Luna had jumped higher obstacles, but Astrid didn’t know that.
“Jump it,” he yelled. But she was too far away to hear him.
Astrid yanked on the reins, which only served to confuse the horse. Luna stumbled and slammed to a halt, and her rider went flying.
“Oh God, Astrid,” Thane shouted, reining in Goliath at her side where she lay staring up at the sky, her body shaking as he leaped down to crouch beside her. Was she convulsing? Had she hit her head? Sustained some internal injury? He blinked, his jaw falling open as she clutched her sides, great gales of laughter coming from her chest. “Are you bloody mad? You could have been killed!”
“I know how to take a fall, Thane,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“You should not have been on that horse.”
“She was magnificent. Is magnificent.” She pushed up to her elbows and grimaced slightly, watching as the groom trailing behind her finally caught up and went to secure Luna, who was grazing nearby. “Why do you keep her here and not at Beswick Park?”
“She’s for sale,” Thane said. “There’s something wrong with her.”
Astrid shook her head and tugged at his coat for him to help her up. “She needs a loving hand, Thane, and room to run. There’s nothing wrong with her. When I got Brutus, he’d been abused mercilessly with the crop. He wouldn’t let a soul near him, and now look at him.”
He stood there, rapt, watching her in mute fascination. The woman confounded him. She was stubborn to a fault, that sharp tongue of hers could flay like a blade, and yet she worried about the future and care of a deranged horse. Something indefinable squeezed his chest as he reached an arm down to her. She accepted his help, stood, and dusted the leaves off her riding jacket.
“You are extraordinary,” he said, shaking his head. “How is it that you see promise in the things that most people want to discard?”
“Just because something is fractured doesn’t mean it has lost its value.”
They were talking about something else entirely, but spectators on the public path had begun to gather. Nowhere near a crowd or anyone from high society, but enough for the horrified whispers to start getting loud. And once more, he’d forgotten a damn hat in his haste to leave Harte House. Thane squared his shoulders and glared at the stunned onlookers before mounting his horse. Before Astrid could call for the groom who had Luna in hand, he’d reached down to scoop her up and place her across his lap.
“I can ride perfectly well,” she protested.
He did not pause but urged Goliath into a gentle canter. “You winced just before. You’re injured somewhere. Where did you get hurt?”
Thane looked down, registering the flags of color in her cheeks.
“It’s…impolite to say.”
He blinked, confused, and then understanding dawned. She’d injured that spectacular seat of hers. Dozens of lewd propositions sprang to mind—a massage, a closer look, a warm bath—but Thane bit his tongue. “You should not have been on that horse,” he repeated.
She stiffened. “Will you forbid me to ride as you have forbidden me to attend the Featheringstoke ball?”
“I didn’t forbid you.”
“What?” She twisted to glare at him, the grinding motion of her soft thighs against his half-masted cock making him see stars for an endless moment. “You were about to…”
“You made an assumption, little hellion. An incorrect, hasty one. I was simply going to inform you that Sir Thornton will be there, along with my aunt.”
Words appeared to fail her. “Oh.”
“I must say it’s quite gratifying to see that the cat has gotten your tongue.” Thane pulled Goliath to a stop and peered up at the sky, a mock expression of fright on his face.
“What are you doing?” she muttered grumpily.
“Making sure that lightning won’t strike us where we sit.”
“Not funny.” She elbowed him in the ribs and then gasped, cradling her arm. “Gracious, Beswick, you’re as hard as rock.”
He wasn’t, but he was certainly getting there. Thane wasn’t sure she would appreciate his bawdy observation, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Why won’t you go?” she asked. “With me. To the ball.”
“With this face? You saw the reaction of the working classes in Hyde Park. Don’t think it won’t be worse among the nobility. Their cuts are sharper. They don’t hesitate to go for blood.”
“It’s a masquerade.”
“It’s a ball.”
“Isobel will be there,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “Which is why I’m asking Sir Thornton to attend. His wife, Lady Claudia, is the daughter of an earl. She’s as boisterous as you are. You should rub along famously.” He frowned but couldn’t quite suppress his amusement. “On second thought, perhaps that’s not the best idea.”
“What if I begged you to come?” she asked quietly.
His fingers clenched on the reins. “I won’t, Astrid. I vowed never to subject myself to their scorn. The ton turned its collective back on me while I was out fighting for their freedoms, for their way of life. And all they see is the Beast of Beswick.” He was getting so agitated that even Goliath nickered softly. “A nightmare of a thing.”
“You’re not a nightmare, and you haven’t let any of them get to know you. You’ve closed yourself off. You’ve turned your back on them before they can do it to you.”
Thane didn’t argue her logic because it was true. He sucked in a breath as they pulled to a stop in front of Harte House. Several passersby paused to point and stare, proving his point that he would be nothing more than a lurid curiosity. “Regardless, Astrid, I cannot. I will not.”
“Not even for me?”
Thane set his jaw. “Not even for the Prince Regent himself.”
…
Alice put the finishing touches on Astrid’s cheeks— a smudge of silver dust along the crests of her cheekbones—and the barest hint of rouge on her lips. Silver dust was sprinkled liberally on her eyelashes and in her hair, which hung in thick curls down her back, a diadem of diamonds clipped to her crown. As agreed with Isobel, she tucked a bright-red rosebud behind one ear.
Astrid could scarcely recognize herself in the looking glass. The dress that had been delivered as promised by Silvie was truly outlandish. And gorgeous. It seemed even more diaphanous than before and exposed a scandalous amount of décolletage. Astrid was certain that the fairy queen would have gotten herself into a dangerous amount of trouble if this had truly been her ensemble of choice. Then again, many of the artists who tried to immortalize A Midsummer Night’s Dream had painted Titania as naked.
Small mercies.
Astrid tied the mask in place. Well, at least she would be incognito even if her dress was at most a strategic placement of chiffon, satin, and lace. As she made one last twirl in front of the mirror, she felt a twinge of disappointment that Beswick would not be attending. Perhaps she should find him before she left. There was a good chance he would not want her going anywhere alone in this dress. Then again, he had been adamant that even the Prince Regent could not sway him, much less her.
She’d felt hurt, but she’d tucked it away where it couldn’t do her harm.
He would never change, not even for her.
When Astrid went downstairs, Aunt Mabel, with a glass of sherry in hand, was dressed in a Cleopatra costume, complete with eyes ringed in kohl, arm bracelets, and a costume that hugged every one of her considerable curves. Astrid would bet money on the fact that Aunt Mabel intended to break a few hearts tonight.
“Lord Oberon is not going to like that,” the duchess predicted with a laugh.
Astrid’s lips twisted down. “Beswick would not care if I were Lady Godiva riding naked through the streets of Coventry.”
Aunt Mabel shot her an incredulous look but then laughed in delight. �
��Now, why didn’t I think to do that? Next year for sure!”
Though the journey to Grosvenor Square was quick, Astrid was sweating when she arrived. She was going to see Isobel. Unlike most balls, there were no announcements of formal names—only masquerade titles made up at the whim of the host. In this case, an already foxed Marquess of Featheringstoke who was dressed as Poseidon, if his trident was any indication. The fumes on his breath could start an inferno.
“Who might you be, beautiful lady?” he slurred. “Persephone? No, Venus!”
“Queen Titania,” Mabel said, poking the marquess in the side. “And Cleopatra.”
His eyes widened with recognition. “Mabel, is that you?” He blinked and swayed. “I must say, I heard a devil of a rumor about some rushed nuptials. So if it is you, this young vixen must be the new—”
“Don’t say it,” Mabel warned. “Or other secrets will come to light that you will not like, Feathers.”
Astrid almost giggled at how sober he became upon hearing the nickname, with an askance glance to his wife, who was dressed in what looked like a siren’s costume. Either that or someone had spewed copious amounts of seaweed all over her ample breasts.
“Of course,” Poseidon murmured with a smart bow that was ruined by a loud belch. “Away then and be merry.”
They descended the staircase together, and Astrid searched the crowded ballroom for Isobel, but she saw no one else with white roses tucked into her coiffure. Had she decided not to come after all? Had Aunt Mildred or Uncle Reginald forbidden her to attend? Astrid’s heart sank, though it was still early yet. She followed Mabel toward the far end of the room where a few of her acquaintances stood.
As luck would have it, Astrid was free to look for Isobel once introductions were made with Mabel’s set. She was more than aware of a few probing glances from the duchess’s friends, as if they sought to place her. No one would remember a scandal from a decade ago, would they? But of course, she was not so lucky.
“You were engaged to Beaumont,” a rotund lady dressed like a bee—Lady Bevins, a notorious busybody—pronounced in a stage whisper. “Everleigh or some such.”
Astrid nodded stiffly.
“Your younger sister was presented her voucher to Almack’s earlier this week,” the woman went on. “She’s a beauty.”
“Is she here?” Astrid blurted out at the mention of Isobel, but the lady had already been guided away by the clever Mabel. Astrid was grateful.
Her eyes traveled the crowd and came to rest on a familiar face. Exceedingly familiar because he’d forgone a mask. Of course he would. Beaumont was so arrogant that even at a masquerade, he didn’t feel the need to participate. He was dressed all in gold, carried a gold cane, and wore a golden wreath.
“Beaumont is here,” Mabel murmured, returning to place a glass of punch into Astrid’s hand. “Though I’m not sure what he’s meant to be.”
“A guinea, perhaps?”
“A golden phallus, and one lacking in girth at that.”
“Aunt Mabel!” Astrid coughed into her drink. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
Intelligent amber eyes, so like her nephew’s, held hers. “Why? Should it be only the men who objectify the women? We have eyes as well.”
“We are ladies.”
“A dreadful code of conduct beaten into us from the day of our births.” The duchess grinned and gave her an outlandish swat on the rear. “But no one needs to know that we are rebels on the inside.”
Astrid had to laugh. Several pairs of eyes turned in her direction, one in particular. Someone she had not noticed before. Those eyes burned and scorched, making her feel like a hare that had just been scented by a wolf. A large wolf that looked more like a hound of hell. Or the master of hell himself. The guest was dressed all in black with a hideous horned mask. Astrid’s heart hammered uncontrollably in her chest, every inch of her fighting heightened survival instincts.
Who is he? And how dare he stare at me so boldly?
She arched an imperious eyebrow and, with an annoyed jerk of her chin, tore her gaze away. To her chagrin, the stranger started to head straight for her. Luckily, Lucifer’s path was intercepted by the appearance of Sir Thornton with a lady in tow who was dressed as an angel.
“Your Grace,” the solicitor murmured softly so as not to be overheard and bowed. “Might I present my wife, Lady Claudia Thornton.”
Astrid’s eyes fell on a pretty blonde whose blue gaze shone with intelligence and humor. “Please call me Claudia.”
“Then you must call me Astrid.” She glanced at the lady’s angel wings with a smile. “We winged creatures need to stick together.”
Claudia laughed, her voice low. “I must admit I have been dying to meet you. The one who tamed the beast.”
Astrid bristled, but there was no malice in Claudia’s tone or expression. She reminded herself that Sir Thornton was the closest thing to a friend that her husband had. “I wouldn’t say I tamed him. If I had, he’d be here.”
“Henry says he’s besotted.”
Astrid’s eyes widened. “Besotted” would be the last word she’d use to describe Beswick. “Hardly.”
She was saved from the chaotic turn of her thoughts at the sight of a gorgeous young woman descending the staircase, dressed as the goddess of spring. White roses graced her crown in a wreath, ribbons descending down her back. Even cloaked in a sack, she would recognize her sister. Astrid felt tears leap to her eyes. Two people wearing Venetian masks flanked Isobel. Her aunt and uncle, Astrid presumed. She couldn’t help but notice how much attention her beautiful sister was garnering. Indeed, Isobel was a diamond of the first water, and she deserved everything that designation brought—her choice of suitors.
Surely Uncle Reginald would see her popularity as well and would allow her to choose someone other than Beaumont. Then again, most marriages were accompanied by a wife’s dowry, not the reverse, and her uncle fully expected to get his share from the sale of his niece. Helplessly, she watched as Beaumont sauntered toward them, clear ownership stamped in his gaze. Time was running out for Isobel, and Astrid was low on options. Out of options, ever since Isobel had decided to take matters into her own hands. A decision that would be for nothing if the cunning Beaumont managed to compromise her.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled to Claudia and Aunt Mabel. “I need some air.”
To stop herself from rushing over to Isobel and causing a scene, she angled for the nearest pair of French doors, slipping out to the balcony and hauling huge gulps of cool evening air into her lungs. Astrid gripped the balustrade with numb fingers. Her corset felt laced too tight, pressing in against her ribs and making her light-headed.
Oh God, she was going to swoon. She never swooned.
“Drink this.”
A tumbler of brandy was thrust into her palms, and Astrid sipped the spirits gratefully. She turned to thank her benefactor and froze. Eyes that glinted an unholy black in the moonlight burned like embers in the depths of his mask.
Hades in the flesh.
Chapter Seventeen
Thane’s eyes tracked the delicate swallow of Astrid’s throat and every muscle in his body locked to the point of torture. Christ, she made even the act of drinking seem like a seduction, innocent though it was. There was nothing innocent, however, about the way her tongue darted out to lick a bead of brandy from her upper lip. His groin tightened to excruciating hardness when her translucent eyes, gleaming in the dim moonlight, met his and those wet lips parted in shock.
He wanted to kiss her senseless.
And to think he almost hadn’t come.
Earlier that evening, the thought of Astrid at the Featheringstoke ball had nearly been more than he could handle. She’d looked so beautiful. A goddess just out of his reach.
“If I may, Your Grace?” Fletcher had murmured as Thane had watched her getting dressed and
limned in candlelight in her bedroom window from the darkness of the terrace.
“You’ve never skimped on words, Fletcher, so why stop now?”
“You are a fool, sir.”
He’d huffed a laugh. That he was. There was no greater fool than he. “I never should have married her.”
“The marriage is done. You need to move forward.”
Thane had swallowed, the imprint of his wife’s luscious figure branded onto his brain. “You’re right, Fletcher. I do. I need to put her out of my mind.”
She deserved more than him.
She deserved a man who was normal.
She deserved a partner and husband she could be proud of.
His body had ached, but it’d been a different kind of ache from the ones that usually plagued him. This one had radiated from inside—an emptiness that had felt like a bucket of rocks pressing into his chest. Thane had hoped that some time at the gaming tables in The Silver Scythe would help as a distraction, and then he would stop obsessing about his delectable wife dressed in nothing but a few strips of gossamer.
And so there he’d gone at first.
But the familiar scents of incense and smoke had done nothing to soothe his agitated spirits. A drink, he’d decided, was in order. A few drinks. He’d passed the next two hours at the gaming tables, wagering a small fortune and consuming enough liquor to fell an elephant, all in the interest of distracting himself.
It hadn’t worked. None of it had worked.
“Settle my accounts,” he told the owner.
“Leaving us so soon?” the man asked.
“I forgot I have a prior engagement,” he said and pointed to a particularly daunting mask hanging on a hook. “Might I borrow that?”
“Of course.”
Climbing into his waiting coach, he’d given the coachman the address for the Featheringstoke ball. For the first time in hours, the pressure in his chest had eased, and when he’d stood on the threshold to the ballroom and seen his wife, the space there was filled with something other than rocks.
He’d felt it the moment she saw him—that raw pulse of connection across the room. And he’d held her stare hungrily. A faint blush bloomed across her cheekbones, but his fairy queen didn’t drop her eyes at his bold appraisal. In fact, her eyebrow tented in aristocratic disdain before she dismissed him completely with a regal sweep of her chin.
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