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

by Eva Devon

  Ruining a young lady like Augusta would have tarnished Anna’s memory far more than breaking his vow never to marry. Even so, it was no easy thing to swallow. Not when he’d believed he’d be married in his heart to Anna for the rest of his days.

  It was then that footsteps echoed on the marble at the end of the long floor. It was her. It had to be.

  He had originally intended that it'd be a grand wedding, and it had seemed a good idea. But with her father absconding the way he had to Italy, things had changed.

  All of the ton and all of the Royal Family had been invited, of course. When one was a duke, that was a given. Most had come in their finery, filling the pews with a sort of obsessed curiosity. Everyone wanted to see the young, bankrupt spinster who had landed the Duke of Blacktower.

  After much deliberation with his aunt, he’d invited his cousin, the imperious war hero, the Marquis of Manderly, to take Augusta down the aisle.

  An organ began playing a hymn, filling the massive dome with beautiful wedding music, which was his and Brookhaven’s cue to turn and face the nave.

  Adam spotted her at the imposing Cathedral doors on the arm of Manderly, whose military medals and uniform with its golden embroidery winked in the sunlight. They processed down the long way underneath the elaborate dome and Adam’s breath hitched in his throat.

  Augusta was not a beautiful woman.

  She never would be.

  There was something too broad about her lips that looked as if she had sucked upon a lemon a touch too long. Her nose was a trifle to pert. And her brows did like to draw together in a quizzical fashion, leaving furrows in their wake despite her youth.

  Her dark hair was a riot about her face, even tamed by curls.

  And yet. . . Somehow, she was magnificent. A force to be reckoned with. The sight of her was far more captivating than any pretty young woman as she progressed down the aisle in her pale blue dress.

  Lady Augusta looked as if she could rival a queen in her confidence.

  Her shoulders were so perfectly held, her back so beautifully straight, and her body beamed with a sort of self-possession he'd rarely seen in a lady of her years before. Despite the fact she’d been caught in deshabille with him in a dark hall, she looked completely as if this was where she belonged.

  It was a marvel to behold, for he felt certain her father had likely made her feel as if she did not.

  Manderly led her before him and gently placed her gloved hand into his. She lifted her chin, facing him, and she gave him the strangest of looks. There was a bit of a dare to that look, as if she was still waiting to see if he would toss her out into the street.

  Bloody hell, he loved that look. She might be parsimonious and a bit puritanical, but she was no coward. And that? That he could admire.

  He let his gaze wander down to her tart lips. Lips which had been far sweeter to the taste than he’d expected. When she’d visited him in his chamber, it had sparked a flame in him that he had long thought dead. For it had not been a simple desire, a desire he’d experienced as all men did.

  What she’d invoked had been something foreign. Something dangerous. The kiss they’d shared had invited him down a path he’d never taken. A path where passion controlled him. And he had always known how to control his own passion.

  Despite the onlooking peers and the grand bishop waiting to wed them, he remembered the taste of her, the sweetness, the salt, the passion. And he wanted to kiss her again. No. Not wanted. Needed. He hungered for her like a man who had not eaten in days.

  Bloody hell, it was going to be hell living in the same house with her, keeping her at a distance. But keep her at a distance he would. He was only willing to break so much of a vow.

  Then she did the oddest thing.

  She squeezed his hand.

  Why the devil had she done that?

  But then the next thing he knew the bishop was speaking.

  The words from the Good Book were flowing, and before he knew what was happening, he had said that he would indeed take Augusta to be his help meet in this life, and he in hers.

  Soon, they were turning to face the crowd who seemed to be most delighted and amused by the fact the Duke of Blacktower had finally taken a bride, and that the bride was the prickly, largely unconsidered Lady Augusta.

  They’d have to consider her now.

  Adam leaned down towards her and whispered, "Well, are you ready to rule?"

  "Who am I to rule?" she asked, barely looking up at him. "You?"

  "Never, my dear,” he assured, softly so that no one else could hear. “Rule the ton, by all means. But rule me? That is something that will never happen. Not ever."

  Chapter 15

  Augusta could scarcely countenance the genteel din of hundreds of peers gathered for her wedding breakfast.

  Driving through the streets of London with people cheering had been most shocking to her.

  In all her life, she'd never been recognized for anything. Unless one considered the status of tart spinster recognition.

  But now, simply by being the wife of the Duke of Blacktower, she was a celebrity. It was barely fathomable. Even now, as she stood in the great salon of Adam's London townhome, she was being fawned over.

  Women who had never given her a glance but a week ago, but a month ago, now suddenly told her how marvelous she looked in her silk gown.

  They gazed with glowing, jealous eyes as they complimented her perfect coils and pearl-strewn curls. They remarked on her beauty and how marvelous she looked.

  Ha!

  She didn't believe a word of the sycophantic drivel.

  In the most bizarre of turns, she knew half of them were simply hoping for the connection to a duchess so that they might themselves stay on the ladder of society.

  They cared not one whit for her.

  Society was the devil.

  Still, it was most intriguing to suddenly be sought out by so many people. The myriad ladies and gentlemen of the ton? My, they were something to behold. All of them were pretty peacocks strutting about hoping to be granted her notice, but each shone with the sort of arrogance which declared they believed themselves to be the most singular in the room.

  Truthfully, if Augusta was to admit it, the only singular person in the room was her husband. Goodness, husband! How strange it sounded to say such a thing, even in her own thoughts. But that's exactly what he was now. And he stood out above everyone, almost a foot taller, and his broad shoulders seemed to match the power of Hadrian's Wall.

  Adam never smiled, which stunned her, for since he was reputed as a man of such pleasure, she would have thought that he would be beaming at everyone, but he didn't.

  A strange sort of melancholy floated about him, defying his rugged beauty, making him all the more interesting to the ladies about him, she noticed.

  She'd never considered that he wasn’t so very jolly every moment. It gave her pause. Had she based her entire opinion of him off of faulty reporting in the news sheets? Was he not a complete rake with entirely rakish ways?

  He stood in the center of a group of ruddy-cheeked men who were chattering away at him. Adam looked as if he was being slowly bored to death by a copious outpouring of pointless words. From the resigned furrow of his brow, she surmised that at any moment he might collapse with the weight of his boredom, rather like Atlas under the strain of the world.

  Could it be possible?

  Could her husband find society is boring as she? It hardly seemed possible given his reputation and as a seeker of amusements.

  Felicity bounded up beside her, her cornflower blue eyes shining with happiness. "Augusta, my dear, you look divine. I'm so happy for you."

  Augusta allowed herself to smile back, pleased that her middle sister finally seemed to have shed her resentment. "Thank you, Felicity."

  Though she wished it wasn’t so, Augusta was fairly certain that Felicity was truly happy for herself, because now that Augusta was married, Felicity finally could to.

 
Trying to keep the bond that was growing between them pleasant, Augusta asked, “And when should we name your day?"

  "Oh, I'm so certain it should be any time now,” Felicity gushed happily, the skirts of her soft yellow gown floating about her legs as she contemplated her future happiness. “It's such a disappointment that my captain could not come to this wedding."

  “Yes,” Augusta agreed, wondering that the young man had not been able to gain leave for a duke’s wedding. “Isn't it, though?”

  Felicity shrugged, giving the oddity of it little thought. “But there you have it. He had his duties today."

  Augusta refused to let her concern take deeper root and ruin what friendship she and her sister had begun to form. "I'm looking forward to getting to know my future brother better, and I'm glad that you shall have all that you wished."

  "I'm most surprised to hear you say it," Felicity replied, a rueful smile on her lips. "You've always been rather grumpy about the fact that I wished to marry."

  Grumpy, indeed. Augusta laughed. “I cannot help that I worry. I always shall, no doubt.”

  Felicity took her hands. “Whatever would you worry about when I'm going to be so delightfully happy?"

  Drawing a deep breath, she wondered how she could express herself without turning into a storm cloud. She had no wish to rain upon her sister’s joy. Still. . . “I suppose I'm rather cynical about the idea of marriage and happiness."

  "You mustn't be,” Felicity protested. “All young ladies should fall in love and get married."

  Augusta bit the inside of her cheek. Did she dare dash her sister’s dreams and point out the great unhappiness of so many of the marriages they’d seen? No, she wouldn’t. There’d be no point in it. She didn't even dare point out that her own marriage wasn't likely to be a happy one.

  Augusta was rather glad that Philippa as of yet had no one courting her, but soon she would.

  There was no question about it.

  Phillipa, who was a very pretty young girl with light blonde hair and dancing green eyes that everyone seemed to admire, would not be on the shelf much longer. Not with the dowry of ten thousand pounds that the duke was providing her.

  Any day now, Phillipa would no doubt be hosting court to dozens of young men smothering her with bouquets of flowers.

  After all, Phillipa would be sister-in-law to a duke and living in his house! Yes, she'd be quite a catch.

  Augusta would have to be very careful and make sure that no one took advantage.

  Felicity leaned in, breaking Augusta’s reverie, and whispered, "Are you nervous about this evening?"

  Augusta coughed as a memory of the duke’s hard body pressed against hers flashed through her mind. “No, Felicity, I am not. Thank you very much."

  Besides, she felt fairly certain that nothing was going to occur between them this evening. Since the duke said, “I do,” he’d barely given her a glance.

  In fact, he'd avoided her almost the entirety of their wedding breakfast.

  There had been that brief moment in St. Paul's when she'd walked up the nave and there had been a connection between them.

  That single shared look had been hot and fast and burning. It had nearly singed her soul. Her breath had stolen out of her body and she'd been afraid she wouldn't be able to say "I do" when the time came. But she had, and now they were wed and in his house.

  Much to her ever-living embarrassment, she wondered if the duke would want nothing to do with her despite what other people might claim about his needs for an heir. He’d made his wish for distance between them clear.

  Still, what he wanted was oddly what she wanted in the end, wasn't it? She didn't truly wish to be married to him, and she certainly didn't want to be in his bed. Did she? No. No, she could not possibly wish such a thing.

  And it was then that the quartet began to play a minuet from Bach, and much to her surprise and slight horror, her husband began making his way to her.

  Oh no.

  Dread pooled in her stomach and her throat dried.

  He couldn't possibly be coming to ask her to dance.

  It wasn't a done thing, was it? Brides didn't have to dance.

  Then it dawned upon her, yes. Yes, they did.

  At every wedding she'd been to, the bride and groom had danced together. Suddenly, she could not move. The skies could have opened up. Lightning could have struck. But she could not move. Even to bolt.

  Dancing in front of the greatest peers of the land had not occurred to her. No, she'd had far too many other worries and concerns.

  Hell. She was in hell.

  The minuet was one of the most difficult and graceful dances! A dance in which one was judged by the entire room by one’s steps and movement of one’s arms, devil take it.

  How the blazes could she escape?

  Could she trip?

  Surely that would be better than making a complete cake of herself in front of the entire ton.

  The crowd opened before the duke like the proverbial Red Sea.

  His strong presence easily drove people apart, allowing him to stride powerfully across the marble floor. He was dressed to perfection in a green silk coat and his black waistcoat only emphasized the strength of his torso. His cravat was a matching emerald green studded with a single emerald. His black breeches clung tightly to his thighs and his black polished boots shown like a mirror.

  His dark hair was styled perfectly, but it was at ease. It looked as if it had been barely touched at all. She couldn't imagine him spending hours at his looking glass as so many of the young men of the ton did now. Not a man of Adam’s energy.

  He approached her with a shockingly stern glance. He looked surprisingly preoccupied as he held out his strong hand to her. She gave him a horrified, wide-eyed look and tried to give a slight shake of her head.

  He must not have noticed because he continued to hold out his hand.

  At last, she realized she had no other choice but to take it. And so she slid her fingers into his.

  Quietly, he led her to the center of the floor before he cocked his head to the side. "Augusta, your hand is trembling. That nervous to be married to me, are you?"

  She snorted. Then her eyes flared with alarm only the more, but she wasn’t afraid of him!

  His own gaze flared suddenly as his stern features gave way to surprise.

  “That nervous to dance, Your Grace," she admitted with a shaky laugh.

  He stood across from her, the proper distance. “Adam, not Your Grace,” he reminded. “And I thought all young ladies adored dancing."

  "Not all young ladies, Adam,” she pointed out. His name upon her lips felt so. . . Odd and yet right, somehow.

  “Do you think it's sinful?” His voice was a delicious rough whisper that couldn't be heard over the first phrases of music. “No dancing except to holy music? Or is it no dancing at all?"

  She scowled at him. "It has nothing to do with that. I do not have any fault with people who love to dance. I do not find it morally questionable.” Augusta swallowed, then admitted quickly, “I wish I was better at it and you may regret this.”

  He gave her a disbelieving stare. "It is too late to turn back now unless you wish to feign a sprained ankle and have that be whispered about the ton through the next weeks.”

  She lifted her chin. "I dare not," she said. "I have the courage to do this."

  "Glad to hear it.” He arched a brow. “I like to hear that my wife has a bit of courage to her."

  "I need it," she replied. "To be married to a man like you."

  "Touché," he said, as if he found what she said to be a compliment.

  And then the beat came when they were to dance.

  Much to her astonishment, the Duke of Blacktower performed the difficult dance with utter ease and masculinity. He clearly was able to move about the floor as if it was second nature to him. She, on the other hand, nearly tripped within the first few moments.

  He gave her a reassuring look and then much to her shock,
he took her hand and began to guide her easily through the steps.

  With each passing moment, she increased her confidence because he was gazing upon her with confidence.

  Though her heart beat with sheer terror that she would perform some grave misstep, he took care of her as he moved her about the floor, helping her to recall which way to move with a gentle touch of his hand here and a gentle look there.

  Goodness! Despite herself, the touch of his hand sent the most shocking feelings of excitement through her limbs. Her legs began to feel almost as if they were trembling too, not out of fear but out of excitement. Her stomach tightened with anticipation. Her heart began to pound with admiration of his strength instead of terror of the dance, and she could scarce draw breath as she studied the man who was now her husband.

  She did not like him, but in that moment, she knew that she wanted him.

  It was a shocking thing to discover indeed, especially since she knew that he would never want her as much in turn.

  Chapter 16

  "Bloody hell and damnation."

  Adam cursed and sat in the chair before the fire and then he stood up again. He strode before the massive hearth, sipping his brandy.

  Now what the devil was he going to do?

  The day had gone.

  He'd spent most of it in speaking to guests, and now the sun had long since set and it was time to go to bed. His wife had gone upstairs and eventually he had to too. Tonight was not a night to go out on the town, even if he had wished to with every fiber of his being.

  He stood in his chamber staring around as if he could find the answer to his dilemma in the air. He strode to the windows and looked out into the darkness.

  Nothing.

  There was nothing but the usual view that he was accustomed to of the beautiful parkland that came with his London townhouse.

  He turned back to the beautifully crackling fire, the wonderful scent of the wood logs burning in the air.

  He headed to his bookshelf and inspected the myriad titles which he adored.

  Not a single one stood out to him.

  He pulled a book out and pushed it back into its spot. He took another one, contemplated the green leather and the gold embossed title, then pushed it back.