Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Lorraine Heath

  “Did I give the impression I didn’t welcome it?”

  “You were vulnerable.”

  “You were comforting me.” Perhaps that was the reason it was wrong. What had passed between them hadn’t been based on seduction, lust, or attraction. He’d seen someone hurting and sought to ease the hurt. Perhaps in the morning light, despite how little there was of it, he’d realized she wasn’t a temptation.

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “What will these lessons entail then?” If not kisses, caresses, and embraces?

  “Althea, is being some man’s mistress truly the life you want?”

  “I can’t have the life I want.”

  “What you have mapped out for yourself is not the life you deserve, and if it’s not the life you want but you accept it as your due, then you’re giving all those judgmental toffs power and a victory they have not earned.”

  “You know nothing at all about it.”

  “You might feel differently if you knew why I go by Beast.”

  Perhaps she would have asked, perhaps he would have told her if the cab hadn’t at that precise moment come to a smooth halt on a street lined with shops, if he hadn’t handed the money up through the tiny opening to the driver, the doors hadn’t sprung open, and he hadn’t leapt out and immediately handed her down. If the pavement hadn’t been crowded, the rain increased its tempo, and they’d had to rush toward shelter beneath the eaves. Or she’d thought they’d sought an escape from the rain until he shoved open the door, and she noted Dressmaker in elaborate script painted in gold on a sign over the threshold.

  He waited for her to precede him into the shop and suddenly it was the last place she wanted to be. She wanted to be at the Mermaid talking, wanted to be on a park bench beneath a shared umbrella as he confided something as intimate as she had last night.

  She was unacquainted with this dressmaker but welcomed the familiarity of bolts of fabrics, the scent of dye, the sight of pattern books, and the din of women discussing various styles. A woman who appeared slightly older than Althea excused herself from a small group of three other ladies and approached them.

  “Mr. Trewlove, what a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Beth. Business seems to be flourishing.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to have a duchess as a client.”

  He turned to Althea. “Beth has been my sister Gillie’s seamstress for years now. This is her establishment. Beth, I’d like to introduce Miss Stanwick.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” the shop owner said.

  “You as well.” She’d not been to a seamstress since her world unraveled, had never had one not address her as Lady Althea or go out of her way to ensure the duke’s daughter had the very best needleworkers at her disposal.

  “She’s in need of a few frocks,” Benedict said. “A couple for everyday wear. One appropriate for a ball. And one designed for seduction. That one should be in red.”

  He spoke the word seduction so easily, as though it was appropriate to announce she was in need of something to accomplish that objective. She had no doubt her cheeks flamed as red as the outfit he’d ordered be made for her.

  “I don’t know that I need one for a ball.” She kept her voice low, hoping not to be overheard.

  “It can be used for seduction as well, possibly more effectively.”

  He provided attire appropriate for the ultimate goal of the ladies under his care. But Althea’s lover would provide her with a gown. She wouldn’t attend a ball without him, so acquiring his attention came first. But she didn’t want to discuss any of that here, and if he wanted to waste his coins, they were his to waste. So she merely said as graciously as possible, “You’re extremely generous. Thank you.”

  “If you’ll give me a few minutes to finish up with Mrs. Welch,” Beth said, “I’ll be available to see to you personally.”

  She remembered a time when a seamstress wouldn’t have finished up with anyone. Althea had garnered all the attention once she entered a shop, and she’d gloried in the singular devotion. Looking back on it from where she stood these days made her feel as though she’d been unjustifiably spoiled. Whatever had she done to deserve special treatment, other than having the good fortune of being born into a particular family? A good fortune that had not lasted, as it turned out.

  “We’re in no hurry, so take your time,” Benedict said. “I do have some other matters to attend to. Will an hour be sufficient?”

  “More than enough,” Beth said before hastening over to assist Mrs. Welch.

  “You’re not leaving me,” Althea said, not at all happy with the thought of being abandoned.

  “I assumed you’d be comfortable here, would know your way around a dressmaker’s shop.”

  Of course she was. She’d had a wardrobe stuffed with satin, silk, and lace. One of her favorite gowns had looked as though the skirt had been created from peacock feathers, the embroidery so exquisite it never failed to snag attention whenever she wore it. “Do you suppose she thinks I’m . . . your paramour?”

  “What does it matter how she perceives you? Do you believe once you’ve achieved your objective that you’ll be looked upon favorably anywhere?”

  Not favorably perhaps, but she would surround herself with so much haughtiness that no one would dare turn their back on her. She would gain the attention of a prince who was known for enjoying wicked widows, and once she curried his favor, she would have power. “You sound cross.”

  “What reason have I to be cross? And Beth doesn’t judge. I’ll return for you when I’ve completed my affairs.”

  She watched as he strode out into what had morphed into a downpour that threatened to flood streets. Did he find getting drenched preferable to her company? How was it that everything had changed so drastically from the comfortable visit in the library last night to the awkwardness that seemed to latch on to them with the steadfastness of a harness to a horse? Was it because he’d rethought what she’d revealed about her family and discovered the truth of it left a nasty taste in his mouth? Or was it the kiss he’d found distasteful?

  “Miss Stanwick?”

  She swung around to face the seamstress whose eyes were filled with understanding, as though she recognized the look of the lovelorn when she saw it. Although Althea wasn’t in love. At the moment she wasn’t even certain she was in like. “Miss Beth.”

  “Beth will suffice. For the day dresses, I have some fabrics, the shade of which I think will complement your complexion nicely. Shall we have a look?”

  “The gown. I’d like it to be red as well, a bright red that is impossible to miss, with a low neckline that leaves no doubt regarding my endowments.” She was hoping for an evening when she might assess its allure before ever attending a ball by testing it on Benedict Trewlove.

  Chapter 13

  He was cross. Cross that she thought herself deserving of being a lightskirt. Because of something her dunderhead of a father, her idiot of a betrothed, and a host of unappreciative friends, had done. He’d never suffered a cut direct but knew what it was to be made to feel less—less than deserving of breath or kindness or acceptance. It all came with the circumstances of his birth, something over which he’d had not one iota of control just as she’d had no power over her sire’s decision to become embroiled in a plot to change who sat upon a throne.

  But in both cases innocents were made to suffer.

  It angered him that he was angry. In his youth he’d fought inner demons to ensure he maintained control of his emotions. He’d always been big but hadn’t grown elegantly into his size. He’d seemed out of proportion with legs too long, arms too short and beefy. Hands three times too big. His torso had been bulky, stout, rotund. Eventually, he’d evened out, grown into a mighty oak that could move without clumsiness. But he’d often struck out at those who’d laughed at him, mocked him, called him unflattering names.

  Whenever his mum had tended to his cuts and scrapes, she would admonish him to ignore the cruel
barbs slung at him—“One cannot throw horse dung without getting his own hands covered in muck.”—to exercise patience, which in the end would elevate him above those who thought making sport of others somehow made them better. Eventually, he’d sought out Gillie to see to his hurts because, like him, she’d been abandoned, having been left in a wicker basket on Ettie Trewlove’s doorstep. Also, like him, she hadn’t an inkling as to who might be her parents. So their common ignorance regarding why they’d been given away and by whom had formed a strong bond between them.

  He wasn’t even certain the woman who’d handed him over was, in fact, his mother. She’d never claimed to be. He suspected she’d told Ettie Trewlove she’d return for him because she hadn’t sufficient coins to pay her required fee, and had given a lie so he wouldn’t be turned away. Perhaps that meant she’d cared for him a bit. But even caring didn’t prove she was his mother.

  Not that it mattered, not any longer. Having recently turned thirty-three, he’d accepted what he didn’t know wasn’t nearly as important as what he did. He knew his temper could be a frightful thing, which was the reason he kept it on a tight leash, but he might untether it if he ever encountered Chadbourne. He most certainly would have given it free rein should his path have crossed Thea’s father’s. Especially as it seemed a hanged duke could continue to do damage. Could make his daughter feel unworthy of the dreams she’d once held.

  By the time he reached his destination, rainwater flowed off the brim of his beaver hat, flowed in rivulets down the length of his heavy greatcoat. He jerked open the door and strode into the foyer where most gents were escorted right back out of the exclusive club for ladies, but then he wasn’t most gents. “Aiden about?”

  “You’ll find him in the garret, Mr. Trewlove,” the young woman behind the counter said as she held out her hands expectantly to receive his hat and greatcoat. It always unsettled him when someone referred to him as mister, as though he was a civilized bloke, and hadn’t banged a few heads in his day. He was nearly grown before he’d recognized the wisdom of his mum’s admonishments and had begun working to curb his temper, but it easily flared when needed, and his fists were always ready to deliver justice in order to douse the flames.

  With reluctance, he removed his hat and shrugged out of his coat. “They’re quite wet.”

  Taking them from him, she smiled. “As we have few clientele about at the moment who are in need of me, I’ll see what I can do to remedy that before you go out again.”

  It wasn’t only the fact that it was late morning, but also the time of year that resulted in the dearth of customers. Most of the women who visited the club were aristocratic and presently in the country. But Aiden and his family resided in rooms on a floor above, so he was usually found here. “I’ll just head up.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, following the familiar path up a few flights until he reached the floor where a narrower set of stairs led to the attic. At the top of them, he discovered the door was ajar, no doubt because the rain prevented the window from being opened in order to let some of the fumes from the paint escape the small area where his brother worked. Pressing a shoulder to the jamb, he studied what Aiden was committing to oils. “Do you paint only your wife these days?”

  His brother didn’t seem startled by his words, but then the stairs had echoed Beast’s footsteps and he’d been told on more than one occasion that his presence stirred the air in a room so he couldn’t go unnoticed. On the other hand, when necessary, he could sneak up on a bloke and not be detected until it was too late.

  “Why would I bother with anything else?” Aiden asked, stepping back to study his own work, which Beast always found ethereal in nature, as though the subject was being viewed through gossamer. In this instance it was a mother holding her infant son. “One should paint what brings joy.”

  Swinging around, Aiden tilted his head toward the canvas. “These two bring me joy. It’s to be my gift to Lena for Christmas so if you see my wife before then, please don’t mention it.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Aiden walked over to a small table, lifted a decanter, and poured scotch into two tumblers. He handed one to Beast. “If you were out in this mess, you could use warming.”

  “Indeed. Cheers.” He took a healthy swallow, welcoming the heat that burned his throat and seeped into his chest and limbs.

  “I’m accustomed to seeing you more often during the late hours of the night rather than during the day.”

  They both thrived at night, a trait they shared in common. “I had some business to tend to that could only be done during the day, so I was in the area and needed to have a word. I wanted to know if a Lord Chadbourne makes use of the Cerberus Club.”

  In addition to this one, the Elysium Club, that catered to ladies’ fantasies, Aiden owned a gaming hell where fortunes were won and lost—mostly lost—each night. His brother had always had a fascination with mythology, which might account for his wife appearing to be a goddess in every portrait he created of her.

  “Only within the past year or so.” While the club had once held a reputation of being a last resort for the nobility who couldn’t get credit elsewhere, its reputation had gained a bit more respectability since Aiden had married a widowed duchess. “Why?”

  “Does he owe you? Do you have any of his chits that can be called in?”

  “No. He has astoundingly good luck at the tables. I’ve considered that he’s cheating but if he is, I’ve been unable to determine how.”

  “Do you know if he’s still in London?”

  “He was as of a couple of nights ago.”

  “What game does he favor?”

  “Four-card brag.”

  Beast wasn’t surprised that Aiden knew the answer. People often underestimated his brother, didn’t realize he remembered the smallest of details when it came to the people who frequented his clubs. “Would you inform your club manager to send word to me the next time he comes in to play?”

  After slowly sipping his scotch, Aiden traced a finger around the rim of the glass. “What’s her name?”

  The question shouldn’t have come as a shock. Aiden had been in his life from the moment Beast had been dropped off at Ettie Trewlove’s door. While none of them had known precisely when they’d been born, their mum had been able to determine based on when their first teeth appeared that only a few months separated them in ages. He thought about ignoring the question but trusted no one more than he did the members of his family. “Althea.”

  “I assume he did wrong by her.”

  “Not in the manner you’re thinking.” He and his brothers had come to the defense of many a woman whom some man had taken physical advantage of. Their own mum being the first. Beth, the seamstress, being another. “But he hurt her all the same.”

  Aiden nodded. “Word will be sent.”

  Beast felt the tight band he hadn’t realized was around his chest loosen, even as the hand not holding the tumbler began to flex in readiness for delivering a blow. “I don’t love her.”

  He didn’t know why he’d blurted that. If he could go back in time three seconds, he’d bite his tongue.

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “She’s just someone I’m helping out.”

  “Lena was someone I was simply helping out, so take care, brother, or you might find yourself writing poetry instead of novels.”

  Beth was a talker, extremely adept at carrying on a separate conversation in between measurements, displaying fabric choices, and suggesting changes to patterns. So it was that Althea learned a good deal more about not only Benedict but the Trewloves overall. She was looking forward to presenting her newfound knowledge on the way home—not home. The residence was not her home, in spite of the fact that she felt incredibly comfortable within its walls. It was merely a temporary abode. None of its inhabitants would remain in her life, Benedict wouldn’t remain in her life. Eventually, he would become merely a memory.

  She didn’t
much like the joy that swept through her when he came in through the door. It had been so encompassing that she’d failed to notice the woman who’d glided in ahead of him—with a young servant girl in her wake—until the termagant spoke.

  “Beth, I was not aware you catered to traitors. I shall have to take my business elsewhere if you inform me this chit is indeed one of your clients.” Lady Jocelyn stood before her appearing offended and righteous at the same time, her nose tipped up so high and haughtily that Althea wouldn’t have been surprised to discover she caused a crick in her neck.

  Before Beth could respond, Althea said, “You look well, Lady Jocelyn.”

  As impossible as she’d thought it to be, the nose went up a tad higher. “I do not as a rule address traitors, but I am rather certain I am glowing as a result of my recent betrothal and upcoming nuptials. Perhaps you’ve heard. I’m to marry Chadbourne.”

  She hadn’t. Although she’d expected that eventually he would marry if for no other reason than to gain an heir and that it would hurt when she caught wind of it. Surprisingly, the blow was not as powerful as she’d anticipated. Yet, she knew not one iota of what she was feeling showed upon her face. “My condolences. It cannot be an easy thing to take to husband a man who has not the strength of character to honor his word or his commitments. When life throws him a challenge, it seems he is quick to run.”

  Lady Jocelyn was not as skilled at hiding her emotions. If the fire in her eyes was any indication, she was livid. “He is quick to realize he deserves a woman of the highest caliber, not one who comes from a line of treasonous scapegraces.”

  “You have always tended to exaggerate. A line? There was only one.”

  “Who is to say you will not produce another?” She held up her hand with such speed, it created a breeze. “Enough. I will engage with you no further. It is beneath me to speak to a person of such low character. Beth, if you intend to outfit her, the trousseau you are creating for me will go unpurchased.”