Beautiful Beast (The Marriage Maker Book 36)

by Pearl Darling

  Raphael didn’t care. When would she judge the painting that held his heart and soul?

  “I cannot judge Lord Barden’s painting.”

  Raphael’s heart sank again.

  “Like many pieces of art, it seems to pose a question,” Ophelia’s voice wobbled. “And if I understand that question correctly, Raphael is saying that he too will have won the competition.”

  “Question? What is the question?” murmurs rose out of the audience.

  Raphael stepped back from his painting. Unlike his usual portraits, this time an outsized wolf stood proud in a woodland, paw upraised. A minute antelope with the head of a leopard kneeled beneath her mighty jaw, its elephantine trunk upraised in supplication. At the tip of the trunk, a gold circle glinted in a shaft of sunlight.

  Ophelia held Raphael’s gaze, and smiled the enigmatic smile that he had lovingly stroked onto his canvas. His heart leapt as she opened her mouth.

  “My answer.” She stopped speaking and the audience rustled. “My answer is yes.”

  Epilogue

  One year later…

  Ophelia put down her brush and crossed to the chaise longue that hotel staff had carried up three flights of stairs especially for the famed painter, Lord Barden. It was obvious that his Beast moniker had followed him here to the depths of Italy, for the servants fairly scuttled out of the room, though the doe eyed undermaids did so with flickering lashes and backward glances.

  “What have you painted this time?” Raphael asked, his black curls falling forward as he gazed intently at his canvas and daubed more paint over the features of a minor count who had engaged his services.

  Ophelia stretched and smiled as Raphael’s eyes slid away from his canvas toward her. His eyes flicked back to his canvas, but sprang back to hers as if unable to look away.

  “Do you really want to know?” she purred, rolling onto her side and wrapping her deep blue silk gown around her legs.

  Raphael coughed and dropped his brush. “I always want to know. Dammit, whatever I’m doing I’m always wondering what you are doing.”

  Ophelia laughed in delight. Twelve months of wedded matrimony had passed in a whirlwind of balls, travel and work engagements.

  Never once had she experienced a moment of boredom.

  Never once had she wished she was back at Weatherop Wold with the roses.

  Never once had she regretted her campaign, nor her subsequent marriage.

  Raphael strode across the room with the grace of the leopard, keeping her waiting as he crossed first to her canvas. He took a long, serious look at the painting and released his breath with a gruff “Hah!”

  Ophelia sat up. “Do you think Bertie will accept it?”

  “For your series, Paintings of the Unexpected? Definitely. But I think I’d rather keep it for myself. What are you going to call it?”

  “As Time Goes By.”

  Raphael picked up her brush and added a small orange dot to the canvas before dropping the brush back onto the easel. His hands brushed against the gold paint on the palette as he turned abruptly and then he prowled toward Ophelia.

  Briefly, she considered telling him about the paint, but her thoughts clouded as her perceptive eyes joined his angel-demon gaze. She lay back, her dress falling away from her body.

  Raphael’s eyes darkened further. In one fluid movement, he put his knee on the chaise longue and straddled its low base. Leaning forward, he plucked at the silk of her dress before running his gold slickened hand inside and up against her body.

  Ophelia shivered. Just as she had imagined.

  “Mine,” Raphael growled in her ear as his curls tickled her nose and his hands marked her body with gold before finally, truly marking his possession. “As I am yours.”

  Ophelia gasped. Each time was unexpected. Each time was new. “Yes. Forever.”

  On Ophelia’s canvas, the paints dried, fixing into eternity the image of a young man and a woman who looked at each other. As the candles of the room flickered briefly higher, the image seemed to move slightly, years and lines appearing on the couple’s faces.

  But still they smiled with delight at the everyday new.

  After all, it’s always the little things that matter.

  ###

  The Marriage Maker is born…

  Worth of a Lady

  The Marriage Maker

  Book One

  Tarah Scott & Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Scarsdale Voices

  No one guessed that an innocent would bring the Devil of Delny to his knees…

  Spinster Chastity Hamilton is the Duke of Roxburgh’s heir. Her father insists she marry. She insists that the man who wins her hand must first find matches for her three younger sisters. Sir Stirling James takes up the challenge, and the sisters are shocked when he announces the engagement of their youngest sister to the Devil of Delny.

  When Quin Ramsey’s surrogate brother Sir Stirling James informs him he is to wed the fourth daughter of a lesser duke, he refuses. But when he waltzes with the lovely innocent, he realizes that he wants no other man to waltz with her

  Gledstone Hall

  Inverness, Scotland 1811

  Chapter One

  Chastity resisted the urge to fling her morning tea at her father as he paced the floor at the head of the breakfast table. Her three sisters—Jessica especially, who seldom sat more than five minutes without causing some small havoc—managed to keep neutral expressions when he bemoaned his advanced age.

  Chastity bit back a laugh when Jessica silently mouthed his words as he said, "I have no male heir; therefore, it is your responsibility to marry and give me an heir to carry on my title." Three years ago, Chastity would have interrupted the speech. Now, however, she waited as he added, "I am old. Don't I deserve to go to my grave knowing the title doesn't end with me?”

  “Papa, please,” Lucy, the youngest, interjected as she always did, “we cannot bear to hear you talk as if you will die tomorrow.”

  “For all we know, I may,” the duke replied with his usual dramatic flair. He turned his stare onto Chastity. “You will marry.”

  In the past, Chastity had answered with a dozen different arguments. 'I am young and carry your title. I have plenty of time to find a suitable husband.' Or, 'Would you doom me to a life shackled to a fortune hunter?' Today, she said, “What will become of my sisters if my husband doesn't care for them as we do?”

  Lucy smiled affectionately at him. “You cannot blame Chastity for wanting to find a man as kind as you.”

  Lucy, only seventeen, was by far the wisest, for she understood the power of flattery on a man. This time, however, even her shrewd maneuverings failed to move their sire.

  He stared down at Chastity, eyes bright with an intelligence untouched by his fifty-five years. "Ye have put me off for five years, Daughter. No more. You will marry within two months."

  "Two months?" Olivia blurted. "It cannot be done."

  He ignored Olivia. “You are twenty-four years old, Chastity, and well on the shelf."

  This argument was familiar, but she couldn't halt the retort. "Even were I grayed with a grizzled chin, I would still have suitors. Few men care about age or beauty when a title is included. I will always have my pick of marriageable men."

  His eyes blazed. "Then pick one—or I will."

  He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a document, and tossed it onto the table. It slid a few inches, then halted against a plate of eggs. Chastity caught sight of the header Robert Campbell Esquire, her father’s solicitor—and the words ‘Marriage License’ below his name.

  She snapped her gaze onto the duke. "You wouldn't dare."

  Olivia picked up the document and unfolded it. Her eye caught on the word ‘Bride’ and— She looked up. “Oh dear, that is your name.”

  Olivia turned the document toward her. Chastity’s gaze shifted to Olivia’s place-keeping fingertip where her name was written. Olivia scanned ahead to the groom’s name. Blank. Maybe their father wasn�
��t serious, after all, but only meant to frighten Chastity.

  She looked up. “At least the groom’s name isn’t recorded.”

  Chastity shot to her feet, heedless of the napkin that dropped from her lap. "You would marry me to some stranger?"

  The duke shrugged. "Not a stranger. Lord Hathaway comes to mind. As you well know, he expressed an interest in marrying you this last year."

  “Eww.” Jessica shuddered. “He’s old.”

  Chastity curled her fingers into fists. "Not to mention despicable."

  “He is a very decent man, and he would take good care of ye."

  "No doubt,” she muttered. “He is twenty-five years my senior, and would enjoy a young wife in his bed.”

  "A man expects to enjoy his wife’s charms."

  She started to reply, but he cut her off. "Marry, or I will sign these papers."

  He didn't mean it. He couldn't. But the glint in his eyes revealed a determination she'd never before seen.

  "Would you really see me wed Lord Hathaway?"

  "He is a good man. I have no qualms with him."

  Chastity leaned on the table for support. "And it matters not that I do not want him?"

  "You do not want anyone," he said with an effort at calm.

  “How could I want any of the men you have paraded before me these past years? They are greedy, stupid, weak-kneed idiots. That is the sort of man you want to sire your grandchildren?”

  Jessica shoved aside a lock of red hair that had escaped her chignon. “There was Lord Everson. He was not weak or stupid.”

  “Jessica.” Olivia cast a quick look at their father, but his expression revealed nothing of his memory of the fortune hunter who had tried to elope with Chastity four years ago.

  "I would rather see the title die than marry—” Chastity broke off at the thunderous look in her father’s eyes.

  “Rather than marry…” he repeated in a quiet voice.

  She swallowed against a dry throat. “I will not marry Hathaway."

  "If you haven't married another within two months, you will.”

  “Two months?” Chastity blurted. Her head whirled.

  Even Lucy blanched at the decree. “What of Lord Blakely?” she quickly asked. “He is preferable to a relic—er, gentleman—such as Lord Hathaway. He is only three years older than you.”

  Chastity snorted. “He is an arrogant fop. His mother governs him.” The thought of his long white fingers touching her intimately soured her stomach.

  Lucy exchanged a knowing glance with Olivia, then said, “Truly, papa, two months is unreasonable. Four months, at least. We cannot have even a decent wedding gown sewn in so short a time.”

  "What of my sisters?" Chastity demanded. "Who will care for them when I am gone?"

  “It isn’t Chastity’s fault that she spent the last eight years being our mother,” Jessica said.

  Chastity started at the wistful note in Jessica’s voice. Did she still miss their mother so desperately?

  Lucy patted Jessica’s hand. “Of course, it isn’t her fault, but perhaps we have stood in Chastity’s way of finding happiness.”

  Chastity blinked. “What?”

  “You have selflessly cared for us these eight years.” Lucy smiled gently. “You deserve a family of your own.”

  “You are my family,” Chastity insisted.

  "It is your duty to marry,” the duke said. “Your sisters will follow suit.” He waved a hand. “You only set an example for them in avoiding marriage."

  The younger sisters cried out in protest.

  "You know nothing of your daughters,” Chastity said coldly. “They are women of sense who will not marry out of obligation."

  He nodded slowly. "Another notion you put into their heads."

  Chastity pursed her lips. "I suppose you will marry them to some old reprobate if they don't follow your dictates."

  “Chastity,” Olivia and Lucy said in unison.

  "Your three sisters will have no trouble finding husbands,” he continued. “Olivia had two offers, but you said the men weren’t up to snuff, so she rejected them. It is because of you that she has no family."

  The younger sisters gasped.

  Chastity scooped up her teacup and hurled it at her father. Tea spewed across Olivia’s pale blue morning dress. He barely jerked aside as the cup whizzed a hair’s breadth past his nose then crashed into the marble hearth behind him.

  He shifted his gaze onto the shattered china, stared for two heartbeats, then slowly turned cold eyes onto his daughter. “I tolerated your mother’s temper. I will not tolerate yours.”

  A chill raced across her arms at the deadly quiet in his voice. Her heart pounded. “I will not marry Hathaway,” she whispered.

  “Then marry another.”

  He was serious. Her head swam. She couldn’t bear life with the moon-faced Lord Hathaway. If she didn’t find someone else— She felt sick.

  Lucy jumped to her feet and hurried around the table to her. “Look, Papa, you have upset her. Come.” She eased Chastity back onto her chair. “You must not worry about us,” Lucy said. “We are old enough to care for ourselves. We are all going to enjoy a season—this is to be my first, remember? Who knows, we might find husbands of our own. We wouldn’t want to leave you all alone. You may search for a nice gentleman when you chaperone us this season.”

  Chastity looked at her. “What did you say?”

  “I said, you will probably find a very nice gentleman this year at some ball we attend.”

  Not bloody likely, she thought. Despite Lucy’s youth, she was too wise to fall for the first handsome man who whispered pretty nothings in her ear. Jessica had no intention of marrying—ever. Olivia— Shame stabbed. Was her father right, had she doomed Olivia’s last two offers? Bah! The men were not worthy of her sister, nor had they understood her bluestocking ways. The fact no other gentleman had offered for her only demonstrated the male sex’s insecurities. Olivia found more pleasure in her books than she would in a man. She would be miserable with anyone who insisted she give them up.

  Chastity looked at the duke. "What if I agree to marry?"

  A hard glint appeared in his eyes. “Refuse and I marry you to the first man who proves he can use a sword.”

  Her fingers itched to snatch up the saucer and hurl it. “Use his sword, you mean.”

  “As you will,” he muttered.

  She forced calm and said, “I have a proposition.”

  Chapter Two

  Quinn Ramsey, the infamous Devil of Delny, leaned back in his library’s padded chair and saluted his surrogate brother with a lift of his sherry glass. He drank the contents in one gulp, then set the glass on the table between them. “I will marry once I am old enough to know the difference between lust and love.”

  “Christ, Quinn, didn’t I teach you the difference?” Stirling propped his booted foot on the chaise lounge and rested his elbow on his knee. “It has been almost a year. How long do ye plan to ignore your father’s dying wish?”

  Quinn nodded toward the windows overlooking the hills beyond his estate. “Have you ever noticed how the gloaming loses color as the hours tick into night?”

  “Darkness tends to do that to the sky, lad.”

  Quinn returned his gaze to Stirling. “I will not have the light and color leeched out of my life by some conniving, title-seeking chit—and her mamma.”

  Stirling picked up his glass of sherry from the table to his left. “I was present when your father died, remember? I am not a man to give my promise lightly.”

  Quinn blew out an exasperated breath. “You and that damned promise. How many times must I hear about it?”

  “Until you keep your promise.”

  The young man grimaced. “You mean, until I shackle myself to some milk-faced female who will bear me milk-faced children, a milk-faced heir in particular. Then she will delight me further by nightly sitting in front of the hearth, dutifully awaiting my return home. Thank you, but no.”
<
br />   Stirling sipped his sherry. “Your word means nothing, then?”

  It did, damn him for knowing that. “I never promised when I would marry.”

  “The when is now, my young friend. I have just the woman for you.”

  “God help me, I can imagine the sort of harridan you would choose for me.”

  Amusement twitched the corner of Stirling’s mouth. “Indeed?”

  “A fearsome female to reform the Devil of Delny.”

  “Every man who marries must reform in some way,” Stirling said with a straight face.

  Quinn gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Spoken like a man with no plans to wed, you lucky lout. It is only fair that I don’t have to marry until you do.”

  Stirling sipped more sherry. “When I marry, you will marry, eh?”

  He shrugged carelessly. “Why not? If you shun marriage, I should enjoy the same privilege.”

  “What if I were to marry, say, five weeks from now?”

  Quinn snorted. “You? I am more likely to marry before you. I haven’t forgotten all the times you deftly avoided marriage—and warned me to steer clear of matchmaking mammas.”

  “I stand by my assessment,” Stirling said.

  Quinn’s housekeeper entered with a tray of light refreshments, including oatcakes, a selection of cheeses, and sliced fruit. She set the tray on the table between them.

  “Still trying to fatten me up with some of your apple-walnut scones, Mrs. McPhee?” Stirling teased.

  “If you say so, sir,” she replied crisply. “I can’t help it if they’re a favorite of yours.” She straightened and faced Quinn. “Will ye need anything further, my lord?”

  “Nae. Thank you, Mrs. McPhee.”

  When she left, Stirling selected a scone, took a bite, then said, “I concede your point. Most mammas do not represent their daughters with honesty. Still, being a titled lord carries responsibility.”

  Quinn frowned. “I would trade places with you in a moment. You are a lucky devil to wed as you please.”