Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 5

  “Six before I worked up the courage to ask. Mum doesn’t hold back the truth. If you’re not prepared to hear it, you’d best not ask the question.”

  Her heart went out to him. So young to face the reality of his past. How long might he have held out hope that it wasn’t too late for her to come back for him? How old was he before he’d finally accepted that she wasn’t going to return?

  “That must have been terribly hard . . . to hear all that. I think I might have lied to you to spare you the pain of knowing she’d not kept her promise.”

  “I’ve never known a lie, in the end, to have served anyone well. But one might have served me well at the time. Shortly after I learned the truth, I became afraid of the dark. I would scream unless a lamp was left lit to ward off the monsters who were coming for me. One night she gave me a match safe, so I would always have dry matches and the power to defeat the dark. After that the darkness became a choice. I had the means to chase it away, and I stopped being afraid of it. No longer needed the light so I could sleep.”

  “She was a wise woman.”

  “I think the oil for the lamps was becoming too costly.”

  She heard the lightness in his voice, imagined he was smiling, almost turned around to catch a glimpse of what she’d never seen. Although perhaps the slight tilting up of the corners of his mouth that she had seen was as broad as his smile went.

  She wondered if he’d shared the story because he’d recognized that her questions were an attempt to distract herself from what he was doing. She nearly wept. It had been so long since anyone, other than her brothers, had shown her such kindness. Those upon whom she should have been able to rely had deserted her as though she was so much rubbish to be discarded. “You used a match from it to light the fire. May I see it?”

  He stopped his ministrations and the silver container appeared over her shoulder.

  As she took it, she felt a jolt as her fingers skimmed over the tops of his. His skin was rough, abrasive, and yet she thought it would feel marvelous scraping over hers. Swallowing hard, she directed her attention to the elaborate raised relief of intricate vines, leaves, and flowers that adorned both sides of the small metal box. At the top was a small hinged lid. She opened it to find the container stuffed with matches. “This is not an inexpensive gift. It’s silver.”

  He was once more pricking her scalp to remove all the dirt and grime. Perhaps she should have waited about for the surgeon.

  “It belonged to her husband. He died before I came to live with her, so I never knew him, knew only her memories of him. The day I moved out to make it on my own, I tried to give it back to her. But she wouldn’t have it. ‘Just because you consider yourself grown, it doesn’t mean you won’t have dark times. Keep it. It carries not only matches but also my love for you.’”

  She felt the tears sting her eyes, blinked them back. She didn’t know if it was the result of tonight’s attack, her recent change in circumstances, or worry over Griffith, but her emotions were running an entire gamut tonight. “How old were you?”

  “All of fifteen. Thought myself a man of the world, but still had a lot to learn. Probably still do.”

  As did she, it seemed. “As we get older, the lessons seem much harder, don’t they?”

  “They seem to come with more consequences, yes. I’ve gotten your wound as clean as I can. The gash isn’t terribly deep. I don’t think it’s in need of stitches. But it does need the gin. It’s not going to be pleasant, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m certain I’ve dealt with far worse unpleasantness.” Not physically, but emotionally, and in some ways that was worse.

  After handing the precious match safe back to him, she clasped her hands together in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he drenched one of the linens in gin.

  To her amazement, he then gathered up her hair and draped it over her right shoulder. An odd thing to do when it hadn’t been interfering with him getting to the wound.

  She felt his knuckles land softly against the left side of her nape, slide up to her hairline, down to the collar of her frock. Up and down, gliding slightly forward with each stroke. As he neared her ear, she heard the rasp of rough skin over silky flesh. What was he doing?

  She recalled reading somewhere that Anne Boleyn’s executioner had distracted her by calling for his sword, even though he already had it in hand, so she relaxed before he lopped off her head. Was that what Beast Trewlove was attempting to do, to distract her?

  When the gin-laced cloth landed against her wound, she couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath, but the sting was nowhere as harsh as she’d expected it to be. Perhaps because she was focused on the movement of his fingers, wondering where he was going.

  He pressed the pad of his thumb to the spot just below her ear where her pulse thrummed, and she wondered if he was counting the beats of her heart. His fingers unfurled and the tips grazed along the sensitive underside of her jaw. She closed her eyes as warmth and a pleasant sensation flowed through her.

  Suddenly the linen and his fingers were no longer there. He began gently applying the salve.

  “While I’m out searching for your brother, don’t go to sleep.” His voice came out as rough and raw—and the warmth within her heated as a fire did when another lump of coal or log was added to it. She had to clear her throat and take a moment to gather herself in order to respond without giving away how his touch had affected her.

  “I don’t think that will be a problem. I’ll be too anxious awaiting Griff’s return.” And yours. Although she didn’t want to admit that to him or herself. “You won’t be placing yourself in danger, will you?”

  “If it comes to that, I can handle it.”

  She didn’t doubt his capabilities for a minute. Still, she didn’t like the thought of him encountering trouble on her behalf.

  “The bleeding has stopped. It might be better to leave the wound open to fresh air. The knot is still there. Are you dizzy? Does your head hurt?”

  “The room’s not spinning. My headache is less. I think the tea earlier helped.”

  “Shall I brew you a cup before I leave?”

  She twisted around in her chair. He was so close she could see the firelight dancing in his coal-black eyes. Stubble shadowed his jaw, made it appear stronger, more distinct. His features contained a nobleness that made it difficult to breathe. She wished she could blame it on her head, but it was him. All him. “Why are you doing all this?”

  “Why should I not?”

  Her smile was small, almost teasing. “Do you always respond to a question with a question?”

  “Only when I don’t know the answer.”

  Those words sobered her. “You strike me as a man who always knows the answer.”

  His dark eyes narrowing, he studied her for all of a heartbeat, and she wondered if he’d find whatever it was for which he was searching. If it was within her, did she want him to find it? She admired his honesty and openness but couldn’t embrace the same traits, not when they could bring so much pain.

  “Usually I am,” he said. “But something about you—”

  The front door burst open. “Althea!”

  “Griff!” She leapt out of the chair too fast. If Beast hadn’t quickly stood, wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her against his broad chest, she surely would have toppled to the floor.

  “Easy, Beauty,” he whispered.

  The dark eyes drew her in. She’d never felt more protected, more treasured than she did at that moment. She had a strong urge to rise up on her toes, bury her face against the skin below his jaw, and inhale the masculine scent of him. Dark and forbidding, leather and scotch, and something so uniquely him—

  “What the devil is going on here, Althea?” Griffith asked.

  Having regained her balance, if not her equilibrium, she flattened her palm against the broad chest. “I’m all right now.”

  Never taking his intense gaze from her, gingerly, he slid his arm away, and she had
to fight to remain steady, not to seek out the comfort of him.

  “I got into a bit of a bother earlier. Beast—” She stopped, shook her head. “Your mother did not name you Beast, surely.”

  One corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Benedict. Sometimes my family will call me Ben.”

  “Benedict Trewlove, here, came to my assistance.”

  “Trewlove? Are you the Trewlove half of Whitechapel fears and the other half worships?”

  “That description could apply to any Trewlove. You shouldn’t leave your sister to walk home alone.”

  “I got held up tonight.” He looked at her. “It won’t happen again, Althea.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Searching for you.”

  “Before that? Why were you late?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “It damned well better be bloody important if it puts her life at risk,” Benedict stated succinctly in the same tone a king might use when proclaiming a decree.

  Griffith blanched. “As I said, it won’t happen again.”

  “Make sure it doesn’t. And start taking different paths to the residence. You don’t want to have a routine that footpads can expect and take advantage of.” With long, purposeful strides, he headed for the door.

  She started to rush after him, had to stop when her head protested. “Please, halt.”

  Her plea reached him just as he was closing the door. He paused.

  The cold wind whipped through the narrow opening as she neared. “Thank you for everything you did tonight.”

  “Coal will be delivered in the morning.”

  “You don’t have to do that. You didn’t use that much.”

  “’Tis done.”

  She wondered if anyone ever won an argument with this man. “You were wrong earlier. What you said. I haven’t taken a dislike to you.”

  His eyes darkened. Based on the visibility of his breath in the cold, his breathing had slowed. He lifted a bare hand, and she wondered if he was tempted to touch her face. He dropped his hand, began tugging on his gloves, stepped back. “Good night, Miss Stanwick.”

  As he strode away, she watched him hunch his shoulders against the cold. He cut such a lonely figure that she was tempted to call him back to make use of the fire as long as it burned. Instead, she closed the door, locked it.

  Griffith was standing by the fireplace, staring at the flames. Not willing to let any of the heat go to waste, she joined him there. Now that they didn’t have company, she thought he was more likely to answer. “What are you up to? Where were you last night and tonight?”

  “With a woman.” He slid his gaze to her. “I was only a few minutes late. Who was he?”

  “I told you.”

  “His name, yes, but what is he to you? How did you come to be with him, with your hair undone? When I walked in, you looked as though you were on the verge of inviting him into your bedchamber.”

  “Bedchamber is a bit too elegant a word for the room in which I sleep. As for how I came to be with him . . .”

  She explained all that had happened, and when she was done, he cursed soundly.

  “I won’t be late again. I swear to you.”

  “Was she someone I know?” She couldn’t imagine he’d gone to a brothel. Their coins were too precious for something as selfish as that.

  He turned his attention back to the fire. “Doesn’t matter. She’s to marry another.”

  Someone from their past, then, probably a lady of the nobility. She hadn’t known he was courting anyone, but as she was discovering, there was a good deal about her brothers she hadn’t known. “I’m sorry, Griff.”

  He shook his head. “How could it all go to hell like this? We had it all. Nothing was denied us. And now we’ve lost everything.”

  He’d needed to get out of there before he jabbed his fist into her brother’s perfect aristocratic nose. Entitlement had rolled off Griffith Stanwick in waves as forceful as those kicked up by a sea tempest. If they weren’t bluebloods, Beast would sink every one of his ships.

  Added to that, he’d miscalculated the impact that touching his fingers to her silken flesh would cause. He’d done it in an attempt to distract her from the bite of the gin. It was a trick he’d learned from his mum. Or at least a version of it. Hers had never been so intimate. She’d simply shaken some part of him—a hand, an arm, a leg—until he’d been so focused on what she was doing that he’d barely noticed the sting of anything she was pouring over a scrape in order to cleanse it.

  He should have shaken her shoulder. Should have not touched her at all. Because now it felt as though her skin had married his. No matter how hard or briskly he rubbed his hand over his thigh, he couldn’t rid himself of the sense he was still caressing her, that his fingertips were still pressed to the underside of her jaw.

  She was not his concern, not his to worry over. He’d seen that she’d come to no harm tonight. All future nights were the responsibility of her brother. Would he see to it?

  Two nights he’d put her at risk. Did he not understand the dangers that resided in Whitechapel? Did he not comprehend how precious she was?

  Bugger it all. He was going to stop thinking about her. He had other matters to worry over. Finding a tutor for one. Perhaps he’d ask his sisters-by-marriage to assist him. If they each took a couple of hours a month—it would take forever. But still it would be a step toward ensuring the ladies no longer had to earn coins while on their backs.

  He shouldn’t have told her about his mother.

  He released an obscene curse into the darkness surrounding him. He was thinking about her again. She’d been embarrassed that he’d seen the condition of her hovel—as though he’d judge her by it. Had someone judged her? Why did he have the sense she had no one else to come to her aid except for her unreliable brother?

  Unreliability was something he avoided exhibiting at all costs, didn’t tolerate well in others. His mother had been unreliable, had not kept her promise. When he was younger, that knowledge had created an unbearable pain, had confirmed she hadn’t truly wanted him. He was fairly certain he knew why, and it had nothing to do with his being born out of wedlock. Parents liked for their children to be perfect, and he wasn’t.

  Telling her about his mother only served to remind him of things he tried to forget.

  And now he needed to forget Althea Stanwick.

  Chapter 4

  Lying on the mound of blankets, she decided it had been long enough since her head had smashed against brick that she could safely go to sleep, and yet sleep eluded her, all because of him. Beast. Benedict. Ben.

  It was an odd thing to find herself aching for his touch when he’d merely dabbed lightly at her scalp, skimmed a finger along her jaw, then held her briefly when she swayed, and yet she felt as though the length of his hard body had imprinted itself over hers. Or at least the part of him that had rested against her. He was comprised of substantially more than she. He stood at least a head and a half taller, and the breadth of him made her feel incredibly dainty.

  If she still walked among the aristocracy, would their paths have ever crossed—other than a sighting at a wedding?

  She was finally beginning to drift off when she heard the deep male voices outside her window. It had been a long night, and now that sleep was on the cusp of arriving, her neighbors had decided to have a harsh discussion.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t let me help.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  The voices, the inflection of them, were familiar. Scrambling out from beneath the covers, she crawled to the window and lifted her head only enough to peer over the ledge and hopefully not be seen. The two men were shadows, but she’d recognize their silhouettes anywhere. The larger of the two was Marcus, the other Griffith. Why was her older brother visiting now, at this ridiculous hour? Why didn’t he come inside out of the cold? Why not come inside so he could see her?

&n
bsp; “Then don’t act like one,” Marcus said, disgust rife in his tone.

  “Christ, you sound just like Father.”

  “I am nothing at all like him.” Marcus’s tone was hard, brittle, and she rather thought he’d uttered those words through clenched teeth.

  “I misspoke. I apologize. I’m just frustrated. I hate living here, hate working the docks. Hate feeling so impotent. I want to assist with your endeavors. Are you getting any closer to discovering with whom Father was conspiring against the Crown?”

  Althea’s breath caught. Those were not the sort of people with whom Marcus should become involved.

  “Possibly. I finally have some leads.” He sighed. “What I said about you being a child. I know you’re not, and I appreciate that you want to be involved with this undertaking, but it’s important that you are here for Althea, that she is not left alone. Someone needs to look after her.”

  “But then who is there to watch your back?”

  “Her back is more precious.”

  Horror was taking hold of her. All their backs were equally precious.

  “Do you really believe that if you discover who all was involved in the conspiracy the Crown will return the titles and properties to you?”

  “I care little for the titles or properties. I care only that we’re not all viewed as traitors. Have you forgotten what it was like to be arrested, to sit in the bloody tower wondering if they were going to hang us as well?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget. I can hardly sleep without waking up in a cold sweat.”

  Her brother’s confession tore at her heart. She’d had no idea he suffered so.

  “I just want to regain our respectability, if not for us, then for Althea,” Marcus said. “Who would marry her as long as this pall of doubt and suspicion hangs over us? She’s the daughter of a duke. She should have her pick of suitors.”

  She backed into the corner and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. They were placing themselves at risk in large part because of a desire to better her prospects? Although in bettering hers, they bettered themselves as well, but the risk was too great.