Page 20 of The Beast of Beswick
“It’s good that ye’re taking Brutus out, my lady,” Patrick said, interrupting her thoughts. “He’s been chomping at the bit to get a good run in, ye ken.”
“They’re happy here, then?” she asked with a tiny frown.
“Of course. Ye ken they’re happy wherever ye are.” His frown matched hers. “There’s no telling what yer uncle would have done. Ye did the right thing, my lady.”
Astrid sensed he wasn’t just speaking of taking the horses. She sighed and placed a hand on the man’s sleeve. “That remains to be seen. He’ll never suspect we came here, so we’re safe for the moment, but we cannot be indiscreet. Or anger the duke.”
“Speaking of the devil,” Patrick murmured, and the hairs on her nape rose.
Astrid whirled to see Beswick marching down the path from the manse, hat pulled low, but she could sense his irritation even as far away as he was. Her pulse escalated instantly at the sight of his large form bearing down on them. “You should go.”
“Are ye certain?”
“Yes, he won’t harm me. He’s a gentleman.”
Patrick scowled. “So is Beaumont.”
The two men were as different as night and day, and while Astrid was wary of the duke and his volatile humors, she did not think she was in mortal danger from him. At least for the moment. She nodded reassuringly and patted the groomsman’s arm. The duke’s stride increased until he was nearly running. “Go, please, Patrick.”
He did not argue this time and disappeared just as the duke came to a seething halt in front of her while she tightened the cinches on Brutus’s saddle. Beswick was so angry, his golden eyes glowed like hot coals beneath the brim of his hat. Astrid was fascinated, though she did not know what she’d done to incur his ire, considering he’d been gone the whole week. She hadn’t been able to get an answer out of Fletcher or Culbert on his whereabouts.
“Who the hell was that?” he said in his smoky rasp, his burning eyes following Patrick’s departure. The low, possessive pitch of it made her chest squeeze. “And just what do you think you are doing?”
She patted the horse’s glossy flank and lifted a brow. “What does it look like I’m doing, Your Grace? I’m knitting a doily.”
He opened his mouth and snapped it shut, those demon-hot eyes fastening on her and narrowing to pinpricks at her dig. A different sensation curled over her. Perhaps she shouldn’t provoke the beast more than necessary. “I’m going for a ride. Brutus needs the exercise, and I need fresh air.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw, his eyes flicking to the stable. “Who was he? That man?”
“Patrick is my groom.”
His eyes glowered. “You treat your grooms so familiarly?”
“He’s family,” she replied, wondering at the terse note in his voice but casting it off as part of his usual surliness. She did not presume to understand the man. Or his mercurial sulks.
“I do not recall giving you leave to bring your help to my estate.”
Astrid sobered instantly. “Patrick protected us. If you send him away, then we must go as well.”
“Must you?” he murmured. She felt his gaze on her, sweeping her from head to toe along with a low rumble of disapproval, and she waited for the question that would inevitably come. “What the devil are you wearing?”
“A riding habit, Your Grace.”
Astrid saw no need to explain her unusual riding dress. It was what she wore to train and exercise the horses. Though it was far from acceptable for a highborn lady and she would not wear it in London, she’d learned early on that she needed both thighs to manage Brutus. As such, she’d designed the full-skirted trousers with their draped pleats herself to preserve modesty over a pair of breeches.
Dragging his eyes away, Beswick changed the subject. “Fletcher said you’ve made good progress on the porcelain.”
Astrid nodded but wasn’t surprised that the ever-efficient valet had reported on her job. She’d been astounded at the vastness of the late duke’s collection and the astronomical value of some of the pieces. When Fletcher had jokingly mentioned the duke’s love of indoor cricket, she’d been appalled.
“Yes, your father’s pieces are rare.” She pursed her lips. “Perhaps a smidgen better than using them for cricket balls.”
A smirk crept into a corner of his mouth. “In whose estimation?”
“Christie’s in London, Your Grace.” Astrid allowed herself a small gratified smile. “They have agreed to host the sale after receiving my detailed letter on whose property it was to be auctioned. Apparently, your father was quite the famous collector. His collection will fetch a considerable sum.”
“Donate the proceeds to charity.”
Astrid felt her eyes pop. “You’re speaking of hundreds of thousands of pounds at least, Your Grace. Shouldn’t you put such a fortune in trust for your heirs?”
