Page 16 of The Beast of Beswick
“I wouldn’t kiss you if you paid me.”
“And yet you offered much more than that. Which is it, Lady Astrid?”
She faltered, her face heating, but then tossed her chin. “Lying there and thinking of England is hardly the same.”
Beswick stopped dead to stare at her, those hot eyes burning into hers, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Good God, had she gone too far? Even Fletcher gaped. But Astrid held her ground, chin high. Someone had to stand up to the duke. His temper was too foul for words, and she was only giving him what he doled out…what he deserved.
A short, hard huff of breath left his lips, and after an interminable moment, he spun on his heel and stomped past his valet. “Follow me or leave. Your choice.”
The tension left her body in a wild rush as she stood in the corridor debating what to do. He hadn’t ordered her thrown out, at least. She heard the faint rustle of clothing and froze. No, he wouldn’t be so vulgar, would he? Somehow, she had to convince him to let them stay, even if entering his private quarters wasn’t proper, and even if he made her want to rail and scream like a fishwife.
Isobel. Beaumont. Safety.
“I’m waiting,” he called out after long minutes of indecision on her part.
With a bracing inhale, Astrid inched forward on leaden feet, but the duke was not in the adjoining bedchamber. Fletcher met her eyes with an apologetic expression, but he, too, said nothing, as if he were on uncertain ground himself. His position was at risk, Astrid realized with belated horror, because of her. She could not let him take the fall for having a kind heart, when clearly, his master had none.
Briskly, she closed the distance to where Fletcher stood. It led to another room. A brightly lit bathing chamber, to be precise. Astrid bit back a gulp. Not at the opulence of the high-backed tub that dominated the room but at the man lounging inside of it, facing away from her. She couldn’t see much over the tub’s sides, but mere feet away, her brain processed that the duke wasnaked.
“Speak,” he commanded.
Hurriedly averting her eyes and banishing the phrase “naked duke” from her vocabulary, she rushed into her explanation, outlining Fletcher’s kindhearted offer and his need for a capable historian. Astrid didn’t miss the side glower that pinned the poor valet in place at the last.
“He only wished to help,” she said. “If you won’t agree to wed, for your…hospitality for a few paltry months, I will do your inventory. Think of it as employment, if you cannot find it in your heart to consider it charity.”
When she turned six and twenty, she wouldn’t be so powerless. That money was hers, and she would fight tooth and nail to claim it.
“Look at me,” the duke said.
Astrid raised her gaze, careful to keep her eyes fastened to his, but peripheral vision was a dratted thing. His sable hair was damp, wet droplets beading his golden-hued skin. She couldn’t see much scarring on the right side of him, and Astrid lost her breath at the sight of a glistening sculpted shoulder. As if sensing her thoughts, Beswick angled his face sharply toward her. She swallowed a gasp at the view in full light but refused to look away even when she felt tears prick her eyes.
“I don’t want your pity,” he said. “I’d prefer your loathing.”
“I don’t loathe you.”
“You might, when I decide what to do with your sister and you,” he said. “You cannot stay here in a bachelor’s residence.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a finger, stalling her, a notch of irritation appearing between his brows. “Not without a proper chaperone. Your sister’s reputation, and yours, will depend on it. I will agree, aside my better judgment, for you to stay here if my aunt, the Duchess of Verne, consents to be in residence for the time you require. You will perform the inventory as agreed, but that is the extent of my generosity.”
Relief, followed by elation that they would not be cast out, swamped her so much that she took a handful of steps forward before she thought twice. His indrawn hiss stopped her, but it was too late. Her eyes dropped to the clear surface of the water that hid nothing.
Not the scars and gouges and missing flesh that marred his left arm and peppered his left side. Not the sleek bronze hair covering his massive chest and arrowing down a tapered belly. Not the scarred tapestry of his lower limbs. And certainly not the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
Astrid did what any self-respecting lady would do. She fled.
Chapter Five
Christ, he wanted to fuck her into the wall.
Lift her lithe body against the bathing chamber door, wrap her legs around his dripping wet body, sheathe himself in her, and come until he had nothing left. Thane groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. Evidently, those parts of him weren’t as dead as he’d thought.
“Fletcher,” he said wearily, knowing the man was still standing there.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“You’ll pay for this. You know that, don’t you?”
He could feel the grin in the man’s voice even without looking at him. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good, now get out so I can drown myself in self-pity and frustration.” He slitted open one eye to see his valet wearing a smug grin. “Write my aunt and see if she’s amenable to a long, overdue visit.”
