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

  But not here. Luxury reigned.

  A fire blazed in a marble-framed hearth on either side of the room, and so, with shock, Alexander was able to shrug off his cloak with ease.

  A footman in blue and gold livery and a powdered white wig took it from him. The young servant was dressed to perfection. It was perhaps a show of new wealth.

  The whole palace was perhaps a show of new wealth, but Alexander did not mind. He knew that this family was as interested in duty and honor as he was, so he would not begrudge them the trappings of newly acquired power.

  Many of his class whose families held titled for centuries would judge, but not him.

  This family had clawed its way up. And even for the new viscount, it had not been easy. It was no simple thing being the son of a newly wealthy man.

  Many in society sneered and looked down at them. It did not matter the power they held or the decisions they made. Some who had no character at all thought them little better than the mud of the barn.

  Alexander admired those who had made this place. Still, he wondered what awaited him. What fate was at the end of one of these halls.

  The footman inclined his head and quickly urged him to follow. He did so.

  They ate up the floor over beautifully woven Aubusson carpets, walked past paintings acquired from Italy and Greece. Towering canvases and small jewels from all over the continent filled the walls. And new artists such as Gainsborough lingered by the old masters.

  Yes, this house was one that was meant to show wealth and power, and yet it was all in excellent taste. The newest artists of the land were on display everywhere, and he admired the fact that the Portonbys had filled Throckmorton House not just with ancient classics, but with new opportunities and possibilities.

  They were renowned celebrators of academics, philosophers, mathematicians, and scientists. They sponsored the brightest minds of the day, something many of his own class refused to do. And as he walked down the halls, he hoped the summons might be something of that line.

  Perhaps the viscount was simply calling upon him to offer funds, or to go in with him on some matter that would be presented before the House of Lords.

  He would be happy to sponsor any bill that might help people. Yes, perhaps that was it. Simply some sort of political alliance, but when the door opened to Portonby’s office and Alexander strode through, the man’s face told it all.

  There was something dire on the line.

  The man’s once jovial disposition was replaced by a sort of empty grief.

  His face, once bright with merriment, was lined and creased with care. As a matter of fact, his cheeks were sunken, his eyes had dulled, and his hair was strangely shaggy about his face. He had been renowned for good grooming, if not ostentatious dress.

  His present condition was a sheer contradiction to his reputation and all Alexander recalled of him.

  As a matter of fact, there were legends about Portonby’s discipline, between taking cold baths, long walks, and keeping to a frugal diet. Still, he could not ignore the fact that there was a brandy glass in the man’s hand, and it was not quite noon.

  That did not portend well.

  “It is good to see you, my lord,” he said, inclining his head with perhaps undue respect.

  The viscount stepped forward, his hand shaking. “Indeed, indeed, Brookhaven. It is good that you have come. I thank you heartily for it.”

  Alexander strode forward and clasped the man’s free hand. It was bony and dry to the touch. He clasped the older man’s shoulder and assured, “Always. I will always come when you call, sir. You were such a good friend to my father.”

  “And your father…” the man bit out before he swallowed, his eyes haunted. “He did tell you that I might call upon you one day?”

  Alexander stilled and confessed, “He did. Though I find myself ill at ease in this matter.”

  “Will we make light parrying talk or shall we out with it? Would you care for a drink?” Throckmorton asked with forced cheer.

  The pretense at good humor left the older man’s face a disturbing mask.

  Alexander eyed the brandy grog tray. Usually, he did not mind a glass, or even two, but he was not about to start at this hour of the day. That way lay madness.

  “No, no. I’m quite all right,” he said easily. “Thank you. Unless you have a pot of tea or some coffee? It’s been a long journey, and I’m quite cold.”

  “A brandy is the stuff for cold,” the viscount insisted.

  Alexander grew more worried. This was not a statement that would ever have passed the frugal and stoic man’s lips before. He held his ground and managed a smile. “No, thank you. Let us sit before the fire.”

  “I cannot sit,” the viscount rushed, his brow furrowing. “I am not able to stay still unless, of course, I have had a fortifying drink or two.”

  In truth, Alexander was certain he’d already had those two fortifying drinks, and that only made him quake again. A condition he was unaccustomed to. What could have changed the man so drastically?

  A wave of sadness hit him and also a longing to help. This was a strong man before him, and yet he seemed utterly shaken. “Tell me what is amiss, my lord. I will help you in whatever way I can and ease the burden that I see has fallen upon your shoulders.”

  “You are good.” Throckmorton bobbed his head. “Indeed, you are good, my lord.”

  “Enough of this, my lording,” Alexander insisted. “Our families have been friends a long time. You must simply call me Brookhaven.”

  “Brookhaven,” he said tightly before his face twisted. “My daughter…”

  He could not finish before taking another drink of brandy.

  So, Alexander ventured, “She’s quite the diamond, isn’t she? I’ve heard she’s done quite well in society. No doubt you are having to fight off her suitors.”

  This did not seem to sit well with the man who took his drink again, lifted it to his wrinkled lips, and drank it all in one quick swallow.

  Throckmorton wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned to the grog tray, poured another sloshing glass, and sipped anew.

  Alexander stilled. “Is she unwell?” he asked, suddenly fearing that the young lady had died, and he had not heard it, such was the reaction from her father.

  “She is well enough,” Throckmorton rasped.

  Alexander waited for an explanation. When none came, he prompted, “I don’t understand.”

  Throckmorton took another gulp of brandy and turned to face him. “It is why I have brought you here.”

  Alexander said nothing. There was nothing to say. He could only wait, but dread pooled in his belly.

  Throckmorton’s face grew as grim as the weather outside. “I am calling in my favor.”

  “It is why I came,” Alexander said, wanting the man to simply spit it out now and end his dread. “I am here to deliver whatever you need.”

  Throckmorton sucked in a shuddering breath. “Then you will marry my daughter.”

  The words crashed through the room before silence followed. A silence so harsh only the crackling of the fire broke it.

  Alexander swallowed and could not draw breath for a moment. Surely, he was mistaken. “I beg your pardon?” he asked at last.

  “It is the favor,” Throckmorton rushed. “You will marry her. Without question, without hesitation. You will go to the church tomorrow. A special license shall be acquired, and you shall say, I do.”

  Alexander wanted to bolt from the beautifully appointed study decorated in greens and rich leather.

  He had no desire to marry. He knew he would eventually. He had to get an heir. It was what all earls did, and certainly the men of his line. It was his duty, but he was avoiding it for as long as possible, and not for the reason most young men did.

  It wasn’t so that he could sow more wild oats, have more mistresses, drink more, and gad about town as he pleased. Oh, nothing so hedonistic as that.

  It was because he wanted to make certain that the young lady that he chose was of healthy mind and healthy body, and that they were good for each other. That they would respect each other and could at least be friends.

  He had seen the dark turn a bad marriage could take. He had held his mother’s hand as she struggled day after day to make it through, to find any light in the darkness in which she dwelled. He had attempted to be that light, but he had failed over and over again, unable to pull her from the mire she lived in.

  And so, he planned to be very careful about the young lady he chose. Not because he did not value his mother, but because he could not do that again. He would not survive it.

  Of that, he was certain.

  But duty and honor were calling.

  Alexander shook his head, struggling to make sense of the demand. “I don’t understand. Your daughter must have dozens of offers.”

  “No. Not one,” Throckmorton countered, his breath as rapid as if he had run a mile.

  “Forgive me,” Brookhaven ground out. “You must explain it to me.”

  “I can’t.” The declaration burst from the old man before he drew himself up and stated, “And I won’t. All I’m asking is will you do as I request? Will you honor your father’s promise? Or will you be dishonorable and tell me no?”

  Alexander stared at the engraved silver grog tray, tempted to drink deep from the nearly empty decanter, but he was made of different stuff than that.

  Instead, he turned his gaze back to Portonby and gave a single nod. “I will marry her. The debt will be fulfilled, and honor shall be obeyed.”

  It didn’t matter the price. It was what was necessary. It was what men of his family always did, and he would not let down a millennium of those who had come before him.

  Chapter 3

 
Jane held her mother’s hand and fought back tears. The room was dark. Her mother insisted that the thick rose brocade curtains be kept closed. Jane did not know if it was because her mother did not wish to see Jane’s face or that she could not bear the light.

  Perhaps it was some combination of both.

  But sometime in the last year, her mother had taken to her room and had rarely left. Jane often wondered if things would’ve been better if she had done as her mother was doing. If she had not bothered everyone with her appearance.

  Not that many people saw her, anyway.

  Her father was careful of that. But everything had changed after she’d fallen ill with smallpox. Her mother had sunk into a deep depression and, quite frankly, it was terrifying to behold. Jane had a strong suspicion that her mother was willing herself to die.

  After all, if her mother died, then her father could marry and have a chance at a son. His longed-for heir. A chance at pride.

  Another hot tear slipped down Jane’s face. “Mama, please, please, will you not come down? Take a walk with me?”

  Her mother shook her head and turned towards the wall. “Not today, my dear. I am far too tired for such a thing. Now, please go and let me have some rest.”

  “But Mama,” she protested gently, though she longed to grab her beloved mother and shake her.

  “No, Jane,” her mother cut in with a weary certainty. “Go now. Please leave me alone.”

  Alone.

  Jane was alone.

  Her mother was alone.

  And it did not seem that even sitting by her mother’s side made her mother feel any better. It made Jane want to scream in the house as often as she screamed out on the dales, but there was nothing she could do. Or so it seemed.

  Dear heaven, how she wished she could seize her mother’s hands and pull her from the bed.

  A dark voice whispered in her heart that this was her fault.

  Logically, she understood it was not her fault that she had gotten smallpox. Though her father had railed at her for going to visit the sick family, it was something she refused to regret.

  No, she would not allow herself to take up the mantle of guilt. She could not, for if she did, she would break.

  And there were enough broken things in this once happy house now.

  It was not her fault that she was scarred and no longer the beauty of the ton, but the truth was she understood that what had happened to her had destroyed her family.

  ’Twas not fair, but life was not fair.

  Though she had understood in a theoretical sort of way that life was cruel, this year she had learned personally that there was a vicious harshness to life that could not be ignored or denied. And no one was safe.

  The cruelty was in everything.

  That’s what it felt like. At least today, she felt defiant. And yet, it was hard not to feel crushed by the misery of her mother’s spirit and the way her father had crumbled.

  How was it possible that she could be alive and cause so much misery to them? But a few months ago, she was their pride and source of joy.

  They were glad she had not died and, yet, she could not see that gladness.

  Both of them had put all of their hopes in her, and she was no longer able to fulfill their dreams, not in the way that they had hoped.

  And sometimes, frankly, she truly wished that she had not woken up that morning, slipped out of the sweaty sheets, gone to the mirror, and seen what she looked like. Seen the pockmarks all over her body. Sometimes, she wished she had not woken from that fever.

  It was the ultimate wish of self-indulgence. One she did not usually allow herself to tolerate, for life was a gift.

  But there were hours when it was hard to be grateful to be alive.

  A traitorous whisper sometimes asked if she would’ve caused less misery if she had died. Certainly, looking at her mother now, it did not seem her mother would have suffered more if Jane had died.

  Even so, she did not go as her mother asked. She waited, ever hopeful. She sat by the bed and the shrunken form under the blankets, then picked up a book and began to read. She hoped the tale might lift her spirits, but she doubted it.

  Still, she refused to surrender to the dark humors threatening to her.

  The door swung open slowly, as if whoever entered feared to draw notice from her mother.

  “Jane,” her father whispered, a breath of a sound.

  Drawing in a fortifying breath, Jane placed the book down, stood, smoothed her skirts, and slipped out of the room.

  “Is she any better today?” her father asked, his voice brittle.

  She smelt the brandy on his breath and winced.

  It had not been something that had been a part of her father’s life until this year. Brandy, and the over imbibing of it. No, he had been a water sort of man, preferring to keep his head.

  He had eaten frugally, careful not to overindulge in anything. He’d been rigid in his self-discipline, but all of that had vanished after her illness.

  All his strength and resolve had slipped away, just as all his dreams had seemed to slip through his fingers.

  She had not realized how her parents had placed their entire happiness in her future before. How they had literally made their lives about her, with all focus on her success as a beautiful young lady of the ton.

  She had been the treasured child of wonderful parents, but now she was a treasure that did not glitter, and it was hard to bear.

  “Mama is the same,” she said flatly.

  Her father nodded tightly, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He glanced to the door, then jerked his gaze away as if he could not bear to think about the woman who was inside and how they had been—at least content in their shared love of Jane.

  His mouth tightened. “I have news for you, Jane. Come.”

  They walked down the hall silently. Once, they would have chattered away, speaking of books, art, music, politics. Now they were both ghosts, wandering the halls in silence.

  She clasped her hands before her, and she felt her heartbeat begin to increase. Jane forced herself to draw breath through her nose and blow it out slowly through her mouth.

  She was beginning to feel one of those waves of nerves that went through her sometimes like a battering ram, stealing all her ability to remain calm.

  The feeling was a harrowing one. One which made her feel death was imminent. Though it always passed.

  Her father found her weakness appalling.

  Usually, the only thing that helped was to quickly go outside and walk as if the devil himself was on her heels. But she could not do that now. No, she needed to go with her father, who was drenched in drink and had news to impart.

  When at last they stepped in his office, she glanced about, still unaccustomed to his papers strewn on the desk that had once been so tidy. He turned to face her with bloodshot eyes and said, “I have arranged your marriage.”

  “What?” she gasped, her hands falling to her sides.

  “It occurs tomorrow,” he stated.

  “I-I b-beg your pardon?” The room felt like it was spinning, and she half expected the floor to open up and swallow her whole at any moment.

  “You will marry the Earl of Brookhaven. You will be his wife,” he continued. “You will produce an heir for him, and all shall be well.”

  “All shall be well,” she echoed, feeling sick to her stomach, barely able to understand the words coming out of her father’s mouth.

  She had heard of the Earl of Brookhaven.

  He was a legend in London, beloved of the ton. He was a rake, and a fun one from all that she understood, but also a man of honor. He was friends with truly great men, dukes and noblemen who ran the government. How could she suddenly be married to a man like that after all that had happened?

  “Papa,” she blurted desperately. “He does not know me at all.”

  “It does not matter,” he countered, drawing himself up. “I have asked him to marry you, and he has agreed.”

  “You asked him to marry me,” she gasped, horrified.

  “Indeed.” He weaved ever so slightly as he crossed to the brandy tray and took up the cut-crystal decanter that had no doubt already been refilled this day. “It is the way things are done. It has been done this way for centuries, Jane. Do not be a fool. You are very familiar with history. You know how marriages are negotiated, or were negotiated, before this nonsense about love began to take hold,” he sneered before his shoulders sagged as if the world had defeated him.