Chapter Three

Oh, sweet merciless Lord.

The duke was frighteningly huge. And his appearance at close range…

Despite all the gossip and the rumors, Astrid had not been prepared. The Lord Harte she’d met in passing years ago had been surrounded by eager admirers, most of them female. A second son and the duke’s spare, he’d been born into privilege and wealth and had been handsome and fit, if somewhat standoffish. He would have been sought after if he hadn’t secured himself a captain’s commission and hied off to war.

A war that had reduced him to this…shadow of himself.

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 did not shudder, 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 felt everything. 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 like any other 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, and she deserved 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.”

“Is that so?”

She bristled at his tone, though she wasn’t sure whether he was mocking what constituted a lady’s education or whether he was mocking her. “Yes.” And then she added, “Among other things.”

“Like the study of ancient Chinese relics?”

Astrid sighed. Most men in her experience felt threatened by any females who knew anything at all. But she wasn’t here to demonstrate her intelligence or use it as a defense against unwanted suitors; she was here to land herself a husband who was a bigger predator than the one she and Isobel currently faced. “I enjoy learning, Your Grace.”

“Given your diverse range of feminine…talents, why hasn’t some society fop seduced you off your accomplished feet and filled your womb with broods upon broods of future aristocrats?”

A blush crept up her neck. Gracious, but he was coarse. She could hardly tell him that one lying man’s word against her own had well and truly barred that door. “Perhaps because I did not wish to be seduced.”

“Don’t all women wish for seduction?”

His eyes burned into hers, that sultry rasp doing unnatural things to her. A handful of words, and Astrid couldn’t tempt a puff of air to enter her shrinking lungs. A rush of prickling heat blazed over her skin. Her entire body felt tight as if the slightest pressure would make her shatter. Gracious, what was the matter with her?

“Not all women,” she choked out, her face hot, but her addled brain could not stop conjuring images of him naked, limned in fire and candlelight. A sliver of toweling that had barely hid his silhouetted masculine outline or the broad, muscular planes of his chest. She’d even gotten a brief glimpse of his swinging male part, and even that had sent a lightning bolt of heat to the base of her spine. The duke might be badly scarred, but he wasn’t disfigured there.

Focus, you nitwit!

Astrid swallowed and brought her marauding thoughts ruthlessly under control. A fit of nerves hit her hard, one hand rising awkwardly to smooth her hair. No strand had escaped her coiffure, however. She felt his intense gaze track the movement of her palm. He seemed fixated, and her fingers fluttered in midair for an interminable moment before falling back to her lap.

Beswick leaned forward, folding his thick arms across the desk’s surface. Even with the enormous scar that bisected his face, the diamond cut of his aristocratic cheekbones sweeping toward that perfect, luscious mouth commanded attention.

His head tilted in silent ducal command. “If I were to consider your proposal, what would I get out of it?”

“You need my help.” Astrid glanced around the room, touching on the priceless antique dish. “Least of all to catalog your antiquities. But as your wife, beyond my marital duties, I shall endeavor to be a proper hostess, should you seek to entertain. I’m also good with mathematics and can assist in your bookkeeping or estate management. Lastly, it’s clear that a woman’s touch is needed in your household.”

She cringed, aware that she’d just criticized his home, but the duke’s expression remained inscrutable.

“So when would you propose to do it?” he went on smoothly. “Marry?”

Astrid’s heart jumped in surprise. God above, was he amenable? She narrowed her eyes. Or was he toying with her? She released a pent-up breath. “As soon as possible.”

“Do you have terms?”

She nodded and reached into her reticule for the list she had prepared, then placed it on the desk between them. Despite her optimism, she’d known the odds were slim. “In terms of funds, I do have a dowry. I humbly ask for a certain amount of that be put aside for my sister’s Season. In return, I will perform the aforementioned tasks as well as…submit to you as required to procure your heir.” Astrid bit her lip, fighting the sensual quake that rocked through her. “I assume once that is achieved, you will see to your needs elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“I will not begrudge you a mistress, Your Grace.”

…

Thane was glad to be obscured by the shadows. A mistress? Irritation flashed over him. Though many lords kept mistresses in addition to wives, he was not one of them.

At this point, thoroughly pricked pride was all that kept him from showing her the door. Pride and the need to give back as good as she gave. Though his better instincts warned against engaging, he nodded and pushed the inkstand closer to where she could reach it. “You should make a notation of more than one.”

“More than one?”

“Mistress,” he said. “My physical needs are varied. And quite demanding.”

A choked sound met his ears as she reached for the inkpot and the pen, unspooling the piece of foolscap as she did so. The scratch of the pen was loud and heavy as she added an “ES” as a small postscript to the word. “There. Satisfied?”

It hurt to hold his perverse gratification inside. “And we might possibly need to rethink the word ‘submit.’ It’s so outmoded—a wife submitting to her husband as though she has no say. I prefer my duchess to be vocal on what she wants.”

Those pink lips flattened, splotches of bright color flooding her cheeks. “What would you like to add, Your Grace? Positions? Places?” The little astringent bit of muslin huffed an irritated breath. “If you intend to make this a mockery, then we may as well not continue along this path. We are venturing into the realm of the offensive, sir.”

What was offensive was his desire to see her utterly unclothed and open, with nothing but that salty mouth holding him at bay. Thane dug his fingers into his thighs and shook his head to clear it. They both knew that would never happen, no matter her asinine terms. She would flee his ill-tempered presence eventually, just like everyone else.

Thane had only humored her to see how far she would go. He did not intend to marry anyone or to sire any heirs, as he’d told Fletcher, but in truth, he’d been bowled over by her temerity. The eavesdropping Culbert and Fletcher were, too, if their collective indrawn breaths through the cracked door were any signal.

His eyes narrowed. “You never answered my question about why you’re not yet married.”

“I did, but you chose to go off on an unwelcome tangent of ducal innuendo.”

God, but she was tart. He grinned, his earlier umbrage dissolving into wicked enjoyment. “True, but I am a duke, and ducal innuendo is my forte. Please answer the question as you would to a backward child in your care. Say as if you were a governess.”

She frowned at him so hard, he could see the wheels turning in her head.

“I suppose I’ve been compared to worse,” she said eventually. “Well then, I have not yet married because I have not found the right match.”

“No one has asked you?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Wintry eyes met his, her proud chin hiking. “Not that it’s any of your business, Your Grace, but yes, I have been asked.”

“But if you had said yes and married, you wouldn’t be in this position, would you?” he said. “Begging because you were overly choosy.”

“I’m not begging,” she snapped. “And I wasn’t choosy.”

He arched an eyebrow. “No?”

“I was sixteen during my first and only Season. That gentleman did not know me or have any interest in getting to know me. He desired me for my face, my fortune, and my body.”

“Aristocratic marriages are arranged on less.”

She loosed an aggravated breath, but her response was noncommittal. “Perhaps.”

“And now? You decided to buck tradition and do the asking yourself?”

“As I’ve said, Your Grace, this is a business arrangement, no more, no less,” she replied.

“Such sangfroid from one so young.”

“I am five and twenty, so no blushing maiden.”

Thane sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers clutching the desk. Her experience did not matter, of course, but now that the chessboard was set and the game was ferociously in play, there was no backing down. “On that point, what may I ask is the status of your virtue?”

Flames obliterated the aloofness in her eyes. “You are too bold, sir!”

“Come now, in your own words, you are not a blushing maiden, and we are negotiating a marriage contract. A man has to be certain of these things, of whether he will be in possession of a soiled dove or a virtuous swallow.”

Her gasp was loud in the silence, as were those of Culbert and Fletcher. If he wasn’t careful, both of them would burst in here to defend the poor woman from their master’s vulgarity. Not that this woman needed anyone rushing to her defense. Her tongue was her sword, and she wielded it with biting finesse.

Sure enough, a blazing gaze met his. “What, might I ask, is the status of yours?”

“Decidedly unvirtuous.”

That sharp chin of hers elevated a notch. “Then that makes one of us. Clearly I’m nowhere near your sphere of self-proclaimed experience, though I’m hard-pressed to believe any words that come out of your mouth. In my narrow experience, men who boast about their prowess leave much to be desired.”

Thane couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and roared with laughter until tears were brimming in his eyes. No one had ever stood up to him like this slip of a girl. Woman, he amended.

“This was a ridiculous idea,” she muttered, standing to leave and then halting mid-motion as if caught in the midst of some raging internal battle.

She bit at her lips and then sighed heavily, clenching her jaw. When she looked up at him, the sparks of fire had gone from her gaze. What remained was desperation, tinged with despair. She leaned across the desk, and Thane knew she could see every one of his scars at such close proximity, but she did not flinch back or drop her eyes from his.

“Please, Duke, I implore you to consider my offer,” she said.

Despite her choice of words, it was not a plea. This was not someone who begged for anything, but even he could sense her hopelessness. A flicker of a beat in his barren heart wanted him to agree. But his head knew he could not.

Reason returned with swift efficiency. “Lady Astrid, I—”

“Must get ready for a previous engagement,” Fletcher interrupted, bustling in. Both Thane and Lady Astrid turned in surprise. “You can look over the correspondence from the lady later, Your Grace.”

“Fletcher, this is highly irregular—” he began in warning, but as usual, the valet took no notice of him. One wouldn’t fathom that the man actually worked for him or that his employer was the damn duke.

“Come now, my lady,” Culbert said, following in Fletcher’s wake and taking the foolscap from her fingers with an elaborate flourish. “Leave this with His Grace.”

Lady Astrid looked bewildered at the turn of events and the meddling servants. So was Thane, but he knew exactly what Fletcher and Culbert were about. Clearly, they both thought that she was his only chance at any kind of future. But he knew better—he understood his reality. Hungering for impossible outcomes would only lead to despair. And Thane had had enough of despair to last a lifetime.

He had to end this.

“The answer is no,” he growled, halting them in their tracks at the study door. “Not now. Not ever.” He turned to Fletcher and Culbert. “Do not ever presume to know my mind, either of you. Leave my sight before you’re put out on your deuced heels.”

Both men slunk away as he swung back to the silent woman who fixed him with an appalled expression. “Since you found your way into my home uninvited, I trust you know the way out, Lady Astrid. Don’t come back.”

Hard eyes like polished aquamarine met his, holding them. She did not flinch at his aggression or burst into fits. Instead—admirably—she lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid of you, Beswick. You cannot order me about like those poor men.”

“You should be,” he snarled. “And they’re my servants.” Mostly.

Astonishingly, she smiled in the face of his wrath. “Be that as it may, you’ll find that I’m not a woman who can be intimidated by a temper tantrum better suited to a child than a duke. When you come to your senses, feel free to tender your apologies. I shall be at Everleigh House.”

“And pigs will fly with their tails forward.”

She spun on her heel, a wintry gaze spearing him over her shoulder. “I would wish you a good day, Your Grace, but I can see for myself that any kind of civilized manners are categorically wasted on you.”

And with that, she was gone.