The Beast's Bride (The Bluestocking War, #1)

by Eva Devon

  The lieutenant was, of course, at his barracks where he had to be and generally was not invited to such events as these. He was not quite high enough in standing as to be allowed to come to such affairs.

  Her father stood in the corner of the room speaking to old Lord Trentham, his drunken crony of a friend.

  She shuddered.

  Her father kept glancing in her direction, and she had the distinct feeling that perhaps her father was attempting to convince Lord Trentham that she might not be such a very bad catch at all.

  Her stomach twisted.

  The idea made her ill. In one swift move, she could cure all their ills. She knew it was true, if she married that terrible old man. Even if she could contemplate it, she wasn't certain that she could do that to herself to save her family, to save her father.

  That final thought caused her lips to tighten.

  No, she wasn't going to save her father.

  She wanted him to finally cease his senseless, selfish behavior, and to realize that he, he, was the one who should take responsibility and take care of his daughters, not she. It was not her responsibility to continue to bolster him and build him up.

  Sacrificing herself on the altar of a terrible matrimony was impossible to her if he refused to make any sacrifices of his own.

  Yes. She refused.

  She'd wasted too many years of her life trying to save him, and she wouldn't do it any longer. Instead, she desperately needed some means to salvage her sisters’ future and herself. Something that didn’t include a potentially disastrous marriage.

  The music came to an end and Phillipa bounded up to her, cheeks pink, and blonde curls bobbing about her elfin face as she gasped with laughter.

  "What a delightful dance," Phillipa announced with glee.

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it," said Augusta, hating that she sounded like an old muffin of a matron.

  Phillipa gave her a pitying glance with wide blue eyes that matched her thrice-mended pale blue gown that was two seasons out of date. "Augusta, if only you could learn to like to dance."

  "I don't think I ever shall," she pointed out honestly. "My feet are not meant for it."

  Pursing her rosy lips, Phillipa insisted, “If you but practiced more—”

  "If I but practiced more...” Augusta snapped her fan shut and winked at her sister. “I would blacken your feet every day."

  "Augusta, you needn't be so pessimistic."

  "I'm not being pessimistic," Augusta replied, whipping her fan open again. "I am being realistic."

  Phillipa shook her head, which caused her perfect curls to dance charmingly against her cheeks. "I think you could be very successful at these things if you but—”

  "If I but what?” Augusta challenged, surveying the successful young ladies dancing an allemande in their delicate slippers and frothy gowns. “Preened and smiled and pretended to be something that I am not?"

  Phillipa nibbled her lower lip. "Possibly. Isn't that what all ladies do? Pretend to be something that they're not?"

  Augusta shuddered. "I hope that's not true," she lamented. "It seems like a rather sad state of affairs if it is."

  "Well, we must all present our best face to the world," Phillipa pointed out sagely.

  Augusta frowned. There was truth in that. It was the way of society. One could not entirely be themselves, no matter how she wished. She was a perfect example. The more she was herself. . . The more she had been relegated to the edges of the ballroom over the years.

  Everything in the ton was but a veneer and it was exhausting. So exhausting she had long ago given up much pretense.

  Still, she could not be quite as her sisters were. They somehow still managed to smile and chat about the weather as if there was nothing more important. No, Augusta was too practical about the world, and she could not puff up the egos of men who were already quite pleased with themselves.

  Phillipa's eyes suddenly lit up with mischief. "Did you see him?"

  "See who?" Augusta asked, glancing about. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew exactly who her sister was referring to.

  "The Beast, of course," Phillipa whispered conspiratorially. "He just made his way to the edge of the ball! I can't see him now, but what a sight!”

  Augusta couldn't deny the truth of it.

  The Duke of Blacktower was a beautiful man and every time she saw him, she couldn't forget their first meeting.

  It had been a disaster.

  When he’d first returned to London, he’d been the toast of society, at almost every ball and he danced almost every dance.

  Much to her amazement, he’d asked her to dance. She’d agreed, promptly stepped on his foot, and it had all gone terribly downhill from there.

  The ton had tittered about it for days.

  As far as she knew, he’d ceased asking unmarried ladies to dance after that one night.

  She, Augusta, had been the cause of the Duke of Blacktower giving up dancing with young ladies. It was quite a reputation to have, but there it was. He had apparently found her impossible, just as she had found him.

  She had barely been able to speak in his presence because he was absolutely beautiful. And beautiful men did not ask women like her to dance, nor did dukes. She'd been absolutely stymied. In fact, it had been just about her first ball. And she hoped he would be kind. He hadn't been particularly rude, but he had been distant.

  They had not spoken since and she had a fairly strong feeling that he barely knew that she existed.

  Whereas she, loath though she was to admit it, noticed him whenever they were in the same room together.

  It was most annoying.

  And it annoyed her even more that she noticed his name in the news sheets whenever it was there, and it did appear almost every day. Still, she felt some vindication in knowing she was almost certainly a superior person, even if he would never know it.

  A look of alarm flashed across Phillipa’s face as she brushed her shoulder. "My dear, you mustn't let this upset you."

  "Upset me?" Augusta protested firmly. "Never."

  “Oh, not that!” Phillipa gasped. "Augusta, your gown..."

  Augusta froze, knowing she had terrible luck at such events and suddenly fearing the worst, whatever that might be. She'd get on with it of course, but she did wonder why these things often happened to her. "Whatever is wrong with it?"

  "It's coming apart," her sister whispered. "Come, come. We must get you to the cloakroom."

  Of course, her gown was coming apart, Augusta thought.

  It was the only thing that could happen when one's gown was mended as many times as hers was. She should not have trusted it would survive another Season, but she could not afford new clothes.

  Still, her stomach clenched with horror.

  What if the thing were to collapse right here in the middle of the ballroom?

  That would be a scandal that not even she could recover from. She turned quickly, and at the urging of her sister, headed for one of the gilded doors that led out into the cool dark halls. It would be a blessing to escape, in any case.

  She really never enjoyed herself at these affairs, and her father wouldn't be able to complain if she was going off to fix her gown.

  So off she hurried, Phillipa in tow.

  Or at least so she thought.

  For once she reached the dim hallway, she realized that she was quite alone.

  She took a few steps into the darkened way, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. She reached up to touch the unraveling part of her bodice and let out a huff of dismay. It truly was coming undone.

  The blasted strap of her shoulder was about to give way. She held it carefully and started rushing down the isolated corridor towards the cloakroom.

  She looked down at the side of her shoulder, craning her neck to assess how terrible it was.

  And suddenly she collided into something as firm as a statue. . . But it was not a statue. Not a statue, at all.

  She let out a gasp.

&nbs
p; Her face pressed into a linen-covered, hard chest. Fully stopped now, her body was at one with his long frame. The stranger’s arms folded about her. His hands clasped her shoulders, holding her tightly for a moment as he too lost his breath.

  It was the most delicious body she'd ever had the strange fortune to touch.

  He smelled of perfection, a sort of lemony scent touched by a hint of cinnamon and something else she couldn't quite identify. She drank it in, even as she felt his granite, hard hands holding her fast.

  The feel of him was so immense, so powerful, she'd never been surrounded by such a feeling of power before in her life, and yet she felt absolutely alarmed.

  For, she had no idea who the gentleman was, and she was absolutely caught, because her hands were clutching at her gown and she was in his embrace. She took a step back and her foot caught on the hem of her gown.

  Now, completely immobilized, she felt trapped.

  He grabbed onto her further, keeping her upright, and yet she knew they were a breath away from ruination!

  “Unhand me,” she called out against his hard body.

  “Devil take it, madam," he drawled, "I'm just trying to assist you."

  Her whole body tensed at the sound of that deep voice.

  She'd know it anywhere.

  What the deuce was happening?

  It couldn't possibly be true.

  "Not you!” she exclaimed.

  "Not I?" he queried, still holding her fast against his impossibly hard yet supple body. “You are the one who ran into me.”

  "I did not," she protested. "You were going far too quickly.”

  "I was not, madam,” he drawled with that deep, rumbling voice of his that made all about him swoon. “You were not looking where you were going."

  He arched back, causing his lower body to press in towards her, which only emphasized the strength of his torso, and he peered down at her.

  "Lady Augusta?"

  She lifted her chin and met his dark, captivating eyes, and her entire soul seemed to catch on fire at that second. He gazed down at her with such surprise that she could scarce form words.

  "Indeed, Your Grace,” she managed. “It is I.”

  "What the devil are you doing in this hall?"

  "If you must know..." she said.

  But then, without thinking as she stepped back away from him, the heel of her slipper tugged at her hem. The audible tearing of more threads in her shoulder whispered through the air.

  "Don't let go," she begged.

  He arched a dark brow. ”My God, woman, are you having a nervous fit?"

  "I don't have nervous fits," she gritted.

  "Well, what the devil is wrong with you?" he growled.

  She swallowed, panic rising up inside her. “My gown, it's about to—”

  He angled her slightly away, trying to catch a better look at her face, no doubt, and her gown began to fall.

  She gasped, catching it as the shoulder tore, sliding down, baring her thin chemise.

  “Bloody hell,” he gritted, his eyes catching sight of her bare shoulder and part of her bosom.

  Not all of it, thank goodness! But far too much.

  And then there was something different in his look. A look of admiration as a spark heated his dark eyes.

  That look quickly transformed to horror as if he knew that at any moment their lives could be so altered.

  "I need to get you to the cloak room," he said, his voice low and rough.

  She nodded. "Yes, please."

  “Now, let’s get you right-footed.”

  “I did not expect you to be such a gentleman,” she blurted.

  “I’m gentlemen enough when the situation calls for it. What the devil are you doing alone in a dark corridor?" He eyed her up and down, taking in her rather poor gown and the ripped bodice. "And in such a state."

  "I thought my sister was with me," she explained as he helped her stand back on her two feet. "But she's not, and now here I am with you."

  He snorted. "You needn't say it as if you're with someone who has the plague.”

  She narrowed her gaze up at him. “Well, you are a rake, are you not?"

  "I'm also a duke," he pointed out as he tried to pull the scraps of her dress near her shoulder together for her but without success. If anything, the action only seemed to cause her bodice to pull further apart.

  "You are, but that doesn’t particularly matter at this moment,” she hissed. “And I certainly don't wish to be alone with you in a corridor."

  “The feeling is reciprocal, Lady Augusta.” A look of pure horror crossed his face as a fictional future seemingly paraded through his thoughts. “Do you understand the ramifications if we were to be—”

  And as if what he was about to say was to become prophecy, the music in the ballroom died down.

  Suddenly, there was a rush of conversation and a hoard of young ladies and their mamas swept out into the hall, all apparently needing to use the cloak room.

  Augusta froze, unable to move.

  Her life flashed before her in that moment.

  Everything she’d ever known was about to end. Her previous trials were about to be made minuscule. And there was nothing that she could do. There was no way that she could stop this particular catastrophe of a moment.

  Terror of what was about to happen mirrored the duke’s face. She could see that he looked absolutely trapped like a bear, she imagined, about to be taken down by dogs at a bear baiting.

  "Let go of me," she bit out. "Let go of me."

  "I can’t,” he ground out. “If I do, your gown will—”

  And in that moment, cheeks and gazes flamed with emotion, entangled with each other, they were spotted.

  "What the deuce is going on?" demanded Lady Whitsby, her puce feathers quivering atop her matching turban.

  Augusta fought a whimper.

  Lady Whitsby of all people, from the North Country, was one of the worst gossips in all of England.

  She was going to tell absolutely everyone. . . And even if she hadn’t, there were at least ten young ladies and their mamas behind her, a veritable sea of insipid pastel gowns and bobbing feathers.

  Several gasps and guffaws filled the air. Eyes bulged. Young ladies fanned themselves profusely.

  Lady Whitsby let out an exclamation which sent the bows on her bosoms a fluttering. "My goodness, I do think—”

  "Don't," the duke cut in. "It's clearly not suited to you."

  "You are both in a state of scandal," said Lady Whitsby as if she had not heard or understood. "You are in a state of scandal, Your Grace, as she is barely dressed."

  "She is absolutely dressed," the duke protested, all the while holding her in his arms.

  "She is not," Lady Whitsby huffed. “And we all know the sort of fellow you are.”

  “Gone silent now, have you?” he quipped down at her, but there was no amusement in his face.

  She had. She couldn’t speak. In all her life, she’d never felt so out of sorts.

  And The Beast?

  He looked as if he wished to argue, but they both knew that truly there was nothing he could say to change the outcome of this horrible instant.

  He could say anything he wished, he could try to argue it away, but no one would believe that she had simply had a case of a gown where a thread had come unraveled, and he had helped her.

  Not this duke, not any man for that matter, for no person would believe that a young lady would be alone in the corridor with a man, her gown undone.

  Her stomach tightened.

  “Ruined,” pronounced Lady Whitsby without pause and a decided amount of relish. “I never would have of thought it of you. But you are ruined, Lady Augusta.”

  "Oh, we're in hell now," he growled.

  "Indeed we are, Your Grace.”

  “And we're in it together, damnation,” he added as if it was the worst thing that could have befallen any man at any time in history.

  She let out a small growl of her own
then. “Yes. You and I together."

  "Come on then," he said.

  She widened her eyes, stunned at his suggestion. "I can't very well go with you.”

  "Well, if I step away," he pointed out, ignoring the ladies gaping on.

  Her cheeks flamed as she realized that of course they could not be separated.

  There was a chorus from the ladies as they realized the shocking way her gown had come undone.

  "My goodness, Lady Augusta,” Lady Whitsby said through her puckered lips, “we all know the financial scandal your father was in. But my word! Clearly you think that you will be able to get a Duke to—”

  "Cease," the duke cut in, his voice so cold and hard the entire company stilled. "I will not have you say anything against my future wife."

  Augusta swung her gaze to him, amazed that he would say such a thing. "You'll marry me?"

  Though he looked as if the words might cause him to explode, he bit out, “Yes, I'll marry you. Somehow we'll have to bear it.”

  She gave him a tight nod. Though she was loath to be in this position, just as he was, in this particular moment, it was hard not to respect him a little bit.

  He had stood up so strongly to the ladies for her, and yet this was the last thing she could have possibly wanted. He was the last thing she’d ever wanted.

  It was one of the reasons why the ladies were so quick to believe that something was wrong. His reputation as a rake was so firm.

  "Yes, Your Grace,” she finally whispered. “We're well and truly stuck together."

  "Yes," he said, "come what may.”

  "Come what may," she agreed.

  Chapter 4

  "Now come the blazes on,” he rumbled as he clasped her hand in his. “I'm going to take you aside and get you something to put on."

  He leveled Lady Whitsby with a stare that would have made lesser men tremble. “And you Lady Whitsby," he said, "go and tell the ballroom that there's going to be a new Duchess of Blacktower. I'm sure you'll absolutely adore every moment of that."

  With that, the Duke of Blacktower swept her into his arms, against his chest. Carefully, he tucked her against him so that her body could not be exposed. His strong arms held her tightly as he strode down the hall, lifting her as if she weighed absolutely nothing.