Page 17 of The Beast of Beswick
“I already took the liberty, Your Grace.”
Of course he had. The wretched man knew his own worth, which was probably why he’d taken in the waif and her sister in the first place.
“Lady Verne will be arriving in time for dinner,” Fletcher said from the other room.
Thane frowned. “When did you send a messenger?”
“Four days ago, Your Grace, when Lady Astrid arrived on your doorstep. I thought it prudent to be prepared in case you decided to offer employment and safe refuge.”
Safe refuge?Thane nearly hooted with laughter. People didn’t run to him. They ranfromhim. The Beast of Beswick did not harbor young innocents, nor was he the hero in any story. He was a recluse, a monster of a man, and a beast by all accounts. Having not just one buttwohighborn, unmarried females in his domain was unthinkable. Absurd, really. Their precious reputations would be smudged in the dirt by morning.
“And you did not think to send a missive to me in London?”
Fletcher appeared for one moment in the doorway. “I did, Your Grace. At Harte House. Though you had not been seen since your arrival.”
No, because he’d been working with Sir Thornton during the day and drowning his demons at The Silver Scythe at night. A vision of frosted aquamarine eyes set in a heartbreakingly lovely face, dark hair scraped back with fastidious precision, and a tart pink mouth framed in a perfectOat the sight of him nude filled his mind.
Christ, he was a depraved, unfeeling bastard for forcing her to plead her casewhile he bathed. He hadn’t intended to, of course, but then that sharp tongue of hers had drawn blood:Lying there and thinking of England is hardly the same.Salty minx.
After Fletcher departed, Thane washed and lay in the water until his skin became the consistency of a prune and the water had cooled considerably. He was still as hard as steel, however. Thane fisted his length and, with a few short strokes, brought himself to release. It felt mildly hollow, but he didn’t care. He’d resort to his own hand a dozen times a day if it meant not obsessing about her…a beautiful woman with the spiciest mouth this side of England, whom he’d just invited to stay under his roof for months.
Clearly, he was a glutton for punishment.
He dressed in the clothing that Fletcher had left out for him and descended the stairs. He hoped dinner would be prepared and served, and he wouldn’t walk into another impromptu amateur musicale. Thane shook his head. His country staff, like his London staff, was silent and efficient. The epitome of a duke’s household. The footmen were large, competent, and quiet. The chef was French and proud of it. In the absence of a housekeeper, Culbert kept the maids and everyone else in strict order. But never had Thane seen them partake in such bold, happy revelry, heedless of rank between upper and lower servants, as he had earlier.
He’d only been gone a bloody week.
And he knew exactly who was to blame.
Scowling, Thane grabbed a hat from the foyer as he clomped to the dining room. He didn’t want to scare the younger chit. Isabella or Isabel or some such. He’d only glanced at her briefly, taking in her pretty features. She was indeed a perfect English rose with her golden ringlets and sparkling blue eyes. Though he’d been more concerned with the prickly bit of bramble who had been standing beside her, her sharp chin high and eyes bright. Ready to do battle with the lord of the manor on account of a few paltry servants.
Astrid.
Even her name made him feel invigorated, like an icy burst of sea spray from a winter ocean. Hard-nosed and stubborn, she was the opposite of her sister in every way, not just in looks. She was no meek English rose, no sweet-tempered maiden, no delicate miss. She was a fiery hothouse bloom that made his blood burn and drove him to intolerable distraction.
Culbert was waiting at the entrance of the grand dining room. “Your Grace,” he intoned and pushed open the door. “The Duchess of Verne is already in residence and is awaiting you.”
Thank God for small mercies. He didn’t want the destruction of a debutante’s reputation on his conscience. The old duchess was alone, he noted with some relief. He wanted to speak to her briefly before his uninvited guests arrived.
“Aunt Mabel,” he said, walking over to the tiny but plump woman who was sipping on a glass of sherry and flirting with the footmen. He bit back a smile. Some things never changed. At five and sixty, she was incorrigible. Last he’d heard, she’d taken a lover who was half her age. Thane faltered briefly. Perhaps she wasn’t quite the best choice of a chaperone, given her proclivities. Then again, she was family, and she could be trusted.
And she was accustomed to his face.
“Darling boy, how are you?” she said, embracing him fondly. “I’ve heard nothing but naughty tales of you for months, living in seclusion and terrorizing your staff. Come now, Beswick, will you not settle down? You’re getting on in age, you know.” She paused, eyeing him. “Why are you wearing a hat for dinner?”
He bussed her cheek, accepting the glass of cognac from one of the footmen, and ignored everything but for the last question. “One of the young ladies is quite tender in years, and I don’t wish to frighten the spit out of her, Aunt.”
The duchess didn’t miss a thing, those sharp green eyes fastening to his. “And the other? Fletcher said there were two. Will she not be frightened?”
“The other is a harpy who is immune to fear,” he muttered, downing his drink. He did not mention that the lady in question had in fact propositioned him with marriage a mere week before. It would likely set darling Aunt Mabel into a fit of histrionic laughter. Or she would force him to the altar herself. “I suspect people tend to cower in that lady’s presence.”
Mabel’s eyes brightened. “She sounds like my kind of girl.” Thane scowled, and she patted his arm. “That she’s not cowering from you, I mean.” She studied him. “Though it’s remarkable how much I no longer notice your scars. Perhaps I’ve grown used to them.”
“Or perhaps you’re losing your eyesight in your old age.”
She swatted him. “Dreadful boy!”
Thane felt his ill humor slip away. Mabel would manage the undesirable invasion, and if push came to shove, he would simply return to London until it was all over. Which he had no idea when that would be. He recalled the older chit saying something about a twenty-sixth birthday and coming into an inheritance. Months, she’d said. He tried not to balk at being in London during the Season. Not that he had anything to worry about in terms of marriage prospects or being pursued, it was just too overcrowded.
