Page 14 of The Beast of Beswick
“I’m not pleased with your lack of proper respect or welcome, Astrid. Iama peer of the realm.”
“Then do everyone a favor and act like one,” she retorted. “And it’s Lady Astrid to you.”
With a scowl, Beaumont advanced into the room as if she hadn’t protested his presence at all, but no more than two steps in, he stopped, his eyes fastened on the doorway where Patrick stood with two hefty grooms.
“Lord Beaumont was just leaving,” Astrid told them.
“Your uncle will hear of this,” the earl hissed. “Mark my words.”
But he departed without more of a scene, thankfully. After the carriage left, Astrid slid down into a nearby chair. Her hands shook with delayed fear. She had no doubt that Beaumont would complain to her uncle, and that reprisal would be swift. Would he send Astrid away? Post the banns for Isobel? Oh God, what were they going to do?
“Astrid?” Isobel whispered. “Will he come back?”
Her sister’s voice pierced her fog of indecision. Without a doubt, the earl would. There was nothing to be said for it—they had to leave. Astrid composed herself, rose, and met Patrick’s eyes where he still stood in the doorway to the salon. “Saddle Brutus and Temperance and call for the carriage.” Astrid turned to Isobel and her maid, Agatha, her voice low. “Gather our things. Pack anything you can fit into our trunks.”
“Where are we going?” Isobel asked, wide-eyed.
Astrid shook her head. There were too many eyes and ears still about. “Somewhere safe.”
…
Hell and damnation. Not even the brutal hours-long ride back from London to Beswick Park had chased the bunched energy from Thane’s muscles. He had worked himself to the bone for the past three days, pushing himself further than he’d ever done, and nothing seemed to help.
He’d taken a trip to London to meet with his estate solicitor, Sir Thornton. The overnight trip had turned into a week, with him restlessly pacing the halls of his London home. He knew why he was in a froth, of course.
It was because ofher.
Thane supposed it was guilt for sending her away as callously as he had. But the truth was, he couldn’t agree to her proposition. Though he couldn’t stop thinking about it—or her. One bloody hour of conversation, and he craved more of her delicious wit like an opium addict. It was madness. By God, the chit invaded his every waking hour. Sleeping ones as well.
Before he’d gone to London, he’d ridden over to the Everleigh estate in the dark of night, trying to figure out which bedroom was hers. And then he’d imagined her in a transparent night rail lying in bed, and his renowned self-control had been shot to hell.
He’d left for Town that very night.
Thane couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so uncertain. He was a man who’d been valued for his discipline, his unerring ability to know what action needed to be done in the moment. His war unit had been effective because of that mind-set. On the battlefield, it was that certainty that had made him take on six armed Frenchmen alone. In hindsight, in view of his personal sacrifice, it might not have been the best decision, but it had spared the rest of his unit from being slaughtered.
Throwing his reins to his waiting groom in the mews at Beswick Park, his eyes fixed in the distance on a massive black horse being exercised in a paddock by a large redheaded man he didn’t recognize. When had he acquired another horse? Or a groomsman the size of a small mountain?
Culbert would know. But as he pushed open the door, no butler was there to greet him. In fact, no onewas there. He hadn’t sent notice ahead when he would be arriving, but he was the sodding duke. Certainly some of his ungrateful staff should be present to welcome him home! It was far too early for anyone to be abed. Scowling with displeasure, he went in search of his missing servants.
On his way to the staircase, he heard what sounded like music and laughter.
Femalelaughter.
His scowl went so tight, it threatened to decapitate his brow from his face. If those two impertinent louts of a butler and valet thought to entertain village wenches in his absence, they were in for a rude awakening. He would follow through on his threats and dismiss them immediately.
Following the voices, what he saw when he turned the corner into what used to be the ballroom and was now a room of no special purpose made him freeze. It was a veritable crowd. And not villagers. Most of his absent servants, in fact.
The notes of a jubilant country song filled his ears, the lilting voice accompanied by a tune on the pianoforte. Thane blinked in disbelief. His traitorous butler and valet were dancing a reel! Along with his surly French chef who hated everyone, most of the footmen and the maids, and two well-dressed ladies…one easily identifiable and the other unbeknownst to him.
Thane ignored the leap of his pulse and the violent need to dismiss everyone from sight. Everyone excepther.
“Will someone please instruct me on what the fuck is going on?”
…
Astrid had never seen people scatter so quickly, servants scurrying to their positions at the return of the master of the house. In moments, the boisterous group had dwindled to Fletcher, Culbert, herself, and Isobel. Her eyes flicked to the imposing figure at the door. The duke was still wearing dusty riding clothes as well as his hat, pulled low. She was grateful for it, though Isobel was staring at him in slack-jawed morbid curiosity, which likely had more to do with his foul, oath-spewing attitude than his sudden appearance.
Fletcher opened his mouth to respond, but Astrid beat him to it, drawing the fire to her instead. “Language, Your Grace.”
