Page 19 of The Beast of Beswick
Thane sipped his wine with a frown. Aside his body’s interest, which hadn’t been interested in anyone since the war, she wasn’t afraid of him, and she amused him…a feat in itself. Her protectiveness toward her sister intrigued him. Though she was guarded, he was determined to find out what she was hiding. And what he’d gotten into.
After dinner, when his aunt decided to retire to her rooms after her journey and Isobel hastened off to bed, only Astrid remained at the table. Thane stood and offered her a glass of brandy, gesturing for her to follow him to the adjoining terrace. Though it was dark, soft lamplight illuminated the grounds, the lush scent of the gardens wafting around them.
“This is beautiful,” she said, joining him at the balustrade. They stood in silence, sipping their drinks and staring into the shadows, before Astrid spoke again. “I want to thank you, Your Grace, for your kindness.”
“I am not in the least bit kind, Lady Astrid,” he said quietly, his eyes pinning hers in the darkness. “What are you running from? Tell me the truth.”
Her gaze fell away, and she took a bracing sip of brandy before answering. “My uncle intends to marry Isobel off, and unfortunately, I do not come into the rest of my inheritance until my twenty-sixth year to take her away. I have no prospects, and my uncle is a greedy man concerned with his own fortunes, no matter the tender years of my sister. Isobel wasn’t safe there.”
Thane blinked, not entirely sure what he’d been expecting. “Marriage to whom? A peer?”
“The Earl of Beaumont.”
He froze. Nowthatwas a name he hadn’t heard in years, and one he wished to keep buried in the past. Though, in truth, he did not have fault with the earl, only his nephew. Thane’s fingers curled in anger around his glass. Last he heard, the pigeon-livered Edmund Cain was hiding on the Continent. After he’d abandoned his post in Thane’s regiment, sacrificing half their unit to a French ambush, Cain had defected to parts unknown.
“Why are you so against the match?” he asked. “Beaumont might be old, but he’s not objectionable.”
“My sister is only sixteen. A man like him will destroy her.”
Thane’s brows rose. He couldn’t say he knew much of Cain’s uncle, but he supposed he might. After all, the man had to be getting on in years, and Isobel was so young. Not that it wasn’t common practice in the aristocracy for peers to take much younger wives.
“Was that the reason for your proposition?”
Astrid nodded, sliding him a sideways glance. “Beaumont plans to offer for Isobel before anyone else, and I cannot allow that to happen. If I am to marry, my husband will have the final say in Isobel’s future, not my uncle.” She sighed into her glass. “You were my only avenue of influence to thwart the earl.”
“Why me?” Thane wanted to kick himself for asking.
She finished her drink before walking back to the terrace doors and pausing there. Shuttered ice-blue eyes met his, her voice low. “Because sometimes a girl doesn’t need a hero to save her. Sometimes she needs the opposite.”
…
Ensconced beside Temperance, Brutus seemed content in his new stall of the roomy stables at Beswick Park. Her mare was calm as well, but Astrid guessed it had to do with the superiority of the staff. Beswick would not demand less than excellence. The superb quality of his horseflesh—two pairs of matched Andalusians, as well as a handful of spirited Arabians—was to be admired as well, though many of the spacious stalls remained empty.
Patrick had insisted on staying on at Beswick Park and had bunked down in the quarters with the other grooms. Astrid had been glad. She would not have wanted him to suffer at Beaumont’s or her uncle’s hands, given how he’d come to their rescue. She would have to find a way to pay him, perhaps by garnishing some of what she might earn from the sale of their jewels. Or perhaps the duke would be amenable to giving him a job, though she wouldn’t count on it.
She hadn’t seen Beswick in a week. After the evening she’d told him the truth about Beaumont—as it pertained to Isobel—the duke had disappeared. Culbert had assured her that His Grace had urgent business in London and sent his abject apologies for his sudden departure. Astrid hadn’t been able to stifle her snort at the resigned expression on the butler’s face. She suspected that neither “abject” nor “apology” were words in the duke’s current lexicon.
A relieved Isobel had been grateful for the reprieve from any additional close encounters.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” she’d said that first night. “He’s terrifying.”
“His servants wouldn’t be so loyal if he were a bad master, Isobel. Furthermore, it’s clear that his aunt cares for him. And you like her well enough, don’t you?”
“I do,” she’d said. “But hisface, Astrid. It’s frightful.”
“The duke is a war hero, Izzy. A few scars don’t make him unworthy of our compassion or our gratitude.”
“Yes, but he seemed so angry,” she’d carried on. “So rude and overbearing.”
Astrid hadn’t bothered to explain that his caustic nature was probably because of reactions to his appearance in the first place. It wouldn’t occur to Isobel that the duke had worn a hat during dinner—eschewing centuries upon centuries of blue-blooded dining etiquette—forhersake. But Astrid had noticed, and her heart had been grateful to him for it. It was a kindness she had not expected.
It had made her reply to Isobel sharper than she’d intended.
“We are indebted to His Grace, Isobel,” she’d said. “Think upon where you would be if it wasn’t for his hospitality. In the clutches of a true monster. He could have turned us away, and as such, your contempt is undeserved. Now, go to bed.”
A chagrined, teary-eyed Isobel had nodded, though she’d found it difficult to sleep in a strange place. Astrid had silently empathized. Her own body had been strangely agitated, a coiling energy brimming within her that had made it difficult to sleep as well. But she knew her disquiet had to do with the duke himself, as if she couldfeelhim prowling the corridors like some territorial wild animal whose boundaries had been crossed.
Despite that, however, their first week in the duke’s home hadn’t been a hardship. After the first night, Fletcher had insisted that there was not enough room in the servants’ quarters, and as a result, they’d remained in the guest wing. She suspected he was lying but didn’t want to press the matter. The opulence of their chambers had awed both Isobel and their lady’s maid, Agatha, but Astrid was too worried about the duke’s response to even appreciate the exquisite decor. After all, they weren’t actuallyguests.
