Timms blinked a few times and dropped his head slowly. “As you wish, Your Grace. Dinner will be in an hour.”
Wilde lifted a hand. “Wait, an hour? Why an hour? I normally dine at nine.”
“Mrs. Potter thought it would be better to dine at a more acceptable hour considering we have a guest.”
Wilde shook his head. “Am I to have no say in my own house?”
“I dare say it will only be for tonight. Her injuries were minor according to Mrs. Potter.”
“Good. Excellent. The sooner she is gone the better.”
Timms did not comment as he left the library and shut the door. Normally there was a feeling of relief once the door was shut. Here in Wilde’s library he could find a quiet peace that he had been unable to find elsewhere. It allowed him to escape the feelings of despair and grief. In amongst his books, he was no longer a devil-like killer with one eye, loathed by all and feared by many.
Today, however, there was no such feeling. It was because of her. Simply having her in the house was enough to disturb him. What was she doing now? Putting up her hair, perhaps? Doing all those sweet little feminine things he had so loved watching when his wife had been alive?
The gong ran at seven, the sound echoing through the house. He grimaced and straightened his waistcoat. Should he have taken Timms’ advice and dressed for dinner?
He shook his head. No, damn it, he was not standing on ceremony for this woman. Besides, his evening wear had not been pulled out of storage for nigh on a decade. It was probably in worse condition than his normal clothes. It was just tough. This Miss Beaumonte would have to take him as she found him.
Despite this little talk he had given himself, he still found his palms growing clammy when he entered the dining room. He paused and stared at the table for several moments. All the candles were lit along the length of the eighteen-seat table. Two place settings occupied the end of the table, one at the head and the other to the side. The best silverware gleamed as though it had been recently polished and someone had found some flowers from goodness knows where and put them into three vases that were laid out across the center of the table.
Lighthall stood in one corner, his livery clean and crease-free. The reed thin footman lifted his chin just a little, a smile in place.
“What is all this?” Wilde demanded.
“Mrs. Potter said we had a guest.” Lighthall’s French accent grew stronger whenever he was feeling smug.
Wilde resisted the urge to snarl. “We have but one guest. Hardly worth setting the whole table for.”
“There are only two place settings, Your Grace.”
“You know what I mean. Where did the flowers come from?”
“Seems we have a few more than we realized in the garden. Had to do a little digging, though.”
Wilde pressed his fingers to his temples. One night, he told himself. One night and she would be gone and his life would be back to normal. He would return to dining in the library—alone.
The door to the dining room creaked open and he spun. His heart flew up into his throat and lodged there. Miss Beaumonte stepped into the room, her gaze flying first to the ceiling where cherubs and gods were painted, then to the elegantly set table and finally to him. A hesitant smile spread across her lips.
The lump in his throat refused to move but his mind raced. That dress...the gold…it was…it was… “Where the devil did you get that gown?”
She glanced down as though surprised to find she was wearing the gold silk.
“Mrs. Potter gave it to me. I mean I borrowed it. I’m not keeping it of course.” She paused and took a breath. “My own dress was quite wet, you see. She said it would be fine. If it isn’t, I’ll—”
He held up a hand. “No, it is fine.” Lighthall gave a cough and Wilde grimaced. “You look…um…beautiful.”
And she did. To see another woman in his late wife’s clothes had near given him a heart attack. He had waited for the inevitable pain but as she had rambled on, color seeping into her cheeks, the pain had not struck. Instead he found himself running his gaze up and down her and admiring the way the silk caressed her figure. She was a little smaller than Lilly but it still fit well, emphasizing rounded hips and a slim waist.
“Shall we?” he asked, pointing to the table and drawing out a chair.
This would be damned easier if it wasn’t for Lighthall watching his every move. The Frenchman was taking far too much pleasure in his master’s discomfort. What a fine job he did not have more servants or else they would all be bullying him.
Miss Beaumonte sat and he pushed in the chair. The scent of soap reached him and the moment gave him a chance to admire her dark curls, braided carefully around her head while some hung loose at her neck. It made the back of her neck look soft and tempting, just perfect for a man to press kisses to. A tiny gold chain caressed her skin and he wondered what it was attached to. He hadn’t noticed the necklace so he had to assume it was tucked snug between her cleavage.
He sat and Lighthall brought in soup to start. The French soup was finer than what they usually had so he had to assume his servants had been colluding to create a meal fit to impress. Why they were so insistent on impressing a strange woman, he did not know.
They ate the soup in silence. He resisted the urge to clear his throat or wince every time he made too much of a slurping noise. Beards were not created to help one to eat soup. Several entrees were also brought out the table by Lighthall’s capable hands and Wilde could still not prompt himself to speak to Miss Beaumonte.
Part of him remained defensive. Why should he speak with her? He had no obligation to this unwanted guest. But the silence was growing deafening and one small part of him did not want her to feel uncomfortable.
When the main course of roast fillet pork was brought out, he cleared his throat. “Where did—” he started.
“I was—” She paused. “Forgive me, what did you wish to ask?”
“I was wondering where you came from? I mean, do you live in the village?”
She nodded.
“You have not lived there all of your life, though?” He had to conclude she had not or else she would be terrified of him. Besides which, he did not remember any little chestnut-haired girls. She would have been less than ten years old at the time of the accident, he imagined. He would have met her had she lived in the village then.
“No, we moved after my mother died. I had an aunt who lived here and Papa wanted the female influence. Though she married her second husband not long after and moved to the coast, much to my father’s dismay.”
“So he has raised you alone?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry to hear about your mother.”
“It was a long time ago now. Papa looked after me well even if he did not have my aunt to help. But you have lost both of your parents, have you not? I should be offering my condolences.”
He waved the condolences away. “I was not close to my parents.” Years at boarding school then university ensured that. He had hardly known his parents.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“You have no need to be.”
She smiled—a soft, sweet smile that drew attention to the perfect cupid’s bow of her lips. “Well, I am nevertheless.”
They fell back into silence while they ate again. There was a break between the main course and desserts. Wilde peered around the room. In his younger years, before he had married, he would have had no problem conversing with a pretty young woman. Indeed, his problem was that he was far too capable of talking to them. Women adored him and he adored them, even after taking his vows of marriage. What an arrogant cad he had been.
He waited until Lighthall served up the selection of desserts and Miss Beaumonte had helped herself to an assortment of jelly, blancmange and dessert biscuits before attempting conversation again.
“Miss Beaumonte, why exactly were you trespassing in my garden?”
“Is navigating an overgrown ga
rden to reach the front door trespassing?” she asked as she nibbled a biscuit. She paused and eyed his empty bowl. “Are you not eating dessert?”
He shook his head. “I am not one for sweet food.”
“But the servants have gone to all this effort.”
In truth, he had avoided desserts since Lilly died. She had a terribly sweet tooth and took great pleasure in conjuring up wonderful menus with Mrs. Potter. Of course, he could be counted on to be late or miss these large dinner parties altogether. Lilly would be left to dine alone or make an excuse for their guests. A man like him hardly deserved such treats.
“I don’t eat dessert,” he insisted.
“Everyone eats jelly. Even children. Mrs. Potter has done a wonderful job.” She reached over, grabbed the large ladle and took a scoop of the food in question. She dumped the wobbling pile into his bowl. “Have some, it’s delicious,” she pressed.
He eyed the mass on his plate then looked at her. She watched intently, her chin propped on one hand.
“If I have one spoonful, will you leave me be?”
“Absolutely.”
Why he was obeying this woman’s demands, he did not know, but for the sake of peace, he lifted a spoon and dug out a tiny sliver of jelly.
“More than that,” Miss Beaumonte declared. “You will not taste a thing.”
He sighed and took a large spoonful. Aware of her watching his every move, he shoved the jelly in his mouth and put down the spoon. It had been so long since he had eaten such foods, the tangy berry flavor mixed with what had to be essence of rose took him by surprise. He swallowed it quickly and kept his face expressionless.
“Well?” Miss Beaumonte asked.
“I have eaten it. Are you satisfied?”
“No, what I meant was, did you like it?”
“It was fine.”
Miss Beaumonte laughed. The sound echoed around the dining room. It rattled through his brain and did something strange to his stomach. An oddly warm sensation ran through his veins. It had been a long time since there’d been laughter at Blackmoor Abbey.
He didn’t damn well like it. But he did. And that was the terrifying thing. This woman had come along and invaded his space and brought him laughter and jelly, and he liked it.
This was terrible. She had to go first thing tomorrow.
A smile lingered on her lips. “The jelly is delicious and you know it.”
He merely grunted while she turned her attention back to finishing her dessert. He eyed the remaining dessert and found his mouth watered at the sight. What was this woman doing to him?
“You never did say why you were in my garden,” he prompted when she had finished.
“I had come to call on you.”
“Me? Whatever for?”
She placed down her napkin and eyed him intently. “I am starting a subscription library, Your Grace. I wish to bring the joy of reading to the village.”
He snorted. “You will never get those people reading.”
A brow arched. “Why ever not?”
“They’re a fickle bunch. Too interested in gossip to put their nose in a book.”
“You forget, Your Grace, that I am one of those villagers.”
Wilde waved a hand. “Well you are an exception.”
“How can you say such a thing when they have never been given a chance to read? Most have not picked up a book since school because there are simply none in the village. If I had a library, they would have access to all sorts of books. You are an educated man, are you not? Surely you understand how important reading is for one’s mind?”
“It is a noble cause indeed, Miss Beaumonte, but those people are not interested in looking after their minds.”
No, they were far too busy talking of the Beast of Blackmoor. Far too keen to cast him out and mark him as a killer. It was true, of course, but was he not ravaged enough by guilt as it was? The gossip and the frightened children after the accident were enough to ensure he would happily never speak to a single one of them again.
“I am determined to at least try.” She lifted a chin. “I think you are being unfair to them.”
He made a dismissive sound.
“Anyway, I came here because I was told you have one of the best libraries in all of England.”
“I do. Why?” He smirked. “Are you going to try to emulate it?”
She glowered at him, not appreciative of his sarcasm, and he could not blame her. There was a reason he kept to himself and she had to realize he had few manners. Twelve years out of society had done a good deal of harm to his manners.
“I came to ask for your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes.”
“And did you not think that perhaps it was not a good idea to seek the help of the Beast of Blackmoor. Did the tales not frighten you away?”
“Your Grace, I love stories more than anything but I know when a story is just that. You are no more a beast than I am.”
“You would be the only person in the world to say that, Miss Beaumonte.”
“Nonsense. Mrs. Potter or Mr. Timms would never say such a thing.”
“They are paid to be kind to me,” he said dryly.
“Servants do not have to like their masters.”
“You would be wise to listen to the tales of me, you know. If you are indeed a book lover you shall understand that all stories have an element of truth in them.”
“I know that your wife died but…”
She trailed off so he had to assume the shard of pain burrowing into his heart showed on his face.
“Never mind.” She waved a hand. “I came here to ask if I could borrow some of your books. For the library. I know you have a great collection and I thought—”
“No.”
“But you have so many to spare. And I have to assume that you are a great lover of books too, so you must understand how important this is.”
“No.” There was no chance he was ever letting a single book go and certainly not so it could fall into the hands of those gossip-mongering villagers. He needed his books, and he needed his library intact.
“But surely—”
“I said no,” he said sharply.
Her eyes widened at his tone. “The villagers,” she said softly, “they need them.”
“I would rather burn all the books than have them in the hands of those people.”
“Well, that’s a bit extreme, I was only asking—”
He slammed a hand down on the table making her jump. “I said no, Miss Beaumonte. No, no, no. I will not give up my books for your folly and that is the end of it.” He stood and threw down his napkin.
A hand pressed to her chest, she stared up at him. “Well, there’s no need to be so…so…”
“Say it,” he growled.
“So beastly,” she spilled out. “Yes, that’s right. Beastly.” Her chin jutted up.
“And there you have the truth of it, Miss Beaumonte.” He softened his voice. “All stories have an element of truth. Good evening to you, Miss Beaumonte. I trust you will sleep well.”
He did not turn to look at her as he strode out of the dining room. He’d seen and heard enough. As she had said, he was beastly. Which was precisely the reason she needed to leave as soon as possible. For what woman would want to remain in the company of a beast? Not a beautiful, clever one like Miss Beaumonte, for certain.
Wilde strode into the library and shut the door. Tomorrow Miss Beaumonte would be gone and things would return to normal. He could enjoy his solitude and forget the day she ever darkened his doorstep.
Chapter Five
Although the bed was aged, it was not uncomfortable. However, Isabel hardly slept a wink. She stretched her arms above her head and forced her eyes to remain open. She lolled against the pillow and found herself drifting off to sleep again. Forcing herself up, she threw back the covers. This would not do at all. She needed to be awake and fresh for her journey home.
When she put her foot t
o the floorboards, she winced. It had not only been the duke’s behavior that had kept her awake but the mild throb in her leg. Unfortunately, the mild throb had grown worse. She had yet to look under her dressings but bitterness rose in her throat at the thought of what might be under there. Had it become infected as Mrs. Potter feared it would? She had seen it before, people dying from infection. She’d even heard of a boy in the next village who’d lost his leg to infection and was crippled for the rest of his life.
The duke would probably say it served her right. She shook her head and peered through the crack in the curtains. He loathed the villagers—the very people who were supposed to be under his care. Yes, they loved to gossip and the tales of the duke’s grotesqueness were highly unfair, but people loved to tell stories, and he had hardly done anything to persuade them otherwise. If he went out every now and then, perhaps they would see he was not a hideous beast.
He would certainly need to work on his manners, however.
The door eased open and Mrs. Potter entered with a fresh bowl of water and another gown slung over her arm. This one was as fine as the last—fit for a duchess. Not fit, however, for the daughter of a respectable but hardly wealthy man. The blue silk overlaid with a fine lace no doubt once belonged to the duke’s wife. After seeing his reaction yesterday at her wearing the golden one, she was not at all sure she could borrow another.
“Is my dress ready yet?” she asked hopefully.
“Not yet, my love. It’s still drying and I need to mend those tears in it. It shall take a while.”
“I suppose I could wear this one home.” She motioned to the gold one that laid over a chair. “Then I shall have it sent directly back.”
“You won’t be going home today, my love. The weather is awful and your leg is still healing.”
Isabel peered through the gap once more and noted the raindrops on the window. She would not much relish walking in it if she was in full health but she could manage. However, with her leg throbbing away uncomfortably, she was not at all sure she would survive the journey without collapsing.
“Perhaps I could borrow the duke’s carriage?”
The Beast Who Loved Me: A Fairytale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 2) Page 3