Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Lorraine Heath

  “Scotch,” she said to Mac when he brought her the last tankard for the table of four. Quickly, she delivered the beer, returned to the bar, snatched up the tumbler, and headed to the table at the back.

  It wasn’t exactly a smile he gave her when she set the glass before him, but she detected a slight movement of his lips as though he was tempted to grin. It caused a funny sensation behind her ribs, as though a thousand butterflies had taken flight.

  “You remembered my preference in drink.”

  “It wasn’t that difficult. You were here only last night.” Had she left her lungs with Mac? Why was she finding it a challenge to draw breath? “Jimmy apologized.”

  Leaning toward her, he cocked his head slightly, in the manner that many of the customers did, so an ear was more directly facing in her direction. As usual, the tavern was crowded, hardly an empty seat to be had. With the cacophony of all the various conversations, laughter, scraping of chairs, pounding of fists on tables, it was difficult to catch all the words when anyone spoke. She often engaged in the same maneuver.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  She raised her voice to be heard over the din. “Jimmy apologized—quite profusely, actually.”

  “Good.”

  “He was rather insistent I let you know.”

  He merely nodded.

  “Do you often threaten to break fingers?”

  “I threaten to break a good many things. I don’t tolerate men mistreating women.”

  “But you don’t even know me.”

  “Acquaintanceship is not a requirement for my ensuring you’re not harassed.”

  “I could be a right termagant.”

  The mouth wasn’t smiling but the eyes were, and somehow that made him far more dangerous, more approachable, more charming.

  “Wouldn’t matter.” He seemed to settle more comfortably into the straight-backed wooden chair as though it were the most plush cushioned armchair that existed in the world. “You don’t speak as though you come from the streets.”

  “Neither do you.” He spoke as though he’d been born to the aristocracy. She’d heard that the family of bastards, in spite of their humble upbringing and scandalous backgrounds, had educated themselves in all things important and proper so they could move about within the upper echelons of Society and not be found lacking. And it seemed of late, most of them were moving easily about in that world. Except him. She couldn’t recall seeing him anywhere other than at a church for a wedding.

  “I suspect we had a very different education. Did I have the right of it last night? You hail from Mayfair?”

  “Why is it important that you know?”

  “Why is it important that I not?”

  She glanced around, made sure no one was signaling for her, wishing like the devil someone was, before bringing her attention back to him. If he was going to keep at it like water eroding stone, she might as well eliminate the mystery of it, so he’d leave her be. “I once lived in Mayfair, yes.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly as though he was striving to make sense of what that meant. “Then you’re an aristocratic lady.”

  “No.” Once, but no more. “You would be incorrect.” Three months ago you wouldn’t have been, but today you are. But then three months ago I wouldn’t have brought you scotch, we’d have never carried on a conversation, and I’d have been glad of it. Although she’d have only been glad of it because she wouldn’t have known how he had the power to look at her as though no one else existed in the world.

  “It’s not often that I am.”

  Was that his polite way of calling her a liar? “That’s an arrogant statement, and yet you didn’t sound particularly arrogant while saying it. As a matter of fact, you sounded rather humble.”

  Was she flirting? She didn’t think so. She no longer flirted with men. It only led to heartache.

  “The truth comes with confidence; it doesn’t require arrogance.”

  “You’re a philosopher, then.”

  He shrugged. “I’d wager you were trained to have a place in that aristocratic world, and not as a servant, but as one who is served.”

  “I won’t take that wager. I’ve had some education, yes.” The questions were becoming too pointed, too close to revealing the truth of her. “If you’ll excuse me, I have other customers.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Oh, she did wish he hadn’t said that just as she was beginning to like him. “You and half the gentlemen here. I’m not interested.”

  As she threw back those slender shoulders and marched away, he almost called out, “Who propositioned you?”

  It seemed more words needed to be had with a few chaps.

  With a sigh, taking a slow sip of his scotch, he admitted he could have handled that better. Probably should have eased into it a bit more, worded it a little differently. And how often were the blokes here referred to as gentlemen? Most were laborers, dockworkers, bricklayers—not that he found anything wrong with those occupations. He’d once been a dockworker himself.

  But in Mayfair any man who crossed her path would have been a lord, a noble, a true gentleman. Referred to as such, treated as such. What the hell was she doing here?

  It wasn’t for a lark. When Gillie had first opened the place, on occasion he’d helped out. The work was demanding. He preferred the docks. At least there he hadn’t been required to be polite to people upon whom he wanted to dump ale. Which might have been what prompted him to threaten Jimmy last night. Normally, he would have just told him to leave off and that would have been sufficient. But something about the quick flash of fear on her face when Jimmy had tumbled her onto his lap had set Beast’s back teeth on edge. He didn’t believe she was accustomed to the frequent roughness of this area of London. So his words had been accompanied with a warning.

  After finishing off his scotch, he removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket, checked the time, and tucked it away. An hour before they closed. It was bloody cold out, and he intended to make sure the bloke who’d come for her last night came for her tonight.

  As she appeared to be deliberately avoiding any reason to look in his direction, it took him a while to catch her attention and hold up his empty glass. While he’d been unable to stop looking at her.

  Bloody hell, she was beautiful. But her attractiveness had little to do with her heart-shaped face, the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the delicate bridge of her small nose, or her kissable lips. Although when taken together they created a stunning creature.

  It was the command she had over those features that intrigued him. They never revealed anger or irritation or impatience. No matter how long it took some people to tell her exactly what they wanted, asking questions about the offerings as though they’d never been in the tavern—or any tavern—before and didn’t know what could be had. No matter how many times she had to return to the same table with additional drinks. No matter how often she had to replace a beverage because the person decided that what he’d ordered wasn’t to his taste after all.

  He suspected that on the nights he wasn’t there she received swats on her backside. He saw one fellow reaching for her with the flat of his hand. His mate slapped his wrist and jerked his head toward Beast. The would-be offender’s eyes widened before he gave a little nod of acknowledgment. Most people in the area were aware of the sort of behavior directed toward women that Trewloves didn’t tolerate.

  She offered the prettiest smile to her customers. But for him, no curling up of her lips, no sparkle in her eyes. Serving him was a chore, a duty, and an unpleasant one at that. He wished he didn’t long to have her smile directed his way, wasn’t certain why he did. He didn’t know why she’d snagged his attention the night before and continued to hold it. Why she called to the loneliness in him.

  When she finally made her way over to him and set the full glass of scotch down, he said, “You misunderstood regarding my proposition.”

  “I very much doubt it.”

&nbs
p; Her nose had gone up ever so slightly and in spite of her diminutive height, she’d managed to give the appearance of looking down on him from Mount Olympus.

  When she immediately walked away, he didn’t try to stop her. He’d had too many of those haughty gazes cast his way over the past couple of years, whenever he’d attended one of his siblings’ blasted weddings. Each of them had married a noble and that had meant churches filled with the toffs. A couple of the ladies had even approached him, signaling their interest in experiencing a bit of the rough. Seemed they’d believed fucking—a word they’d used much to his astonishment as he’d thought proper ladies didn’t even know, much less speak, the term—a commoner, especially a bastard one, would be distinctively different than fucking a noble.

  Taking one against a wall, another bent over a vicar’s desk, he’d probably proven them right, confirmed he was no better than the name they called him.

  He’d felt tainted, sullied, and used afterward, had no desire to ever again be intimate with a blueblood.

  If he’d had any doubts before regarding the new barmaid, he had none now. He didn’t know why she was in Whitechapel but knew her blood was as blue as it came. And he’d be damned before he’d beg her to help him.

  Staring at the two sovereigns, Althea gingerly picked up one.

  “They’re both for you,” Rob said as he dropped the damp rag on the table and began scrubbing the surface.

  “Why would he leave me two sovereigns?” To demonstrate the generosity he would bestow upon her if she accepted his proposition?

  “Why would he give us any?” Rob asked.

  “How many did he give you tonight?”

  “Two.”

  He wasn’t singling her out, which made her feel somewhat better. Tonight he’d remained until a couple of minutes before closing. She’d caught him checking his watch several times, as though he was anxious to be about his business. Why, then, had he remained as long as he had?

  Why had his gaze remained steadfastly on her? He didn’t leer or ogle but was rather subtle in the watching. She doubted anyone who observed him could have discerned exactly where his attentions resided, but since his arrival she’d felt as though the gentlest of fingers had been tenderly caressing her cheeks or freeing rebellious strands of her hair from the knot pinned at the back of her head.

  When he’d signaled for a third scotch, she’d been certain he was going to broach the subject of his proposition once more, and she had a scathing retort waiting on the tip of her tongue that would make her other two rebuffs seem exceedingly polite. But he hadn’t spoken a single word while she set his glass on the table or after. Had merely studied her as though he could see clear into her soul and had the ability to rummage about in it, seeking out and uncovering all of her secrets.

  She was fairly certain her cheeks had gone crimson beneath his regard, and she regretted that she’d not had the opportunity to refuse him once more. With most gents, after they made the lurid suggestion of what they’d like to do with her, they didn’t give up until the liquor put them under the table. His proposition was the first she’d received before a gentleman had even taken a sip of alcohol, and that had made it all the worse because she couldn’t dismiss it as his merely imbibing too much and losing the ability to reason. He’d had all his wits about him. It had hurt that he’d viewed her as someone so undeserving of his respect.

  What did it matter? Griffith had warned her that if she took a position here, she would have to deal with ribald comments and indecent proposals. She’d tried two other occupations before resorting to tavern maid. As a seamstress, her skill level was such that her stitches seldom met the standard of quality insisted upon for the small payment she was offered. Her time at the grocers had been equally disappointing. The owner was often brushing by her or placing his hand on her waist. When he’d “accidentally” grazed her breast, she’d found herself summarily dismissed because she’d “accidentally” slapped his face.

  While she didn’t care for the unwanted attentions here, at least the salary was better than she’d found elsewhere. Other occupations might have been more acceptable, and she was better suited to them, but no one in the aristocracy was going to hire her as a governess or a companion, not after her father’s actions had made the members of her family all pariahs.

  When all was tidied up, and the place was closed up tight for the night, she followed her usual routine and made her way to the street. Disappointment slammed into her because Griffith was nowhere to be seen . . . again. What the devil was he doing that was causing his tardiness? If it killed her, she would pry the answer from him when he showed.

  Determining she was in as much danger waiting as walking, she removed the dagger from her reticule and began striding briskly home. She again had that warm sensation of someone wrapping a hand around the nape of her neck. Without stopping her strides, she swung about, walking backward as she squinted at the dark shadows. She couldn’t see anyone but still had the sense of being watched.

  Spinning back around, she quickened her pace and tightened her hold on the weapon. Surely, she would run into Griffith at any moment. Even a hansom cab would be welcomed. She could use a portion of the unexpected coins she’d received tonight to get herself home.

  Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw nothing, heard nothing. It was probably just paranoia on her part after all the warnings Griffith had given her. He hadn’t wanted her working at night, but it had been the only position—

  Suddenly, a hand grabbed her wrist, biting into the tender flesh, and an arm snaked forcefully around her waist. Releasing a blood-curdling scream as she was yanked into the darkened alley, she struck out blindly with the dagger, shuddering when it hit its mark.

  “Ye bitch! Ye sliced me!”

  A brick wall slammed into the back of her head, and pain ricocheted through it. Flashes of bright light floated around her. Her legs lost their vibrancy, and she slowly slid down, down, down . . .

  From a great distance, somewhere beyond where she existed, she heard a growl, followed by the echoing crunch of bone being crushed. A grunt. Footsteps.

  A large hand gently cradled her head. “Stay with me, Beauty, stay with me.”

  His tone reflected a desperation and she dearly wanted to adhere to his demand, but oblivion beckoned, refusing to be denied.

  Chapter 3

  The first thing Althea noted was the warmth surrounding her, the absence of the cold that had been such a part of her for so long. Then she was hit by a powerful rose scent that made her eyes water. Someone was alternatingly patting the back of her hand and rubbing it.

  “That’s it, love, come on. Wake up.” The feminine voice was a rough rasp, reminiscent of someone who spent a good bit of time coughing.

  Opening her eyes, she was greeted by the countenance of a woman she judged to be a few years older than her own twenty-four years, her hair a fiery red. The woman’s emerald eyes sparkled, and her smile revealed one front tooth overlapping another. Her kind expression was offering absolution, a shepherdess accustomed to taking in lost lambs.

  “There, now, that’s a good girl. You had him worried, you did.” She jerked her head back slightly, and Althea looked past her to see Beast Trewlove standing with his right shoulder pressed against the dark green and burgundy patterned wall, near a window, his arms crossed over a massive chest that for some reason she thought she knew the feel of. Always before he’d been wearing a greatcoat and she’d thought it was partially responsible for his broadness. She was wrong. He was all brawn.

  “What happened? How did I come to be here?”

  Here being a dimly lit parlor rather garishly decorated with red fringed pillows as well as numerous statuettes and paintings revealing the taut buttocks and pert breasts of nude couples in various amorous positions. But it also contained the most comfortable sofa upon which she’d ever rested her weary body.

  “Seems you swooned, love,” the woman said.

  “I don’t swoon.” She’d
never swooned in her life.

  “Call it what you like, he had to carry you here.”

  In those massive arms against that wide chest. Her mouth went dry with the thought.

  “My name’s Jewel, by the way. Here, let’s sit you up, get a bit of warm tea into you.”

  Placing her arms around Althea until she was cushioned against her plump breasts, she helped her rise slightly and scoot back into the corner adorned with plush pillows. Althea grimaced as dizziness assailed her and pain shot through her skull. She pressed her hand to her forehead, but it didn’t help.

  “I’ve sent for a surgeon,” he said quietly.

  She met his gaze. “I’m not in need of a surgeon.”

  “The knot on the back of your head and the blood say otherwise.”

  All of a sudden the memories assailed her, and she remembered being dragged into an alley, the pain reverberating through her head. The growl, the crunching. I threaten to break a good many things. She had a feeling tonight he may have broken the man who attacked her. “You were following me.”

  “Not with any nefarious intent. I wanted only to ensure no harm came to you after your husband failed to show tonight.”

  “My husband?” She shook her head, nearly cried out at the agony, pushed her fingers against her temples. Not moving seemed to be her best course. “Not my husband. My brother.” Then something else struck her. “How did you even know about him?”

  He sported the look of a guilty man.

  “You were following me last night as well.” He was the warm feeling against her nape.

  “Only until I knew you weren’t alone. Then I went on my way.”

  She was torn between appreciating his attentions and resenting them. “My brother will be worried. I have to leave.”

  “Not until the surgeon gets here.”

  “A surgeon costs coins.”

  “I’ll see to that matter.”

  “I don’t want to be beholden.”

  “I imagine you already are, love,” Jewel said, holding a cup and saucer in front of her face. She lifted the cup—