Chapter Fourteen

It was nearly over before Astrid could even blink.

And she did indeed appear for her own wedding in a riding habit and breeches. Though she had brought a few of her sturdy gowns with her, Beswick seemed happy enough with her current state of dress. The minor mortification was eclipsed by the solemnity of the moment. Matrimony. To a man she barely knew but somehow trusted enough to hand over everything most dear to her.

Her sister. Her inheritance. Her future.

Her fragile heart, however, she would guard for as long as possible.

A vicar had been sent for, and the nuptials were to take place in Harte House’s empty ballroom. Though she mourned her sister not being present, it was for Isobel’s very sake that their vows were taken so hastily. Astrid would not put it past Beaumont to ruin Isobel given the chance, but her uncle and aunt would not welcome the scandal. Perhaps the earl, too, had secured a special license and intended to wed Isobel.

Well, no matter. She would now be the Duchess of Beswick.

A duchess.

Astrid drew in a smothered breath as the vicar’s terrified eyes rose to the imposing duke—standing without covering over his face—and fell away to begin the service. Oddly, the vicar’s ungoverned reaction made Astrid want to kick him. She understood what he was seeing. Beswick’s appearance was chilling, though she herself had grown used to it.

She saw the man beneath.

Thane repeated his vows in a deep, resonant voice, no hesitation in it. “I, Nathaniel Blakely Sterling Harte, take thee, Astrid Victoria Everleigh, to be my wedded wife.”

His Christian name is Nathaniel?

The vicar cleared his throat. “Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

Astrid started as the vicar’s eyes fell upon her. He shot her a look as if to ask, Are you certain this is indeed of your own free will? She nearly laughed through her muddled nerves. “I will,” she said.

She sucked in a breath but was distracted by the exquisite sapphire ring the duke slid from his pocket and placed onto her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

“Then, those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” the vicar said.

Thane turned to her, his beautiful eyes a shade of amber that was so clear, she could see a myriad of gilded golden flecks in it. Would he kiss her? It wasn’t the custom, but he never did anything the way it was supposed to be done. She closed her eyes, just as his lips brushed her cheek. “You and Isobel are safe now.”

And then it was done.

Clapping pulled her out of her thoughts as she turned to see Fletcher and the rest of the staff of the townhouse. They were blurred by her tears. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”

“In lieu of a wedding breakfast,” Thane said as she discreetly wiped her eyes, “we shall go to my private club for a wedding supper tonight. The staff will be dismissed from service this evening in celebration.”

As he escorted her upstairs, Astrid leaned in. “I don’t have any clothing appropriate for dinner, Beswick.”

“Thane,” he corrected.

“Not Nathaniel?” she asked with a smile.

Her husband grimaced. “Not if you value your tongue.”

A stunned giggle burst from her at the ferocious but empty threat. “Why do you hate it? It’s a lovely name.”

“I’ve never used it,” he said. “I couldn’t pronounce it when I was a child, and Thane stuck. I’ve always felt it was more…me. My father hated it, but when I refused to answer to any other name for nigh on a year, he eventually gave in as well.”

Astrid had to agree. Thane suited him perfectly. Nathaniel, by contrast, seemed too complicated. Too old-fashioned. Thane carried individuality and strength and an innate simplicity—that what one saw was what one got. If one looked beyond the obvious, that was. Astrid’s glance slid up to the ragged scar splitting his face and the vines of smaller ones creeping down the left side of his cheek and jaw. He was a tapestry of pain but held himself proudly.

Thane.

She ignored the sudden pressure behind her eyes. “I left in such a rush that I didn’t bring a gown for dinner.”

The duke gave her a benign smile and ushered her toward the suite of rooms belonging to the Duchess of Beswick. “Since Agatha is with Isobel, I’ve arranged for the sister of one of the footmen to assist you.” He bowed, mischief in his eyes. “I will see you for dinner shortly…my lady.”

Curious, Astrid walked into her chambers. It was, like everything else in Harte House, exquisitely appointed, in a subtle pale-gold and green color scheme that was pleasing to the eye. An enormous bed sat at the center of the room, its bedposts draped in filmy gauze. A connecting door at one end led to the duke’s own chambers. Her heart stuttered at the thought that the wedding night would have to be consummated, especially to those who might push to have it annulled, but she was grateful that she had her own privacy. For now.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” a young girl said, bobbing a curtsy. “I’m Alice.”

“Good evening, Alice.” Astrid walked toward the bed where the girl stood, her jaw going slack at the sight of the gown on the bed. It was a frothy ice-blue creation of tulle and silk. “Where did that come from?” she whispered.

“From Madame Pinot,” Alice piped up. “She’s the most famous modiste in London, Your Grace. My brother was sent by His Grace to fetch it during the wedding. You are to see her yourself at the end of the week for a full wardrobe.”

Astrid was dumbfounded by the duke’s thoughtfulness. It seemed she had underestimated her new husband, as well as his influence and bottomless coffers if he was able to get a dress in less than an hour and commission an entire wardrobe from a celebrated modiste during the busy start of the Season. She stared at the lovely gown that Madame Pinot must have had on hand and wondered whether it would fit.

“His Grace ordered a bath prepared for you as well.” Alice held out a folded piece of parchment. “Also, a letter came for you, my lady.”

“A letter?” Astrid blinked. “From whom?”

“I’m not sure, Your Grace, but it was delivered to the kitchens a few minutes ago, addressed to Lady Astrid.”

She took the folded piece of foolscap with shaking hands and opened it. Her knees gave out at the sight of the urgently scrawled handwriting, and she collapsed onto the armchair in the sitting area. It was from Isobel, and it was exactly as she had suspected.

My dearest Astrid,

I hope this note finds you well. I’ve just heard from Agatha by way of Fletcher that you arrived in Town only today, and she has promised to see this to you.

First of all, I am well, so do not worry yourself. Please understand that I had to do this, for both our sakes. You should not have to marry under duress, not Beswick, not anyone. I only want for your happiness, Astrid. And mine, too, of course, but never at the expense of yours. You’ve always taken care of me, and it’s my turn now.

In other news, Uncle Reginald is very cross with us but says that I can make it right by securing an expedient match. He says that we are here for the Season so that I may be courted properly and have my choice of suitors. The Earl of Beaumont is also in London, and he remains Uncle’s top candidate for marriage. I have overheard that he means to seek the Prince Regent’s favor to overturn Father’s terms of approval.

Please do not worry about me. If you need to reach me, send word to Agatha. I will be at the Featheringstoke ball a week hence. It is a masquerade. Perhaps I will see you there.

I remain yours, faithfully. Your loving sister, Isobel.

Her sister sounded…normal. Astrid hadn’t expected that, but then again, recent events had been more surprising than not. And Isobel had come to London of her own free will. Perhaps Beswick was correct. Her sister had come from the same willful stock she had. Despite her youth, she was strong and resilient. And she was loyal to a fault.

Astrid’s heart raced as she reread the note. The Featheringstoke ball. It would be a chance to see Isobel for herself, and since it was a masquerade, she would be disguised. She would plan to be in attendance if it killed her. If only to see for herself that her sister was well.

She placed the letter down and followed the maid into the bathing chamber that connected both suites. It seemed somehow far too intimate that she and Beswick would now share such a space. A tub half full of heated water awaited her. It was more than enough for her needs, but she suspected it had been designed with the much larger duke in mind. Astrid couldn’t help the rush of heat along her veins at the scandalous thought that they would both be nude, though at different times, in this very bathing tub.

Undressing quickly, she peeled the dusty riding habit from her body with Alice’s help and then stepped into the deliciously hot water. With a happy sigh, she lathered with the lemon-scented soap that Alice held toward her in a small jar and washed her hair.

The door at the far end of the chamber cracked open, and Astrid squeaked as the master of the house—and her new husband—leaned against the doorjamb. Alice scurried from the room when he gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

He didn’t come any closer, and though the water was opaque with soap suds, his golden stare caressed Astrid from head to toe…even the parts he couldn’t possibly see—causing her to erupt in tingles everywhere. Mortified at her instant reaction to him, she crossed her arms over her tightening breasts.

His broad frame dwarfed the space. He was still dressed in his clothing from earlier, though his cravat looked like it was about to give up the ghost, hanging on to within an inch of its life. His golden-brown hair was endearingly rumpled, curling into one eye and giving him a rakish look. Astrid had to look to pinpoint his facial scars, when all she could see were those brilliant jeweled eyes of his and that firm, sculpted mouth.

“This is my favorite room in this house,” he said softly. He crossed his ankles, one booted foot over the other, and Astrid couldn’t help but notice how snugly his black breeches encased his lean, muscled thighs. Or how the white lawn shirt beneath his open waistcoat hugged the sleek abdominal muscles beneath it.

“It’s lovely,” she managed, entirely too conscious of her own nudity and his disturbing nearness. Not that she expected him to pounce upon her, but she felt defenseless. Astrid cleared her tight throat. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she replied.

He cleared his throat, a deep flush suffusing his skin. “I know you might wish to wait to…consummate the vows, but given the circumstances, sooner might be in our best interest.”

Her lungs seized. Good Lord, he was talking about their wedding night. While she was naked. In a tub. The sensible part of her knew it had to be done, even for a marriage that would be in name only, but other parts of her quivered and quailed. Astrid reached for detached poise and failed miserably. “Quite so. I agree, Your Grace.”

His eyes held hers. “Thane.”

“Thane,” she repeated, her hand sloshing the water.

He didn’t respond, his burning eyes focused on a point below her chin. The sapphire ring on her finger, she presumed, but her assumption was corrected with one glance down. A peach-tipped nipple peeked from the suds floating on the water’s surface. Mortified, she shifted her hand to cover herself.

“Don’t,” her husband said thickly, moving so fast that when he knelt at the edge of the tub, she bit back a hushed gasp. He stared in fascination, his lips flattened, a muscle flexing in that lean jaw. His index finger rose to circle the bud, causing the wet skin to tighten more. “You’re beautiful.”

Astrid sucked in a ragged breath, but the duke seemed utterly mesmerized. Without a word, he rolled the pebbled peak between two fingers, and she couldn’t hold back her moan as lightning shot from her breasts to her thighs. Unconsciously, she arched her back like a cat, pushing her body into his caress. Wanting more. Wanting all.

“Thane, I ache,” she whispered.

His cheek flexed as he froze, his frame rigid, and then scooped her up into his arms, soaking wet. Astrid didn’t even have the decency to blush as he took her to his adjoining chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He placed her in the middle of his large bed, uncaring of his now drenched sheets, and snuffed out the single candle in the room before she heard the telltale rustle of clothing.

In the moment, she wasn’t afraid. She wanted this. She felt restless, her nerves on edge, warmth pooling through her limbs like honey, that ache inside her demanding to be soothed. After a beat, the mattress dipped under his weight, and as his long body hovered over hers, Astrid almost laughed. If there was a time for her brain to put “naked” and “duke” together, this was it.

Although he wasn’t completely naked. He still wore his shirtsleeves. Astrid could feel the fabric grazing her overly sensitive breasts, and compassion surged through her as she recalled the scars she’d glimpsed for a half second when he’d been in his tub at Beswick Park. But then a pair of lean, hair-roughened, bare thighs slid against hers, and her brain went deliciously blank. He was obviously naked down there. And thick and hard and ready.

Her breath sawed out of her lungs.

She was on the cusp of losing her virginity. Losing the very thing that had plagued her every waking moment ever since Beaumont’s accusations. No! She didn’t want to think about him. Not now, not here. She’d chosen to marry Beswick, and she’d chosen to be here in his bed. Chosen to be his wife. These were her choices…on her terms.

“You’re wet,” he growled.

“I just had a bath,” she said without thinking.

His low laughter warmed her as his fingers brushed her curls at the apex of her thighs, and she almost bowed off the bed. “Here. You’re wet for me.”

Astrid sucked in a breath but lost it the minute those big hands started caressing her bare legs…over her calves, behind her knees, her inner thighs. Thane settled his large body between them, his fingertips finding sensitive areas that made her nerve endings scream, and by the time he returned to the heart of her quivering core, she was an overwrought mess of want.

“God, Astrid, you feel like warmed satin.”

The mattress shifted with his weight—the only warning she had before warm lips kissed her there. Right where it ached the most. She nearly shot off the bed as his tongue swirled against her hot flesh. Suddenly, Astrid wished she could see in the darkness, as she imagined those wide shoulders ensconced between her legs, but all she could do was feel.

And feel and feel and feel.

Thane took his time, mapping each fold like a master cartographer, learning each spot that made her writhe and moan against his unhurried onslaught. Astrid had seen lewd drawings in the pages of erotic books, but nothing prepared her for what such a thing felt like. In the darkness, it felt sinfully decadent. Lush. Raw. Powerful.

“It’s too much, Thane. I can’t…”

“You can,” he said, cool air blowing on the exposed heart of her. And then he proceeded to torture her once more, this time adding fingers to the mix. Astrid’s back arched as his lips and tongue worked against her, lapping, sucking, and circling without mercy, while two of his long fingers sank inside her.

Beneath his ruthlessly skillful attentions, pressure built and then broke, bliss cresting over her in sweet, hot waves. But her sneaky husband didn’t stop until he’d coaxed another paroxysm from her in quick succession. Astrid’s body felt deliciously boneless, her mind gloriously blank. Her head fell back against the pillows as Thane made a sound of pure male satisfaction in his throat and levered himself over her upon his muscular forearms.

“You are splendid, Astrid.”

“Now, Thane, please,” she whispered before her courage deserted her. “Make me yours.”

Her cheeks burned. She might as well have ordered him to take her like the virgin sacrifice in some lurid Viking penny novel. But the space between her hips pulsated in agreement. She bloody well wanted to be taken.

Good gracious, can I be any needier?

But she didn’t have time to ponder on it as her very large, very skillful husband chuckled at her demands and positioned himself between her legs. Her knees fell apart to cradle his hips, and she gasped at the wickedly erotic position. It was almost too much…the sensitivity, the weight of him, the texture of his firm male body. A brief twinge of anxiety rolled through her, and her muscles tensed in anticipation.

But she didn’t have time to dwell on it when she felt the warm prod of him at her entrance, and slowly, he pushed inside. Astrid gasped and clutched at his shoulders. The pinch of friction took her by surprise, as did the feeling of fullness, even though she’d known to expect the discomfort, but her body gradually relaxed to accommodate him. And then he began to move with slow, deep thrusts that made her toes curl and her palms fall to fist in the bedsheets.

True to their agreement, he didn’t kiss her on the mouth, but his marauding fingers plucked at her nipples, making her spine arch and driving her mindless with pleasure. Thane’s hand slid down between their joined bodies, pressing that slick, needy spot between her thighs where all sensation seemed to converge. Astrid moaned as his adept fingers worked her, his hips quickening in their movements even as his movements grew more uncontrolled.

Heat sparked and ignited once more, and then she was bursting into a million pieces as her release crested and shattered. With a final thrust and a guttural groan, the duke yanked himself from her body and collapsed against her, panting heavily. She could feel a sticky warmth between them on the skin of her belly. He did not speak, though she could feel him breathing, his heart hammering wildly against hers, communicating in a language all their own.

“Astrid,” he rasped after several minutes, his voice deep and sated. “Are you well? Did I hurt you?”

“No, it was wonderful,” she whispered. “Did I…? Was I…?”

Her husband gathered her into his arms, his lips feathering her damp brow. “You were perfect. You are perfect.”

…

Thane refastened the buttons of his waistcoat and remained still while Fletcher replaced his earlier rumpled cravat with a fresh one. Honestly, the thing was worse than a damn noose. The valet slid his jacket over his shoulders and brushed at several imaginary pieces of lint on the raven-black fabric. Fletcher turned to grab a comb from the mantel and studied him as if he were a horse to be curried. “Might I suggest some pomade?”

“No.” Thane scowled. “I already look enough like a dandy as is. Astrid knows who I am and what to expect of me.”

Fletcher grinned, uncowed by his expression. “That she does, but it’s your wedding day, Your Grace. You’re supposed to make an effort for your duchess.”

His duchess.

Thane’s heart thudded against his rib cage. He had a wife. One who had made him spend in a handful of minutes like a randy lad, just from the warm, wet clasp of her body. Though she’d been a virgin, her responsiveness had demolished him. And the divine flavor of her. Fuck! He could still taste her on his tongue—the savor of rosewater and ocean breezes. It only made him want her more.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d come so hard and so fast. At least he’d had the presence of mind to withdraw. The prevention of pregnancy was something they would have to discuss later. But for now, he hoped to repeat the experience. Though they’d only agreed to consummate the marriage, if Astrid permitted, he intended to make it up to her after dinner tonight, when he would take his time. Sample every inch of her. Make her scream his name and come so many times, she’d lose count. He wanted to worship her the way she deserved.

Hell, he was getting aroused just thinking about it.

Thane tamped down his lust, allowing the valet to unsnarl his hair and smooth the locks back into place. He stared at himself in the mirrored glass, the familiar sight of his patchwork face looking back at him. Thank God he’d taken her under the cover of darkness and kept his shirt on. His face was a fair sight better than the rest of him.

Descending the staircase, he entered the foyer. Even though they were going out for dinner, his staff had gone beyond the call of duty to brighten up the place. Soft candlelight illuminated the room from the chandelier, and vases of fresh hothouse roses added bright spots of color. His bride had not yet arrived. Thane signaled for a finger of brandy as he lingered, but he didn’t have to wait long.

His throat went dry as he felt her presence. Astrid looked equal parts ethereal and regal…like a fairy queen visiting from some mystical land. Her dark hair had been twisted into loose coils and pinned to her crown, and she wore no jewelry save for the rings on her finger. He’d been right. The diaphanous silvery blue fabric matched her eyes perfectly. The dress itself was modest, but Astrid in it made it a tool of seduction. It hugged her frame to perfection, the bodice molding her breasts and reminding him of the way her slender but voluptuous body had felt beneath his.

His groin tightened instantly.

Christ.

Thane grazed his lips over her gloved fingers before tying her cloak over her shoulders. “Your Grace,” he murmured, leading her to where the carriage was waiting. “You look exquisite.”

Bright eyes met his. “As do you.”

He took his place across from her and rapped on the roof, and the coach lurched into motion. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“The Silver Scythe. For dinner. It’s not far from here. I thought it would be a pleasant outing.”

“Oh.” She wet her lips. “I would have been happy to stay in.”

“It’s your wedding day, Astrid. You deserve for it to be memorable.”

A blush bloomed over her cheeks as she canted her head, a gleam in those transparent eyes of hers. “It already is.”

Thane stifled the rush of pleasure at her words, along with the urgent need to instruct the coachman to turn the carriage around at once and head back to Harte House. He wanted her again. Badly enough to plead for her favors, agreement be damned. Thane had never begged for a single thing in his life, but he’d drop to his knees for her in a heartbeat.

“I do admit that I want to show off my beautiful new bride,” he said.

“Hardly beautiful, Your Grace,” she said, that gorgeous blush deepening. “Isobel is the beauty in the family, not me.”

He arched a brow. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”

“I think this particular beholder might be biased because of what just happened between us, and his brain is still fuzzy,” she said dryly. “If he’s thinking with his actual brain, that is.”

Thane barked a laugh. He might be temporarily influenced by the appendage in his trousers, but Astrid was beautiful. Though hers was a beauty sheathed in danger—in those sharp eyes, that fine-edged intelligence, and that barbed tongue. Even now as he craved her body, he also wanted to hear her converse and laugh. A strange feeling bloomed in his chest. Dare he call it optimism? He bit back a grin. Christ, he’d never hear the end of it from Fletcher.

“Are you saying I’m ruled by my passions, Duchess?” he asked just as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his club and the coachman rapped on the door. He helped her down from the coach, his fingers flexing on her slim, silk-clad waist and instantly recalling how velvety soft her bare skin had been.

Astrid’s teasing glance slid to the bulge in his trousers, a playful smile on her lips. “I don’t know, Duke, are you?”

He groaned. “Do you blame me? All I can think about is having you in my arms again.”

Her reply was so quiet, he almost didn’t hear it.

“I wish that, too.”

Thane stopped so suddenly that his poor wife nearly went pitching forward through the doors of The Silver Scythe. Hardly daring to hope, he turned, his eyes meeting hers and holding them. “What are you saying, Astrid?”

Her smile was pure seduction. “How quickly can you eat?”

Before he could form a coherent reply, they were being welcomed and ushered by the proprietor to an opulent dining room. Though Thane could hardly focus, his nerves were so jumbled by Astrid’s shattering admission. Heads turned as they were led to their table, and already Thane could hear the murmur of whispers.

However, when a particularly unkind sentiment reached him, he frowned. People were staring, but it took him a moment to realize that their stares were full of pity, not admiration. He blinked, fists clenching. He was used to the insults, but his glance slid to his bride, whose face had tightened as the word “beast” filtered through the air. She flinched at the sudden peal of loud, cruel laughter, and he resisted the impulse to growl his displeasure.

Her face paled when more whispers reached their ears. “How do you deal with this?”

“I don’t.”

And he didn’t. For the most part, the rest of the aristocracy tended to shy away from him, not just because of the way he looked but because his temper was notorious. No one cared to be mauled by the Beast of Beswick. But now, with Astrid, he felt exposed. Every flicker of her eyes, every pained twitch of her lips felt like a new blow to him. A lash to freshly vulnerable skin.

Determined to enjoy the evening for her sake, Thane sipped on chilled cucumber soup and chewed tender lamb before sparing his duchess a glance. Her brow had knitted with a curious combination of confusion, discomfort, and annoyance, but she seemed focused on her food. As he ate, he felt her gaze upon him from time to time, but she remained steadfast upon her own meal. He worried that if he looked up, she would see the rage brewing in his eyes and think it directed at her when it wasn’t.

Even now as the mention of “bestiality” reached him followed by noxious laughter, Thane found himself holding on to his temper by a thread. Every muscle in his body was locked. It was as though they didn’t even see Astrid—the jewel she was—they only saw him. He wanted to rail and rage, but at the same time, his tortured soul filled with powerless anger. Powerless to prevent it. Powerless to protect her.

God, how could he be so blind? So stupid?

No matter what, his appearance could never be changed. People would always stare, and they would always whisper, and the ton’s cruelty knew no bounds. They thought him a monster, and she was now the monster’s bride. He could not protect her by virtue of who he was—the duke. He could only hurt her by what he was—the beast.

No woman deserves to be tied to this.

The only answer would be to keep her at a distance. To close himself off.

As if she could sense his turmoil, her low voice pierced his hateful thoughts. “Your Grace, do you wish to leave?”

He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. “No. Finish your dinner.”

Despite her concerned glances, he made no attempt to converse, no attempt at refined politesse, and his behavior, without question, bordered on rude. If she was confused at the peculiar turn of events or his conduct, she did not show it. But Thane knew that if he opened his mouth, only vitriol would follow. He’d cause an unforgivable scene, and as furious as he was, it was still her wedding day. But by the time they finished the last course, the strain on Astrid’s face was clear. Whether that was because of their avid audience or him, he could not say.

“Have I done something to displease you?” she asked in a low voice after they were back in the privacy of the carriage.

“No.”

“Then, what is bothering you? Why are you shutting me out? Are you…regretting your decision?”

Thane drew a deep breath and voiced the resolution he’d come to at dinner. “Once your sister is safe from Beaumont, I will move back to Beswick Park. You may remain here in London. Harte House is yours. If it is not to your satisfaction, I will buy you any other property that suits you.”

Astrid blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Since this marriage is a means to an end, it is preferable that we reside separately,” he said. Her stare met his, pale-blue chips of ice, when they arrived at his residence. Her expression was riddled with hurt and confusion.

“Why?” she asked. “Because people were staring and whispering? I don’t care.”

“You will after a while. Trust me that this is for the best, Astrid.”

The air grew thick with tension between them. It was his fault, he knew, but he had to protect her from herself. And from him. This was the only way to keep her unscathed. If the ton believed it was a marriage of inconvenience, she might have a chance to join their ranks unscathed. Thane knotted his fingers into fists.

He owed her that much for the price of being the unfortunate Duchess of Beswick.