Page 64 of The Beast of Beswick
Thane’s eyes tracked the delicate swallow of Astrid’s throat and every muscle in his body locked to the point of torture. Christ, she made even the act of drinking seem like a seduction, innocent though it was. There was nothing innocent, however, about the way her tongue darted out to lick a bead of brandy from her upper lip. His groin tightened to excruciating hardness when her translucent eyes, gleaming in the dim moonlight, met his and those wet lips parted in shock.
He wanted to kiss her senseless.
And to think he almost hadn’t come.
Earlier that evening, the thought of Astrid at the Featheringstoke ball had nearly been more than he could handle. She’d looked so beautiful. A goddess just out of his reach.
“If I may, Your Grace?” Fletcher had murmured as Thane had watched her getting dressed and limned in candlelight in her bedroom window from the darkness of the terrace.
“You’ve never skimped on words, Fletcher, so why stop now?”
“You are a fool, sir.”
He’d huffed a laugh. That he was. There was no greater fool than he. “I never should have married her.”
“The marriage is done. You need to move forward.”
Thane had swallowed, the imprint of his wife’s luscious figure branded onto his brain. “You’re right, Fletcher. I do. I need to put her out of my mind.”
She deserved more than him.
She deserved a man who was normal.
She deserved a partner and husband she could be proud of.
His body had ached, but it’d been a different kind of ache from the ones that usually plagued him. This one had radiated from inside—an emptiness that had felt like a bucket of rocks pressing into his chest. Thane had hoped that some time at the gaming tables in The Silver Scythe would help as a distraction, and then he would stop obsessing about his delectable wife dressed in nothing but a few strips of gossamer.
And so there he’d gone at first.
But the familiar scents of incense and smoke had done nothing to soothe his agitated spirits. A drink, he’d decided, was in order. Afewdrinks. He’d passed the next two hours at the gaming tables, wagering a small fortune and consuming enough liquor to fell an elephant, all in the interest of distracting himself.
It hadn’t worked. None of it had worked.
“Settle my accounts,” he told the owner.
“Leaving us so soon?” the man asked.
“I forgot I have a prior engagement,” he said and pointed to a particularly daunting mask hanging on a hook. “Might I borrow that?”
“Of course.”
Climbing into his waiting coach, he’d given the coachman the address for the Featheringstoke ball. For the first time in hours, the pressure in his chest had eased, and when he’d stood on the threshold to the ballroom and seen his wife, the space there was filled with something other than rocks.
He’d felt it the moment she saw him—that raw pulse of connection across the room. And he’d held her stare hungrily. A faint blush bloomed across her cheekbones, but his fairy queen didn’t drop her eyes at his bold appraisal. In fact, her eyebrow tented in aristocratic disdain before she dismissed him completely with a regal sweep of her chin.
Astrid had not recognized him.
Shestillhadn’t, even standing a mere foot away, not behind the formidable mask he’d borrowed. Her eyes narrowed in scrutiny, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip in concentration. Lust tore through him, and the desire to kiss her increased tenfold. As if she could sense his wicked intentions, she took a step in reverse, her gaze fairly sparking with warning.
God above, she was splendid.
And she washis.
…
Hades was enormous, Astrid thought. And he smelled of woodsmoke and whiskey. She could feel his eyes upon her from behind his mask like hot coals.
“While I thank you for your assistance, we have not been introduced, sir,” she said primly, resisting the urge to flee. She peered at him, curiosity winning out over propriety. “Who are you?”
