Page 9 of The Beast of Beswick
Nothing could have readied her for the bleak vista of his face with its sutured lines and grisly lack of uniformity. A serrated tear ran diagonally from his upper right brow, across the bridge of his nose and cheek, down to his left jawline. It screamed of untold agonies, and the field surgeon’s hasty stitching over poor cautery had only made the end result doubly macabre. Like the novel of the modern Prometheus,Frankenstein.
Though this duke was wholly human as far as she could tell…his eyes burned with an unholy amber fire, holding her in a glower that seemed better suited to hell. Astrid couldn’t control the dread running through her body. His nostrils flared as if he could sense her unease, and suddenly, she felt like prey, well and truly snared by something far bigger and far more dangerous than she.
But fear wasn’t the sole cause of her body’s instant reaction to the man.
In the pit of her belly, she also felt a shock of pure heat, of raw physical awareness. Seeing a man naked, even in dim lighting, tended to skew one’s good sense, clearly. Her brain was split with mixed images—those of him in the altogether, stepping like some beautifully ruined demigod from a shimmering pool, and the foul-tempered, scarred duke standing before her, barely held together by the bonds of civility.
His scars, though terrifying, were the least of what frightened her in that moment.
Courage faltering, her gaze fell away, and then she thought of Isobel. She did not have the luxury to falter in her course. This man—this monstrous duke—was their only hope. She spared him a glance, skating over his marred face. He was waiting for her to do more, she realized. To flee. To scream. To swoon at his beastliness.
And he was, indeed, beastly. Heartbreakingly so. Except for the lower right side of his jaw and his lips. Those were intact. Full, unscarred, masculine. Odd that his mouth felt like the only safe space in the ragged landscape of his face. Even those demonic golden eyes didn’t seem so intense at the moment, inscrutable as they were. They’d lost their eerie hunter’s glow. Or perhaps she was fooling herself to make her goal more palatable.
Isobel. Beaumont. Safety.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.
“Tell me, my lady, do you still wish for marriage?” The smoky, sardonic snarl of his voice, filled with bitterness, curled around her. “Do you wish to marry into a waking nightmare? Do you hope to see this visage when you wake up each and every morning?” He drew a mocking hand down his person, his lip twisting with distaste. “Provide those heirs you offer without shuddering?”
Astrid didnotshudder, at least not right then, even though her heart was thrashing like a captive animal in her chest. The very idea of waking in bed with him made her body burn and recoil in the same breath. When she’d been plastered against him in the room with the bathing pool, she’d felteverything. Every hard contour, every hollow, every ridge. She blushed, recalling the bulge she’d felt against her belly through the sensible wool of her dress.
Clearly, he was like any other normal, able-bodied man.
Maybe not exactly likeanyother man, she amended. Notwithstanding his ruined face, he was bigger and more intimidating than any gentleman of her acquaintance. On top of that, he exuded an air of unrestrained menace. An apex predator. Would he protect or would he destroy?
Astrid couldn’t quite suppress her shiver this time.
She felt his gaze narrow on her. “Don’t bother trying to lie, Lady Astrid, or hide your reactions. At least they’re honest. I shiver when I look into a mirror most days.”
“I’m not,” she began, her cheeks on fire. “That’s not why—”
“Enough,” he said. “Your loathing is as clear as day.”
“No, Your Grace, you misunderstand.”
He bared his teeth. “Now you seek to impugn my judgment.”
God, she was losing him. Beswick was the only one who could help her prevent Beaumont’s suit. Isobel was innocent, andshedeserved better. Her sister was the only reason she was even here. Astrid shoved her chin up and gathered her brittle wits about her. She was no coward and would not back down now. She’d come here for one thing and one thing only.
“Yes, I do, Your Grace. I wish to marry you.”
An odd expression passed over his face then. Disbelief? Astonishment? Wonder? After an interminable moment, the duke shifted to resume his position behind the desk. He sat back in the shadows—king of his natural domain. A devil cloaked in perpetual darkness. Again, Astrid felt that lick of self-preservation skate across her senses.
She cleared her throat, focusing on the task at hand and falling to her usual directness. “What happened to you?”
His big body went motionless in his chair, and for a moment, Astrid thought she’d gone too far. Pushed him beyond the limits of genteel courtesy. But then he responded. “I took on a half-dozen bayonets face-first.”
The words held no inflection, though Astrid felt the lance of them deep in her soul. God, how he must have suffered. She held back another wince, but the duke was one to miss nothing.
“Don’t be ashamed of being revolted. It’s not for the faint of heart, is it?”
“No, Your Grace,” she said, knowing he would hate any pity. “But I was not revolted. I was thinking that perhaps you might have benefitted from someone with neater stitching skills.”
A gasp came from somewhere near the entrance, but Astrid didn’t dare turn around. She could sense the duke’s astonishment from where he sat.
“Is that one of your skills you hope to bring to the proposed match, then?” Beswick said eventually. “Needlework?”
“I am a lady, Your Grace, and skilled in all manner of gently bred persuasions.”
