Page 12 of The Beast of Beswick
Reason returned with swift efficiency. “Lady Astrid, I—”
“Must get ready for a previous engagement,” Fletcher interrupted, bustling in. Both Thane and Lady Astrid turned in surprise. “You can look over the correspondence from the lady later, Your Grace.”
“Fletcher, this is highly irregular—” he began in warning, but as usual, the valet took no notice of him. One wouldn’t fathom that the man actually worked for him or that his employer was the damn duke.
“Come now, my lady,” Culbert said, following in Fletcher’s wake and taking the foolscap from her fingers with an elaborate flourish. “Leave this with His Grace.”
Lady Astrid looked bewildered at the turn of events and the meddling servants. So was Thane, but he knew exactly what Fletcher and Culbert were about. Clearly, they both thought that she was his only chance at any kind of future. But he knew better—he understood his reality. Hungering for impossible outcomes would only lead to despair. And Thane had had enough of despair to last a lifetime.
He had to end this.
“The answer is no,” he growled, halting them in their tracks at the study door. “Not now. Not ever.” He turned to Fletcher and Culbert. “Do not ever presume to know my mind, either of you. Leave my sight before you’re put out on your deuced heels.”
Both men slunk away as he swung back to the silent woman who fixed him with an appalled expression. “Since you found your way into my home uninvited, I trust you know the way out, Lady Astrid. Don’t come back.”
Hard eyes like polished aquamarine met his, holding them. She did not flinch at his aggression or burst into fits. Instead—admirably—she lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid of you, Beswick. You cannot order me about like those poor men.”
“You should be,” he snarled. “And they’remyservants.” Mostly.
Astonishingly, she smiled in the face of his wrath. “Be that as it may, you’ll find that I’m not a woman who can be intimidated by a temper tantrum better suited to a child than a duke. When you come to your senses, feel free to tender your apologies. I shall be at Everleigh House.”
“And pigs will fly with their tails forward.”
She spun on her heel, a wintry gaze spearing him over her shoulder. “I would wish you a good day, Your Grace, but I can see for myself that any kind of civilized manners are categorically wasted on you.”
And with that, she was gone.
Chapter Four
Astrid chewed on her nails, her eyes moving from her book to the window overlooking the front courtyard, not that she was expecting visitors. A small—miniscule—part of her had hoped he’d send a written apology. Beneath that surly, churlish exterior, Beswick had been born a gentleman, after all. But one day had passed, and then two, and now three. She was dreaming if she thought that man had a lick of good breeding left in him.
Which meant the next move was still on her.Blast it. Once more, she cursed her wayward tongue. But no, she had to go and speak her mind and provoke him. And then tell him off. In his own home. And now, thanks to her runaway, ungovernable mouth, she and Isobel were out of options. Unless…she went back to Beswick Park again.
Nausea wound through her belly. She could beg, if she had to. Throw herself at his mercy. She’d never bent to anyone, but for Isobel’s sake, she could. Even to a hard-hearted, rude, ill-mannered brute of a man.
“Well, what was he like?” Isobel asked for the fortieth time, no longer put off by Astrid’s vague answers. “Is he as bad as they say? Cook said that he fired another housekeeper. She says he’s so terrifying, he can’t seem to keep a full household.”
That did not surprise her. She’d seen the shards of porcelain gracing the foyer and several of the dusty corridors. She pursed her lips in thought. Perhaps she could convince Beswick thatshewould make an excellent housekeeper. It wasn’t the worst idea, even though it was contingent on him hiring her. She hadn’t exactly left the abbey on the best of terms.
Astrid sighed and faced her sister. “Cook should not be gossiping.”
“Was he hideous?” Isobel asked.
“His face is badly scarred from battle,” Astrid said, the twisted ropes of the duke’s many scars coming to mind. “But it’s not as dreadful once the initial shock has worn off.”
Her sister shuddered. “I’ve heard people in the village say that his skin looks like a stitched sack, and he’s so awful to look upon that children have night terrors. His own father had a heart attack and dropped dead when he saw his face.”
“You know better than to listen to rumors, Isobel. He’s not as bad as all that.”
Inside, Astrid’s heart clenched with pity. She’d heard the same stories. No wonder the man was so closed off and prickly. Though in truth, the duke was doing little to dissuade that opinion with his atrocious attitude. People always assumed that if someone looked like a monster, then they had to be monstrous. But as crude and abrasive as he was, Astrid did not feel endangered in his presence. Hedidmake her want to pull her hair out, but that was completely unrelated to his appearance.
Astrid stared blindly at her novel, trying to distract herself from her constant thoughts about the confounding duke. For all her intelligence and insight, she’d read the man wrong. She’d thought with him being a recluse, he would be desperate for a wife and heir. She knew how the aristocracy worked. Noble lines mattered. Primogeniture mattered. She couldn’t fathom any duke worth his salt wanting his ducal heritage to pass into oblivion.
Then again, the Beast of Beswick was no ordinary duke.
Oddly enough, as crude as he was, she’d relished matching wits with him. He was nothing like she’d expected.
Inquiring about her virtue, for heaven’s sake. She’d almost swooned from the sheer gall of it. A secretly delighted part of her had trilled, however, that he hadn’t treated her like a piece of precious china whose feminine ears were in danger of fracturing from a bit of bawdy conversation. Deep down, she’dlikedit.
