He’s your employer, her inner voice reminded her.
“That doesn’t make him my owner,” she muttered, stomping the caked mud off her boots. “He has no right.”
He’s a duke, one of the most highborn peers in the land, and you’re living on his charity. Arguably, he has some right.
“Shut up,” she half snarled to herself.
“My lady, are ye well?” the young groom asked.
Astrid nodded with a scowl. Of course she wasn’t well; she was talking to herself like a bedlamite.
All because of one thoroughly aggravating man. She wasn’t by any means a society darling who expected men to fall at her feet, but most of the men she’d met had been gentlemen. They did not ask impolite questions or say whatever came to mind. They did not look at her as if they wanted to incinerate her very bones or demolish the defenses that had served her well for nearly a decade.
She blew out a breath, stalking from the stable toward the house. Gentlemen didn’t pry. Not when the answers led to ugly places. Astoundingly, Beswick did not seem to know of her past, but Astrid knew he would find out. Eventually. And if he was anything like the rest of the aristocracy who’d equated the fallen Everleighs to scum on their bootheels, then she and Isobel would be out on their laurels.
Astrid wanted to put that off for as long as possible.
Agitation and worry coursed through her. She was much too frazzled to go into the house and speak with anyone, so she headed for the gardens. A good walk would help to calm her down. The pathways were wild and covered in rosebushes, but something about their ungoverned nature appealed to her. In truth, it reminded her of Beswick himself.
Wild, unruly, savage.
Gracious, why was she still thinking about him? With a hiss of frustration, Astrid wrenched her thoughts away from the vexing man and focused on the problem at hand. Namely, Beaumont. A part of her wished she’d never set eyes on the cad. He’d ruined everything. Her parents had been in raptures when the charismatic and handsome war hero and the nephew of an earl had offered for Astrid. Giddy with delight, she had fancied herself in love, until she’d tumbled from grace and realized that love was a lie for starry-eyed fools.
God, she’d been so naive and gullible. She hadn’t known she was in trouble until it was too late. Until her drunken, overly amorous fiancé had ushered her to a deserted music room, expecting his husbandly due, barely a month after their engagement. The memory was still razor-sharp, her thoughts flicking back to the darkened room where he had escorted her.
Fending off his roving hands, Astrid had backed away behind the pianoforte. “Please stop, Edmund,” she’d begged, “you’ve been drinking.”
“You want this,” he’d said. “Don’t tease. You belong to me.”
“I’m not your property.”
His smile had been predatory. “But you are, sweet. Mine to do with as I wish, when I wish, however I wish. We are to be married, after all.”
“We are not married yet.” Astrid had shaken her head, stunned at the side of him she’d never seen. The truth was his kisses repulsed her, and she’d endured them, but the thought of him touching her in any intimate way made her feel ill.
“Now, in a few months, what does it matter?”
He’d lunged for her, his wet lips slavering over hers, and Astrid had ripped herself away, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove.
“It does matter, Edmund. Oh God, I don’t want any of this. I simply don’t feel the same as you do. I thought I could, but I cannot do this.”
“Who are you to refuse me?” he’d said to her, eyes blazing. “You’re nothing but a silly country girl who’s lucky to have an offer from me. I’m the heir to an earldom.”
Trembling at his hostility, she’d held her ground. “That may be, but I am a woman of sound mind. I don’t wish to marry you, Edmund. More than ever, now I see how ill-suited we are. Surely you know it as well.”
He’d glared at her for so long, her legs had cramped, but after what seemed like forever, he’d nodded, his face unreadable. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s for the best.”
It was only the next day that Astrid had learned what he’d done.
Edmund Cain had taken it upon himself to ruin her good name…saying he had broken the engagement on account of her not being a virgin. Astrid had laughed it off, certain that the truth would prevail—she’d never been intimate with a man. But in the end, she had never stood a chance against the poisonous gossip that had raced like wildfire…to her parents, to the entire ton.
Despite Astrid’s claims, she’d been judged as guilty. After all, how could one prove one’s innocence, especially when impugned by a male peer? Such was the power of a man’s word versus a woman’s. And like that, without any defense whatsoever, she’d fallen from grace, her life over. Finished.
Never again, Astrid had sworn.
Never again would any man have that kind of power over her.
And yet, here she was, nine years later and considerably wiser, and beholden to one. Though from the little she knew of him, the Duke of Beswick was a man who answered to no one…yielded to no one.
Astrid plucked a nearby rose from its bush and held the delicate blossom between her fingers. The blushing pink petals felt like velvet. If fate had been different—and she’d met a different gentleman—Isobel would have been safe.
If she, Astrid, hadn’t been naive…
If Edmund hadn’t been such a bastard…
If anyone had believed her over a scorned, small-minded man…
If…if…if…
Her life could be a constellation of ifs.
She discarded the flower and kept walking. None of that mattered anymore. It was all in the past. To take care of Isobel, Astrid needed to look forward, not backward. But a part of her couldn’t help worrying that when the duke found out the truth—and it was only a matter of time before he would—he might turn out to be just like everyone else in the ton.
Chapter Seven
In dumbfounded silence, Thane sat at the massive mahogany desk, staring at the neatly rendered parchment pages and then up at Fletcher. “What in the hell is the meaning of this? Is this supposed to be a joke?”
“You asked for a report, Your Grace.”
Thane read the preposterous text again. And then a fourth and fifth time for good measure. According to Fletcher’s notes, Astrid had been affianced—to one Edmund Cain, that lily-livered bastard of a traitor. However, the engagement had been called off because of some scandal, and after that, she and her family had left London.
Thane blinked, his thoughts racing. Had she given herself to Cain? Was that why it’d been so easy for her to barter herself for his protection? Offer herself in marriage to the Beast of Beswick? His chest clenched in a nauseating combination of bitterness and fury. What else had she withheld or lied about?
God, she must have taken him for a desperate fool.
Didn’t she?
In the short time he’d known her, he could tell Astrid had many secrets, but she didn’t strike him as a liar. A small thread of reason pushed through the haze, reminding him that she’d been ousted from society because of bad judgment. Had she meant in men? Thane frowned. Cain was a snake. A deserter and a blackguard. Had he been the one behind her fall from grace?
He inhaled and crumpled the sheets of paper in one shaking fist before spearing an accusing glower at Fletcher. “Did you know who she was when she came here that first day? That she had been engaged to Cain?”
The valet had the grace to look guilty. “Yes, Duke. Though in my defense, it was not immediately. It was only after she left that I recalled the name Everleigh.”
He scowled. “And you did not think to inform me then?”
“It was a short betrothal.” Fletcher shook his head. “Barely a month because of the scanda
l. Your father took it personally. Cain was a part of Lord Leopold’s set, as you know.”
Thane was aware. His father was the sole reason Edmund Cain had secured a position in Thane’s regiment, as a favor to his friend, the Earl of Beaumont. The old man hadn’t batted an eye to send his nephew off to war, despite Cain being his heir presumptive, when most peers kept their successors close. Perhaps the earl had hoped for a different outcome.
“Explain,” Thane demanded of Fletcher, curious despite himself. Not that he would have cared about his father’s ton machinations while trying to do Wellington’s bidding and not getting himself killed in the process. He hated the intrigues of the aristocracy.
But this was Astrid…
Fletcher hesitated, his expression pained. “Cain cried off, declaring she’d had lovers.”
Acid churned in his stomach. He knew more than anyone what a slimy bastard Edmund Cain was. “Was there any proof?”
The valet shrugged. “Even if there wasn’t, you know how gossip is, and you know as well as I do that His Grace, God rest his soul, did not love scandal. Given his friendship with the earl at the time, he was the most vocal in denouncing her and her family. Keeping up appearances was his only goal.”
Oh, Thane understood that far too well. It was the reason he’d taken the captain’s commission and sought his freedom from beneath his father’s thumb. Leopold had been the golden son, groomed within an inch of his life to be the perfect heir. But every step Thane had taken had been to provoke his father and to flaunt his disdain for the Harte family name.
But as it turned out, fate had a twisted sense of humor, since he was now duke. The very life he’d deplored had become his responsibility. Thane was now accountable for the dukedom and for passing the title and the entailed lands to his descendants. His heirs.
For some reason, Thane thought of Astrid’s delicate, beautiful hands. Those pristine fingers sweeping down the length of his lacerated flesh with desire, not disgust. His chest seized, and other parts of him responded more insistently. Even if she had been with others—including Cain—he still wanted her. He almost hated himself for it.
Thane sighed and glared at the folio.
“Where is Lady Astrid at present?” he asked.
“In your father’s private study, Your Grace,” Fletcher replied. “Off the ducal apartments.”
Four years of being duke, and Thane didn’t recall that the ducal apartments ever housed a study. Then again, he only slept in the bedchamber and bathed in the bathing chamber. The rest of it remained untouched. The staff did an efficient job of cleaning, but Thane had little interest in entering any of those rooms. They served only to remind him of who he was…and how sorely he was unfit for the position of duke.
Fletcher hesitated. “You won’t cause a scene, will you? Regardless of her family name or ancient gossip, she’s doing a fine job cataloging His Grace’s antiques.” He paused again, swiping at an imaginary speck of dust on the desk. “And it’s been a pleasure having her and Lady Isobel at Beswick Park.”
“Surely you know me better than that, Fletcher?” Thane drawled, leaning back in his chair.
“That’s just it. I do. You’ll chase her away, and then where will you be?”
Thane fought his irritation at the valet’s complete lack of respect. He settled for staring Fletcher down with a protracted, honed look. It was one that made hardened generals quail on the battlefield, but the man did not cower or scurry away.
“If you mean to intimidate me, you’re wasting your time,” Fletcher said.
“I pay you to be intimidated.”
His valet arched a brow. “Very well, then. Pretend I’m quaking in my boots if it suits you.”
Thane huffed a disbelieving laugh and shook his head. Since when had Fletcher gotten so mouthy? Devil take it, Astrid’s rebelliousness and defiance were catching. Soon it would infect his entire household…if it hadn’t already.
He sighed and scanned the rest of the report that Fletcher had prepared. Her thirst for knowledge hadn’t been a fabrication. Her father had indulged her with a complete education, rivaling the ones he’d had at Eton and Oxford. She’d had tutors in mathematics, science, history, languages, and anthropological studies. And she was a voracious reader.
She was indeed five and twenty. Her birth date was in four months…the day when she would legally come into her portion. The date when she would no longer need his help. Not that he’d offered it in the first place. Somehow, she’d wormed her way into his household and into his thoughts. Though now, he didn’t know what to think.
Especially about her engagement to a man like Edmund Cain.
…
In the narrow but elegant study, Astrid blew a stray curl out of her eyes and squinted at the neatly scripted sheets of foolscap. Her fingers were covered in ink spots, and she was sure she’d managed to spill ink on her dress as well. She’d filled pages and pages of painstakingly written notes, but luckily, the former duke had been meticulous in his own transcripts. She’d found several bound journals in the desk containing dated records of sale, which had been invaluable in her efforts of confirming the worth and age of the pieces.
She rubbed at her eyes and yawned. She’d missed lunch, only munching on a piece of cold toast from breakfast, and her stomach growled. At least she had made some real progress. It was tedious work, but the benefits were worth it. She and Isobel were safe. Astrid didn’t know how long that would last. She dared not go into the village or inquire about comings and goings at the Everleigh estate. Someone might take notice or, worse, recognize her. At best, she and Isobel were in hiding, which meant they could be found and returned to their owner.
It infuriated Astrid that women were valued like property, to be married off and handled like transactions of sale. Much like the pieces she was in the middle of cataloging. The London marriage mart was little more than a glorified auction room, where the best merchandise was displayed and purchased by wealthy, titled gentlemen. And women went like chattel from their fathers to their new proprietors.
Astrid sighed. She’d avoided matrimony for ten years after the scandal, but there was no doubt that marriage offered some degree of protection. Marriage to a man like Beaumont, however, would have a distinct quality of hell.
And marriage to Thane…
Goodness, she had to stop thinking of him by his given name, which she'd learned from his aunt.
With her luck, she’d blurt it out in front of him and never live it down. At the thought of the duke, Astrid felt a muddled sentiment—one part irritation and one part fascination. One could not call him handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but parts of him were beautiful in isolation, like his eyes when they were lit with amusement or his mouth when his mood was indulgent, which wasn’t often. Astrid wondered what those lush contours, so at odds with the pitted rest of him, would feel like against hers.
Warm. Alive. Sinfully sweet.
She shook herself with a short laugh. She was a hopeless cliché, fantasizing about kissing the lord of the manor. She’d do better to start spouting Byron or swooning over Austen. Astrid had been so busy that she hadn’t had a chance to visit the library properly, and Beswick Park’s was truly exceptional, as she’d discovered.
Thinking of her own books that she’d left at her uncle’s house made her feel dejected. She’d been able to pack only one trunk of her favorites—including her worn copies of Paradise Lost and Homer’s Odyssey, several Shakespearean plays gifted to her by her father, poems by Byron and Keats, as well as several instructive essays on science and education by Locke and Rousseau that she could not bear to leave behind.
With a tired sigh, Astrid lounged back in the chair and let her eyes wander the length of the study. It’d been a disappointment that the glass-covered bookcases had housed only antiques and not books. But perhaps that was for the best—she did not need any distract
ions…or any reason for the duke to assume she was not up to the task.
Astrid had stopped herself from exploring further when Fletcher had first shown her to the tiny study, only to discover that it adjoined the duke’s private chambers, where she’d seen the present duke naked.
Damnation. She’d sworn to stop using those two words together. Duke and naked. Naked duke.
Naked duke naked duke naked duke.
Good God, she was so tired that even her brain had mutinied to the point of stupidity.
Astrid rubbed her eyes and chuckled beneath her breath. Shoving back from the chair, she rose, her limbs protesting at the movement. She rubbed her stiff shoulders and winced as her stomach let out what sounded like a roar. A break and a meal might be in order. She would wander down to the kitchens and see if Cook had saved any leftovers from tea.
It didn’t take long after meandering aimlessly down several identical, narrow wood-paneled corridors with thick carpets for Astrid to realize that she was lost. Again. The place was a dratted maze, and as usual, there wasn’t a maid or footman in sight to help. She paused and peered down yet another hallway before retracing her steps to a wide staircase that looked familiar.
Just as she was about to cry aloud for help—surely there was a footman prowling about somewhere—the sound of low voices reached her ears, and she made her way toward them with relief. As she got nearer, however, she recognized the voices. One was Fletcher’s and the other was Beswick’s, and they were coming from a nearby room.
For no reason at all, Astrid’s pulse started to leap madly in her veins. She had no idea why the Duke of Beswick affected her so. He was just a man. No, not just a man…a churlish, inflexible, terrifying beast of a man who terrorized his servants and scared the living daylights out of everyone around him.
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