To Beguile a Beast

He cocked his head, considering her. “You’ve said that you’re widowed.”



Her chin lifted. “Yes, of course.”



“For how long?”



She looked away, hesitating for a fraction of a second. “Three years this fall.”



He nodded. She was very good, but she was lying. Did the husband still live? Or did she run from another man? “And what did Mr. Halifax do?”



“He was a doctor.”



“But not a successful one, I take it.”



“Why do you say that?”



“If he’d been successful,” he pointed out, “you wouldn’t have to work now.”



She lifted a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me, but the topic distresses me.”



No doubt he was supposed to feel pity for her at this point and give up the chase, but he had her cornered, and his curiosity urged him on. Her distress only made him more eager. He stepped closer, so close that his chest nearly touched her shoulder. His nose caught the scent of lemons from her hair. “You were fond of your husband?”



Her hand fell and she glared up at him, her tone tart. “I loved him desperately.”



His mouth curved in a smile that wasn’t very nice. “A tragedy, then, his death.”



“Yes, it was.”



“You were married young?”



“Only eighteen.” Her eyes dropped.



“And the marriage was happy.”



“Extremely happy.” Her voice was defiant, the lie transparent.



“What did he look like?”



“I…” She wrapped her arms about herself. “Please, might we change the subject?”



“Certainly,” he drawled. “Where did you live in London?”



“I’ve told you.” Her voice was steadier now. “I was in Lady Vale’s household.”



“Of course,” he murmured. “My mistake. I keep forgetting your vast experience in running a household.”



“It’s not vast,” she whispered. “You know that.”



For a moment, they were silent and only the wind whistling around the corner of the castle gave voice.



Then she said very quietly, with her face still turned away, “It’s just that I… I need a place to stay right now.”



And something inside him surged in triumph. He had her. She couldn’t leave. It made no sense, this feeling of triumph. He’d been urging her to go ever since she’d arrived, but somehow the knowledge that she had to stay, and that as an honorable gentleman he had to let her stay, filled him with contentment.



Not that he let it show. “I confess, Mrs. Halifax, that I am surprised by one thing.”



“What is that?”



He bent closer, his mouth nearly brushing her lemon-scented hair. “I would’ve thought a lady of your beauty would be besieged by suitors.”



She turned her head, and their faces were suddenly only inches apart. He felt her breath brush across his lips as she spoke. “You find me beautiful.”



Her voice was curiously flat.



He cocked his head, eyeing the smooth brow, the lush mouth, and the fine wide eyes. “Devastatingly so.”



“And you probably think beauty sufficient reason to marry a woman.” Her tone was bitter now.



What had the mysterious Mr. Halifax done to his wife? “No doubt most men do.”



“They never think of a woman’s disposition,” she muttered. “Her likes and dislikes, her fears and hopes, her very soul.”



“Don’t they?”



“No.” Her beautiful eyes had grown dark and tragic. The wind blew a curling lock of hair across her face.



“Poor Mrs. Halifax,” he mocked softly. He gave in to impulse and raised his left hand—his unmaimed hand—and stroked the lock of hair back away from her face. Her skin was as fine as silk. “How terrible to be so lovely.”



A frown creased her unblemished brow. “You said most men.”



“Did I?” He let his hand drop.



She looked up at him, her eyes were quite perceptive now. “Don’t you consider beauty to be the most important criteria in a wife?”



“Ah, but you’ve forgotten my aspect, I’m afraid. It’s in the natural order of things that a lovely wife will either stray or come to hate an ugly husband. A man as revolting as I would be an idiot to attach himself to a beautiful woman.” He smiled into her mesmerizingly lovely eyes. “And I am many things, Mrs. Halifax, but an idiot is not one of them.”



He bowed and turned to stride back into the castle, leaving Mrs. Halifax, a lonely, desperately tempting siren, behind him.



“WHEN WILL WE go home?” Jamie asked the next afternoon. He picked up a rock and threw it.



The rock didn’t go very far, but Abigail frowned, anyway. “Don’t do that.”



“Why not?” Jamie whined.



“Because you might hit someone. Or something.”



Jamie looked about the old stable yard, empty except for themselves and a few sparrows. “Who?”



“I don’t know!”



Abigail wanted to throw a rock herself, but ladies didn’t do such things. And besides, they were supposed to be beating an old rug. Mama’d made one of the footmen put up a line across a corner of the yard, and a row of rugs now hung from it, all waiting to be beaten. Abigail’s arms were sore, but she took a swing at the rug anyway with the broom she held. It felt almost good to hit the rug. A great cloud of dust flew out.



Jamie squatted to pick up another rock. “I want to go home.”



“You’ve already said that over and over again,” Abigail said irritably.



“But I do.” He stood and threw the rock. It hit the stable’s wall and clattered onto the gray stones that paved the stable yard. “We never had to beat rugs at our old house. And Miss Cummings took us to the park sometimes. There’s nothing to do here but work.”



“Well, we can’t go home,” Abigail shot back. “And I told you—”



“Oy!” The voice came from behind them.



Abigail looked over her shoulder, still holding the broom.



Mr. Wiggins was trundling toward them, his ginger hair waving in the breeze as his stumpy arms waved in the air. “Watcha doin’, throwin’ rocks about like that? Are you soft in the head?”



Abigail straightened. “He’s not soft—”



Mr. Wiggins snorted like a surprised horse. “If’n throwin’ rocks about that could hit anybody, includin’ me, isn’t soft in th’ head, I don’t know what is.”



“You don’t talk that way!” Jamie said. He’d stood and his hands were balled by his sides.



“Don’t tawk whot?” Mr. Wiggins mimicked their accent. “Whot’re yew, a soft-headed London ponce?”



“My father’s a duke!” Jamie shouted, red-faced.



Abigail froze, horrified.



But Mr. Wiggins merely threw back his head and laughed. “A duke, eh? Then what does that make you? A dukeling? Ha! Well, dukeling or not, don’t throw them stones.”



And he walked off, still chuckling.



She waited, holding her breath until he was out of sight; then she swung on her brother, whispering furiously, “Jamie! You know we weren’t to say anything about the duke.”



“He called me a ponce.” Jamie’s face was still red. “And the duke is our father.”



“But Mama said we mustn’t let anyone know that.”



“I hate it here!” Jamie put his head down like a bull and ran out of the stable yard.



Or at least he started to. At the corner of the castle, he stumbled headlong into Sir Alistair coming the other way.



“Whoa, there.” Sir Alistair caught Jamie easily in both hands.



“Let me go!”



“Certainly.”



Sir Alistair raised his hands and Jamie was free. But having gained his freedom, he didn’t seem to know what to do next. He stood in front of the castle’s master, his head bowed, his lower lip protruding.



Sir Alistair watched him for a moment, and then looked at Abigail with one eyebrow raised. His hair was about his face, his scars shone dully in the sunlight, and his jaw was still stubbled, but he wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Mr. Wiggins.



Abigail shifted from one foot to the other, still holding the broom. “We were beating the rugs.” She gestured weakly to the line of rugs behind her.



“So I see.” Sir Alistair looked back at Jamie. “I was going to the stable to fetch a shovel.”



“What for?” Jamie grunted.



“I’m going to bury Lady Grey.”



Jamie hunched his shoulders and kicked at the cobblestones.



Everyone was silent a moment.



Until Abigail licked her lips and said, “I-I’m sorry.”



Sir Alistair looked at her from his one eye, and his expression wasn’t friendly at all, but Abigail gathered all her courage and blurted it out before she let her fear and embarrassment freeze her. “I’m sorry about Lady Grey and I’m sorry that I screamed.”



He blinked. “What?”



She took a deep breath. “The first night when we came. I’m sorry I screamed at you. It wasn’t very nice of me.”



“Oh. Well… thank you.” He glanced away then and cleared his throat, and there was another silence.



“May we help you?” Abigail asked. “Bury Lady Grey, I mean.”



Sir Alistair frowned, his brows drawn together over his eye patch. “Are you sure you want to?”



“Yes,” Abigail said.



Jamie nodded.



Sir Alistair looked at them a moment and then nodded. “Very well, then. Wait here.”



He went into the stables and then came back out with a shovel. “Come on.”



He set off toward the back of the castle without another glance toward them.



Abigail put down her broom, and she and Jamie trailed him. She darted a look at Jamie. He had tears at the corners of his eyes. He’d cried for quite a long time the night before, and the sound had made her chest hurt. She frowned and watched the path. It was rocky and bumpy; Sir Alistair was leading them down through the old garden toward the stream. It was stupid because they hadn’t known Lady Grey all that long, but Abigail felt like crying, too. She didn’t even know why she’d asked to come along to help bury the dog.



Below the gardens was a bit of a grassy meadow. Sir Alistair tramped through it and as they neared the stream, Abigail could hear the rush of water. Farther up, there were some rocks in the stream and the water boiled about them, frothing white. But below the garden, the water had calmed, pooling in the shade of some trees. At the base of one was a lump bundled in an old rug.



Abigail looked away, feeling her throat ache.



But Jamie went right up to the bundle. “Is this her?”



Sir Alistair nodded.



“It seems silly to waste a good rug,” Abigail muttered.



Sir Alistair looked at her out of his one light brown eye. “She liked to lie on that rug before the fire in my tower.”



Abigail glanced away, feeling ashamed. “Oh.”



Jamie squatted and stroked the faded rug as if it were the fur of the dog beneath. Sir Alistair set his spade and began digging beneath the tree.



Abigail wandered closer to the stream. The water was clear and cool. A few leaves floated lazily on the surface. She knelt carefully and looked at the rocks at the bottom. They seemed quite close, yet she knew they were a yard or more away.



Behind her, Jamie asked, “Why’re you burying her here?”



She could hear the sound of the spade scraping against earth. “She liked to ramble with me. I’d come here to fish, and she’d take a nap under that tree. She liked it here.”



“Good,” Jamie said.



Then there was only the sound of Sir Alistair digging. Abigail leaned over the pool and trailed her fingers in the water. It was shockingly cool.

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