It was a preposterous thought. Certainly, he was kinder than he first appeared. And more handsome really. He shared her love of books which was a rarity in men of her acquaintance. But none of that mattered. The duke did not want a wife. Once she was gone, he would be happy to shut himself away in the library and stay alone for the rest of his life, of that much she was certain.
She slipped on her shoes, checked her reflection and made her way downstairs. Was the duke up? She did not spot him in the breakfast room and Mr. Lighthall was still preparing the morning meal. He could well be in the library but she would leave him in peace for a while. He deserved that much after his patience with her yesterday. All those questions had clearly made him uncomfortable yet she had continued, probing until she had seen pain on his face. How uncouth she could be. Considering she had called him beastly, she had to wonder where her manners had vanished to at times.
“Good morning, Miss Beaumonte,” Timms greeted her as he stepped out of the drawing room and into the hallway.
“Good morning, Mr. Timms, how are you this morning?”
“Well, indeed. Though…I just heard that the river has flooded. The road to the village is impassable apparently.”
Isabel peered at the butler and noted a little sweat on his brow. His moustache twitched. “Is that so? Where did you hear that, Mr. Timms?”
“From, um, one of the delivery boys. Yes. That was it.” He gave a smile. “It looks like it will take a few days to subside.”
“So I don’t suppose I will be able to travel home for a few days then?”
“Exactly. Best you stay here. Would not want you getting washed away now, would we?”
“Not at all,” she agreed. She motioned out of the front window. “I thought I might take some air before breakfast.”
“The rear gardens are best for a stroll. They’re hardly what they once were but are easier to navigate. Just go through the ballroom.” He indicated a door past the stairs.
“Thank you, Mr. Timms.”
Isabel followed his directions and found herself in what had once been a grand ballroom. She shook her head at the conversation they had just had. The river near the village had not flooded once since she had lived here. She very much doubted it had flooded now. Apparently, the butler was keen on her staying too.
A piano lay underneath a sheet in one corner. Several long mirrors lined the walls so that dancers and guests could see themselves and others. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine men and women in their finery swirling about the room. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bereft of any candles. What a pity such a space was no longer used. This house begged for guests and light and laughter.
Four double doors spanned one side, letting in the morning sun. On busy evenings at the house they were likely left open so the room did not grow too hot. She tried the first door but it was either stuck or locked. The second opened with a little more ease.
She stepped out onto a patio area that was cluttered with leaves left over from autumn and winter. A few stone pots sat at either end, one with a miserable-looking tree left in it. The rest of the garden did not fare any better. What had once been a neatly trimmed and carefully planned area, was now overgrown and wild. The box trees no longer held their original shape and weeds sprung up in every corner, slowly swallowing the elegance.
“Good morning, Miss Beaumonte!”
A hand to her chest, Isabel whirled to see Mr. Lighthall coming around the corner of the house, several brown wrapped packages in hand. “You’re up early.”
“The sunshine woke me. I thought I had better enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Oh yes.” Mr. Lighthall peered at the sky. “I’m sure it will not. Lots more storms. I can feel it in my bones. Terrible travelling weather.”
She resisted letting loose a giggle. All three of the servants were terrible liars and horribly unsubtle. However, she could not help but admire their persistence. For some reason, they had decided she was the one for their master. She did so hate to disappoint but there was little that could be done there. One could not force two people to fall in love.
Isabel glanced up at the blue sky. Dotted with a mere two clouds, it looked as though any threat of rain had thoroughly passed. “Looks clear enough to me,” she murmured.
“My bones never lie,” he cautioned. “Anyway, I hope you’re ready for a sumptuous meal tonight, Miss Beaumonte. Mrs. Potter worked into the night to prepare a veritable feast.”
“Oh dear, she really need not go to so much effort for me.”
“She enjoys it I’m sure. I am sure you will enjoy it too and that will make all the effort worthwhile.”
She nodded. “Yes, Mr. Lighthall, I’m sure I shall.”
“So you are staying for dinner then?”
“I am. Mrs. Potter said my leg is not quite healed enough to travel anywhere. And Mr. Timms mentioned that the river was flooded. Looks like I must stay an extra day or two.”
“Oh. Did they? I see.” He shifted on his feet. “Excellent. I mean, well, I am glad that you are staying. It would not do to have you walking home if you are still unwell.”
“No, apparently, it would not.” She glanced at the packages. “Can I help you with those?”
“Oh these…no, no, I would not dream of it. I had best get to work. Good day, Miss Beaumonte.”
“Good day, Mr. Lighthall.”
The footman scurried into the house and amusement made her lips twitch. She should be annoyed, surely, at their manipulations, keeping her practically a prisoner in this home, but she felt no urgent need to go home.
Apart from the fact she was probably going to drive the duke mad with her questions before long.
She paused her journey into the garden when she noted Mr. Lighthall had dropped a package on the ballroom floor. Sweeping it up, she dashed in the direction he’d headed. The hallway was empty but voices emanated from downstairs.
Package in hand, she took a moment to glance at the address on it. It was one of the villager’s addresses—old Mr. Grant who lived in the cottage at the end of the village. Why did Mr. Lighthall have a package for Mr. Grant?
Isabel hastened downstairs to find more packages piled up on the kitchen table. Mrs. Potter had her back to Isabel and was wrapping more packages in brown paper and string while Mr. Lighthall could be seen through the open servant’s door. He ducked in through the entrance and paused when he spotted her.
“Ah, Miss Beaumonte.”
“You dropped this.” She put the package on the table and eyed the other addresses. All the packages were for people in the village. “What is all this?”
Mrs. Potter exchanged a look with Mr. Lighthall who gave a slight nod. “These are gifts for the villagers,” Mrs. Potter admitted. “His Grace sends them food and whatnot every month or so.”
Isabel blinked and lifted another parcel to eye the name carefully inked onto it. “But…His Grace does not like the villagers.”
A smile crossed Mrs. Potter’s face. “He does not like them, yes. But he has a duty to care for them. This is the only way he knows how.”
“Do the villagers know these are from him?” Isabel asked.
Mr. Lighthall lifted a shoulder. “I am sure they are just grateful for the help. His Grace sends them to the poorest members of the community to help them along during hard times.”
Isabel opened her mouth then shut it again. She had just known there was something more to the duke than first met the eye and she’d been right. Inside that hard shell was someone who cared far more deeply than he liked to admit about others.
“I’ve never heard of any donations from strangers in the village,” she mused.
“If you were on the receiving end of charity from goodness knows who, would you talk about it?” Mrs. Potter pointed out, stacking the next parcel on the table.
“They should know. Surely you think they should?” Isabel swung her gaze between the two servants. “He is most kind to them and they have no idea. If they
only knew, they would embrace him back into the village, I’m sure of it.”
Mr. Lighthall shook his head. “His Grace wishes his actions to remain secret and that is the way it must stay.”
Isabel eyed all the parcels once more and sighed. “He is too stubborn for his own good.”
“I—” Mrs. Potter froze and swung her gaze to behind Isabel.
Spinning on her heel, she found herself confronted by a wide chest. She lifted her gaze up and up to meet the intense stare of that one eye.
“Miss Beaumonte, you are still here.”
She sucked in a sharp breath at the deep voice, her heart hammering. But not in fear or surprise. Excitement, she realized.
His clothing appeared neater than usual. His usual worn-out finery had a fresh look to it although according to someone like Garth it was likely years out of fashion. The effect of the well-cut jacket and dark waistcoat lined with gold buttons was one that made her heart continue to skip. He had tied his hair back too and neatened his beard. Perhaps he was not quite handsome in the traditional sense but no one would ever mistake him for a beast now, surely?
“I am still here,” she confirmed.
Were her eyes deceiving her or was he smiling? She looked closer. No, her eyes were not lying. There was indeed a hint of smile underneath that beard.
“I had thought you might flee as soon as you awoke to this weather.”
“I was told that the journey would be impossible.”
An eyebrow lifted. “You were?”
“Yes. Apparently, I am still not well enough nor is the weather good enough. Mr. Lighthall’s bones say so.”
The duke chuckled. “I see. And you do not mind being here a little longer?”
“No.”
His eyes flashed. She’d been deliberately blunt to see his reaction and it was everything she hoped for. Except, why was she hoping he wanted her to stay?
“I was just…” She waved a hand at the parcels. “Um…”
“Timms said you were taking a stroll in the garden yet I found you here.” He ignored the parcels as if they did not exist. “Perhaps you could not find your way?”
“Well, it is easy to get lost in this house.”
He offered an arm. “Then allow me. Let us leave Mrs. Potter and Lighthall to their work.”
Chapter Ten
For the second time this week, Wilde found he had Isabel on his arm. For the second time in over a decade, he had a woman on his arm. Not only that but he was strolling around the overgrown gardens with her as if he were the host of a dinner party and not her accidental host due to her injury.
Her leg seemed fine, however. The weather was excellent too. Whatever his servants were up to, he could not find it in himself to argue with them. Not if it meant keeping Isabel here a little longer.
Despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy her company.
They followed the path that led down to the fountain. Weeds and overgrown grass carpeted the trail and the old fountain looked sorry for itself. Empty of water, the stone had a green tinge and the beautiful woman that had once held up the seashell made a monstrous sight with her chipped nose and discoloration.
“I never come into the garden,” he muttered, as though that was an excuse for his lack of care.
“I rather like the wilderness,” she said. “Much better than those formal gardens where everything is perfectly square.”
“I think there is wilderness and then there is what we have here. I’m not sure what it is.”
“A jungle perhaps. I always fancied going to the jungle.”
He gave her a sideways look. “You are being charitable.”
“Perhaps. But I was not fibbing. I do prefer wild flowers and bushes.”
It was not as though he’d been unaware that the garden was growing at an alarming rate or that one could likely get lost if one wandered too far into it in its current state, but it was more that he did not care.
“Oh.” Isabel unlatched her arm from his and bent to view something. “Look.” She pointed at something pink. “Wild roses. How beautiful.”
He peered at the plant in question. “So it is.”
“This garden would look wonderful with more wild roses.”
At this rate, he’d be willing to grow several acres of wild roses just to see that excitable look on her face once more.
“Perhaps Timms can find someone to look after them.”
“That would be a wonderful idea.”
“Of course, there are not many people who are willing to work for the beast of Blackmoor.”
She rose and eyed him. “Do people really not wish to work for you because of that awful nickname?”
“Indeed. They take one look at me and run away.”
“I did not run away because of how you looked. I ran away because you shouted at me,” she pointed out.
“Well, I do not normally shout at servants. But, alas, none wish to work for me whether I shout or not.”
“There must be someone.”
He lifted a shoulder. “People do not wish to work for me and I cannot blame them.”
“Mrs. Potter and Mr. Timms and Mr. Lighthall like working for you.”
“They’re silly old fools.”
“Who care for you, clearly.”
“As I said, they’re fools.”
“For caring for you?”
He nodded.
“Why would it be foolish to care for you?”
“Believe me, Isabel. I do not deserve it.”
Her chin lifted. “I don’t believe it for a moment.”
He would not tell her he had been an arrogant cad and he deserved everything that came his way. The time between them was too precious and he would not have it ruined by the man he once was.
Wilde offered her his arm again but a shout stopped her from taking it. They looked in the direction of the noise and saw Timms racing down the steps. The butler stopped when he reached them then bent double and sucked in a breath before straightening.
“There is…” Timms gasped. “There is a man here for you, Miss Beaumonte.”
“A man?”
“A Mr. Garth Legore.”
Isabel grimaced. “Oh no.”
Wilde instantly straightened. His muscles tightened. “Who is he?”
“Oh, no one really. He’s from the village. The Viscount Thorndale’s son?”
Wilde frowned. “Yes, I recall, though he was only a boy when I saw him last. Why is he here for you?”
“He probably wishes to check up on me. I ran into him on my way here so he likely guessed I was still here.” She sighed. “I had better see him or else he shall make a pest of himself.”
Taking her arm, Wilde brought her to a stop before she could dash off. “If you do not wish to see him, I can send him on his way.”
She shook her head. “He is a pest but he is harmless.”
“He has pestered you?”
“Well,” she glanced down, “if you call endless hints of wishing to marry me pestering.”
His skin flamed. His gut clenched. Whoever he was, he did not deserve Isabel’s hand. He did not even need to meet the man to know that.
Isabel patted his hand. “I shall send him on his way, not to worry. Though, Mr. Timms, I thought the river was flooded. However did he get here?”
Timms face turned beetroot red. “I, um, I’m not sure. A boat perhaps?”
Isabel laughed. “Perhaps.”
Wilde paused a while before heading into the house. Timms awaited him in the hallway and jerked his head toward the drawing room.
“He’s in there, Your Grace,” he whispered.
Unable to resist, he peered around the doorway to see a young gentleman pacing about the room. Dressed as though he were about to go to London rather than ride through the countryside, Wilde took an instant disliking to him.
His dislike increased when he heard the chap speak.
“Isabel, I demand that you come home,” Legore snapped.
“Demand?” Isabel scoffed. “Garth, you are not my father.”
To hear her say his first name made Wilde’s stomach bunch.
“It is inappropriate for you to stay here, Isabel,” Legore continued.
“The housekeeper is acting as my maid. There’s nothing inappropriate. I hurt my leg and I still cannot make the journey home.”
Wilde inched closer to view Isabel. She remained standing, her shoulders stiff and her arms folded.
“Do you not understand?” Garth demanded. “People will think you are…are ruined. How can I marry you then?”
Isabel laughed. “Garth, we are not getting married.”
“You will come around, I know it. You would be a fool not to.”
He puffed out his chest in a way that would be comical if Wilde were not so furious. How dare this man come here and tell Isabel what to do?
“Call me a fool then,” she replied airily.
“Isabel.” Wilde heard a tension in Garth’s voice that made him straighten. “You will come home with me immediately.”
“I will not.”
Garth stepped forward and though Wilde could not see what he was doing properly, he heard Isabel release a gasp.
Wasting no time, he strode into the room. Garth had her arm gripped in his hand. An explosion went off in Wilde’s brain. He snatched the man by the cravat and thrust him up against one wall. A vase crashed to the floor and splintered.
“You do not touch her. Ever. Do you understand?” Wilde demanded while Garth clawed at the grip he had on his cravat.
The man gargled for a moment then nodded.
“Do not come here again,” Wilde spat. He released the man who slid down the wall, a hand clutched to his neck. “Get out.” Wilde pointed to the door. “Get. Out.”
Garth swung a look at Isabel who merely eyed him with a raised brow then hastened out. He heard Timms slam the door with quite a bang, probably as pleased as he to get rid of the vile excuse for a man.
“Are you well?” he asked Isabel.
The Beast Who Loved Me: A Fairytale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 2) Page 6