Page 50 of The Beast of Beswick
Thane hadn’t seen her before leaving for London. He’d left that task to Culbert. The truth was that he couldn’t face her, not after she’d fled his presence. Not after he’d begged for her favors like a schoolboy begging for sweets. God, he was pitiable. Not even his own future wife could stand to be in the same space as him.
He toyed with the idea of visiting his club. The idea of drowning himself in a bottle of port while fleecing other men of their fortunes at the gaming tables had merit. It was better than sitting here, waxing philosophic over a piece of foolscap.
“Summon Fletcher,” he called out to a nearby footman. “Tell him to ready a bath. I’m going out.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The master bathing chamber at Harte House had also been updated to match the ones installed at Beswick Park, with bathtubs large enough to fully accommodate his size and his needs. When the bath had been readied and Thane lay submerged in water as hot as he could manage, he felt some of the tension slowly start to melt away.
“You may go,” he told Fletcher. “I’ll be a while.”
“Your outing, Your Grace?”
“I’ll decide when I’ve finished.”
“Very well.” Fletcher nodded, his normally pleasant face austere. Thane felt a spurt of annoyance. He knew his longtime valet and friend had something to say, and normally he was more than liberal with his advice.
“What would you do in my place?” he heard himself ask.
Fletcher paused at the door. “Marry the lady. Make a life. Be happy.”
“The lady in question doesn’t want me. At least, not in that way.”
“She doesn’t know you, Your Grace.”
Thane rubbed his temples. “You know what I’ve been through. I’m not built for a life like that. With love, and laughter, and sodding rainbows. Look at me.” Thane gestured to the puckered flesh of his left side and the ugly terrain of scars on his legs visible beneath the water. “I’m a fucking monster. Who deserves to lie with this?”
“So what?” the valet said, biting off the words as if they came from somewhere dreadful. “You have more than a few scars. We all have scars, Your Grace. My father killed my mother in front of his four children because another man looked at her. She did nothing to deserve his abuse but took it for years.”
Stupefied, Thane stared at him as Fletcher broke off, chest heaving and fists clenched. “I didn’t know.”
“Why would you?” Fletcher shrugged. “I let hate poison me so much that I walked away from any chance at happiness. And you know what, Your Grace? Pride is a lonely bedfellow.” He smiled sadly. “Just because I’m not marked on the outside doesn’t mean I’m not hurt. That I’m not wounded. But you need to decide whether you let your scars rule you. And if they do, if that is all you think you are, then forgive me for saying that Lady Astrid deserves more.”
“She deserves more anyway,” he whispered, but Fletcher had already left, shutting the door behind him.
Thane sighed, submerging his knotted shoulders. Perhaps he could just stay here instead. Interminably. He let his body slide down the porcelain surface of the tub, sinking his head beneath the water, until his heartbeat roared dimly in his ears.
Behind his closed lids, visions of Astrid appeared—ones of her curled on the bench in his conservatory, all peach-colored skin and fierce-witted intelligence, and others of her spread out on his bed in tantalizing glory, all sin and desire and naked torment. Unable to help himself, he focused on the latter. Her full lips were pink, those ice-blue eyes of hers warm pools of want. Handfuls of glossy hair spilled over her shoulders, hiding her ample curves from view and playing peekaboo with rosy nipples.
His already hard cock twitched. Never one to deny himself, he reached down to grasp himself in one fist, stroking upward almost roughly. He repeated the movement several times more as his breath shortened and his ballocks tightened. Head flung back, he gave himself up to the release streaking through him until he was spent. It felt less satisfying than usual.Loneliness. He knew why, of course. His body cravedher.
Hell, he was as fucked as Fletcher.
Reaching for a length of toweling, he stood and dried himself. He would go out. He would fill his mind with other things. Anything but the woman he could not have.
Shrugging into his robe, he stalked into the adjoining chamber. “Fletcher, send for my carriage—”
His words broke off. The lady of his fantasies stood there in the flesh at the entrance to his bedchamber, mere steps away from his bed. She looked beautiful and flushed as her eyes swept his half-dressed form. Though not with mutual desire…with fear and with worry. Thane blinked, sanity returning.
“Astrid, what is it? Why have you come?”
“Thane, it’s Isobel,” she rasped, her hands going to her face. “She’s with my aunt and uncle here in London.”
“She’s here?” Conscious of his nudity, he fastened his robe before going to her and gathering her into a loose embrace. “Start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.”
In a few short sentences, she told him about the note and the fact that Isobel had gone willingly. “She said they were happy to let her decide for herself. They’ve promised her gowns and trinkets, more than enough to turn a girl’s head. My uncle is up to something, I know it.”
“Fear of the debtor’s prison drives men to many things,” he said. “And trust your sister. From what I’ve seen, she’s very much like you.”
