Beast of Beswick

by Amalie Howard

  Beneath his ruthlessly skillful attentions, pressure built and then broke, bliss cresting over her in sweet, hot waves. But her sneaky husband didn’t stop until he’d coaxed another paroxysm from her in quick succession. Astrid’s body felt deliciously boneless, her mind gloriously blank. Her head fell back against the pillows as Thane made a sound of pure male satisfaction in his throat and levered himself over her upon his muscular forearms.

  “You are splendid, Astrid.”

  “Now, Thane, please,” she whispered before her courage deserted her. “Make me yours.”

  Her cheeks burned. She might as well have ordered him to take her like the virgin sacrifice in some lurid Viking penny novel. But the space between her hips pulsated in agreement. She bloody well wanted to be taken.

  Good gracious, can I be any needier?

  But she didn’t have time to ponder on it as her very large, very skillful husband chuckled at her demands and positioned himself between her legs. Her knees fell apart to cradle his hips, and she gasped at the wickedly erotic position. It was almost too much…the sensitivity, the weight of him, the texture of his firm male body. A brief twinge of anxiety rolled through her, and her muscles tensed in anticipation.

  But she didn’t have time to dwell on it when she felt the warm prod of him at her entrance, and slowly, he pushed inside. Astrid gasped and clutched at his shoulders. The pinch of friction took her by surprise, as did the feeling of fullness, even though she’d known to expect the discomfort, but her body gradually relaxed to accommodate him. And then he began to move with slow, deep thrusts that made her toes curl and her palms fall to fist in the bedsheets.

  True to their agreement, he didn’t kiss her on the mouth, but his marauding fingers plucked at her nipples, making her spine arch and driving her mindless with pleasure. Thane’s hand slid down between their joined bodies, pressing that slick, needy spot between her thighs where all sensation seemed to converge. Astrid moaned as his adept fingers worked her, his hips quickening in their movements even as his movements grew more uncontrolled.

  Heat sparked and ignited once more, and then she was bursting into a million pieces as her release crested and shattered. With a final thrust and a guttural groan, the duke yanked himself from her body and collapsed against her, panting heavily. She could feel a sticky warmth between them on the skin of her belly. He did not speak, though she could feel him breathing, his heart hammering wildly against hers, communicating in a language all their own.

  “Astrid,” he rasped after several minutes, his voice deep and sated. “Are you well? Did I hurt you?”

  “No, it was wonderful,” she whispered. “Did I…? Was I…?”

  Her husband gathered her into his arms, his lips feathering her damp brow. “You were perfect. You are perfect.”

  …

  Thane refastened the buttons of his waistcoat and remained still while Fletcher replaced his earlier rumpled cravat with a fresh one. Honestly, the thing was worse than a damn noose. The valet slid his jacket over his shoulders and brushed at several imaginary pieces of lint on the raven-black fabric. Fletcher turned to grab a comb from the mantel and studied him as if he were a horse to be curried. “Might I suggest some pomade?”

  “No.” Thane scowled. “I already look enough like a dandy as is. Astrid knows who I am and what to expect of me.”

  Fletcher grinned, uncowed by his expression. “That she does, but it’s your wedding day, Your Grace. You’re supposed to make an effort for your duchess.”

  His duchess.

  Thane’s heart thudded against his rib cage. He had a wife. One who had made him spend in a handful of minutes like a randy lad, just from the warm, wet clasp of her body. Though she’d been a virgin, her responsiveness had demolished him. And the divine flavor of her. Fuck! He could still taste her on his tongue—the savor of rosewater and ocean breezes. It only made him want her more.

  He couldn’t recall the last time he’d come so hard and so fast. At least he’d had the presence of mind to withdraw. The prevention of pregnancy was something they would have to discuss later. But for now, he hoped to repeat the experience. Though they’d only agreed to consummate the marriage, if Astrid permitted, he intended to make it up to her after dinner tonight, when he would take his time. Sample every inch of her. Make her scream his name and come so many times, she’d lose count. He wanted to worship her the way she deserved.

  Hell, he was getting aroused just thinking about it.

  Thane tamped down his lust, allowing the valet to unsnarl his hair and smooth the locks back into place. He stared at himself in the mirrored glass, the familiar sight of his patchwork face looking back at him. Thank God he’d taken her under the cover of darkness and kept his shirt on. His face was a fair sight better than the rest of him.

  Descending the staircase, he entered the foyer. Even though they were going out for dinner, his staff had gone beyond the call of duty to brighten up the place. Soft candlelight illuminated the room from the chandelier, and vases of fresh hothouse roses added bright spots of color. His bride had not yet arrived. Thane signaled for a finger of brandy as he lingered, but he didn’t have to wait long.

  His throat went dry as he felt her presence. Astrid looked equal parts ethereal and regal…like a fairy queen visiting from some mystical land. Her dark hair had been twisted into loose coils and pinned to her crown, and she wore no jewelry save for the rings on her finger. He’d been right. The diaphanous silvery blue fabric matched her eyes perfectly. The dress itself was modest, but Astrid in it made it a tool of seduction. It hugged her frame to perfection, the bodice molding her breasts and reminding him of the way her slender but voluptuous body had felt beneath his.

  His groin tightened instantly.

  Christ.

  Thane grazed his lips over her gloved fingers before tying her cloak over her shoulders. “Your Grace,” he murmured, leading her to where the carriage was waiting. “You look exquisite.”

  Bright eyes met his. “As do you.”

  He took his place across from her and rapped on the roof, and the coach lurched into motion. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “The Silver Scythe. For dinner. It’s not far from here. I thought it would be a pleasant outing.”

  “Oh.” She wet her lips. “I would have been happy to stay in.”

  “It’s your wedding day, Astrid. You deserve for it to be memorable.”

  A blush bloomed over her cheeks as she canted her head, a gleam in those transparent eyes of hers. “It already is.”

  Thane stifled the rush of pleasure at her words, along with the urgent need to instruct the coachman to turn the carriage around at once and head back to Harte House. He wanted her again. Badly enough to plead for her favors, agreement be damned. Thane had never begged for a single thing in his life, but he’d drop to his knees for her in a heartbeat.

  “I do admit that I want to show off my beautiful new bride,” he said.

  “Hardly beautiful, Your Grace,” she said, that gorgeous blush deepening. “Isobel is the beauty in the family, not me.”

  He arched a brow. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”

  “I think this particular beholder might be biased because of what just happened between us, and his brain is still fuzzy,” she said dryly. “If he’s thinking with his actual brain, that is.”

  Thane barked a laugh. He might be temporarily influenced by the appendage in his trousers, but Astrid was beautiful. Though hers was a beauty sheathed in danger—in those sharp eyes, that fine-edged intelligence, and that barbed tongue. Even now as he craved her body, he also wanted to hear her converse and laugh. A strange feeling bloomed in his chest. Dare he call it optimism? He bit back a grin. Christ, he’d never hear the end of it from Fletcher.

  “Are you saying I’m ruled by my passions, Duchess?” he asked just as the carriage rolled to a stop in
front of his club and the coachman rapped on the door. He helped her down from the coach, his fingers flexing on her slim, silk-clad waist and instantly recalling how velvety soft her bare skin had been.

  Astrid’s teasing glance slid to the bulge in his trousers, a playful smile on her lips. “I don’t know, Duke, are you?”

  He groaned. “Do you blame me? All I can think about is having you in my arms again.”

  Her reply was so quiet, he almost didn’t hear it.

  “I wish that, too.”

  Thane stopped so suddenly that his poor wife nearly went pitching forward through the doors of The Silver Scythe. Hardly daring to hope, he turned, his eyes meeting hers and holding them. “What are you saying, Astrid?”

  Her smile was pure seduction. “How quickly can you eat?”

  Before he could form a coherent reply, they were being welcomed and ushered by the proprietor to an opulent dining room. Though Thane could hardly focus, his nerves were so jumbled by Astrid’s shattering admission. Heads turned as they were led to their table, and already Thane could hear the murmur of whispers.

  However, when a particularly unkind sentiment reached him, he frowned. People were staring, but it took him a moment to realize that their stares were full of pity, not admiration. He blinked, fists clenching. He was used to the insults, but his glance slid to his bride, whose face had tightened as the word “beast” filtered through the air. She flinched at the sudden peal of loud, cruel laughter, and he resisted the impulse to growl his displeasure.

  Her face paled when more whispers reached their ears. “How do you deal with this?”

  “I don’t.”

  And he didn’t. For the most part, the rest of the aristocracy tended to shy away from him, not just because of the way he looked but because his temper was notorious. No one cared to be mauled by the Beast of Beswick. But now, with Astrid, he felt exposed. Every flicker of her eyes, every pained twitch of her lips felt like a new blow to him. A lash to freshly vulnerable skin.

  Determined to enjoy the evening for her sake, Thane sipped on chilled cucumber soup and chewed tender lamb before sparing his duchess a glance. Her brow had knitted with a curious combination of confusion, discomfort, and annoyance, but she seemed focused on her food. As he ate, he felt her gaze upon him from time to time, but she remained steadfast upon her own meal. He worried that if he looked up, she would see the rage brewing in his eyes and think it directed at her when it wasn’t.

  Even now as the mention of “bestiality” reached him followed by noxious laughter, Thane found himself holding on to his temper by a thread. Every muscle in his body was locked. It was as though they didn’t even see Astrid—the jewel she was—they only saw him. He wanted to rail and rage, but at the same time, his tortured soul filled with powerless anger. Powerless to prevent it. Powerless to protect her.

  God, how could he be so blind? So stupid?

  No matter what, his appearance could never be changed. People would always stare, and they would always whisper, and the ton’s cruelty knew no bounds. They thought him a monster, and she was now the monster’s bride. He could not protect her by virtue of who he was—the duke. He could only hurt her by what he was—the beast.

  No woman deserves to be tied to this.

  The only answer would be to keep her at a distance. To close himself off.

  As if she could sense his turmoil, her low voice pierced his hateful thoughts. “Your Grace, do you wish to leave?”

  He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. “No. Finish your dinner.”

  Despite her concerned glances, he made no attempt to converse, no attempt at refined politesse, and his behavior, without question, bordered on rude. If she was confused at the peculiar turn of events or his conduct, she did not show it. But Thane knew that if he opened his mouth, only vitriol would follow. He’d cause an unforgivable scene, and as furious as he was, it was still her wedding day. But by the time they finished the last course, the strain on Astrid’s face was clear. Whether that was because of their avid audience or him, he could not say.

  “Have I done something to displease you?” she asked in a low voice after they were back in the privacy of the carriage.

  “No.”

  “Then, what is bothering you? Why are you shutting me out? Are you…regretting your decision?”

  Thane drew a deep breath and voiced the resolution he’d come to at dinner. “Once your sister is safe from Beaumont, I will move back to Beswick Park. You may remain here in London. Harte House is yours. If it is not to your satisfaction, I will buy you any other property that suits you.”

  Astrid blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Since this marriage is a means to an end, it is preferable that we reside separately,” he said. Her stare met his, pale-blue chips of ice, when they arrived at his residence. Her expression was riddled with hurt and confusion.

  “Why?” she asked. “Because people were staring and whispering? I don’t care.”

  “You will after a while. Trust me that this is for the best, Astrid.”

  The air grew thick with tension between them. It was his fault, he knew, but he had to protect her from herself. And from him. This was the only way to keep her unscathed. If the ton believed it was a marriage of inconvenience, she might have a chance to join their ranks unscathed. Thane knotted his fingers into fists.

  He owed her that much for the price of being the unfortunate Duchess of Beswick.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Fletcher,” Astrid called out, entering her husband’s suite via the shared connecting door the moment she knew the duke had departed the residence.

  She’d deliberately waited after another silent meal—a repeat of their first horrid wedding dinner and each meal since—and overheard the duke talking to the valet about a midday meeting with the Marquess of Roth.

  The duke had not made any overtures to her over the past few days, nor had he sought out her company once. He was scrupulously polite when their paths crossed, of course, but no more than necessary. The sudden and unexpected coldness had stung, but Astrid was determined to not let it affect her. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, after all.

  He’d made that more than clear.

  A part of her still ached for him, for what he’d endured in public at his club, but any further overtures or attempts at conversation had been harshly cut off. He was stony and cold to the point of cruelty. Enough for it to sting, enough for her to stop trying. Though he hadn’t yet left for Beswick Park, he might as well have already gone for the little she did see of him.

  Astrid took in the minimalist decor of his chamber in the daylight. She’d barely spared it a glimpse on her wedding night, concerned with other things before he’d snuffed out the candle. Unlike hers, it was overtly masculine, with dark mahogany furnishings and navy and cream accents. It was spare, much like the man himself.

  Astrid averted her gaze from the bed, however, which was massive and luxurious and the complete opposite of the rest of the room. Her brain might have taken the hint, but her body was slower to listen. The memory of them in that bed, joined together in the darkness, tied her up in knots.

  Swallowing her emotions, she turned to the valet, who had stalled with a pair of the duke’s trousers over his arm and was staring at her expectantly.

  “Has the duke received any recent invitations?”

  The valet eyed her with interest. “Some, Your Grace.”

  “Please, Fletcher, call me Lady Astrid, or Lady Beswick if you must, but I simply cannot abide by the constant Your Grace-ing.”

  “You’re a duchess, Your…er…my lady.” She could scowl just as fiercely as Beswick, with much the same effect, as the valet backed away in alarm. “Culbert has the duke’s invitations.”

  “Culbert?” she asked in surprise. “He’s here?”

  “Yes, His Grace sent for some of the st
aff from Beswick Park as well as for his aunt. They arrived early this morning, and Lady Verne took straight to her room.”

  He smirked, catching sight of the butler loitering in the corridor, and raised his voice. “You see, poor Culbert feels quite left out if he isn’t included in some menial way. Doesn’t think the duke’s life can go on without his constant supervision. And now you will endure the joys of being smothered as well.”

  The butler spluttered, shooting daggers at Fletcher, and then bowed in her direction. “May I offer my congratulations, Lady Beswick.”

  “Thank you, Culbert, it’s wonderful to see you,” she said, making the older man beam. “Will you kindly look through the stack of invitations and see if there is one from Lord and Lady Featheringstoke, and if there is, please send back a reply in the affirmative.”

  “And the rest?” Culbert inquired. “There are quite a few.”

  Astrid halted. Beswick did not entertain, nor did he attend any of the ton’s festivities. She wasn’t in London to socialize, either, but she also needed to keep an eye on Isobel, which she would do by any means necessary. Subterfuge, if she had to.

  “I’ll take a look. Keep me informed if more arrive. I’ll speak to the duke once he returns.”

  Culbert cleared his throat. “His Grace also bade me remind you of your appointment at the modiste, Your Grace. The carriage has been readied at your convenience.”

  Astrid nodded. She’d completely forgotten. Then again, she was going to need fashionable clothing if she meant to take her place in society. She sighed. She hadn’t quite determined whether a covert approach was wiser so as not to cause problems for Isobel or making a grand splash as the new Duchess of Beswick and facing her uncle head-on. The masquerade would give her the perfect opportunity to suss out the situation.

  “Thank you, Culbert.”

  Once the efficient butler bowed and left, she lowered her voice and leaned toward Fletcher. “Find out from Agatha where Isobel plans to go,” she whispered. “And, Fletcher, do be careful. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my favorite valet.”