Page 58 of The Beast of Beswick
When Astrid had inquired how she had known her sizing for the premade gown she’d worn, Madame Pinot—or Silvie as she’d insisted she be called—had given a sly smile and said that the duke had provided the measurements. Astrid hadn’t been able to hide her blush.
The modiste promised to have one of her premade creations altered and sent to Harte House for the Featheringstoke ball. It’d been made for another lady who had had to go into unexpected mourning and would not be needing the gown.
It was fate, she had declared. Astrid had hesitated at the near-transparent silvery white confection, but Silvie had been adamant that Astrid was meant to be Titania, queen of the fairies. It was ludicrous. The gown even came with a pair of gossamer wings and a mask that covered half her face. The good thing was that she would be unrecognizable.
“I count on your discretion, Silvie,” she’d murmured before leaving.
The modiste had laughed. “In my profession, Your Grace, discretion is as important as currency. Your secrets are safe with me.”
…
Thane passed yet another sleepless night while his bride of a week slept like a baby on the other side of the wainscoted wall between their chambers. At least, she never made any noises that he could hear, not even when he pressed his ear to the connecting door like an obsessed fool. And hewasobsessed. He grilled Fletcher incessantly as to her daily activities, desperate to know every detail.
“Why don’t you do us all a favor and talk to your wife?” the valet had sniped the day before, and Thane had nearly put him through the wall.
“Because I’m asking you,” he’d snarled.
Fletcher had obliged under threat of losing his position, informing him of her walks in the garden, her time exploring Harte House’s library, her meeting with the head of Christie’s for the auction, the letter she had received from her sister, her acceptance of the invitation to the Featheringstoke ball, her successful visit to the modiste, her suppers with his aunt, and the time she cleaned her teeth and retired for bed.
Thane had almost lost his temper at Fletcher’s sarcasm, but he was more worried about his headstrong, willful wife. He didn’t want her going to anytonevents without protection, but he wasn’t very well going to accompany her. He hadn’t attended a ball since he’d left for war. Already at the thought of formal togs, he could feel the garrote of a heavy cravat against his throat and the stifling heat of a ballroom crammed with hundreds of sweaty bodies.
No, thank you.
Aunt Mabel would no doubt be ensconced at Astrid’s side, protective battle-ax that she was. It wouldn’t take society long to put two and two together and guess Astrid’s identity. Perhaps Sir Thornton would be amenable to lending a hand. He’d married the daughter of an earl, Lady Claudia, and they were both well received by thetonduring the season. The solicitor could keep an extra eye on his stubborn duchess.
Following his morning ablutions, Thane strode from his bedchamber only to discover from Culbert that Astrid had already had her breakfast and had gone for her usual morning constitutional in the gardens.
“The duchess,” Culbert informed him, “rose at an ungodly hour, and Lady Verne is still abed.”
No wonder Thane hadn’t heard anything on the other side of the wall. It was a marginal comfort to know that she, too, had been unable to sleep. He deliberated between finding her and going to his study to work. While he did not take his seat in Parliament for obvious reasons, he still liked to know what was going on. Sir Thornton’s reports on those matters were painstakingly detailed.
Considering he actually hadn’t seen his wife since the morning before—like two ships sailing past in the dark—a part of him was desperate to take his own measure of her after Fletcher’s mutinous account. And this was his house, after all. His gardens, too.
It didn’t take him long to find her. Astrid sat on a bench, an apple core in one hand and a book in the other. Thane found that he missed their after-dinner brandies in the conservatory at Beswick Park and their rousing discussions of life and literature.
Well then, he’d seen her. He should turn around and leave.
“What are you reading?” he asked instead.
Ice-blue eyes peeled from the page, the brief uncertainty in them replaced by aloofness. Without responding, she hefted the book for him to read the title. Ironically, it wasFrankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. He’d bought the thing when it’d first been published anonymously a year ago. Percy Bysshe Shelley, a poet and distant acquaintance, had penned the foreword, but Thane had heard rumors that the man’s wife, Mary, was the true mind behind the gruesome story.
He lifted a shoulder in a cynical shrug. “Felt like comparing notes?”
“Do you need something, Your Grace?” she returned coolly.
“He dies,” Thane said. “At the end, the monster dies after he kills everyone.”
“Thank you, I’ve read it.” She shot him a stony look. “Though if I hadn’t, you would have spoiled the ending for me.”
“The author was right; he didn’t deserve to live.”
He didn’t know why he was provoking her, only that he needed to. He wanted to drag some reaction from her, something other than that rigid composure that turned her into an ice sculpture.
“Why? Because he was different?”
“He was an abomination.”
“Who wanted love. He wanted a mate.” Her voice trembled on the last word, and she ducked her head back to her pages. “Isn’t that what we are all searching for? A partner in life? Companionship?”
