Page 23 of The Beast of Beswick
She did not immediately respond, but he could see that she was thinking about the question. Thane waited. “It was clear to me during my first Season that another would not…gain the result I hoped for, and it made more sense to save the money for Isobel.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“What’s the point of this?”
“Humor me.”
“I was ousted from society, Your Grace, because of bad judgment.” She flushed deeply. “Isobel doesn’t deserve to be punished for my mistakes. And I want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy.”
“And you don’t?”
Her throat bobbed. “This isn’t about me.”
“Why not?”
It seemed like she was going to answer, but after a moment, she wheeled the stallion around and galloped back toward the manse. Thane stared at her retreating form with a thoughtful look. He’d seen loyalty in his men on the battlefield but had scarcely encountered it in the real world. The men and women of the aristocracy dealt in secrets and intrigues, and many a gentleman would sell his own brother if it meant some kind of gain.
But not Lady Astrid. She would swallow the mountain of her pride whole if it meant protecting her sister. He admired that more than he cared to admit.
…
Insufferable, persistent beast!
What could she say? That her own naïveté had destroyed any chance for happiness? That she’d trusted the wrong man? That said man wasbackand out for vengeance? Beswick would probably laugh in her face or tell her to stop caviling over trifles. As if her life were a trifling matter. God, he was unspeakable!
Her chest heaving with exertion, Astrid threw the reins to a waiting groom and slid off the horse once she arrived back at the stables. Normally, she would groom Brutus herself, but she was far too agitated with the duke. Howdarehe? How dare he question her about her sister and her decisions? He was no one to her, no one to them.
He’s your employer, her inner voice reminded her.
“That doesn’t make him my owner,” she muttered, stomping the caked mud off her boots. “He has no right.”
He’s a duke, one of the most highborn peers in the land, and you’re living on his charity. Arguably, he hassomeright.
“Shut up,” she half snarled to herself.
“My lady, are ye well?” the young groom asked.
Astrid nodded with a scowl. Of course she wasn’t well; she was talking to herself like a bedlamite.
All because of one thoroughly aggravating man. She wasn’t by any means a society darling who expected men to fall at her feet, but most of the men she’d met had been gentlemen. They did not ask impolite questions or say whatever came to mind. They did not look at her as if they wanted to incinerate her very bones or demolish the defenses that had served her well for nearly a decade.
She blew out a breath, stalking from the stable toward the house. Gentlemen didn’t pry. Not when the answers led to ugly places. Astoundingly, Beswick did not seem to know of her past, but Astrid knew he would find out. Eventually. And if he was anything like the rest of the aristocracy who’d equated the fallen Everleighs to scum on their bootheels, then she and Isobel would be out on their laurels.
Astrid wanted to put that off for as long as possible.
Agitation and worry coursed through her. She was much too frazzled to go into the house and speak with anyone, so she headed for the gardens. A good walk would help to calm her down. The pathways were wild and covered in rosebushes, but something about their ungoverned nature appealed to her. In truth, it reminded her of Beswick himself.
Wild, unruly, savage.
Gracious, why was she still thinking about him? With a hiss of frustration, Astrid wrenched her thoughts away from the vexing man and focused on the problem at hand. Namely, Beaumont. A part of her wished she’d never set eyes on the cad. He’d ruined everything. Her parents had been in raptures when the charismatic and handsome war heroandthe nephew of an earl had offered for Astrid. Giddy with delight, she had fancied herself in love, until she’d tumbled from grace and realized that love was a lie for starry-eyed fools.
God, she’d been so naive and gullible. She hadn’t known she was in trouble until it was too late. Until her drunken, overly amorous fiancé had ushered her to a deserted music room, expecting his husbandlydue, barely a month after their engagement. The memory was still razor-sharp, her thoughts flicking back to the darkened room where he had escorted her.
Fending off his roving hands, Astrid had backed away behind the pianoforte. “Please stop, Edmund,” she’d begged, “you’ve been drinking.”
“You want this,” he’d said. “Don’t tease. You belong to me.”
“I’m not your property.”
