Raphael’s lips quirked in amusement while his strained features loosened several notches.

  “Your home is stunning, monsieur,” Sébastien said with a note of sincerity, gesturing around the withdrawing room. “A true testament—”

  “To all the good sense and high fashion of Paris and Lavoncourt,” he finished, taking another generous sip of the alcohol. He polished off the drink in a single swallow, then harshly signaled toward the footman for a refill. “Yes, I’ve heard it a thousand times before. My father would love you,” he mumbled. Then directing his words to the fumbling footman, he snapped his fingers. “Another glass for my guest here. And be quick about it.” The footman gave a clumsy bow before darting to the far end of the room, where a mahogany bar was located.

  “Ah, thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Sébastien warily took the adjacent seat as the footman placed a glass of brandy in his hand. He downed a swallow and relished the sharp burn as the liquor trickled down his throat.

  “I like you,” Raphael said with blunt frankness, his cool gaze sliding over Sébastien’s face. “I can’t say precisely why—but something about you is quite amiable. Honest and genuine. Now, cut the sentiments like I know you want to, and get on with it. What’s the purpose of your visit?”

  Sébastien felt the familiar war kick off inside his gut. He briefly shut his eyes and visualized Adam’s face. Half as handsome as it’d been in his youth—half marred by a tragedy that still gave even Sébastien nightmares.

  Have I gone mad? How can I do this?

  He shook away the image, and the pile of stones quickly took its place. The wooden cross, the gentleman’s top hat, and the girl’s weary features...

  What is right?

  He felt Adam’s clenched fingers in his cravat... felt as his back slammed into the wall and Adam’s wild gaze cut through him—

  Raphael cleared his throat, jarring Sébastien back into the moment. “My apologies. I have information.” Silence prevailed. A silence that Sébastien hesitated to fill with words. The vicomte seemed kind enough, in spite of the disdain he suffered from his father, and Isabelle’s stepsisters’ words echoed in his mind. Together, these elements fueled his resolve and brought the truth to his lips. “Information regarding your fiancée—Mademoiselle Rose.”

  Raphael grunted and downed a swallow of his alcohol. He swirled the glass, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid. “My footman said as much. Which is why I permitted an audience with you.” He set down the glass and leaned forward, his gaze narrowed with interest, the alcohol’s haze fading from his eyes. “What can you tell me? I haven’t seen her or received word in over a month.”

  Sébastien exhaled a long breath, downed a mouthful of brandy for courage, and then started at the beginning.

  Bone-chilling cries jarred Isabelle from her dreams. Breathlessly she awoke in the darkness like so many nights before. Stranger, who was sprawled at the foot of her bed, also stirred awake and stretched his long legs with a groan.

  The candle on her nightstand had burned out hours ago, plunging her chamber into blackness. Broken sobs and incoherent speech flowed through her partially open door. Her heart twisted into a thousand knots—and before she knew what she was doing, Isabelle commanded Stranger to follow her. Then she felt the rosewood floorboards sliding below her feet, felt the castle’s frigi
d drafts whispering through her curls.

  She hugged both arms about her body and massaged her arms. Goose bumps prickled her skin and caused every hair to stand on end. The nightdress offered little warmth against the castle’s frigid atmosphere and drafts—and Adam’s resonating cries chilled her into a deeper coldness. Her bare feet whispered against the panels as they eerily creaked under her heels. Stranger loyally followed her like a silent guardian, shadowing her every movement.

  With each step, the sound of his Adam’s grew louder and louder until they seemed to fill not just her hearing but all her senses too. Those sobs throbbed in her lips and fingers, in the flesh of her temples, in every vein and along with each heartbeat.

  She froze outside his ajar door, observing as light from a candle bathed the intricate floorboards; a book rested beside it, attesting that he’d likely fallen asleep while reading. For a long stretch of time, she stood perfectly still, allowing Adam’s cries to affect the deepest recesses of her soul, watching the illumination flutter within the dim chamber.

  “Stay here, boy,” she whispered to Stranger, simultaneously rewarding his head with an amiable pat. Inhaling a fortifying breath, she pushed the door open, shivering as it emitted an unsettling creak. This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d heard Adam’s night terrors.

  Though he hasn’t had an episode for several nights, she mused with a frown. Not since I read to him.

  Normally she’d bury her face in her pillow and force herself back to sleep. But now everything had changed. Isabelle could no longer bear the thought of Adam’s suffering, nor could she idly stand by.

  Like the first time she’d entered his room, he was tossing and turning within the sheets. Sweat streamed from his hairline and down his quivering muscles. He wore nothing but his underclothes—leaving every scar, every sinew, painfully visible.

  Isabelle knelt on his bed, her feet carried by her soul, a tender ache consuming her from the inside out. Agony warped his brow as he violently jerked and fought a horde of unseen demons. Isabelle’s breath hung in the air, clashing against the coldness of the night. She reached out with a trembling hand and wove her fingers through his slick, sweaty hairline. He stilled at her touch, and his incoherent cries faded into silence.

  The sound of the howling wind surrounded them, filling the chamber with its forlorn song.

  Isabelle’s heart pounded against her ribs, threatening to burst through flesh and bone. Her palms cradled either side of his face. All her senses soared and heightened, taking on a life of their own. She felt the stubble scrape against her skin... smelled the unique scents that clung to Adam’s hair and flesh—pinecones and winter... felt the dampness of his sweat and tears swimming against her fingers... listened as the ragged sound of his breathing tempered into a placid melody.

  The effect she held over him touched something deep inside her soul. She inhaled a shuddered breath and harnessed back the tears that pierced the corners of her eyes. Hesitantly her thumb and forefinger stroked the sides of his face. She leaned forward, drew his head toward her own, her torn breathing rupturing the quiet...

  It happened without conscious thought—just feeling. Her lips pressed against his in a whisper-soft caress. She felt as his body stiffened, then loosened on a long exhale. She tentatively pulled away, her palms still cupping his cheeks, hardly believing what she’d done.

  Adam’s eyes flashed open and captured her own. In a rush of movement, he closed the space between them and seized her mouth in a blistering kiss. It burned. Claimed her soul. Whispered a thousand unspoken secrets. His lips slid against her own, and he murmured something inside her mouth—something that sounded halfway between a groan and an expletive. She responded with a defeated whimper, and he chased the sound with his smooth tongue. He shifted his large body and propped onto one elbow; the other hand settled against her neck, drawing her nearer still, those long, masterful fingers caressing the sensitive skin below her ears.

  Their lips worked in flawless synchronization—almost in a dance. The smooth tip of his tongue toyed inside her mouth and drew a shudder from her chest. He explored the tops of her teeth, then ventured into the warm silkiness that lay beyond. She met those gentle thrusts with an aching curiosity and passion, relishing as his moan vibrated against her and filled her own throat with a smoldering sensuality.

  Then he sat up altogether and enfolded his arms around her. A feeling of weightlessness came over her as he urged her forward, upon the mattress and on top of his strewn body. Indeed, he descended into a reclined position, his mouth working against her own in that ageless dance as old as time itself. His blemished hands slid up and down her slender back, pressing her more firmly against his granite-hard body and thick arousal... Strong, trembling fingers dove into her hair, released the ribbon, and urged her curls over both their bodies like a secretive curtain. The irregular scarring and puckered skin grated against her nightgown as their chests melded together.

  His body came alive—she felt his manhood jut and jerk against her stomach, surging with strength and vitality. She shuddered, half from that returning fear and half from a flood of desire. Adam unhinged his mouth from her own. He gazed up and into her eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips, the two sides of his face for once not at war.

  A rare peace softened his features and brought the conflicting halves of his face together.

  Her heart pounded, yet the urge to flee never came. Non, though her fears were an ever-present force, the yearning to lie in Adam’s arms and lose herself in his tentative touches eclipsed everything else. A veil descended over them, closing the rest of the world off and blinding Isabelle to everything outside of Adam.

  A swarm of emotions swam in his blue eyes—despair, uncertainty, searing desire. He looked dangerous. Rugged. Haunted. Powerful, long fingers coiled in her curls and gave a tender pull, reeling her ever closer. Her body responded without further encouragement. Tentatively she pressed against his straining erection and undulated her hips back and forth, up and down, side to side, moving purely by instinct...

  His head bowed forward, bridging the space of air between them, and his mouth claimed hers in a slow, intense kiss. She welcomed his tongue inside. Rubbed it with her own. His beautiful, husky moan vibrated against her lips and stiffened her spine. He ground against her, his strong body arching toward her own, begging for a deeper connection and respite.

  “Isabelle...” That enchanting voice swelled the darkness, surrounding her, gripping her senses with a thousand beckoning fingers. They held her captive—and she readily surrendered her freedom. The sensations from her erotic dream broke into her thoughts; in the recesses of her mind, she heard the refrains of his music, felt it surging through her body in a powerful rush. Her feminine core grew hot and damp, and she felt wetness slipping down her restless thighs.

  She tracked her hands over his scarred muscles... listened to the ragged sound of his breaths as they filled her eardrums and mated with her own. The scars on her thighs burned like so many brands. Fear won out as he tracked his hands over her trembling body and came dangerously close to touching her there. She grew immobile in his arms and whispered four shaky words. “Please... it’s too much.”

  Warm lips brushed against her temple. She listened as Adam’s torn breathing turned regular, calming. He released a long sigh and embraced her in the circle of his arms, holding her snugly against his chest. Strong, capable hands trailed up and down her back in reassuring, slow strokes. She felt safe and secure. At peace. And momentarily complete.

  “Of course,” he whispered against her hairline, his long fingers stroking up and down her back. “This is more than enough. More than I could have ever hoped for.”

  Indeed, Isabelle thought, harnessing back her tears and tempering her breathing. You, Adam, are more than I could have ever hoped for.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The following week soared by. Adam had surprised Isabelle with a tray of delicious fruits and a heavenly herbal tea just before the
crack of dawn. Relishing the meal together, they’d watched from his bedchamber’s window as the sun perched itself in a clear sky, streaking the horizon with brilliant swashes of red and orange.

  They’d sat in companionable, comfortable silence—and Isabelle had realized just how much she cherished his company. Really, it was incredible what they could communicate without words. Even the unspoken interactions brought an unparalleled joy to her heart—the way he swooped his cloak over her shoulders when she gave a small shudder... how he swept errant curls from her eyes and deftly tucked them behind her ears.

  She could feel the gentle, tentative caress of his fingers even now. The scarred pads of his fingertips gliding across her temple... his penetrating gaze hooking into her own... how his breaths often grew shorter in her presence, echoing the beat of her own heart. For a passing moment, as they watched the sun ascend, Isabelle thought he would kiss her. And, Mon Dieu, she’d ached for it with every fiber of her being. The sensation, the painful want and desire, nearly stole her breaths away.

  After she’d polished off her first helping of tea, she’d turned to Adam and asked to hear a story. “I want to hear more about you. More about your life before Hartville.”

  Silence had been his initial response. Then as the sky brightened and the clouds parted like a pair of lush opera curtains, he began. Isabelle’s eyes had shuttered closed while the deep lull of his voice pulled at her thoughts. Her insides grew heavy, her core dampened; every syllable fluttered across the landscape of her imagination and stoked an inner fire to life.

  He recalled the birth of Rosemary, his baby sister; emotion shook his deep voice as he spoke of the love in his mother and father’s eyes... the feel of her tiny finger clasped in his palm. He’d lost all of them in an unthinkable tragedy, she knew—one she burned to understand. Yet she held her tongue while her eyes moistened with tears; she couldn’t bring the words to her lips... couldn’t ask him to recount the painful story of their deaths.