The Beast Who Loved Me
Samantha Holt
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
“Ho there.”
Isabel winced. She had made it out of the village without anyone paying attention to her. What rotten luck to be caught by someone now. More than a someone, really.
Garth Legore, the heir to the Viscount Thorndale seat.
She kept her head forward, gaze fixed on the rather bland scenery of tree after tree. The woods were dense and dark. Grey clouds hidden by a thick canopy ensured barely a trickle of light seeped through. Her father would not be impressed if he discovered she was here.
But he was away for two weeks in Bath on business. She would be returned by dusk and what her father didn’t know could not hurt him. Unless, of course, Garth decided to tattle on her.
“Isabel,” he called again.
She pretended not to hear. Perhaps he would turn around and give up. Boots squelching through rotten leaves and mud left behind from the recent rain, she picked up her pace.
Horse’s hooves neared, signaling that Garth had not given up. She drew in a breath, pasted a smile upon her face and twisted to view him as he brought his elegant steed to her side.
“You were in a world of your own,” he declared, flashing what Isabel knew he thought was a dashing smile.
Truth be told, there was nothing dashing about it. Garth was an utter fop. Even her father said as much. His lips were narrow, his chin barely existent, his eyes were too close together and his ears were large. To make up for it, Garth dressed in the highest of fashions. From his padded calves to his tight cinched in waist—and she hardly wanted to think about what he wore underneath his shirts to create such a waist—this man was a fop of the worst kind. Preoccupied with nothing else other than wearing the best and most expensive clothes.
Even if they were ridiculous.
“Forgive me,” she said, suppressing a smile as she recalled the time he had worn shoes with such a high heel that he could hardly walk in them. Garth Legore walking down the village street, nearly toppling over had been quite the sight.
He brushed a strand of hair from his face and tugged on the reins to ensure the horse kept pace with her. Isabel wished he wouldn’t. She wished he’d leave her be.
At least once a week, he approached her—and had been doing so since she turned eight and ten. There was only so much of Garth’s company one could take, and two minutes was too much, let alone two years.
“Where are you off to, then? Does your father know you are out in the woods alone?”
He spoke with a strange intonation. Loud and deep but it sounded forced, a little like when she tried to mimic a man. There was only so long one could listen to that voice, too.
She drew in a breath. “I am off to Blackmoor Abbey.”
He drew the horse to a dramatic stop and peered down at her. “Blackmoor Abbey? Whatever the devil for?”
Isabel kept walking. “It has a wonderful library. As you know, I am trying to put together a library for the village,” she said patiently, in spite of feeling decidedly impatient.
If Garth held her up much longer, she would be walking back in the dark and while she might not be frightened off by tales of beasts and dukes who killed their wives, she did not much fancy coming across any ruffians.
“So, you are what? Going to ask for some books?” Garth laughed. “You think the Beast of Blackmoor would give you books?”
She lifted a shoulder. “He has a vast collection, I am told. I do not see why he cannot spare some.”
A vast, vast collection according to Mrs. Umbridge in the village store. A library so big that one could get lost in it for days. One so huge that it would take many lifetimes to read every book in there.
Isabel sighed and smiled. She could only imagine such a place. Papa spoke of the libraries in London but she had never had occasion to visit and he did not like her travelling. The six-hour journey from Northumberland to London could be treacherous and Papa was utterly convinced she would catch some sort of malady covering the distance.
But to see a library like that…oh it would be worth the time and the illness.
Perhaps the duke would let her in to see his library. He might even let her choose a few titles herself.
“You are serious, are you not?” Garth had stopped again.
Though tempted to keep walking and ignore him, it would make her life more difficult than necessary. She might think him a ridiculous fop but he was heir to the viscountcy. With the exception of the so-called Beast of Blackmoor, he was the highest-ranking man in the area, and thus, Garth was treated as though he was royalty at times. Mrs. Umbridge had tutted at her only yesterday morning, scolding her for not paying more attention to him as she had ducked into her shop to avoid Garth.
“You could do far worse than a viscount,” Mrs. Umbridge had told her with a wagging finger.
Perhaps she could, but she could also do far better. Not that there were any high-ranking men in the area after her hand but, as far as she was concerned, a life alone, managing a library was much better than a marriage to Garth Legore.
Hands to her hips, Isabel finally faced him. “Yes, I am serious. My subscription library consists of all of four books. I have more coming back from Bath with Papa but it’s hardly enough. Our entire village seems to have only a handful of books except for the bible.”
“A good read,” he concurred.
She doubted Garth had ever read through the entire bible but now was not the time to point that out. “We need more books, Garth. For the sake of our children, we must be better read.”
Garth snorted. “Nonsense. I hardly read one book as a boy and look at me now. Can’t find a better catch in the whole of Northumberland.”
Drawing in a calming breath, she pasted that smile across her lips once more. “Of course. But we cannot all be as lucky as you.”
A grin slanted across his lips. “You could be, Izzy.” He leaned down. “You could be lucky indeed.”
She glanced at the sky, barely visible through the trees. “Oh dear, it looks like it might rain any moment. I had better hurry.”
“Rain? Damnation. This beaver felt is brand new.” He tapped his hat. “All the way from London. Only the best.”
“Naturally.”
“You could have the best too, Izzy. If only you would consent—”
“Goodness, I felt a drop. I had better dash. So should you, if you do not want your new hat ruined.”
“You’re right. I had better make haste. I shall call on you once your father has returned. We can finish our conversation.” He paused. “You’re really going to visit the Beast of Broadmoor?”
Isabel lifted her chin. “Yes.”
He shook his head. “You know what they say about him, Izzy.”
She was really starting to loathe the nickname he had given her. “Yes, I know.”
He considered her for a moment. “I should force you to return.”
Lifting her chin higher, she eyed him. No one had ever forced her to do anything she did not wish to do, nor had they ever dissuaded her from doing something she wished to. Ga
rth was certainly not going to be dragging her home anytime soon.
A drop of rain landed on the brim of his hat. Isabel hadn’t really thought it was going to rain so she was somewhat grateful—though, of course, it meant she would also get wet.
“But I must make haste.” He turned his horse. “I have business in town for a few days but I shall call on you upon my return, do not fear.”
“Huzzah,” she muttered to herself.
“Pardon?”
“I said that would be lovely.”
“Excellent.” With another supposedly handsome grin, he bid her farewell.
The rain picked up pace, dropping heavily upon her bonnet and seeping under her pelisse. She shivered and walked quicker. Blackmoor Abbey was another mile or so away yet so she had quite a bit of walking to do, but it would be worth it when she came back with a promise of books from the duke.
For surely he would wish to donate to such a cause. Unlike Garth, he had to be well-read with such a library. Who could not be? Why, if she owned such a library, she would never leave it. He would have dozens of books to spare, if not hundreds. What a boon that would be. Her subscription library could finally get off the ground and the villagers would be far more interested in it if there was a bigger selection of titles.
Wrapping her arms about herself to ward off a chill, she marched through the woods, the thought of a lovely, old, large library urging her onwards. She emerged from the forest and met the long road that led up to the abbey. A line of trees shielded it from view so she had never seen it properly before. Ever since her father moved them to the village, after the death of her mother, she had been warned away from the house. The Beast of Blackmoor lived there, everyone said.
She snorted. Well, as much as she liked stories, she did not believe in dukes turning into beasts. Mrs. Umbridge had said that after the death of his wife, the duke had remained hidden away in his house, never to be seen again. Those that had caught a glimpse or brought food to the house said that time and grief had turned him into a hideous beast, the likes of which no one should set eyes upon.
Isabel snorted again. Poppycock and nonsense. Simply because one preferred to keep to oneself did not make one a beast. She could hardly blame the man either. After her mother had died, her father had moved from Hampshire to this small village in a bid for peace. She suspected he also wanted to escape the memories of her mother. Grief did strange things to a person but it certainly never turned anyone into a monster.
The rain persisted and her bonnet had become a floppy mess. The ribbon kept sticking to her cheek and she was on the verge of ripping it off out of frustration when there was a break in the trees. The tall tops of the abbey were visible each with a domed top and a weather vane. There were four in total.
As she moved closer and past the row of trees, the front of the house greeted her—albeit quite a way down the road. Square and three stories tall with the towers on every corner, it struck a wildly stark contrast to the overgrown tumble that was now a garden.
Isabel swiped the raindrops from her face and tightened her pelisse around her as she peered into the distance. The front gates remained but the walls that once ran from either side of it were crumbling with some large chunks missing. Vines and ivy crawled over the remains and up the wrought iron curlicues. She approached and peered up at the gates. How anyone moved through them, she did not know. They were bound tightly together by all the ivy and foliage.
There was likely a back route to the house—the one that any delivery boys or servants used—but she had little idea where it was. The dip in the crumbling wall would do instead. She certainly was never getting those gates open.
Hitching up her skirts, she chose the lowest spot and climbed over the bricks. Her foot landed in a pile of brambles and one snagged at her stocking. She tore her foot free and clumsily made her way across to what used to be an elegant pathway. There was some sign of the neatly trimmed trees lining it but the grass was long and weeds had taken their toll. From left to right and from the front of the house to the gates, the garden was wild and overgrown. Not a single elegant bush or flowerbed could be seen.
She peered back at the gates, locked by the vines that had tangled around them. Her stomach squirmed. “Silly girl,” she told herself. “There is no such thing as beast men.”
Drawing up her shoulders, she bunched her skirts in both hands to avoid the brambles and rose thorns that tried to snatch her clothing and forged on.
“Eeep.” The sound escaped her as she tumbled over something hard, hidden under the wild garden. The sound soon turned into a cry of pain when her leg scraped along the side of the stone and became caught in the rose thorns. She tumbled onto her bottom with an ‘oof’.
Slightly dazed, she put her hands down to push up and realized her mistake. Thorns pricked her palms and she winced. Isabel glanced at her hands and pursed her lips. A few little cuts and a thorn or too to dig out by the looks of it. She plucked the offending foliage from her fingers and found purchase on the stone that had been hidden from view and caused her tumble. It looked to be an old bench. Too low to still be standing on its pedestals, though.
She gripped a bare bit of stone and eased up to standing. A dart of pain took the air from her lungs. Peering down as she lifted her skirts, she saw the ugly tear in her stockings and a generous blood stain. Apparently, she had cut herself worse than she had thought.
Well, there was nothing much else for it. She came here for books and she would leave with books. Hopefully she could also beg a little help for her leg before she returned home.
That was if they did not think her a vagrant. With her floppy bonnet, mud-streaked dress and torn skirts, she did not look exactly presentable.
With more care this time, she made her way to the house, careful to avoid any stone benches or twisting brambles that seemed to want to draw her in and make her part of the garden. She passed a statue of a naked woman, her arms missing. The ivy clung to it like a make-shift dress. The effect was eerie indeed as the sightless statue eyed her journey through a cloak of greenery.
“Garth would tell you you’d been reading too many horror stories,” she scolded herself.
That was enough to make her turn her head swiftly from the statue and focus on her goal. The house.
The huge double door with its iron lion head knockers beckoned. Behind those doors was a library that could rival almost any in the country if the tales were true. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance and no creepy statue would stop her from gaining access. Nor would any beast-like duke. She laughed. How preposterous. Garth would tell her to keep her nose out of books and yet he and the villagers were the ones making up tales about hermits.
The height of the house gave her some shelter from the rain so she took the moment to adjust her bonnet, push her soggy curls from her face and straighten her skirts. She rapped the knocker once then noticed an old bell pull at the side of the door. She pulled that too for good measure but it was stiff and she did not think it rang.
Tapping her foot, she waited, and her heart beat a tattoo in her chest. Just the thought of all those books was enough to make her feel faint. When no one answered, she tried again.
She huffed a breath over her face. What if he was not here? What if he had packed up his household and vanished and that was why no one saw him? Her journey would be wasted. And so too would her poor, battered dress.
A squeak came from the door and she jolted. Forcing a placid smile upon her face, she laced her fingers in front of herself. The door groaned open, so slowly that she had to fight the desire to push it open herself.
Through the darkened crack, a face peered. A round, short man with a long, thin moustache peered at her through spectacles. “Yes?” he asked, his voice reedy.
“Good afternoon, I was wondering—”
Another face appeared. A quick flash. She only saw it briefly enough to register hair—lots and lots of dark hair. And the eyes. Two eyes fixed on her but one was white—comple
tely white. He must have only looked at her for a moment but it felt long enough for her hands to turn clammy and her heart to beat so hard she thought it might pop out of her throat.
“No visitors!”
The door slammed shut.
Good God, perhaps the villagers had been right after all.
Chapter Two
“Your Grace…” Timms stammered.
Wilde stared down at the butler in his most intimidating manner. “No visitors,” he repeated.
Timms pursed his lips and straightened his waistcoat. “The girl was sodden and by the looks of it hurt. I saw blood on her ankle.”
“Looking at ladies’ ankles, Timms? I thought better of you.”
Wilde tried to force the image of the soaked young woman out of his mind. He’d only seen her briefly but it had been enough. He recognized fear when he saw it. As soon as those wide, expressive eyes had landed upon him, he’d seen it all.
“Your Grace, I think we should at least ask her in. She could catch a chill.”
“It would serve her right. She shouldn’t be trespassing on my land.”
“Your Grace—”
Mrs. Potter, his housekeeper come cook, bustled in and thrust a finger at them, one after the other. Though a good two heads shorter than himself, the woman never seemed intimidated by him. It was a bother, to be sure.
“Did you two just send that young woman away?” she demanded.
“I did not!” Timms protested.
“I did.” Wilde turned away from the door. “And I would do it again. And again. And again.”
“The first visitor we’ve had in years and you send her away?” Mrs. Potter threw her hands in the air.
“I do not want visitors,” Wilde reminded her tightly over his shoulder.
Despite his determined stride toward the library, she followed him, her footsteps rapping on the old black and white tiles. “She was soaked to the skin! She will catch a cold. Or the flu! Or worse!”
“What could be worse than the flu?” he muttered as he opened the door to the library.
“Pneumonia!” Mrs. Potter put a hand to his arm. “Come now, Your Grace. We cannot leave her out there. The nearest house is two miles from here.”
The Beast Who Loved Me: A Fairytale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 2) Page 1