Page 75 of The Beast of Beswick
Notwithstanding the gossip, the physical side of things was pleasant—more than pleasant—but Astrid couldn’t help feeling that Thane still kept a large part of himself locked away. He kept people at arm’s length on purpose, never letting anyone in. Her glance slid to the duchess. Well, except Mabel, it seemed. Thane had built himself a dungeon that didn’t have room for anyone else.
Astrid decided to confide in Mabel. “He thinks I’ll leave him.”
The duchess nodded. “Not surprising. That boy has been through hell. So many have left, others he’s pushed away.”
“But not you?”
Mabel smiled. “Oh, he tried. He can be excessively cruel, but it comes from a place of hurt. He wears the scars we see, but it’s the invisible ones that cause the most damage.” She drew a breath, her expression somber. “Deep down, he doesn’t feel he deserves happiness. So he pushes everyone away. He’s twisted himself so much that he can’t recognize when something good is right in front of him.”
Astrid remained silent, though she’d suspected the same…that the duke would never allow himself to get close to anyone. Not even her.
“I’ve had many loves and lovers in my lifetime,” Mabel went on. “And I see you two together. You fight, you flirt, you—” She broke off with a soft puff of laughter. “Well, we both know what else you’re doing. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Astrid’s breath left her in an erratic burst, a thousand denials rising to her lips. What she felt was complicated, and she didn’t think it was love. “I…I care for him, I do. But I can’t afford to lose my heart, not when there’s a chance he won’t risk his.”
“He will, given the opportunity.” Her voice went whisper soft. “I think Thane is in deep, otherwise he wouldn’t be fighting you so hard. He’s lost, and he needs you more than he knows. Don’t give up on him, Astrid. Please.”
Her throat was clogged. “You can’t force someone to care, no matter how much you wish them to.”
“Try for my sake.” The duchess smiled brightly, as if she hadn’t just begged Astrid to do the impossible, as if she hadn’t just laid her own soul bare. “Why don’t we find ourselves some refreshment?”
Mabel rose, tucking Astrid’s hand in her arm, and went to exit the box. Once the curtains parted, however, they were instantly bombarded by curious acquaintances who, no doubt, wanted to see Beswick’s new duchess for themselves. Astrid balked. Oh God, she couldn’t do this, not now…but there was no escape.
“Courage, dear,” Mabel whispered, giving her hand a squeeze. “Show no fear or they’ll sense it like the sharks they are.”
Astrid fortified herself, taking her cue from Mabel and smiling like her life depended on it. For better or for worse, she was the Duchess of Beswick.
“Your Grace, you sneaky minx, why don’t you introduce us to your beautiful companion?” one tall gentleman drawled.
“Goodness, Lady Verne, where have you been hiding?” another voice asked, a woman whom Astrid did not recognize.
A handsome older man reached for Astrid’s knuckles, bowing over them. “Who, pray tell, Duchess, is this charming creature?”
The rest of them stared unabashedly at her.
“Someone fetch me a glass of Madeira before I expire,” Mabel said with a quick slash of her fan. “And then I will humor you lot with introductions.”
Once the Madeira was procured—one for Astrid as well—Mabel tugged her forward to their small but rapt audience. Astrid felt a queasiness low in her stomach. No one would know who she was unless they remembered the scandal from a decade ago, and now she was married to a notorious recluse.
“Allow me to present, informally of course, the new Duchess of Beswick, Lady Astrid Harte.”
The gasps were intermingled with congratulatory wishes amid remarks about her beauty and rumors over the duke’s savaged appearance, and then the questions began in earnest. Astrid shrank back, but not before she saw one woman whisper to another and then another. The word “beast” filtered through, making Astrid bristle. In a few minutes, everyone at the theater would know that the wife of the Beast of Beswick was in attendance. Thanks to the newssheets, the unfortunate moniker had reached London as well.
The noise rose, a man’s voice announcing the start of the third act of the play, but Astrid stood rooted to the spot, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes upon her. She held her chin high, staring down anyone who dared meet her eyes. She was a duchess, wife to a peer of the realm. Let them stare.
“Tell us, my lady,” a man’s voice drawled, “was it a marriage of convenience?”
The voice was nauseatingly familiar. Beaumont appeared with Isobel on his arm. Astrid held her calm, though she wanted to claw him away from her sister with her bare hands.
“The proper address for someone of my rank, Lord Beaumont, isYour Grace,” she corrected coolly. “And aren’t most marriages of thetonones of convenience or, more importantly, alliance?”
The emphasis on “alliance” was not lost. Not on the earl or on her aunt and uncle who rode his coattails. Beaumont’s face darkened, but his lips curled with disdain. “It would take a lot more than that for most women to marry the Beast of Beswick.”
Astrid laughed, knowing she was under the scrutiny of many, though she took comfort from Mabel standing at her side. “You are correct, Lord Beaumont. Those things are called honor and respect, two principles you will never possess. Good day, sir.” She sent a soft smile to her sister. “Isobel, don’t you look lovely. Enjoy the rest of the performance.”
Astrid forced herself to walk away, despite Isobel. Her battle was with Beaumont, not with her sister. And she needed to prove to Isobel that she wasn’t the overbearing, jealous older sister her aunt and uncle were painting her as. It was, by far, the hardest thing she’d ever done—abandoning her sister to the wolves.
“Bravissimo,”Mabel murmured, eyes flashing with pride when they returned to the privacy of their box.
