To Beguile a Beast (31 page)

He was their guest now for a week or so and was a floor below in a newly appointed room. Abigail and Jamie were exhausted from the excitement of the day. They were in the nursery a floor above with Meg Campbell, former housemaid, now raised to the exalted rank of nursemaid. Alistair was already talking about hiring a governess for the children. Badger had doubled his size in the last month and a half and was probably asleep in Jamie’s bed, though the dog was supposed to sleep in the kitchens.

“Admiring your new curtains?” Alistair’s rough voice came from the door.

She looked over and smiled at him. He was lounging against the doorframe, one hand held behind his back. “The blue’s so lovely in here, don’t you think?”

“I think,” he said, advancing toward the bed on which she lay, “that what I think has very little influence on the decorating of my castle.”

“Really?” She widened her eyes. “Then no doubt you won’t mind if I have your tower painted puce.”

“I have no idea what color puce is, but it sounds entirely revolting,” he said, and put one knee on the mattress. “Besides, I thought we’d agreed that you might do anything you wished to the rest of the castle as long as you left my tower be.”

“But—” she started, intending to tease him further.

He laid his mouth against hers, stopping the words in a long kiss.

When next he raised his head, she gazed up at his dear face dreamily and whispered, “What have you got behind your back?”

Alistair propped himself on one elbow beside her. “Two gifts, one small, one a little larger. Which would you like first?”

“The small one.”

He held out his fist and opened it to reveal a lemon. “Actually, this is a gift that comes with a condition.”

She swallowed, remembering when last they’d used a lemon to prevent conception. “What is that?”

“You may have it only if you wish it.” He raised his gaze to hers, and she saw a hesitant hope there. “I’m quite happy to continue as we are, with just Abigail and Jamie, for as little or as long as you want. But if you wish to forgo this”—he rolled the lemon between his fingers—“that would make me very happy as well.”

Silly tears flooded her eyes. “I think, then, that I prefer we use this lemon for lemonade.”

He didn’t reply, but the ardent kiss he pressed on her was eloquent. The prospect of having a shared child sometime in the future delighted him as well.

When she could catch her breath, Helen said, “And the other gift?”

“More of an offering, really.” He brought a bunch of wildflowers out from behind his back. “At least they’re not wilted this time.”

“I adore wilted flowers,” she said.

“I am a lucky man to have such an easily pleased wife.” He sobered. “I would like to give you a wedding present soon. Perhaps a necklace or a new dress or a special book. Think about it and let me know what you’d like.”

She’d been the mistress of a duke. She’d had jewels and gowns showered upon her once, and they hadn’t brought her happiness. Now she knew better.

Helen reached up and traced the scars on his cheek. “There’s only one thing I want.”

He turned his head to kiss her fingers. “And what is that?”

“You,” she whispered before he lowered himself to her. “Only you.”

Color and warmth rushed over Truth Teller’s gray face. His limbs turned to flesh and blood, and his mighty chest heaved, drawing breath.

“No!” cried the sorcerer, and raised his hands to bespell both Truth Teller and the princess.

But a crowd of swallows suddenly appeared and swarmed about his head, diving at his eyes and plucking at his hair. Truth Teller drew his sword and with one swing, cut the sorcerer’s head from his body.

At this, the swallows suddenly dropped to the ground and became men and women who bowed before Truth Teller. Long ago they had been servants of the castle before the sorcerer had stolen it from a prince and bespelled them. At the same time, the statues of knights and warriors turned once again into living men, for they had once been fellows who had tried and failed to rescue the princess. They dropped to their knees as one man and pledged to make Truth Teller their lord and master.

Truth Teller thanked the servants of the castle and the knights most solemnly, and then he turned to the princess. He looked into her eyes and said, “I have a castle, servants, and men now, where before I had only the clothes on my back. But I would renounce them all to hold your heart, for I love you.”

Princess Sympathy smiled and placed her palm against Truth Teller’s warm cheek. “There is no need to renounce your newfound wealth. You already have my heart and have held it since that day you gave me the sorcerer’s ring and wanted nothing in return.”

And she kissed him.

Up until the dead-man-staggering-in bit, things had gone as usual with the tea she was hostessing. Which was to say it was crashingly dull. Beatrice had chosen the blue salon, which was, unsurprisingly, blue. A quiet, restful,
dull
blue. White pilasters lined the walls, rising to the ceiling with discreet little curlicues at their tops. Small tables and chairs were scattered here and there, and an oval table stood at the center of the room with a small vase of late Michaelmas daisies. The refreshments included thinly sliced bread with butter and small, pale pink cakes. Beatrice had argued for the inclusion of raspberry tarts, thinking that they at least might be
colorful,
but Uncle Reggie—the Earl of Blanchard to everyone else—had balked at the idea.

Beatrice sighed. Uncle Reggie was an old darling, but he did like to pinch pennies. Which was also why the wine had been watered down to an anemic rose color, and the tea was so weak that one could make out the tiny blue pagoda at the bottom of the teacup. She glanced across the room to where her uncle stood, plump bandy legs braced, hands on hips, arguing heatedly with Lord Hasselthorpe. The force of his ire had made Uncle Reggie’s wig slip askew. Beatrice calmly gestured to one of the footmen, gave him her plate, and began slowly winding her way across the room.

Only a quarter of the way to her uncle, she was stopped by a light touch at her elbow and a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t look now, but His Grace is doing his famous imitation of an angry codfish.”

Beatrice turned and looked into twinkling sherry-brown eyes. Lottie Graham was only a hair over five feet, plump, and dark-haired, and the innocence of her round, freckled face was entirely belied by the sharpness of her wit.

“He isn’t,” Beatrice murmured, and then winced as she casually glanced over. Lottie was quite correct, as usual—the Duke of Lister did indeed look like an enraged fish. “Besides, what does a codfish have to get angry about anyway?”

“Exactly,” Lottie replied as if having made her point. “I don’t like that man—I never have—and that’s entirely aside from his politics.”

“Shh,” Beatrice hissed. They stood by themselves, but there were several groups of gentlemen nearby who could overhear if they’d wished. Since every other man in the room was as staunch a Tory as the Duke of Lister, it behooved the ladies to hide their Whig leanings.

“Oh, pish, Beatrice, dear,” Lottie said. “Even if one of these fine, learned gentlemen heard what I’m saying, none of them have the imagination to realize we might have a thought or two in our pretty heads—especially if that thought doesn’t agree with theirs.”

“Not even Mr. Graham?”

Both ladies turned to look at a handsome young man in a snowy white wig in the corner of the room. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright, and he stood straight and strong as he regaled the men about him with some story.

“Especially not Tom,” Lottie said, frowning at her husband.

Beatrice tilted her head toward her friend. “But I thought you were making headway in bringing him to our side?”

“I was mistaken,” Lottie said lightly. “Where the other Tories go, there goest Tom as well. He’s as steadfast as a titmouse in a high wind. No, I’m very much afraid he’ll be voting against Mr. Wheaton’s bill to provide for retired soldiers of His Majesty’s army.”

Beatrice bit her lip. Lottie’s tone was almost flippant, but she knew the other woman was disappointed. “I’m sorry.”

Lottie shrugged one shoulder. “It’s strange, but I find myself more disillusioned by a husband who has such easily persuaded views than I think I would be by one whose views were entirely opposite but passionately held. Isn’t that quixotic of me?”

“No, it only shows your own strong feeling.” Beatrice linked her arm with Lottie’s. “Besides, I wouldn’t give up on Mr. Graham so easily. He does love you, you know.”

“Oh, I do know.” Lottie examined a tray of pink cakes on the table nearby. “That’s what makes the whole thing so very tragic.” She popped a cake into her mouth. “Mmm. These are much better than they look.”

“Lottie!” Beatrice protested, half laughing.

“Well, it’s true. They’re such proper little Tory cakes that I’d’ve thought they’d taste like dust, but they have a lovely hint of rose.” She took another cake and ate it. “You realize that Lord Blanchard’s wig is crooked, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Beatrice sighed. “I was on my way to setting it right when you waylaid me.”

“Mmm. You’ll have to brave Old Fishy, then.”

Beatrice looked and saw that the Duke of Lister had joined her uncle and Lord Hasselthorpe. “Lovely. But I still need to save poor Uncle Reggie’s wig.”

“You brave soul, you,” Lottie said. “I’ll stay here and guard the cakes.”

“Coward,” Beatrice murmured.

She had a smile on her lips as she started again for her uncle’s circle. Lottie was right, of course. The gentlemen who gathered in her uncle’s salon were the leading lights of the Tory party. Most sat in the House of Lords, but there were commoners here as well, such as Tom Graham. To a man they’d be outraged if they found out that she held any political thoughts at all, let alone ones that ran counter to her uncle’s. Generally she kept these thoughts to herself, but the matter of a fair pension for veteran soldiers was too important an issue to neglect. Beatrice had seen firsthand what a war wound could do to a man and how it might affect him for years after he left His Majesty’s army. No, it was simply—

The door to the blue salon was flung savagely open, cracking against the wall. Every head in the room swiveled to the doorway, where a man stood. He was tall with impossibly wide shoulders that nearly filled the doorway. He wore some type of dull leather leggings and shirt under a bright blue coat. Long black hair straggled wildly down his back. An overgrown beard reached halfway up his gaunt cheeks. An iron cross dangled from one ear, and an enormous unsheathed knife hung from a string at his waist.

He had the eyes of a man long dead.

“Who the hell are—” Uncle Reggie began.

But the man spoke over him, his voice deep and rusty, as if he hadn’t spoken in so long he’d almost lost the power.
“Où est mon père?”

He was staring right at her, as if no one else in the room existed. She had stopped, mesmerized and confused, one hand on the oval table.

He started for her, his stride firm, arrogant, and impatient.
“J’insiste sur le fait de voir mon père.”

“I… I don’t know where your father is,” Beatrice stuttered. His long stride was eating up the space between them. He was almost to her. No one was doing anything, and she’d forgotten all her schoolroom French. “Please, I don’t know—”

But he was already on her, his big, rough hands reaching for her, and Beatrice couldn’t help but flinch. It was as if the devil himself had come for her, here at this boring tea.

And then he staggered. One brown hand grasped the table as if to steady himself, but the little table wasn’t up for the task. He took it with him as he collapsed to his knees, the vase of flowers crashing to the floor. His angry gaze was still locked with hers, even as he sank to the carpet, until his black eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over.

Someone screamed.

“Good God! Beatrice, are you all right, my dear? Where in blazes is my butler?”

Beatrice heard Uncle Reggie behind her, but she was already on her knees beside the fallen man, unmindful of the spilled water from the vase. Hesitantly, she touched his lips and felt the brush of his breath. Still alive, then. She took his heavy head between her palms and placed it on her lap so that she might look in his face.

She caught her breath.

The man had been
tattooed.
Three stylized birds flew about his right eye, savage and wild. His commanding black eyes were closed, but his brows were heavy and slightly knit as if he disapproved of her even when unconscious. The beard had never been trimmed and was at least two inches long, but she made out the mouth beneath, incongruously elegant. The lips were firm, the upper a wide, sensuous bow.

“My dear, please move away from that… that thing,” Uncle Reggie was saying. He had his hand on her arm, urging her to get up. “The footmen can’t remove him from the house until you move.”

“They can’t take him,” Beatrice said, still staring at the impossible face.

“My dear girl—”

She looked up. Uncle Reggie was such a darling, even when red-faced with impatience. This might very well kill him. “It’s Viscount Hope.”

Uncle Reggie blinked. “What?”

“Viscount Hope.”

And they both turned to stare at the portrait near the door. It was of a young, handsome man, the former heir to the earldom. The man whose death had made it possible for Uncle Reggie to become the Earl of Blanchard.

Black, heavy-lidded eyes stared from the portrait.

She looked back down at the living man. Though closed she remembered his eyes well. Black, angry, and glittering, they were identical to the eyes in the portrait.

Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.

Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.