Page 47 of The Beast of Beswick
Thane’s greedy hands engulfed her narrow foot, a wild current bursting between them. He expected her to jerk away, but she didn’t move, as caught up as he was in the fragile, beautiful intimacy of it. Time stood still, a soft gasp escaping her lips when he slid one slipper on, followed by the next.
He couldn’t trust himself to speak as he rose and held out a hand, his skin aching and on fire. Mute and trembling, she took it, rising to meet him. Her breasts were almost grazing his chest with every inhale. Thane wanted to touch her so badly, his body vibrated with it.
She wanted him, too. He could see it in her fluttering pulse, feel it in the shallow breaths breaking from her lungs. Her slim body swayed toward his, caught in the same magnetic pull that held him in thrall. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, kiss her until neither of them could breathe. Hold her close and tell her over and over again that she was worthy.
“Astrid,” he whispered. “May I kiss you?”
His whisper broke whatever spell had held them together.
Her eyes widened as she pulled away with a harsh sound. “Please don’t. Ican’t.”
And with that, she turned and ran from the greenhouse.
…
Astrid flew back to the house, past a stupefied Culbert and an even more astonished Lady Mabel, and slammed the door of her bedchamber shut behind her. She caught her breath in fits and starts, clutching at her quivering belly. Heat from her tingling feet speared up her limbs into her abdomen and settled low in the cradle between her legs where a warm, insistent ache throbbed. The look in Beswick’s golden eyes had made her feel unhinged, as if she would come apart at the seams if hedidn’ttouch her.
Astrid blinked, breathing deeply. During the last two weeks, what had simmered between them had gone well beyond attraction. This was all-consuming, heart-fracturing need, the force of which terrified her. One touch and she’d been ready to ignite, fall at his feet, and plead for those warm, clever fingers to continue their wicked path up her leg.
It would have been so easy to say yes.
What are you so afraid of?
She’d asked herself the question almost every night. Beswick wasn’t making her do anything. He wasn’t Beaumont, trying to force his unwelcome attentions on her. The duke had simply asked for a kiss, and the truth was, shelikedkissing him. Maybe that was it—she wasn’t afraid of Beswick. She was afraid of herself…afraid of what kissing him would mean forher. Hence, theno kissingrule she’d insisted upon.
But being afraid did not line up with her basic ideals of living life on her own terms. It made her a coward. Astrid walked over to the mirror in her chamber and stared at herself in the reflection—eyes glowing, hair askew out of her bun, cheeks aflame.
She touched her fingers to her lips, imagining Beswick’s there.
You are a strong, enlightened female…a modern woman who can choose to embrace her own desires. You want him, you daft chit, and he wants you. What would one kiss hurt?
One kiss had the power to ruin lives—she knew that well enough. But Beswick was not Beaumont.
Hauling a breath into her lungs, Astrid marched back downstairs.
“Have you seen the duke?” she asked Culbert.
“His Grace has retired for the evening, my lady,” he said. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”
“No,” she said and turned on her heel, disappointment settling in her chest and then resolve. She stopped at the staircase. “Er, where are the duke’s chambers?”
The normally unflappable Culbert stood agape before stammering the answer when she arched an imperious eyebrow. “The east tower, my lady, adjacent from yours and Lady Isobel’s. Might I escort you there?”
“No, thank you, Culbert. I’m sure I can manage.”
She hoped.
Her newfound nerve kept her spine straight and legs moving forward until she came to a pair of gilded, intricately carved double doors in what appeared to be the family wing. It was even more lavish than the guest wing, done in hues of cream and gold with pale-blue accents.
Biting her lip, she knocked on the first door and quailed as the echo of the sound reached her ears. Oh God, what in heaven’s name was she doing? The spike of courage deserted her in a whoosh. She whirled around, ready to race back the way she’d come, when the door was opened. By a woman wearing a plain dressing gown and cap.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Astrid blurted out. The lance of jealousy took her by surprise.
Who is she? Whyis she in the duke’s quarters?
“Who is it, Frances?” The muffled voice was preceded by footsteps, whereupon Lady Mabel appeared behind the woman. “Astrid, dear, what are you doing?”
Astrid’s mouth opened and closed, her hands rising to her throat. Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m…lost.”
