Page 49 of The Beast of Beswick
The whispered plea had crushed her soul. Because she’d wanted his kiss more than anything in the world. The sheer force of the yearning inside her had made her weak with desire. The clasp of his big, warm hands on her foot…the indescribable need to feel those fingers elsewhere. She’d wanted to give himeverything.
A man like Beswick would swallow her whole.
And she could not afford that.
“Agatha,” she said, striding into her bedchamber. “My green riding habit, please. Agatha?” Astrid looked around the spotlessly clean room, but the maid was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps she was with Isobel. It was no hardship to dress herself. Most of her special riding habits had been tailored with closures in the front, and since she planned for a bracing round astride Brutus, she would not need the regular habits designed for a lady’s sidesaddle.
The brisk ride might also take away the fullness between her thighs that had not dissipated in days. In private moments over the years, Astrid had found release on her own, but she couldn’t risk being caught. Not here. Though in one of the volumes of private letters she’d discovered in the upper echelons of Beswick’s library, a woman touching herself was not shocking at all. In fact, the author, Ninon de Lenclos, who had been a French courtesan, encouraged it.
One part of her restraint was because she was in someone else’s residence, but the other part was the duke himself. The thought of Beswick even suspecting the madness to which he drove her was so dreadful that she resisted the impulse, even knowing the relief it would bring.
Did he touch himself and think of her in the same way?
A wicked image of the Duke of Beswick lying in bed, head flung back with his hand caught over the fabric of his bulging breeches, assaulted her. She lost all feeling in her legs as breath and bones went on hiatus, making her sway and nearly stumble.
Good Lord, this was becoming ridiculous.
A ride. A ride on Brutus would solve everything. In her haste to get to the stables, she didn’t notice the uproar coming from the foyer until she was upon it. She almost crashed into Culbert arguing with Patrick, who was so white-faced that she didn’t recognize him. His naturally ruddy complexion was ashen, his red hair sticking up on end.
“What is it?” she asked, taking in the duke’s men who patrolled the estate grounds. Her stomach tilted in premonition. Was it Beswick? Had something happened in London?
“It’s Lady Isobel, my lady.” Mrs. Cross, Beswick Park’s newest housekeeper, stepped forward from the melee. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?”Astrid repeated. “Where?”
“She left a message with one of the undermaids saying that she has gone to London with her aunt and uncle. Agatha is with her.” Mrs. Cross look troubled. “Lord Everleigh sent his carriage several hours ago.”
“London? Why on earth would she—?” Astrid broke off, her hand flying to her mouth. She should have seen it coming, especially when Isobel had mentioned feeling like a burden that day in the village of Southend. Her sister might be frivolous at times, but she had a spine of steel, especially when it came to those she loved. Without a doubt, she’d gone to London to take matters into her own hands—to save Astrid from having to marry for Isobel’s sake.
“Why did no one summon me?” she demanded.
“You said you weren’t to be disturbed, my lady,” Culbert said, looking a bit shamefaced. “And Lady Isobel said she’d already discussed it with you.”
Of course she had. Astrid’s thoughts spun. What was her sister planning? As much as she pretended not to be clever or value intelligence, Isobel had quite a formidable brain in her head. And if she thought she wassavingAstrid from an unwanted marriage, nothing would stop her. At least she’d had the presence of mind to take a lady’s maid with her. Astrid trusted Agatha to keep her sister safe.
“She left you a note, my lady,” the housekeeper said, handing it to her.
Sure enough, the note was in Isobel’s neat handwriting, saying exactly what Mrs. Cross had communicated. Isobel had accompanied their aunt and uncle to London for the start of the Season and promised that she was going to fix things. She’d added that their uncle had promised new gowns and jewels and to give her a chance to choose a suitor who pleased her.
Astrid gritted her teeth. Of course he had. He’d promise anything to get his greedy hands on Isobel’s dowry. And Astrid wouldn’t discount the fact that Beaumont wasn’t still involved somehow. Her brain whirled furiously. What were her conniving relatives up to?
Or better yet, what was hersisterup to?
Culbert made a pained noise, distress written all over him. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop her, my lady. She was so convincing. Is Lady Isobel in trouble?”
“It’s not your fault, Culbert. Isobel is headstrong. It tends to run in the family,” Astrid said. “Whether she’s in trouble remains to be seen. I suspect this is yet another ploy of my uncle’s. And it’s my doing, too. I should have seen this coming.”
“Shall we send word to the duke?”
Astrid shook her head. “No, if Isobel has gone to London, I will go myself.”
…
Sitting in his study at Harte House in Mayfair, Thane stared hard at the documents in hand—a marriage license granted by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It seemed incongruous that such a small piece of parchment would hold so much power to bind two people together without the customary posting of the banns. And yet it did.
He and Astrid would be married.
