Chapter Twenty

“Astrid. Gracious, Astrid, are you well?”

At the sharp poke in her ribs, she blinked and startled, Aunt Mabel’s concerned face coming into focus. “Yes, yes, of course. I was lost in thought.”

Mabel shot her a shrewd look. “Daydreaming about a certain duke, perhaps?”

She felt her cheeks heat. “Thinking about Isobel, actually.”

It wasn’t exactly an untruth. She had been thinking about her sister, at least until thoughts of Beswick had crowded her brain. The wicked man had made her more than fashionably late after he’d removed every stitch of clothing that poor Alice had painstakingly laced and fastened for her outing to the theater. Buttons had been ripped and fabric torn in their haste to devour each other’s bodies, but Astrid hadn’t regretted a minute of it. Nor had he, clearly.

It was the reason she had missed most the first act of the play.

And it was probably the reason behind Mabel’s thoroughly gleeful smile.

Astrid shook her head. The only reason she’d come to the theater was because Isobel was in attendance. She was still struggling with her sister’s newfound independence and the fact that Isobel seemed to be thriving. Despite being in the earl’s private box with their aunt and uncle, Isobel had continued to seem cheerful and at ease, giving no indication that anything foul was underfoot.

She had met her uncle’s glance once, but he had inclined his head politely with no hint of rancor on his face, which made her even more convinced that he was up to no good. Her uncle had always viewed her as an obstacle when it came to Isobel, and offering his sheltered niece some independence had been a brilliant move. If the unthinkable happened, where Isobel somehow chose Beaumont of her own free will and wanted to marry the man, there would be little Astrid could do. Short of losing her sister forever.

“Shall we take a turn about the foyer, dear?” Mabel suggested as intermission began. “Lord, but I haven’t been to the theater in an age. It makes one work up quite a thirst!”

Astrid would wager that the duchess’s thirst was a result of the scandalously dressed actors carousing onstage. She’d been surprised that her uncle had allowed Isobel to attend this particular play, given its bawdy reputation, but with the man, everything was calculated. Perhaps a play like this would make Isobel feel more worldly. In other circumstances, Astrid would have appreciated the over-the-top humor, but she was too preoccupied by her uncle’s motives.

“Beswick should be here,” Mabel commented.

Astrid sent the duchess a dry look. “You know he would choose torture over appearing at any of these affairs.”

“He attended that masquerade,” the duchess said with a sly smile. “And don’t think I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, even for your supposed marriage in name only. He should be here at your side.”

Astrid’s cheeks were on fire. Dear God. Did everyone in the house know?

“That will never happen,” she said. “The truth is, I am grateful for your company, Aunt Mabel, especially in the duke’s absence. It’s good to feel not so alone, so…exposed.”

What she meant was facing the wolves as the new Duchess of Beswick. After the masquerade, the ton had been afire with the gossip that the reclusive duke had married. And Astrid came with her own fair share of scandal as well. Suffice it to say that the gossip was not exactly kind, not that it ever was.

Some of Astrid’s despair must have bled through, because the duchess cocked her head, a sliver of worry skating across her face. “How is he?”

It was a simply worded, if loaded, question. The truth was, Astrid didn’t know. Her husband had laughed at the drawings in the gossip rags, depicting him as a monstrous creature devouring his grasping, greedy opportunist of a bride with a fistful of money in her hand. The overt malice had horrified Astrid. The accompanying editorials weren’t any more flattering. Apparently, a beast of a duke and a shrew of a spinster were too good to pass up.

“How do you deal with this?” she’d asked Thane when yet another awful parody had hit newsstands.

“Ignore it,” he’d said. “They’ll move on to something else soon.”

But Astrid hadn’t missed the flicker of contempt that had couched his words.

Notwithstanding the gossip, the physical side of things was pleasant—more than pleasant—but Astrid couldn’t help feeling that Thane still kept a large part of himself locked away. He kept people at arm’s length on purpose, never letting anyone in. Her glance slid to the duchess. Well, except Mabel, it seemed. Thane had built himself a dungeon that didn’t have room for anyone else.

Astrid decided to confide in Mabel. “He thinks I’ll leave him.”

The duchess nodded. “Not surprising. That boy has been through hell. So many have left, others he’s pushed away.”

“But not you?”

Mabel smiled. “Oh, he tried. He can be excessively cruel, but it comes from a place of hurt. He wears the scars we see, but it’s the invisible ones that cause the most damage.” She drew a breath, her expression somber. “Deep down, he doesn’t feel he deserves happiness. So he pushes everyone away. He’s twisted himself so much that he can’t recognize when something good is right in front of him.”

Astrid remained silent, though she’d suspected the same…that the duke would never allow himself to get close to anyone. Not even her.

“I’ve had many loves and lovers in my lifetime,” Mabel went on. “And I see you two together. You fight, you flirt, you—” She broke off with a soft puff of laughter. “Well, we both know what else you’re doing. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Astrid’s breath left her in an erratic burst, a thousand denials rising to her lips. What she felt was complicated, and she didn’t think it was love. “I…I care for him, I do. But I can’t afford to lose my heart, not when there’s a chance he won’t risk his.”

“He will, given the opportunity.” Her voice went whisper soft. “I think Thane is in deep, otherwise he wouldn’t be fighting you so hard. He’s lost, and he needs you more than he knows. Don’t give up on him, Astrid. Please.”

Her throat was clogged. “You can’t force someone to care, no matter how much you wish them to.”

“Try for my sake.” The duchess smiled brightly, as if she hadn’t just begged Astrid to do the impossible, as if she hadn’t just laid her own soul bare. “Why don’t we find ourselves some refreshment?”

Mabel rose, tucking Astrid’s hand in her arm, and went to exit the box. Once the curtains parted, however, they were instantly bombarded by curious acquaintances who, no doubt, wanted to see Beswick’s new duchess for themselves. Astrid balked. Oh God, she couldn’t do this, not now…but there was no escape.

“Courage, dear,” Mabel whispered, giving her hand a squeeze. “Show no fear or they’ll sense it like the sharks they are.”

Astrid fortified herself, taking her cue from Mabel and smiling like her life depended on it. For better or for worse, she was the Duchess of Beswick.

“Your Grace, you sneaky minx, why don’t you introduce us to your beautiful companion?” one tall gentleman drawled.

“Goodness, Lady Verne, where have you been hiding?” another voice asked, a woman whom Astrid did not recognize.

A handsome older man reached for Astrid’s knuckles, bowing over them. “Who, pray tell, Duchess, is this charming creature?”

The rest of them stared unabashedly at her.

“Someone fetch me a glass of Madeira before I expire,” Mabel said with a quick slash of her fan. “And then I will humor you lot with introductions.”

Once the Madeira was procured—one for Astrid as well—Mabel tugged her forward to their small but rapt audience. Astrid felt a queasiness low in her stomach. No one would know who she was unless they remembered the scandal from a decade ago, and now she was married to a notorious recluse.

“Allow me to present, informally of course, the new Duchess of Beswick, Lady Astrid Harte.”

The gasps were intermingled with congratulatory wishes amid remarks about her beauty and rumors over the duke’s savaged appearance, and then the questions began in earnest. Astrid shrank back, but not before she saw one woman whisper to another and then another. The word “beast” filtered through, making Astrid bristle. In a few minutes, everyone at the theater would know that the wife of the Beast of Beswick was in attendance. Thanks to the newssheets, the unfortunate moniker had reached London as well.

The noise rose, a man’s voice announcing the start of the third act of the play, but Astrid stood rooted to the spot, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes upon her. She held her chin high, staring down anyone who dared meet her eyes. She was a duchess, wife to a peer of the realm. Let them stare.

“Tell us, my lady,” a man’s voice drawled, “was it a marriage of convenience?”

The voice was nauseatingly familiar. Beaumont appeared with Isobel on his arm. Astrid held her calm, though she wanted to claw him away from her sister with her bare hands.

“The proper address for someone of my rank, Lord Beaumont, is Your Grace,” she corrected coolly. “And aren’t most marriages of the ton ones of convenience or, more importantly, alliance?”

The emphasis on “alliance” was not lost. Not on the earl or on her aunt and uncle who rode his coattails. Beaumont’s face darkened, but his lips curled with disdain. “It would take a lot more than that for most women to marry the Beast of Beswick.”

Astrid laughed, knowing she was under the scrutiny of many, though she took comfort from Mabel standing at her side. “You are correct, Lord Beaumont. Those things are called honor and respect, two principles you will never possess. Good day, sir.” She sent a soft smile to her sister. “Isobel, don’t you look lovely. Enjoy the rest of the performance.”

Astrid forced herself to walk away, despite Isobel. Her battle was with Beaumont, not with her sister. And she needed to prove to Isobel that she wasn’t the overbearing, jealous older sister her aunt and uncle were painting her as. It was, by far, the hardest thing she’d ever done—abandoning her sister to the wolves.

“Bravissimo,” Mabel murmured, eyes flashing with pride when they returned to the privacy of their box.

“She’s so young.”

“Darling, if she’s anything like you, I’d say you have nothing to worry about.”

Astrid searched the duchess’s eyes, finding nothing there but admiration. “Surely you must have heard of my connection with that odious man. If Isobel is anything like I was then, meaning starry-eyed and stupid, then I do have cause to worry. I’ve left her with the wolves.”

She attempted to compose herself, not unmindful of the attention flocking toward their box from the rest of the theater. Gossip traveled fast. Titillating gossip, even faster. After the altercation with Beaumont, people would be putting the connections together.

Astrid Everleigh—ruined heiress.

Astrid Harte—Duchess of Beswick.

Both impostors.

“You’re forgetting one thing, dear,” Mabel said.

“What is that?”

The duchess smiled gleefully. “Lady Isobel grew up with you as a role model…as a self-reliant female for the past ten years. You don’t think any of that has rubbed off? She may be consorting with the wolves, that is true, but have a little faith.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

She patted Astrid’s arm. “Then, focus on something else. Like the auction you have planned. Last I heard, everyone’s coming.”

Like that was better?

Astrid’s stomach fluttered at the thought of the auction that was scheduled for the next day, but her nerves crackled with excitement. She had no idea how it would go or whether it would be the rousing success she hoped for, but Astrid knew her antiquities, and she was confident in her proficiency. She might be worried about Isobel and her own new status as a duchess, but there were two things that never failed her…knowledge and preparation.

And in this, she had both.

…

The teeming auction at Christie’s had gone off without a hitch, thanks to Thane’s very clever, very competent duchess. Thane had never felt prouder, standing in the shadows and watching from the private balcony, when the Duchess of Beswick was publicly and profusely thanked by the owner of the auction house. The total monies the collection had fetched was astronomical…and every extra cent of it was going toward a gift for his wife. He grinned, not that she knew about it yet.

“I’ll miss cricket,” he told Fletcher, who stood beside him.

The valet shot him a dry stare. “I’ll buy you a ball like the normal children.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Doesn’t quite give the same satisfaction to not hear that crashing sound or imagine my father’s reaction,” Thane grumbled, but he clapped an arm over the man’s shoulder. “You did a good thing, Fletch. With the collection and with her.”

“Do I get an increase in my wages?”

“I already pay you a king’s ransom, you ingrate.” Thane rolled his eyes. “That reminds me, I haven’t dismissed you yet this week, so tread lightly. I’ll be waiting in the coach, if you could be so kind as to retrieve my duchess.” He took the private staircase to the waiting conveyance at the side of the building.

In the confines of the carriage, Thane removed the heavy metal key from his pocket and felt a shiver of apprehension at the sight of it in his fingers. He was nervous. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d given anyone a gift, and here he was, about to embarrass himself with the largest gift ever given. She wouldn’t accept, and he’d look a fool.

The coach door opened, and the footman assisted his wife inside. Astrid was glowing as she took the seat opposite him. “Did you see?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes.”

“Thank you for coming,” she said, her lovely face earnest. “I know these public events can be taxing.”

Thane grinned at her and rapped on the roof for them to be away. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“Well, thank you.” A satisfied smile on her face, she stared out the window at the evening crowds, most of them leaving the auction house. “All of those pieces have found good homes. Your father would be happy.”

“My father can rot in hell,” he said and then bit his lip. He didn’t want to ruin her good humor with unpleasant feelings about the former duke. His father deserved to have every single one of those antiques smashed and destroyed without a qualm, just as he’d destroyed Astrid’s hopes for her future. Thane cleared his throat. “Speaking of good homes,” he began. “I have a present for you.”

“A present? For me?” Her sparkling eyes went wide with childlike delight. “What is it?”

His chest feeling oddly tight, Thane handed her the key. “This is part of it.”

“A key.” She laughed, her eyes brightening. “To your heart?”

Said organ squeezed painfully in his chest, but from the smile on her lips, she was teasing.

“Good God, if I’m ever that sentimental, put me out of my misery.” He drew a breath, feeling self-conscious. “I’ve bought some property with the proceeds from the auction, three connected buildings in Northern London. I was thinking you could use it for a school to educate young girls or a place for young women who have limited prospects to find new ones. A safe space.”

Astrid went still, her eyes boring into his, mouth falling open in surprise. “You bought me a building.”

“Several buildings, but yes.”

“With the proceeds,” she said faintly.

“The rest of the money is placed in an account for you to use at your discretion, but yes, all of it is yours to allocate as you see fit.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Thane.”

His smile swayed at the expression in them. “Print some pamphlets. Start an unorthodox revolution. Hire female assassins to hunt Beaumont to the ends of the earth. I don’t care as long as you’re happy.”

His wife launched herself across the carriage into his arms, and then her mouth was on his, hot and sweet and divine. “You dreadful, underhanded man,” she said between kisses that she peppered on his face. “Why do you do these things?”

“To make you happy?”

Astrid pulled back, her hands cupping his cheeks, scars and all. He wanted to nuzzle into them like a cat begging to be stroked. Her hands on him felt like a balm, like a benediction. “This is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me. Oh, Thane, it’s perfect.” She burst into tears. “It’s not fair.”

“Why?” he asked, bewildered.

“You’re making me like you, and I hate it.”

“You don’t want to like me?” He brushed at her tears.

She sniffed and buried her face in his neck. “No. I want you to go back to being the intractable Beast of Beswick.”

“I’m still a beast; look at me.”

“I am looking.” She lifted glimmering ice-blue eyes to his, the melting desire in them making his body come to instant attention. “Thane,” she whispered, “take me home.”

He set his mouth to hers, filling his palms with her body…the long muscles of her slender back beneath her cloak, the soft tendrils of hair escaping her coiffure at her nape, the rounded curve of her hip. He squeezed her rump, and she moaned into his mouth.

“God, how I want you,” he said thickly.

And he did. Thane wanted to bury himself into her sweet welcoming depths, make her cry out in the heat of passion, lick the sweat from her skin in the aftermath. Kiss her softly. Watch her fall asleep. Hold her. Never let go.

Astrid reached one hand down between them, stroking his hard length boldly and making him so hard, it hurt. “Don’t, darling. I can’t seem to control myself around you.”

“I like when you lose yourself,” the minx whispered to him, biting at his lobe and swirling her hot tongue over the shell of his ear. Her mouth found his again, and for a moment he lost himself completely in the feel of her…her taste, her texture, her provocative little noises.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop at Harte House, they were both panting intensely. They stared at each other and burst out laughing at the same time. Astrid smoothed his disheveled hair, while he ran his palms along hers. They exchanged another kiss when he arranged the folds of her cloak and she adjusted his cravat, only breaking apart when the footman opened the door.

Astrid bit her lip, looking chagrined, but Thane just laughed and escorted his duchess down the steps. “Trust me, love, if you could look desirable when you’re shockingly in your cups, a disarranged coiffure won’t detract from your beauty.”

“The things you say, Lord Beswick.” Blushing, she squeezed his arm and rose up on tiptoe as they ascended the steps to the house. “Won’t you take me to bed, Your Grace?”

His bold wife shrieked as Thane scooped her up into his arms. “With pleasure.”

“Don’t drop me!”

“Never.”

He’d castrate himself before she came to any hurt at his hands.