Page 8 of The Beast of Beswick
Her matter-of-fact words pierced through his haze of desire. Thane’s sex-starved body spun between lust and confusion. He blinked. He wanted to fuck her voluptuous hands, suck her lips from pink to berry, and she wanted to take inventory of his father’s blasted antiques?
His dry mouth could form only one word.“What?”
“I can catalog the pieces for you,” she said patiently. “I’m familiar with the period and the history.”
“You’re a bluestocking?”
Those distracting pink lips puckered into a little moue of displeasure. “I prefer ‘scholar.’”
“Why?”
“Because ‘bluestocking’ is derogatory,” she said with a frown.
He gave a huff of mirth. The second time he’d laughed in ten minutes. It had to be a record. No doubt the eavesdropping Fletcher would toss it in his face later. Thane shook off the odd feeling. Somehow, instead of unsettling her, he’d only managed to unsettle himself.
A growling sound left his throat. “Why are you here? You barge in uninvited, see some smashed bowls, and decide to seek employment? Don’t insult my intelligence. State your business so we can both get on with our lives.”
There was no response to his sudden hostility. Rather, her eyes narrowed as she peered into the dimness, her pupils adjusting to the flickering light. It pricked him, the intensity he saw there, as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle. Trying to evaluatehimlike one did with a feral animal, waiting to see if it would bite. He wanted to snarl back at her, to get her to retreat. Run.Leave.
“Very well,” she said, her jaw firming with blunt resolve. “I need you, Your Grace.”
Surely he hadn’t heardthatcorrectly. “I beg your pardon?”
A sardonic eyebrow lifted at his use of the word “beg,” but she clasped her hands together and sat up straight. “Specifically, the protection of your name in exchange for my assistance with your collection, other household matters, and of course, my…er…self, as well, in the production of heirs.”
“Heirs,” he echoed. He had no idea how they’d gone from porcelain to procreation.
She let out a breath. “Use of my body, Your Grace. As the daughter of a viscount, my bloodlines and background are quite…acceptable, I’m sure.” He didn’t miss the minute hesitation or the fact that her captive fingers were clutched so tightly that they were white. Likely, the prospect revolted her. “This will be an arrangement that will benefit us both.”
If Thane thought with the head in his pants, his agreement would be instantaneous. But his brain was quite good when he did decide to use it. And now that her outrageously erotic hands didn’t distract him, he paused to gather his scattered thoughts.
“Are you proposing marriage, Lady Astrid?” he asked. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that the gentleman is supposed to ask?”
“I prefer to take matters into my own hands when necessary, but let’s not be mistaken—this is purely a business proposition, Your Grace,” she stated, her composed expression back in place. “One to our mutual advantage.”
He couldn’t help it. He guffawed, the ugly sound like a choked gaggle of cawing crows. The lady recoiled, her eyes widening further when he rose, uncurling his large frame from the chair. He prowled soundlessly toward her, watching her carefully all the while until he stood directly in front of her. He turned toward the light and heard her indrawn gasp.
Thane didn’t release her eyes, reflective like translucent quartz in the firelight, taking in the transition from shock to fright to horror to pity. The darkness curled around him, took his cold, bitter heart into its fist. He felt nothing in the face of her emotions.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hold your naïveté against you,” he murmured. “You are free to leave, my lady, and we can pretend this unfortunate…situation never happened.”
To Thane’s eternal shock, she rose and moved to stand right in front of him, those pearlescent eyes now giving away nothing. Her breasts were nearly touching his chest, and Thane caught his breath at her nearness, scenting the barest sliver of fear. Her shoulders trembled, and her stern lips, so dangerously close, quivered at the corners. Her distress was a palpable thing, like a hare cornered by a wolf, though the hare tipped its head bravely.
“You need a wife, Your Grace.”
Thane had to admire her courage. “As you need a husband?”
“Not just any husband.” She swallowed hard, her slender throat working. “I need the Beast of Beswick.”
Chapter Three
Oh, sweet merciless Lord.
The duke was frighteningly huge. And his appearance at close range…
Despite all the gossip and the rumors, Astrid had not been prepared. The Lord Harte she’d met in passing years ago had been surrounded by eager admirers, most of them female. A second son and the duke’s spare, he’d been born into privilege and wealth and had been handsome and fit, if somewhat standoffish. He would have been sought after if he hadn’t secured himself a captain’s commission and hied off to war.
A war that had reduced him to this…shadow of himself.
