Beast of Beswick

by Amalie Howard

  “Not to be rude, Aunt,” he drawled, covering his churning emotions with chilly reserve, “but what do you know of love? You certainly did not marry for it.”

  “Aristocrats marry for other reasons,” she said, unperturbed by the ice in his tone. “Love matches are rare. Even my marriage to the Duke of Verne was arranged by our parents. Affection and fondness came later, but why do you think after Verne’s death, I took such pleasure in my liaisons?” Thane opened his mouth, and she lifted a palm to stop him. “I know you disapprove of that part of my lifestyle, but I am determined to be open to love before I cock up my toes.”

  “With indiscriminate affairs?” he asked dryly.

  She canted her head, watching him. “Look at you, so stone-cold. There’s too much of your father in you, I suppose. Lord knows he was the embodiment of blue-blooded indifference.”

  The comparison to his father pricked deep, though Thane could not fault her for making it. The man had been a cold, frightening duke. He understood the similarity all too well—because he’d fashioned himself to suit. A stone heart was impervious. An unfeeling man could not be harmed.

  Mabel sighed, reaching to pat his cheek. “But there’s some of me in you, too, and hope springs eternal that you might allow yourself the chance to be happy. You have to choose, Thane.”

  “Choose what?” he said.

  “Oh, my darling, choose to act with your heart instead of that rigid, fractious brain of yours.”

  He could hear the hope in her words. Hope. It sliced at him, mangling his defenses. Entreated and beseeched like the liar it was. He’d been duped by hope so many times before. His father. Leo. His friends. Lovers. They’d all left him, running in horror from the beast he’d become. And Astrid would, too, once she no longer needed him. He thought of her willing hands upon him…how great his need had been; how great it still was. Already, he needed her like the air in his lungs. It was too much. Too much!

  Thane thought the war had broken him, but that pain would not even come close to what Astrid could do. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that there would be nothing left of him when she left. The bitterness grew inside him until it became all he could feel. It comforted him like an old, worn blanket. A longtime companion. He drew its familiar, soothing darkness around him.

  His eyes met his aunt’s, the shadows clinging to him as they’d always done. “That’s where you’re wrong. You see, my heart withered with the rest of me.”

  “I fear I’ve done more ill than good,” she said sadly.

  “No, you’ve set me straight, Aunt. I know what I have to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The notorious ill-tempered, stone-hearted, intractable Beast of Beswick was back in residence. The man’s erratic mood swings were enough to give a person bloody whiplash! Astrid scowled as Alice fastened her stays at the thought of her husband. He’d gone from tender to tyrant in the space of one evening at the opera, and now everyone in the house was tiptoeing on tenterhooks for fear of incurring the beast’s wrath. Even she had not been exempt from his mercurial temper.

  The night of the opera, on the way home, she’d ventured to ask if he would attend Lady Hammerton’s ball in the interests of supporting Isobel. He’d been uncharacteristically withdrawn during the second half, but she’d put it down to the entire outing being trying for him.

  How wrong she’d been.

  He’d stared at her in the carriage, his mouth twisting into an ugly shape. “No.”

  “You said you would help,” she’d said quietly. “Protect Isobel. She needs us.”

  “I am not going to a bloody ball, Astrid.”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Afraid?” He’d laughed, the sound dark and devoid of humor. “Have you forgotten what the monster you married looks like, my lady? Let me remind you.” He’d ripped off his hat, leaned forward, and growled in her face, his fury palpable and the landscape of his scars outlined in stark, gruesome detail.

  “If you gave people a chance, they might—”

  “Might what?” He’d scoffed. “Allow me into their homes? To sit at their hearths, share stories, and offer me tea? You are naive, my foolish wife.”

  “And you’re being childish.”

  His eyes had flashed with rage. “Have a care, Astrid.”

  She hadn’t paid heed, thinking only of her sister’s request. “It’s just that I want Isobel to be safe. And to have a chance to be happy and free.”

  “None of us is free. Your sister simply hopes to trade one cage for another. Isn’t that what marriage is?”

  “That’s not what we have.”

  He’d sneered at her. “No, darling, we have convenience. Even better, no? You wanted a name, and all I ever hoped for was a warm, willing body, which I eventually got. Don’t make our association any more than it is. What a trade. Duchess by day, doxy by night.”

  “You’re a brute.”

  “I never pretended to be anything else.”

  No, he hadn’t, and that had been Astrid’s own fault. She’d believed in something that hadn’t been there. She’d believed in the man he could be, not the one he was. And she had only herself to blame. She never should have trusted him.

  After the hurt, the anger had come.

  How dare he make promises and then break them? How dare he call her names? He wanted her to be a doxy? Then, by God, that was what she would be. Astrid stared in the mirror at her reflection. Alice had covered the dark circles beneath her eyes with powder. She would have preferred to stay in bed, but the thought of being in the same house with her ogre of a husband rankled.

  “Thank you, Alice,” she said, once the maid had finished with the final touches of her attire. “That will be all.”

  Grabbing her reticule, she descended the staircase and, for the first time since the altercation in the coach, came face-to-face with her husband.

  “You were not at dinner this evening,” the duke growled, amber eyes narrowing on her clover-green evening gown. He looked tired, too. Tired and drawn. “Culbert said you were not feeling well.”

  She shot him a smile, ignoring the dull ache in her heart at the magnetic tug of him. Despite his cruelty and coldness, she wanted nothing more than to soothe those lines of tension over his brow, draw him close, and find the man who’d wooed her in the conservatory, the man who had bought her buildings for a school, the man who had made love to her with such tenderness that it made her chest ache.

  But that version of him had been false…a version she’d obviously romanticized because she’d been lonely, and she’d wanted to believe the best of him.

  “I was,” she said with forced cheer, “but I am much recovered.”

  “Are you going out?”

  She nodded. “To the Ralston soiree with Isobel.” Once more, she pushed a smile to her lips. “You don’t mind, do you, Your Grace? I know how much you loathe such things.”

  He did not respond to her barb. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “And you, Your Grace.”

  Their excessively polite interaction had infuriated her to no end, and the following night, it was much the same. Even Mabel had seemed disheartened, her usual optimism absent. She offered no explanation for her nephew’s disposition, and every time Astrid tried to get answers of her own and chip past the wall of ice growing between them, he walked away.

  If she hadn’t caught the naked longing in his eyes one or two times when he thought she wasn’t looking, Astrid would have believed he felt nothing. It made her think of what Mabel had told her about her nephew when she’d urged her not to give up on him. Deep down, he doesn’t feel he deserves happiness. So he pushes everyone away.

  Was that what he was doing?

  It was definitely possible. Over the past weeks, they’d connected in more ways than one…intellectually, emotionally, physically. And before the opera
, she might have even said that Thane had come to care about her. Their intimacy had deepened, blossomed. Astrid blushed. So much so that she had fondled him in public. No one had seen them, obscured in the box as they were, but that was as flagrant a sentiment as any.

  The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. They’d come together in darkness—first in the arbor and then in his bedchamber and every other time since. The opera had been a turning point. For both of them. A different type of affirmation.

  Was that what had sent him running?

  The next day, when the duke summoned her to his study to inform her of his intention to send her back to Beswick Park, Astrid had had enough. She would not be discarded like this. A part of her wanted to argue it was for Isobel’s sake that she needed to stay, but it was more than that. In her heart of hearts, the truth was that she did not care to be parted from him. What, then, did that say about her?

  “That you are a fool who has fallen in love with someone who can never love you back,” she whispered to herself.

  “Which gown pleases you tonight, Your Grace?” Alice asked, walking in from the adjoining bath.

  Astrid frowned. Which gown indeed. She was at a crossroads. She could tuck her tail between her legs and allow him to chase her away, or she could refuse. Make a stand. She was only ever a coward when it came to this man, but she was terrified of what confronting him would bring.

  Then again, fear had never helped anyone onward.

  Her husband was at his heart a man of war. He understood the push and pull of battle. She needed to rethink her strategy. To reach him, she needed to dig deep into the arsenal she had at her disposal.

  “The red silk,” she said decisively.

  Alice’s eyes went round, and Astrid felt a shiver of apprehension chase down her spine. The red silk dress was one of Madame Pinot’s most daring creations, with a neckline that covered much less than it revealed. After her bath, Astrid donned the provocative gown. Alice frowned, her eyes fixated on the embroidered edge as if her stare was the only thing holding her breasts in place. Good gracious, if Astrid so much as sneezed, her bosom would tumble out of the bodice. As it was, she was sure she could see the pink edges of her nipples.

  “Perhaps it was meant to be worn with a chemisette,” Alice suggested.

  “Madame Pinot did not say so.”

  A blush singed her cheeks as Astrid stared at her reflection. The dress was beyond daring. And its indecency didn’t stop at the bodice that also left her shoulders shockingly bare. It clung to her corseted form like a second skin, cinching her waist and hips before falling in decadent crimson folds to the floor. A rich blond lace overlay at the bodice, waist, and hem gave the gown an almost Spanish flair.

  Astrid paired it with elegant elbow-length champagne-colored gloves and soft matching embroidered heeled slippers. Alice had styled her hair in a simple updo, and she wore no jewelry save for a necklace with a ruby pendant that nestled in the hollow between her breasts.

  “His Grace will not approve of you going anywhere in that gown,” Alice muttered.

  Astrid smiled through her sudden panic. “I should hope not.”

  When she walked into the dining room, her husband’s back was to her. He was deep in conversation with his solicitor, Sir Thornton, and his wife, Lady Claudia. Astrid hadn’t realized they were having guests for dinner, and she almost spun around in retreat. But Mabel, whose eyes had sparked with mischievous delight upon seeing her, came to kiss her cheek.

  “Bold move,” she whispered.

  Her smile felt wobbly. “A wise friend told me not to give up.”

  With a proud look, Mabel squeezed Astrid’s fingers as if to say, Good luck, and then said loudly, “Astrid, dear, don’t you look lovely.”

  The duke turned in painful slow motion, but when his gaze slid over her, he froze, his mouth going slack and then tight with displeasure. His expression shuttered but not before Astrid saw the flare of lust in those leonine eyes. Good.

  “Thank you, Aunt,” she said in an unusually breathless voice. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest and gallop from the room. She greeted Lady Claudia and Sir Thornton. The poor solicitor’s cheeks went ruddy, but Claudia’s admiring glance bolstered Astrid’s flagging courage.

  She beamed at her scowling husband, whose face now almost matched her dress as he shepherded her a few steps away, out of earshot of the others. The warm, spicy scent of him curled over her, and she had to fight to not close the distance between them and lick the pulse throbbing madly in his neck. Gracious, she was a fool for this man.

  “Did I pay for that?”

  “Why, of course,” she replied, reaching for coolness, despite the fact that his hand was burning a hole at her elbow, sending flames shooting to other parts of her body nowhere near her arm. “I have it on account from Madame Pinot that you specified this color.”

  “The color,” he ground out. “Not”—he gestured at her body with his hand—“that.”

  Astrid let out a laugh, causing his eyes to drop to her quivering bosom. It was a wonder she didn’t go up in cinders at his glower. “This style is all the rage in Paris. Don’t be such a prude, Your Grace.” He ripped his burning stare away, that muscle in his jaw on the loose again. She lifted her brows. “Won’t you pour me a sherry, darling? Or perhaps Sir Thornton will not mind.”

  With an unreadable look, he stalked away before she could finish and returned with the proffered glass, nearly shoving it into her hand. Astrid sipped the drink and allowed him to escort her to her seat. During all nine courses of dinner, she tasted nothing, not the cream of turtle soup, nor the braised pheasant, nor the beef in béchamel sauce. Though she conversed mostly with Claudia and Mabel about trivial things, she could feel her husband’s brooding stare. Poor Sir Thornton had to be getting uncomfortable with the duke’s testy one-word answers.

  Mabel, who sat beside her to her left, leaned in. “I hope that dress of yours has a plan,” she whispered.

  “Me too,” Astrid whispered back. “I can barely eat in this thing.”

  “You shall have to give me the name of your modiste,” Claudia said on her right, the not-so-innocent comment drawing both the duke’s and Sir Thornton’s attention. “That gown is rather sensational. Isn’t it, Henry?”

  Sir Thornton coughed discreetly but not before sending his wife a thoroughly devilish look that made Astrid bite back a giggle. She hadn’t expected it of the stern, composed solicitor. But it was clear that he was very much smitten with his wife.

  “Thank you,” Astrid said. “Madame Pinot is exceptional, but I fear that the praise for this particular gown has to go to my husband.” Thane choked on his wine and opened his mouth as if to deny it, but Astrid did not let him get a word in. “His Grace has impeccable taste.”

  “Indeed,” Claudia toasted, lifting her glass with an impish grin.

  Beswick looked like he’d sucked on something awful, and the scars on his face had gone stark white, as if he were holding on to his control by a thread. Thankfully, the rest of the dinner passed with less provoking conversation, and after the last course was served, Astrid put down her napkin as they all rose.

  Normally after a formal dinner, the men would adjourn to the library for port and cigars, while the women took tea and brandy in the salon, but the Thorntons had another engagement. They said their goodbyes.

  “I’m off as well,” Astrid announced. She had no plans for the evening, but he didn’t know that. Sure enough, her husband froze.

  “Off where, Your Grace?” he asked in a silky tone.

  “To the Levinson musicale, of course,” she said, ignoring the firing of her pulse and the decadent throb between her thighs at his look. “I accepted days ago.”

  He gripped her elbow, not tightly but firmly enough that her knees went weak. “Please excuse us,” he said with a clipped bow. “My wife an
d I have something to say to each other.”

  Astrid glanced helplessly over her shoulder as Mabel mouthed bravo and Claudia’s eyes twinkled with mirth. The duke led her into his study and kicked the door shut behind him.

  She opened her mouth to protest his manhandling of her person, and he swore a filthy oath, slamming his lips to hers. She was swamped by more than six and a half feet of large, predatory, sexually aroused male, and Lord help her if her body didn’t respond just as savagely to his hot, possessive kiss. Astrid’s hands clawed at his jacket, clutching him close as she welcomed the punishing invasion of his tongue and met him stroke for ferocious stroke. He bit at her lips, and she bit back. He licked and sucked and thrust, and she responded in kind.

  “This dress is diabolical,” he growled, dragging his mouth from hers, his fingers tracing the lace edge of the flimsy silk bodice. It didn’t take much coaxing for her nipples to harden. Thane bent his head and suckled, the delicate fabric darkening. Astrid nearly fainted from the friction of soft wet silk against her sensitive skin. He blew against her, making her nipples tauten even more, and bowed to pay homage to the other.

  “Thane,” she begged, her body dissolving into a mess of need and heat.

  Shoving her up against the study door, he wedged a hard thigh in between hers and growled low in his throat. He circled his rock-hard groin against her, making her lightheaded. “I’ve had you and this gown to thank for the most agonizing arousal I’ve had in years.”

  “And I’ve you to thank for the same,” she replied.

  His eyes shone, burning with desire as his hands fought her skirts to seek bare skin. Barer still at the tops of her thighs.

  “No drawers,” he whispered.

  Astrid could barely string two words together at the feel of his thumbs, parting the aching place where she was embarrassingly wet for him. But Thane only growled his satisfaction, his free hand moving to unbutton his falls as he gathered handfuls of red silk to her waist, exposing everything to his view. She writhed against him, feeling cool air on her overheated skin.