Page 53 of The Beast of Beswick
“I’m not sure, Your Grace, but it was delivered to the kitchens a few minutes ago, addressed to Lady Astrid.”
She took the folded piece of foolscap with shaking hands and opened it. Her knees gave out at the sight of the urgently scrawled handwriting, and she collapsed onto the armchair in the sitting area. It was from Isobel, and it was exactly as she had suspected.
My dearest Astrid,
I hope this note finds you well. I’ve just heard from Agatha by way of Fletcher that you arrived in Town only today, and she has promised to see this to you.
First of all, I am well, so do not worry yourself. Please understand that I had to do this, for both our sakes. You should not have to marry under duress, not Beswick, not anyone. I only want for your happiness, Astrid. And mine, too, of course, but never at the expense of yours. You’ve always taken care of me, and it’s myturn now.
In other news, Uncle Reginald is very cross with us but says that I can make it right by securing an expedient match. He says that we are here for the Season so that I may be courted properly and have my choice of suitors. The Earl of Beaumont is also in London, and he remains Uncle’s top candidate for marriage. I have overheard that he means to seek the Prince Regent’s favor to overturn Father’s terms of approval.
Please do not worry about me. If you need to reach me, send word to Agatha. I will be at the Featheringstoke ball a week hence. It is a masquerade. Perhaps I will see you there.
I remain yours, faithfully. Your loving sister, Isobel.
Her sister sounded…normal. Astrid hadn’t expected that, but then again, recent events had been more surprising than not. And Isobel had come to London of her own free will. Perhaps Beswick was correct. Her sister had come from the same willful stock she had. Despite her youth, she was strong and resilient. And she was loyal to a fault.
Astrid’s heart raced as she reread the note. The Featheringstoke ball. It would be a chance to see Isobel for herself, and since it was a masquerade, she would be disguised. She would plan to be in attendance if it killed her. If only to see for herself that her sister was well.
She placed the letter down and followed the maid into the bathing chamber that connected both suites. It seemed somehow far too intimate that she and Beswick would now share such a space. A tub half full of heated water awaited her. It was more than enough for her needs, but she suspected it had been designed with the much larger duke in mind. Astrid couldn’t help the rush of heat along her veins at the scandalous thought that they would both be nude, though at different times, in this very bathing tub.
Undressing quickly, she peeled the dusty riding habit from her body with Alice’s help and then stepped into the deliciously hot water. With a happy sigh, she lathered with the lemon-scented soap that Alice held toward her in a small jar and washed her hair.
The door at the far end of the chamber cracked open, and Astrid squeaked as the master of the house—and her new husband—leaned against the doorjamb. Alice scurried from the room when he gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
He didn’t come any closer, and though the water was opaque with soap suds, his golden stare caressed Astrid from head to toe…even the parts he couldn’t possibly see—causing her to erupt in tingles everywhere. Mortified at her instant reaction to him, she crossed her arms over her tightening breasts.
His broad frame dwarfed the space. He was still dressed in his clothing from earlier, though his cravat looked like it was about to give up the ghost, hanging on to within an inch of its life. His golden-brown hair was endearingly rumpled, curling into one eye and giving him a rakish look. Astrid had to look to pinpoint his facial scars, when all she could see were those brilliant jeweled eyes of his and that firm, sculpted mouth.
“This is my favorite room in this house,” he said softly. He crossed his ankles, one booted foot over the other, and Astrid couldn’t help but notice how snugly his black breeches encased his lean, muscled thighs. Or how the white lawn shirt beneath his open waistcoat hugged the sleek abdominal muscles beneath it.
“It’s lovely,” she managed, entirely too conscious of her own nudity and his disturbing nearness. Not that she expected him to pounce upon her, but she felt defenseless. Astrid cleared her tight throat. “I’m not late, am I?”
“No.”
“Oh,” she replied.
He cleared his throat, a deep flush suffusing his skin. “I know you might wish to wait to…consummate the vows, but given the circumstances, sooner might be in our best interest.”
Her lungs seized. Good Lord, he was talking about their wedding night. While she wasnaked. In a tub. The sensible part of her knew it had to be done, even for a marriage that would be in name only, but other parts of her quivered and quailed. Astrid reached for detached poise and failed miserably. “Quite so. I agree, Your Grace.”
His eyes held hers. “Thane.”
“Thane,” she repeated, her hand sloshing the water.
He didn’t respond, his burning eyes focused on a point below her chin. The sapphire ring on her finger, she presumed, but her assumption was corrected with one glance down. A peach-tipped nipple peeked from the suds floating on the water’s surface. Mortified, she shifted her hand to cover herself.
“Don’t,” her husband said thickly, moving so fast that when he knelt at the edge of the tub, she bit back a hushed gasp. He stared in fascination, his lips flattened, a muscle flexing in that lean jaw. His index finger rose to circle the bud, causing the wet skin to tighten more. “You’re beautiful.”
Astrid sucked in a ragged breath, but the duke seemed utterly mesmerized. Without a word, he rolled the pebbled peak between two fingers, and she couldn’t hold back her moan as lightning shot from her breasts to her thighs. Unconsciously, she arched her back like a cat, pushing her body into his caress. Wanting more. Wantingall.
“Thane, I ache,” she whispered.
His cheek flexed as he froze, his frame rigid, and then scooped her up into his arms, soaking wet. Astrid didn’t even have the decency to blush as he took her to his adjoining chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He placed her in the middle of his large bed, uncaring of his now drenched sheets, and snuffed out the single candle in the room before she heard the telltale rustle of clothing.
In the moment, she wasn’t afraid. She wanted this. She felt restless, her nerves on edge, warmth pooling through her limbs like honey, that ache inside her demanding to be soothed. After a beat, the mattress dipped under his weight, and as his long body hovered over hers, Astrid almost laughed. If there was a time for her brain to put “naked” and “duke” together, this was it.
Although he wasn’t completely naked. He still wore his shirtsleeves. Astrid could feel the fabric grazing her overly sensitive breasts, and compassion surged through her as she recalled the scars she’d glimpsed for a half second when he’d been in his tub at Beswick Park. But then a pair of lean, hair-roughened, bare thighs slid against hers, and her brain went deliciously blank. He was obviously nakeddown there. And thick and hard and ready.
