Page 52 of The Beast of Beswick
A duchess.
Astrid drew in a smothered breath as the vicar’s terrified eyes rose to the imposing duke—standing without covering over his face—and fell away to begin the service. Oddly, the vicar’s ungoverned reaction made Astrid want to kick him. She understood what he was seeing. Beswick’s appearancewaschilling, though she herself had grown used to it.
She saw themanbeneath.
Thane repeated his vows in a deep, resonant voice, no hesitation in it. “I, Nathaniel Blakely Sterling Harte, take thee, Astrid Victoria Everleigh, to be my wedded wife.”
His Christian name is Nathaniel?
The vicar cleared his throat. “Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”
Astrid started as the vicar’s eyes fell upon her. He shot her a look as if to ask,Are you certain this is indeed of your own free will?She nearly laughed through her muddled nerves. “I will,” she said.
She sucked in a breath but was distracted by the exquisite sapphire ring the duke slid from his pocket and placed onto her finger. “Withthis ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
“Then, those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” the vicar said.
Thane turned to her, his beautiful eyes a shade of amber that was so clear, she could see a myriad of gilded golden flecks in it. Would he kiss her? It wasn’t the custom, but he never did anything the way it was supposed to be done. She closed her eyes, just as his lips brushed her cheek. “You and Isobel are safe now.”
And then it was done.
Clapping pulled her out of her thoughts as she turned to see Fletcher and the rest of the staff of the townhouse. They were blurred by her tears. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”
“In lieu of a wedding breakfast,” Thane said as she discreetly wiped her eyes, “we shall go to my private club for a wedding supper tonight. The staff will be dismissed from service this evening in celebration.”
As he escorted her upstairs, Astrid leaned in. “I don’t have any clothing appropriate for dinner, Beswick.”
“Thane,” he corrected.
“Not Nathaniel?” she asked with a smile.
Her husband grimaced. “Not if you value your tongue.”
A stunned giggle burst from her at the ferocious but empty threat. “Why do you hate it? It’s a lovely name.”
“I’ve never used it,” he said. “I couldn’t pronounce it when I was a child, and Thane stuck. I’ve always felt it was more…me. My father hated it, but when I refused to answer to any other name for nigh on a year, he eventually gave in as well.”
Astrid had to agree. Thane suited him perfectly. Nathaniel, by contrast, seemed too complicated. Too old-fashioned. Thane carried individuality and strength and an innate simplicity—that what one saw was what one got. If one looked beyond the obvious, that was. Astrid’s glance slid up to the ragged scar splitting his face and the vines of smaller ones creeping down the left side of his cheek and jaw. He was a tapestry of pain but held himself proudly.
Thane.
She ignored the sudden pressure behind her eyes. “I left in such a rush that I didn’t bring a gown for dinner.”
The duke gave her a benign smile and ushered her toward the suite of rooms belonging to the Duchess of Beswick. “Since Agatha is with Isobel, I’ve arranged for the sister of one of the footmen to assist you.” He bowed, mischief in his eyes. “I will see you for dinner shortly…my lady.”
Curious, Astrid walked into her chambers. It was, like everything else in Harte House, exquisitely appointed, in a subtle pale-gold and green color scheme that was pleasing to the eye. An enormous bed sat at the center of the room, its bedposts draped in filmy gauze. A connecting door at one end led to the duke’s own chambers. Her heart stuttered at the thought that the wedding night would have to be consummated, especially to those who might push to have it annulled, but she was grateful that she had her own privacy. For now.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” a young girl said, bobbing a curtsy. “I’m Alice.”
“Good evening, Alice.” Astrid walked toward the bed where the girl stood, her jaw going slack at the sight of the gown on the bed. It was a frothy ice-blue creation of tulle and silk. “Where did that come from?” she whispered.
“From Madame Pinot,” Alice piped up. “She’s the most famous modiste in London, Your Grace. My brother was sent by His Grace to fetch it during the wedding. You are to see her yourself at the end of the week for a full wardrobe.”
Astrid was dumbfounded by the duke’s thoughtfulness. It seemed she had underestimated her new husband, as well as his influence and bottomless coffers if he was able to get a dress in less than an hourandcommission an entire wardrobe from a celebrated modiste during the busy start of the Season. She stared at the lovely gown that Madame Pinot must have had on hand and wondered whether it would fit.
“His Grace ordered a bath prepared for you as well.” Alice held out a folded piece of parchment. “Also, a letter came for you, my lady.”
“A letter?” Astrid blinked. “From whom?”
