Page 4 of The Beast of Beswick
Chapter Two
“You need a wife.”
A priceless vase from the Ming dynasty, circa the fourteenth century, crashed into the three wicket stumps drawn along the back wall and splintered into a thousand shards, joining a brightly colored pile of its brethren at the base of a hand-painted mural in the gallery. Lord Thane Harte, the seventh Duke of Beswick, scowled as his valet cast a baleful eye at the ruins, a cricket bat dangling from one hand.
“Your father went through a great deal to collect those, Your Grace.”
“My father is dead,” the duke rumbled. “It’s athing, Fletcher. Now, come on, one more and you’re out. Clench those judgmental arse cheeks and let’s go for the boundaries with the next ball.”
The man grimaced as he lifted the wooden bat with distaste. “Those are notballs, Your Grace. They are worth several thousand pounds.”
“Expensive and ugly. The devil knows why my father worshipped the absurd things. And for posterity’s sake, I need a wife like I need a gash in the head.”Another gash in the head, he amended silently.
“You need an heir, then.”
Thane scowled in annoyance, the battle scars on his skin pulling tight. What child would want or deserve a father with a ruined face like his? And what high-born lady would willingly consent to bed him in the first place? He was lucky his cock remained intact from the war and still functioned.
“I’d rather let this execrable line die out than subject a child to a brute for a father.”
“You’re not a brute, Your Grace.”
Thane clapped a dramatic hand to his chest. “Good God, man, do you evenknowme?”
“Beauty is only skin deep,” came the prompt reply.
Thane snorted, his irritation fading. “Did you come up with that clever gem on your own?”
“No, it’s from a poem.”
“I’ve told you time and time again, poetry will rot your brain.” He peered at his valet. “Unless they’re bawdy poems, of course. Those are allowed.”
“You have much to offer, Your Grace. If you would only try—”
“Fletcher,” Thane warned. “Your loyalty is appreciated, but this conversation grows tiresome.” The hint of menace in his tone made his valet pale. “Are you conceding defeat? Or shall I bowl you another?”
He hefted another vase in his hand with forced cheer. This one was painted with tiny blue and white flowers. It was so delicate that if he squeezed hard enough, it would shatter in his palm. Thane felt a sense of disgust as he studied the object. His father had revered the blasted things. He remembered the time he’d wandered into his father’s precious gallery as a child, only to cop a caning that had left his bottom raw for days. He’d broken one by accident some years later and had buried the pieces in the garden out of fear for what his father would do.
Thane walked back a half-dozen steps and took a running start before bowling the china arm-over-head toward Fletcher. He felt the pull of scar tissue all along his back and ribs. He was glad the gallery wasn’t mirrored, but it was nothing that Fletcher or the rest of his servants hadn’t seen. No one looked him in the eye anymore. No one, that is, except for his faithful butler and his longtime valet, who now grudgingly brought his cricket bat to the ready.
The vase flew with calculated precision toward his target. To Thane’s surprise, Fletcher swung with an aggrieved expression. The inestimable vase collided with the flat front of the bat and smashed to smithereens. Several of the footmen dodged flying porcelain missiles that sprayed the width of the room.
“Oh, well done, man,” Thane said. “Thought you’d lost your ballocks for a second there, caught up in bloody sentiment.”
“Your father would turn in his grave, Your Grace.”
A bitter sound passed his lips. “My father, God rest his porcelain-loving soul, ishopefullyhaving apoplexy in his grave by now. Hence the point, Fletcher.”
The servant—though more family than servant, ergo his everlasting gall—slanted him an arch glance. “But as you said, Your Grace, your sire is dead. What purpose does this destruction serve? Consider donating some pieces to a gallery instead.”
Thane paused, his eyes narrowing. Trust Fletcher to try to ruin any attempt at joy. “I like cricket.”
“Your father’s collection was quite extensive and renowned. Or you could auction it. Lord Leopold—”
“Don’t.”
Fletcher persisted. “Lord Leopold,” he said more loudly, “had planned to hold a grand auction in honor of your father.”
The flare of pain caught him by surprise. It’d been four years since his brother’s death, and he still felt it keenly. Thane hadn’t wanted the ducal title. He didn’t have the temperament for it. It’d been Leo’s from the day he’d been born, and until the terrible fall from his horse that had snapped his spine, it’d been his.
