The Beast's Beauty (The Bluestocking War) Read online

  The Beast’s

  Beauty

  The Bluestocking War

  Book 11

  by

  Eva Devon

  As Máire Claremont

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  The Beast’s Beauty

  Copyright © 2023 by Máire Creegan

  All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  If you are in the dark, know that the light is waiting for you. Keep going. The world is full of hope and possibilities.

  Special thanks to:

  Christy, Patty, and Louisa

  And YOU. You are the star by which I guide my life. You always shine.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Eva Devon

  Chapter 1

  It was an undisputed fact that every other debutante of the London Season longed to be Miss Jane Portonby.

  It had been reputed from the moment of Jane’s birth that she was a beautiful babe. Her long chestnut locks curled about her cherub-like face, and her apple red cheeks, bright blue eyes, and cheeky chin only endeared her to all who came within her vicinity.

  And her genuine disposition of mirth and good humor was a boon to anyone who came into her company.

  If one was to be honest, she was given to mischief too. But never out of malice. Jane loved her pets—her donkey, her duck, her dog, her cats, and even her chickens—which her parents tolerated with laughter and shrugs.

  But most of all, Jane loved people. She loved to make them laugh. She loved to dance for them, dance with them, and have a jaunt in the fresh air. Yes, she was beloved by all who interacted wither her, and so it was no surprise that when it came time for her to train to be a lady, she did so with ease. Though she far preferred to ride her pony or go out on the Yorkshire dales for long walks, discovering animals and making merry in puddles.

  Her parents were indulgent, for Jane was so beautiful that surely any gentleman who wished to ask for her hand would not be bothered by her eccentricities. After all, she came from a relatively good family, though her father had only just been made a viscount.

  They possessed an exceptionally large fortune, hundreds of acres, and a house created by John Nash. There was little that would stand in Jane’s way. She was an only child and there was no likelihood of her mother ever bearing a brother, for Jane’s birth had been a difficult one.

  With wringing hands and tuts of woe, the doctors had informed Lady Portonby not to attempt to have more children. Still, being a dutiful wife, her mother had not listened and had nearly died in the process of attempting an heir.

  The last attempt had stopped all such thoughts. Jane had not been allowed to be there for that moment. After all, young girls shouldn’t know the troubles that awaited them! Or so her father had said.

  Now, Jane was her father’s sole heir and so had a great fortune awaiting her one day. Finally, realizing nothing could be done, her father saw her as his pride and joy, a perfect, beautiful daughter.

  Though the fates had not given him a son, her father was sure Jane would make a glorious marriage, one of the greatest that any had ever seen.

  Yes, all seemed well.

  When Jane entered society at eighteen years of age, ready to make her mark, she was an instant success. She had everything a young lady needed—hats of every variety with every imaginable plume, fans, gloves of every kind, lace, leather, and silk. She had gowns for every occasion: morning, afternoon, riding, routes, balls, and walking.

  She wanted for nothing.

  Her Italian, French, Latin and Greek teachers did their very best to challenge her nimble mind, and some proclaimed she played the piano as well as Mozart’s sister had.

  She was so well read that she was able to mock poor poetry as well as to write it. She found it terribly funny when gentlemen wrote her poems about her ear lobes and her shoulders, and yet she did not laugh in their faces, for she was not unkind.

  Every dance was danced, every rout was attended, every song was sung when she was asked to perform, and she sparkled with wit and promise at every dinner.

  And so, it was expected that soon a duke, at least, would ask for Miss Portonby’s hand. Who knew? Perhaps even a foreign prince would do, though her father far preferred to keep her at home, as she would inherit the massive estate that his father had created.

  But on a weekend visit to her country home, being the soul of kindness, Jane had gone to visit a sick cottager. She returned to her family’s house struck by the tragedy of death.

  Within a day’s time, she had begun to feel unwell. Jane quickly took to her bed, and it was with great horror that her father realized his daughter had contracted that dreaded smallpox disease.

  For those days confined to her bed, Jane battled with death.

  But Jane, having the character and fortitude she did, refused to give in. No, death did not win against Jane Portonby, but death left its scars, and when the curtains were pulled back from the sick room, she had awakened to whispers.

  Weak but determined, Jane had shoved pushed back the fever-stained sheets, placed her bare feet on the floor, and walked on shaking legs to the mirror. Her eyes had widened, and a scream tore from her throat.

  For she knew the thing most praised about her was her beauty, and it was gone. Gone forever.

  That realization had cut through her like a knife. But as she’d stared at her altered reflection, she determined that she would celebrate her life. After all, she still had life when it had been seized from so many others. But there was one thing Jane could not have anticipated.

  Her father’s reaction. . .

  A scream tore from Jane’s lips.

  It was not the first one that had in the last year. No, it seemed since that morning when she’d awakened in her sick room, screams were a part of her life. Though she did not do so around her few remaining servants. For she did not wish to disturb them.

  After all, she still had good sense. But as she stood in the Yorkshire Dales, staring out at the wild scenery of her homeland, she could not contain her frustration.

  She had been tempted on more than one occasion to make for the north, to find a ship, to leave forever, to abandon her life and find some purchase elsewhere, but she knew she could not.

  Her father was a very powerful man, and he would not permit her to leave. She was fairly certain that if she did attempt to make for Naples or Germany, or even some far-flung country and go to the Damascus Road, her father would pursue her.

  After all, she was his only heir.

  She was the one who would continue on his line. The line he and his father had worked so hard to create. A line he felt he had failed by not producing a son.

  Over the last year, all his good humor had vanished, turning to bitterness. For a while, he had not seemed to mind the lack of a son so very much. He had not blamed his wife or his daughter until illness had taken Jane’s looks.

  She was deeply grateful it had not left her permanently ill or weak as some illnesses did. If she had not been able to take to the hills, she did not know what she would’ve done to survive.

  Her father kept her from all company.

  Only a handful of servants were allowed to wait upon her. She was allowed meager correspondence with her former governess and chaperone. She was not allowed to converse with friends, lest they discover the truth.

  Yes, she had disappeared from London society as if she had died. She wondered if anyone did think she had died. But at the very beginning, her father had encouraged her to write many letters saying that she was simply taken to the country while she decided on the many offers for her hand.

  But she knew the truth, even if the ton did not. Though surely, there had to be gossip. Gossip which would only tarnish her as spoiled goods.

  She had left the Season before she had any offers, but her father did not wish anyone to know that. Her father did not want anyone to know that her looks were gone, that her stakes had lowered, that she was not valuable anymore except for her fortune and her father’s house.

  Of course, her fortune could buy a good Cit husband. There was no question. Or perhaps an impoverished noble, but her father did not want such a thing. Her father wanted a great marriage, and such a thing would not be possible if a man looked upon her.

  Her face was pockmark
ed and riddled with scars. She could barely tolerate looking upon herself, but she had an indomitable spirit, and so she refused to wallow in such agony as to be indulgent about her appearance. God had given her more than just a face, even though her father no longer valued any of that.

  And as she stood out in the whipping January wind, she was determined to be free. She was determined to escape her father and the prison that he had created for her.

  It was a beautiful prison, there was no question. And as she strode down the dale, heading along a trickling stream, she stopped, crouched down, and trailed her fingers in the icy water skipping over stones.

  How her soul ached. For she was lonely. So lonely and lost. She felt a familiar despair creeping upon her, and she refused to give in to it. No, she’d rail against it.

  Determined to make the terrible thoughts vanish, she stripped off her stockings and boots and walked into the dancing stream. She embraced the biting cold of that water. Snow had dusted the northern mountain tops.

  Her eyes widened at the bitter cold.

  She breathed in through her nose and exhaled out. Once, she never would’ve dared do such a thing. Her feet were meant for nimble dancing, but now the cold gave her strength. She would not be weak; she would not be a fool. She would not linger in her room and lay upon her bed, bemoaning her fate. No, she would be defiant, and if she could, she would escape.

  She knew her father was working on something, manipulating society, determined to find her a husband to inherit his vast estates and fortune and everything he and his father had worked for.

  She had a duty, and she would perform it, but she would not hide away as her father hoped.

  She would not do such a thing for anyone. And as she strode down the stream bed, in that frigid water with her boots and her wool stockings in hand, she kept her skirts aloft. What had befallen her was an opportunity. She had to see it as thus or else she would wither away and die of hopelessness and self-loathing.

  For when her parents looked upon her. . .

  What did one do when one had been raised to only believe in the importance of one’s beauty? One would either wither and die in such circumstances as hers, or one would grow stronger. She would grow stronger. Of that, she was certain. She would not allow this to destroy her. She was made of stronger stuff. She had to be. But it did not stop the pain coursing through her, the agony, the fear that everyone she knew would reject her the moment they saw her. For she had seen how society could be, how brutally cruel, and how those who were wounded so often slipped away from society, never to be seen again.

  But she would not go that way. She would not go quietly. She refused to be nothing more than a pretty face.

  Chapter 2

  After the jovial celebrations of Yuletide and the Twelve Days of Christmas with his friends in Scotland, the cold January wind was grim.

  It slapped him in the face through his open coach window. The coach ride had been brutally chill and over rough, muddy roads.

  Alexander Maximillian Christopher Hanby, Earl of Brookhaven, would’ve preferred to go on horseback and have more control, but it wasn’t wise to go alone at such a time of the year, nor was it particularly kind to the single steed who would have to take him for long distances. No, a coaching team really was the wisest, especially through parts of the land that were rugged and breathtaking in their harshness.

  He was a bold soul by habit, but he had no wish to slide to his death on the ice or into a ravine.

  The truth was that he had gone to Scotland with an important mission, the keeping and caring of a dear friend.

  The trip had succeeded far beyond his dreams, though the result had had little to do with his own actions. He wished he could simply savor the happiness of the Duke of Ayrshire and his wife, Olivia.

  He could not.

  He was not in Yorkshire for the keeping of his own dreams, or even a friend’s. No, this was for his father, and his father was dead.

  Still, in the Brookhaven line, honor was the most important duty of all. If his father had made a promise, he would keep it. It was that simple. Alexander had been born to a line of women and men who did not shirk their duty, whether it be to their land, to their people, to queen or king or country or God, though not in that order.

  His family had stood firm in their resolve over centuries. Brookhaven earls had been in existence since Henry II. And they had made certain to be as defiant of tyranny then as they were now.

  They did not often take arms up against a king or a queen, but they did when that king or queen went against the good of the country. To most people, it was shocking that duty could drive one to go against a king or a queen. But the Brookhaven line had known that the one thing that must be upheld before a king’s will was. . . the continuance of the country.

  And, of course, there was the responsibility an earl had to his lands and his people.

  Now, that rigid line which had run through generations of men and women was firmly ensconced in him. And as his coach drew up the great drive to Throckmorton Manor, he had no hesitation in believing that whatever the newly made Viscount Throckmorton, Lord John Portonby, asked, he would give.

  After all, his father had told him, upon his death bed, that such a day might come. That he had made a promise to Portonby, now Viscount Throckmorton. A promise that one day Alexander might have to fulfill.

  Years had gone by since his father’s death. He had heard little from Throckmorton, and so he had assumed that this day might never come.

  But come it had, and as the coach rolled up over the gravel, crunching through the snow, it stopped before the vast manor house that stretched like a beautiful Italian palace in the landscaped gardens surrounded by the Dales.

  He drew in a cold breath and blew out a frosty one. The coach door swung open. He jumped down without hesitation, then lifted his gaze to the beautiful new house, throwing back his shoulders as he always did.

  He had a tendency to meet these moments with mirth. It was the best thing, after all. A little laughter made tough situations better, but he found himself uncertain now because he had no idea what John Portonby might ask of him.

  He took the steps of the Palladian mansion quickly.

  Throckmorton House had been built forty years ago.

  It had been constructed in the late 18th century by a man who had been on the make but had principles galore.

  The previous lord, James, not to be confused with his son John Portonby, was a man of stern stuff. He had been a judge, and he had also amassed a large fortune, though not from corruption. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  Portonby had managed to accrue funds without cracking the backs of the people beneath him, and because he had come from the lower classes and climbed so hard so fast, he had been determined to do his best for people.

  He’d been offered a title.

  The old man had turned it down because he’d liked the freedom he had. Yes, the old Portonby had been certain that to sell oneself for a title was to compromise oneself.

  After all, one would have to be loyal to whomever had given them a title.

  His son, John, had been equally rigid in many ways, but he had decided that a title was important, that he wanted the power and prestige it brought.

  It wasn’t a great title, but it was a beginning, and the truth was Lord Portonby, Viscount Throckmorton, had a great deal of power, and now he had access to halls of power that he had not before.

  But the man had no son. Something that everyone knew, given the vast wealth of Throckmorton. Many people were certain that the daughter would make a great marriage, but he had heard little of her except that she was a beauty and a diamond of the first water.

  At the top of the wide, impressive steps, the doors opened to Alexander without hesitation, and he strode through the proportioned entry over the black-and-white-floored foyer.

  The ceiling soared above him. A depiction of the gods of Olympus frolicked overhead. The room was vast and should have been freezing.

  If he had been in a castle in Scotland with the austere lords that lived up there, or even perhaps one of the old families, likes his own in England, it certainly would’ve been frigid.