Chapter Thirteen

“Where is His Grace?” Astrid asked Culbert two days later when she’d not seen hide or hair of the duke. Or Fletcher, for that matter. Then again, she’d been finalizing the items for the auction and had been buried in the study from early that morning.

“He’s gone to London, my lady,” the butler said.

Without telling me?

Astrid felt a snap of discomfort. Had he left without a word because he was displeased? Because she’d told him no? Her past swung back to taunt her. She’d said no to Beaumont, and he’d turned around and punished her. Was Beswick doing the same? He hadn’t struck her as that type of man, but she’d been disillusioned by men before.

No, he must have finally gone to arrange for the marriage license, and if he went for other reasons that didn’t bear thinking about, why should she care? But Astrid couldn’t help being annoyed. With him for leaving without informing her and with herself for feeling anything at all.

“For how long?” she asked the butler.

“He didn’t say, my lady.” This time, she let her annoyance show, making Culbert back up a sharp step. “I’m certain he will be back soon.”

Very well, then. She would do as she pleased, too. Which would include a long ride on Brutus and perhaps a trip to the village. Isobel would like that, and they would be safe enough with the men Beswick had hired to keep an eye for trespassers on the estate. They were men loyal to him, she knew. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with their safety.

Why did he leave without a word to me?

The slight niggled at her. But then she thought of how they last parted—she’d run from him and she’d kept on running. She had avoided him, and he’d left for London without a word. Astrid didn’t want to analyze the feeling in her chest. Disappointment? Regret?

May I kiss you?

The whispered plea had crushed her soul. Because she’d wanted his kiss more than anything in the world. The sheer force of the yearning inside her had made her weak with desire. The clasp of his big, warm hands on her foot…the indescribable need to feel those fingers elsewhere. She’d wanted to give him everything.

A man like Beswick would swallow her whole.

And she could not afford that.

“Agatha,” she said, striding into her bedchamber. “My green riding habit, please. Agatha?” Astrid looked around the spotlessly clean room, but the maid was nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps she was with Isobel. It was no hardship to dress herself. Most of her special riding habits had been tailored with closures in the front, and since she planned for a bracing round astride Brutus, she would not need the regular habits designed for a lady’s sidesaddle.

The brisk ride might also take away the fullness between her thighs that had not dissipated in days. In private moments over the years, Astrid had found release on her own, but she couldn’t risk being caught. Not here. Though in one of the volumes of private letters she’d discovered in the upper echelons of Beswick’s library, a woman touching herself was not shocking at all. In fact, the author, Ninon de Lenclos, who had been a French courtesan, encouraged it.

One part of her restraint was because she was in someone else’s residence, but the other part was the duke himself. The thought of Beswick even suspecting the madness to which he drove her was so dreadful that she resisted the impulse, even knowing the relief it would bring.

Did he touch himself and think of her in the same way?

A wicked image of the Duke of Beswick lying in bed, head flung back with his hand caught over the fabric of his bulging breeches, assaulted her. She lost all feeling in her legs as breath and bones went on hiatus, making her sway and nearly stumble.

Good Lord, this was becoming ridiculous.

A ride. A ride on Brutus would solve everything. In her haste to get to the stables, she didn’t notice the uproar coming from the foyer until she was upon it. She almost crashed into Culbert arguing with Patrick, who was so white-faced that she didn’t recognize him. His naturally ruddy complexion was ashen, his red hair sticking up on end.

“What is it?” she asked, taking in the duke’s men who patrolled the estate grounds. Her stomach tilted in premonition. Was it Beswick? Had something happened in London?

“It’s Lady Isobel, my lady.” Mrs. Cross, Beswick Park’s newest housekeeper, stepped forward from the melee. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” Astrid repeated. “Where?”

“She left a message with one of the undermaids saying that she has gone to London with her aunt and uncle. Agatha is with her.” Mrs. Cross look troubled. “Lord Everleigh sent his carriage several hours ago.”

“London? Why on earth would she—?” Astrid broke off, her hand flying to her mouth. She should have seen it coming, especially when Isobel had mentioned feeling like a burden that day in the village of Southend. Her sister might be frivolous at times, but she had a spine of steel, especially when it came to those she loved. Without a doubt, she’d gone to London to take matters into her own hands—to save Astrid from having to marry for Isobel’s sake.

“Why did no one summon me?” she demanded.

“You said you weren’t to be disturbed, my lady,” Culbert said, looking a bit shamefaced. “And Lady Isobel said she’d already discussed it with you.”

Of course she had. Astrid’s thoughts spun. What was her sister planning? As much as she pretended not to be clever or value intelligence, Isobel had quite a formidable brain in her head. And if she thought she was saving Astrid from an unwanted marriage, nothing would stop her. At least she’d had the presence of mind to take a lady’s maid with her. Astrid trusted Agatha to keep her sister safe.

“She left you a note, my lady,” the housekeeper said, handing it to her.

Sure enough, the note was in Isobel’s neat handwriting, saying exactly what Mrs. Cross had communicated. Isobel had accompanied their aunt and uncle to London for the start of the Season and promised that she was going to fix things. She’d added that their uncle had promised new gowns and jewels and to give her a chance to choose a suitor who pleased her.

Astrid gritted her teeth. Of course he had. He’d promise anything to get his greedy hands on Isobel’s dowry. And Astrid wouldn’t discount the fact that Beaumont wasn’t still involved somehow. Her brain whirled furiously. What were her conniving relatives up to?

Or better yet, what was her sister up to?

Culbert made a pained noise, distress written all over him. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop her, my lady. She was so convincing. Is Lady Isobel in trouble?”

“It’s not your fault, Culbert. Isobel is headstrong. It tends to run in the family,” Astrid said. “Whether she’s in trouble remains to be seen. I suspect this is yet another ploy of my uncle’s. And it’s my doing, too. I should have seen this coming.”

“Shall we send word to the duke?”

Astrid shook her head. “No, if Isobel has gone to London, I will go myself.”

…

Sitting in his study at Harte House in Mayfair, Thane stared hard at the documents in hand—a marriage license granted by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It seemed incongruous that such a small piece of parchment would hold so much power to bind two people together without the customary posting of the banns. And yet it did.

He and Astrid would be married.

Thane hadn’t seen her before leaving for London. He’d left that task to Culbert. The truth was that he couldn’t face her, not after she’d fled his presence. Not after he’d begged for her favors like a schoolboy begging for sweets. God, he was pitiable. Not even his own future wife could stand to be in the same space as him.

He toyed with the idea of visiting his club. The idea of drowning himself in a bottle of port while fleecing other men of their fortunes at the gaming tables had merit. It was better than sitting here, waxing philosophic over a piece of foolscap.

“Summon Fletcher,” he called out to a nearby footman. “Tell him to ready a bath. I’m going out.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The master bathing chamber at Harte House had also been updated to match the ones installed at Beswick Park, with bathtubs large enough to fully accommodate his size and his needs. When the bath had been readied and Thane lay submerged in water as hot as he could manage, he felt some of the tension slowly start to melt away.

“You may go,” he told Fletcher. “I’ll be a while.”

“Your outing, Your Grace?”

“I’ll decide when I’ve finished.”

“Very well.” Fletcher nodded, his normally pleasant face austere. Thane felt a spurt of annoyance. He knew his longtime valet and friend had something to say, and normally he was more than liberal with his advice.

“What would you do in my place?” he heard himself ask.

Fletcher paused at the door. “Marry the lady. Make a life. Be happy.”

“The lady in question doesn’t want me. At least, not in that way.”

“She doesn’t know you, Your Grace.”

Thane rubbed his temples. “You know what I’ve been through. I’m not built for a life like that. With love, and laughter, and sodding rainbows. Look at me.” Thane gestured to the puckered flesh of his left side and the ugly terrain of scars on his legs visible beneath the water. “I’m a fucking monster. Who deserves to lie with this?”

“So what?” the valet said, biting off the words as if they came from somewhere dreadful. “You have more than a few scars. We all have scars, Your Grace. My father killed my mother in front of his four children because another man looked at her. She did nothing to deserve his abuse but took it for years.”

Stupefied, Thane stared at him as Fletcher broke off, chest heaving and fists clenched. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” Fletcher shrugged. “I let hate poison me so much that I walked away from any chance at happiness. And you know what, Your Grace? Pride is a lonely bedfellow.” He smiled sadly. “Just because I’m not marked on the outside doesn’t mean I’m not hurt. That I’m not wounded. But you need to decide whether you let your scars rule you. And if they do, if that is all you think you are, then forgive me for saying that Lady Astrid deserves more.”

“She deserves more anyway,” he whispered, but Fletcher had already left, shutting the door behind him.

Thane sighed, submerging his knotted shoulders. Perhaps he could just stay here instead. Interminably. He let his body slide down the porcelain surface of the tub, sinking his head beneath the water, until his heartbeat roared dimly in his ears.

Behind his closed lids, visions of Astrid appeared—ones of her curled on the bench in his conservatory, all peach-colored skin and fierce-witted intelligence, and others of her spread out on his bed in tantalizing glory, all sin and desire and naked torment. Unable to help himself, he focused on the latter. Her full lips were pink, those ice-blue eyes of hers warm pools of want. Handfuls of glossy hair spilled over her shoulders, hiding her ample curves from view and playing peekaboo with rosy nipples.

His already hard cock twitched. Never one to deny himself, he reached down to grasp himself in one fist, stroking upward almost roughly. He repeated the movement several times more as his breath shortened and his ballocks tightened. Head flung back, he gave himself up to the release streaking through him until he was spent. It felt less satisfying than usual. Loneliness. He knew why, of course. His body craved her.

Hell, he was as fucked as Fletcher.

Reaching for a length of toweling, he stood and dried himself. He would go out. He would fill his mind with other things. Anything but the woman he could not have.

Shrugging into his robe, he stalked into the adjoining chamber. “Fletcher, send for my carriage—”

His words broke off. The lady of his fantasies stood there in the flesh at the entrance to his bedchamber, mere steps away from his bed. She looked beautiful and flushed as her eyes swept his half-dressed form. Though not with mutual desire…with fear and with worry. Thane blinked, sanity returning.

“Astrid, what is it? Why have you come?”

“Thane, it’s Isobel,” she rasped, her hands going to her face. “She’s with my aunt and uncle here in London.”

“She’s here?” Conscious of his nudity, he fastened his robe before going to her and gathering her into a loose embrace. “Start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.”

In a few short sentences, she told him about the note and the fact that Isobel had gone willingly. “She said they were happy to let her decide for herself. They’ve promised her gowns and trinkets, more than enough to turn a girl’s head. My uncle is up to something, I know it.”

“Fear of the debtor’s prison drives men to many things,” he said. “And trust your sister. From what I’ve seen, she’s very much like you.”

“Isobel is nothing like me. She’s kindhearted and sweet, and people will take advantage of her. Especially my uncle, who has probably convinced her of his good intentions.”

He brushed the hair off her brow. “I think you underestimate what she’s capable of.”

“At least Agatha is with her,” she said eventually, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. “She will look out for her as well as she is able.” Thane held her for a few more minutes until she gently extricated herself. “I had to come.”

“Yes,” he said, turning slightly so that his hips hid his renewed erection. Despite the circumstances, the feel of her long, warm body in his arms had been the sweetest kind of punishment, and while his reaction would most likely not be welcomed, it could not be controlled. The fiery tint of her cheeks, however, led him to believe that she’d already discerned the unruly state of his body.

“We need to marry before Uncle Reginald tries to find some loophole in my father’s will.”

“Yes, I have the license.”

Her eyes flew to his. “You do?”

“What did you think I came to London for?” he asked, frowning.

Astrid swallowed. “I don’t know. I assumed it was for business. Culbert didn’t say much other than you had gone. I thought maybe you left because you were angry.” Her eyes snagged on the evening clothing that Fletcher had set out. “Were you going out?”

“No.”

Her fingers dipped to stroke the superfine jacket. “It looks like you were.”

“I was, but I’m not anymore.”

“Beswick,” she began, and he sighed at the address. They were back to formality. She’d called him Thane when she’d first arrived, and the welcome sound of it had made his barren heart fist in his chest. Her beautiful face was devoid of emotion, but he could see those slender fingers of hers winding in her skirts as if they were too undisciplined to be contained by the force of her will. Those expressive hands always gave her away. “Do you have a mistress?”

His mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

“Here in London. Do you?”

“No.”

“I thought that was why you came to Town. Because I could not…would not…give you what you wanted.” Astrid stared at the ground, her cheeks crimson. “I know when we first spoke about terms and mistresses…”

She gulped and trailed off miserably. Thane wanted to laugh, but he was sure she would not appreciate his humor in the situation. When she’d first propositioned him, he’d only been toying with her to see what she would say. He took her hands in his.

“Astrid, I assure you, I do not have a mistress or mistresses. And I was not on the way out to sow my wicked and wild oats, if that was what you were imagining.” Her blush deepened, and he cleared his throat. “However, as it so happens, I do have something quite important planned. And now, so do you, in fact.”

She glanced down at her dusty, wrinkled riding habit, her brown eyebrows raised in surprise. “I am not dressed for society. What is it?”

“Our wedding.”

She blanched, her voice lowering, though no one was around to hear her confession. “I am wearing breeches, Your Grace.”

Thane’s deep chuckle filled the room. “Somehow, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”