Page 15 of The Beast of Beswick
He tipped his head back just enough for those blazing amber eyes to capture hers. Astrid almost shrank back from the burn of his glare. He was furious. “It’s my house,” he said, that smoky voice doing unnatural things to her senses. “I’ll say what I damn well please.”
“Not in the presence of gently bred ladies you won’t.” She reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed in a reassuring manner. “My lord duke, may I present my younger sister, Lady Isobel Everleigh.”
Isobel dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
Astrid could tell he wanted to shout and swear more foully from the look on his face—possibly at her and it was likely deserved—but he gritted his teeth and bowed, keeping his face hidden in the shadow of his hat. “A pleasure.”
“Mr. Culbert,” Astrid said gently, turning to the butler whose jowls had gone ruddy. “Will you kindly escort my sister to her rooms while I have a word with His Grace?”
“Astrid?” Isobel whispered, looking scared. “Will he cast us out?”
“It will be well, Izzy. I promise.”
Fletcher moved to follow Culbert and Isobel but was cut short with one word from the duke. Frankly, Astrid was happy. She did not want to face the man on her own. Not after she’d invaded his domain without so much as a by-your-leave.Again.
She drew a breath. “Have you reconsidered my offer, Your Grace?”
“No.” He glared at her, tearing his hat off and stalking to the mantelpiece. Strangely, the swift sight of his ruined face did not distress her. “My answer is the same.”
Astrid had fled to Beswick Park after Beaumont’s visit with the intention of changing the duke’s mind, only to learn that he was in London, and then she’d decided to beseech Fletcher for a job or at least somewhere for her and Isobel to stay for a day or two. He had taken pity on them. However, from the look on the duke’s face, his master would not be so easy to convince.
She had to try. “How many housekeepers will you scare away before you come to your senses? I’ve heard you dismissed another one.”
“She was incompetent.”
Astrid lifted an eyebrow. “And the previous three?”
“I don’t need a housekeeper,” he snarled, lifting a green and white Ming bowl from its stand and throwing it into the hearth, an act that madebothher and Fletcher flinch.
“I can see that you have everything under control,” Astrid said. “Clearly a quick wedding would be in your best interests.”
A furious stare met hers. “I fail to see how I require your approval for my staffing needs, Lady Astrid, as a wife or otherwise.” The tension rose to the murals on the ceiling as the three of them stood there in silence. Then the duke turned on his heel with a sound of displeasure. “Fletcher, unless I’m paying you to stand there and flirt, I require a bath.”
“I gave the order for a bath to be readied the moment you arrived.” The cheeky valet smirked with little care for his own well-being. “And flirtation’s always free, Your Grace.”
The duke’s mouth went flat, and Astrid hurried to intervene. “Your Grace, surely you can see that this—” she began with a frown as he whirled on his heel and strode away, leaving her standing with her mouth open.
Good God, but he was rude! Where was the man going mid-conversation? What would she and Isobel do if he did not give her an answer? Where would they go?
“You may follow if you have something more to say,” he told her over his shoulder.
Head high, she walked past the nearby footmen, two of whom had wonderful singing voices, as Astrid had discovered earlier before Beswick’s arrival. She’d only meant to cheer Isobel up with some music, and then it seemed that everyone else in the dismal manse had needed some cheering as well. It was all her fault, and she would explain it to him, if only she could keep up.
“Your Grace, please do not take your anger out on the staff,” she gasped, running to match his ground-eating strides. “Or Fletcher.”
“I am not angry.”
But he was. She could feel it emanating from him like rolling thunder. He was seething with it. Astrid exchanged a look with Fletcher, who had hurried ahead and was waiting at the entrance of the duke’s private suite, and halted. “I cannot go in there.”
“It’s a sitting room, Astrid, not a bedchamber,” the duke said coldly.
The sound of her given name was a startling flick of pleasure along her senses, and she shoved the odd response away to be pulled apart later. “Regardless, it’s not proper.”
“If you wish to explain your presence here and not see you and your sister booted out on your unwelcome behinds, you will explain wherever I see fit. And right now, I want a fucking bath.”
She grimaced at the oath. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Your Grace?”
“My mother is dead,” he said, peering down, amber eyes flaring. “But if it’s kissing you desire, then we should be having another conversation.”
