Beast of Beswick Read online

  If only her father were still alive or she had a husband of her own…

  She blinked, an outrageous idea blossoming.

  It would solve everything. It was a dreadful, desperate plan, but it was something. It was a chance.

  At five and twenty, she was well on the shelf, but she wasn’t dead. She might be ruined in the eyes of the ton, but she had a sound brain, she’d been raised to run an aristocratic household, and she was the daughter of a viscount. It could work. It could work.

  She would just have to marry a different kind of beast than the earl to save her sister.

  And she knew just the man.

  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 a thing, 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 not balls, 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 even know me?”

  “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, is hopefully having 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.

  Thane had wanted to live out his remaining days in solitude. Instead he’d returned to a coronet. To duty. To unwanted responsibility.

  To acres and acres of fucking porcelain.

  “Very well, then, donate the lot.”

  “A-All of it?” Fletcher spluttered. “We would need an inventory at least.”

  “Hire someone.” The suggestion curled his gut, and the thought of having someone new in his domain made him feel slightly ill. Most of his staff were trusted servants who had known him as a boy before the ravaged war hero. He did not take well to strangers. Or staring. The latter almost certainly went with the former.

  “In Southend? Finding a credible historian with a knowledge of antique Chinese porcelain would be like finding a needle in a haystack. I’d have to send for someone in London, and that could take weeks.”

  “Fletcher,” he growled. “I do not care. It was your suggestion. Handle it.”

  The valet bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Thane left the gallery and strode toward his study. He’d forgone his daily exercises this morning in favor of some extra sleep. Insomnia kept him awake most nights, along with the recurring nightmares of being cut to ribbons. Sometimes, the dreams were so real that he swore he could feel the blades tearing into his flesh and the hot burn of his separating skin as bayonets punctured and cleaved through it like parchment. He’d saved four of his men in his unit from the ambush, but nearly triple that number had died. All because of one man…one craven turncoat who had abandoned his post.

  Thane could still hear their screams.

  He stopped to swivel his body, stretching slowly. His entire upper half felt stiff and sore. He was paying the price for not doing his usual exercises, the stitched, cauterized patchwork of skin on his back tight and painful. Perhaps a swim would be in order before dinner. He’d converted one of the unused wings in the manse into a recovery and training facility of sorts, which included an entire room devoted to a heated bathing pool, inspired by the Roman and Turkish baths and some of the extraordinary architecture he’d seen while traveling the Continent.

  But for now, he needed a stiff drink.

  “Culbert,” he said, passing his faithful butler en route to his destination. “Instruct one of the footmen to fire the hearths in the bathing room. I want it good and warm. And I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Finally, he arrived at the study. He loved the solitude of Beswick Park, but the abbey was labyrinthine. After spending so many months in a one-room barrack, he’d needed a map to relearn his way around his childhood home. His study was dominated by a large desk, several comfortable armchairs, and it was dark with heavy velvet drapes covering the mullioned windows. Plush carpeting muted his footfalls as he walked over and sat in the chair behind the desk and poured himself two fingers of fine French brandy. The liquor spread like a warm glow through his muscles.

  Thane studied the low fire burning in the grate. He shrugged out of his coat and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. Shiny, unsightly scar tissue traversed the entire length of it. Most of his body had suffered the same fate, including his back, his legs, and three-quarters of his face. He kept his hair long, but the length did little to hide the stitched filigree of his skin. A beard might have helped, but not when it only grew on the lower, unmarred right side of his face.

  Eight years ago, he’d had his choice of women. Now, he’d be lucky to pay someone to even look at him. Not that he was remotely interested in pursuing dalliances with the opposite sex. Or finding a wife. No, Fletcher had rocks in his brain if he thought that would ever happen.

  Thane pulled the stack of ledgers toward him and glanced over the numbers for the estates. He hadn’t visited his tenants in years, though Fletcher said the land was turning a profit despite the handful of farmers who had left. Their departure was probably due to his black reputation, most of it deserved. He’d been a harsh man before the war, and now he was a hundred times worse. Ruthless to a fault. Hard. Intractable. Unforgiving. The list went on.

  The rumors of the Beast of Beswick abounded, including the one that he’d committed patricide. And possible fratricide. It was true that his ailing father had died of a heart attack upon his return when he’d laid eyes upon his son’s gruesome visage. So, in actuality, he might have killed the man. A few unfortunate months later, his brother had died in a fall during a fox hunt. Once more blamed on Thane, though he’d been nowhere in close proximity to him at the time.

  Leo had been engaged to a mutual childhood friend whose father had suggested aligning his daughter with the new Duke of Beswick. Lady Sarah Bolton had taken one look at him and walked out of the room. Contracts had been voided. Virgins un-sacrificed.

  That’d been four years ago.

  No wonder Fletcher was in a snit about him being unwed.

  Tossing back the remaining brandy, Thane rose and limped to the bathing room. As he’d commanded, the massive fireplaces on either end of the chamber had been stoked and lit. A long rectangular bath lay at the center of the space, beneath which metal plumbing conducted heat from the hearths to the water and to the surrounding slate flooring. He’d designed it himself, and it had cost a bloody fortune. Then again, what was the use of being a rich nob if he couldn’t spend his hard-inherited money?

  Thane wasted no time in divesting himself of all his clothing and wading in, feeling the warm water soothing his aching muscles. He twisted and stretched until his body felt loose, and then he simply floated, staring out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that spanned the length of one wall. Stars twinkled in the distance, swatches of the twilight sky blocked by darker bands of cloud cover. Sometimes, when the moon was full and riding high, it was a truly spectacular view. This was another of his favorite rooms at the abbey.

  A commotion outside the door made him jolt out of his relaxation.

  “No, no,” Culbert was practically screeching. “His Grace is not at home to callers, Fletcher. Good gracious, you imbecile, what on earth are you doing? He doesn’t want to be disturbed, I tell you. He’s…working.”

  Thane wondered who it could be. The Marquess of Roth had developed an annoying habit of turning up in Southend to escape his fractious father. However, Winter hadn’t visited in some time, and Culbert wouldn’t be in a lather about him.

  “You’re the imbecile because she followed you,” he heard Fletcher shoot back. “I told her to wait in the foyer.”

  Thane blinked. She?

  “Is the duke in there? I won’t be a minute.” The voice was decidedly feminine, sultry, and unfamiliar. Thane’s lower abdomen clenched at the sound.

  “My lady, this is highly irregular.” Culbert’s voice had notched an octave at the obvious break in decorum. “His Grace is busy.”

  “This cannot wait,” she said, impatience lacing her tone. “As I’ve already stated, it is a matter of some urgency, and I insist on seeing the duke at once. Surely he can put aside his work for a few moments.”

  He did recall giving the order to Culbert not to be disturbed, and the man was a stickler for instructions. With a huff of vexation, Thane hauled his nude body out of the water and reached for a length of toweling just as a figure barged through the doors.

  The room was partially illuminated by the light of the fireplaces behind him, so he could see the woman clearly, front-lit as she was. The fact that she was tall was his first impression, and then he saw her face, only to falter for breath. Her features were exquisite in their cameo-like symmetry—a perfect creamy oval with wide-set eyes, an elegant nose, and lush, unsmiling lips. She was Renaissance art in the flesh.

  But even as Thane admired her, it wasn’t the kind of beauty that beckoned. Instead, it warned. Or perhaps it was her rigid posture taken with the dour set of that rosebud mouth and the sheets of ice in those eyes. Or the dark hair that was scraped off her forehead into a ruthless coiffure gathered at the nape of her neck. All those sharp angles and cold edges wouldn’t hesitate to decimate a man.

  A vague sensation of wonder filled him. Who was she?

  Her eyes found him then, and her mouth framed a small O of surprise, a fiery blush heating her cheeks as she averted her gaze with a mortified squeak. Her face turned blotchy with a mix of horror and mortification, and Thane suppressed a flinch. He wrapped the drying cloth around his waist, angling the least offensive view of his wet, unclothed body toward her.

  “I b-beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I did not realize. I thought this was the study or the library, not your…not your… Oh my God.”

  Thane supposed it was an honest mistake—after all, it was a converted ballroom on the ground floor, not his private apartments. And Culbert had said he was working, though probably not exactly in the context she had expected.

  “Not God,” he murmured. “Just a duke, and an unholy one at that.”

  As if a spell had been broken, she scrambled to withdraw and collided with a frantic Culbert on her heels. Her arms windmilled madly as she went hurtling in the opposite direction, thrown off-balance. And suddenly Thane found himself sprinting forward to catch her, his hands suddenly full of long-limbed, squirming woman. The only thing holding the thin toweling at his hips in place was the snug clasp of their two bodies.

  “Easy,” he rasped, his palm easing down the slim curve of her back. “I’ve got you.”

  She smelled like warm summer nights, her fragrance swamping him as it rose from her heated skin while she struggled to right herself. He’d gauged that she was tall from a distance, but she still didn’t come up to his chin. Then again, at six and a half feet, he knew most women wouldn’t.

  Their bodies meshed together perfectly, her soft curves yielding to his hard planes. Unlike his brain that was slow to catch on, other parts of his body were taking acute notice of the small but pert breasts that were pressed to his torso and the mile-long, muslin-clad legs that slatted between his very bare thighs.

  He’d forgotten what it felt like to hold a woman.

  “Unhand me, please,” she said, her voice tight with alarm.

  Thane realized that he was keeping her wedged up against him, though her face remained averted and eyes closed. With revulsion, probably. God, what had he been thinking? Not with his head, obviously. He released her so quickly that she took two wobbly steps back and rushed from the room without a backward glance.

  “I tried to tell you, my lady,” Culbert admonished from the hallway. “Would you prefer to wait in His Grace’s study?”

  “Perhaps I’ll come back another time.”

  Thane paused and then popped his head around the door. Surprisingly, his usual annoyance at facing newcomers was absent. He put it down to curiosity. Hell, a woman had sought him out. Voluntarily. And not just any woman…a lady of quality.

  What could she possibly want with him?

  “Surely if it’s so urgent, our guest can be persuaded to wait,” he called out to Culbert. “I will be there shortly.”

  A quarter of an hour later, Thane was once more fit for polite company and fully clothed from top to bottom. He took a deep breath at the study door and slipped in. The room was shrouded in its usual shadow but for the light of the hearth and a single candelabra set far away from the desk. Culbert was present, offering the lady a cup of tea. She sat primly in one of the armchairs, her face angled toward the fire. In profile, her nose was a perfect slope, her chin pointed and determined, and a winged brow was pulled into a frown. Every contour of her body was composed into strict, unbending lines. Despite her loveliness, she did not emanate warmth…as if her exterior was made of stone instead of flesh.

  Giving her his least damaged view, which wasn’t much, he swiftly moved past her to sit in the shadows behind his desk. He had an unfair advantage, he supposed, as the light from the candelabra lit her position, while his location remained in gloom.

  “Lady Astrid Everleigh to see you, Your Grace,” Culbert announced, bowing, and then took his leave. Thane noticed that he left the door cracked slightly. The fusspot of a butler must have been a governess in a previous life.

  He recognized the name, though the faces that came to mind did not include a woman of her age. “Are you related to Reginald Everleigh, the viscount?”

  “My uncle, Your Grace. My father was the late viscount, Lord Randolph Everleigh,” she said in a crisp voice, that chin of hers thrusting forward like the point of a sword. “Though you and I are acquainted,” she went on. “We were introduced many years ago in London during my coming-out before…well, before.”

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