Lord Beast (13 page)

“Omf.”

She quickly walked over to him.
“Here, let me,” she said patiently, ducking under the heaviest arm she had ever
had over her shoulders.

“I think I need another drink,”
he grumbled sourly, rubbing the area of his face that had collided with the
wood of the door. Dani suspected it had been his nose.

“Trust me, that’s the last thing
you need.”

“Bloody woman.”

Drunkenly, they managed to open
his door and weave unsteadily down the passage towards the staircase that would
lead to his private wing, stumbling into many walls and tapestries as they
went. His weight was cumbersome and attempting to shoulder it all would be
sheer folly on her part. Besides, she was reliant on him to locate his chambers
as she had never ventured this far into the castle before.

If walking straight down a
corridor was problematic, then tackling the stairs was catastrophic. He lurched
into her, sending her crashing into the railings and the walls. Dani knew her
back would ache later for her exertions but that was a problem she resolved to
deal with later. Right now, it was imperative that the man hanging onto her
shoulders sleep off this state of inebriety.

After what seemed too long by all
accounts, they managed to heave into his chambers and he collapsed face first
onto his enormous bed. Even his chambers were dark, Dani reflected as she took
in the dark linen and draping. It suited him.

Spotting the tray of food left on
a table beside the door, Dani brought it over to the side of his bed and
perched on the edge with the tray in her lap. “Maybe you should eat something,”
she told him softly.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, his face
buried against the thick coverlet and the hood of the cloak covering everything
else. “You’re so lovely.” Said drunkenly and sleepily, Dani refused to allow
herself to put too much credibility in his words. “So… lovely. You know, I
really love freckles.”

“Ssh,” Dani urged. “Let’s try
eat, hmm?”

A resounding snore was her
answer.

She set the tray aside and stood
up quietly, turning around to study the comatose figure in the bed. It would be
so easy to pull away the hood and study the face beneath. She already knew from
the night of the masquerade that even with the mask on Rhys Ashcroft was
beautiful to behold. What could he want to hide so much?

But she sighed, already knowing
that she could not, would not, push his hood back. She wanted him to willingly
and trustfully reveal himself to her. Only then would she be satisfied. Only
then would she know that she could trust him to be only himself, all of
himself, with her. She couldn’t settle for anything less. On top of that, she
hadn’t quite yet forgiven him for his subterfuge at the masquerade. She needed
to speak to him about that, which was her primary concern for coming here
today, but clearly she would not be able to get anything coherent out of him
until tomorrow. She made a mental note to inform Grayson to lock that infernal
liquor cabinet and hide the key just to ensure that Rhys remained sober long
enough.

“I should just wash my hands of
you,” she told the snoring lump on the bed sternly but then a soft smile
touched her lips and she nearly whispered, “but, Lord help me, I can’t.”

Benignly, she left his chamber,
closing the door behind her, and resolved to return the following day. She
marvelled at her surprisingly good mood, something she’d been bereft of ever
since the masquerade. Even if the visit with him was short and incoherent, just
seeing him again filled her with contentment. It was strange, that. How could
one person be the sole cause of your distress and happiness at the same time?

Back inside the chamber, Rhys pushed
back his hood and watched her receding figure. He admired the graceful sway of
her full hips under a heavy black skirt. Black… he would love to see her in any
other colour. Bright colours, soft colours… anything but
black
.

Her words swimming through his
hazy mind, Rhys caught himself smiling before drifting off into a dreamless
sleep, his last thoughts of a woman with endearing freckles telling him that
she would shoot him with a pistol if he didn’t open a door.

Patricia Pennyworth went about
her usual morning routine with fastidious propensity. From a reasonable hour,
say about eleven-ish, she would deem it acceptable to arise from her
comfortable bed, after which a lengthy toilette would ensue with the aid of not
one but two maids. Hereby she would perfect the art of reprimanding said maids
for lacking the ability to perfect the most complicated of tasks.

Her hair, for example, was in
dire need of a wash. Being a woman with set traditions and customs her
great-great-
great
grandmother used to follow, Patricia did not believe
that washing one’s hair during the colder months was conducive to one’s health.
As a result, the mousey locks were coated in grease and nigh impossible to fix
into some semblance of prettiness or curl.

Naturally, she was not to blame.
It was the ineptitude of her maids where the problem lay. So she docked their
pay.

By the time she descended the
stairs for breakfast, it was nearly noon.

Here, a hearty breakfast would
follow, complete with London’s society papers and her latest correspondence.

Patricia would first make a grab
for the society papers, eager to devour the gossip that therein lay. Having
squandered most of her inheritance left to her by her late husband (a paltry
sum as it were seeing as Lord Philips was a notorious gambler and rather poor
at that to boot), she realised that she would have to marry again soon and
marry rich. She was living well above her means. In actuality, she was almost
destitute. However, Patricia felt that it would be too humiliating for a woman
of her standards to accept anything less that absolute superiority.
She
would never be made a pauper.

She flipped open the paper to the
gossip column, her eyes scanning through the jumble of names for some hint that
someone, preferably old and disgustingly wealthy, was looking for a wife. Amid
stories and rumours of a more scandalous nature, her eyes skidded to a halt on
a name she never thought she would see again.

Lord Rhys Ashcroft, Earl of
Falmouth.

Her fork clattered against her
plate noisily.

Brusquely, she gestured for the
unfinished meal to be taken away.
That
was indeed a rare occurrence for
Patricia Pennyworth and she ignored the startled looks from the servants.

Lord Rhys Ashcroft, Earl of
Falmouth, made a rare appearance at the Worthwell Masquerade. Why his sudden
re-emergence into society now is cause for speculation, but some have it on
good authority that it was because of a girl that His Lordship chose to
appraise of his exclusivity. Could it be that this society will hear wedding
bells for the once- thought- of- as- deceased earl and his unidentified miss?

Involuntarily, Patricia’s fingers
flexed around the offending article, completely ruining the paper it was
printed on. A rage unlike anything she had ever experienced began to boil under
her skin. Her face burned and contorted, hatred for the man who had once
spurned her filled her with an intensity that threatened to choke her.

Screeching like a harpy, she
snatched her teacup and threw it viciously at a passing servant. The poor lad
had to dive for cover before the porcelain shattered above his head, staining
the wall with brownish liquid. Hurriedly, he vacated the room, along with
several others who bore witness to the start of their mistress’s tantrum.

Blood-curdling screams and
vehemently shrill curses followed for about half an hour, enunciated with the
reverberating shatter of crockery meeting the walls.

The servants waited anxiously
outside the dining room, anticipating their mistress’s anger to transfer to the
abuse of one of them. When Patricia did emerge, it was only to bark a sharp
order to one of the footman before she disappeared into her chambers.

“Ready the carriage. We leave for
Cornwall within the hour!”

Rhys woke up with a vile
headache.

A two-day drinking binge would do
that to you. No, wait. Was it three days? His head hurt too much to think about
it.

It was a chore to drag his body
out of bed, let alone dress himself. Well, shed the clothes he’d lived in for
the past few days and don new, fresh ones. His mouth, he reflected, felt as if
some small rodent had made a nest in it.

His stomach made a disparaging
sound of neglect and Rhys realised he’d hardly touched food for two days. That
alone would contribute to the putrid way he was feeling this morning. Val would
ensure that the problem be fixed immediately. All he would have to do is amble
down to the kitchens- ugh. Any form of movement, even the thought of it, felt
as if a mammoth hammer were colliding with his skull.

Gritting his teeth, he managed to
shuffle to the door of his chambers and slowly wind his way downstairs.

Val was cleaning various pots and
pans when he reached the kitchens. She glanced up at him and gave him a warm
smile. “Breakfast is served in the dining room this morn, my lord,” she told
him cheerfully.

“Uh…”

“The little miss said you’d be
needing something fulfilling this morning, so put out your favourite things, I
did.”

“Danielle?” God, he was
inarticulate this morning.

“That’s the one.” Val paused from
her spirited scrubbing and gave him a thoughtful look. “She’s waiting for you.
In the dining room.”

He didn’t thank or wait for
anything else from his cook. Rhys found his legs carrying him to the dining
room with a speed he hadn’t thought himself capable of this morning. He skidded
to a halt on the threshold of the stately, high-ceilinged room, his eyes
finding her almost instinctively, thirsty for the sight of her.

Having located a golden beam of
sunlight that streamed in from the high windows, Dani had placed herself
directly in its path at the table. She was slightly turned to him, providing
him a good view of her profile, while she read a book that she had no doubt
pillaged from his dusty library. The sunlight caught and glistened in her hair,
warmed the back of her long neck that was tilted slightly towards the book. At
that moment, she presented the perfect picture. If he could, he would have it
made into a portrait. He stood still, marvelling at her beauty and innocence
and softness.

Realising that he was holding his
breath, he expelled it slowly, reverently.

She caught the sound and looked
up at him, throwing him a sunny smile and his gut clenched.

“Hello,” Dani said warmly.
“There’s coffee on the mantel. I tried to get Grayson to serve it but the
ornery man would hear nothing of it.”

“What does your aunt think of you
disappearing so often to this castle?” he blurted, acutely aware of their
intimate situation and the consequences that could follow should anyone find
out about it. In long strides, he reached the mantel and poured himself some
coffee.

Dani shrugged offhandedly.
“Breakfast with friends,” she supplied. “Adequate chaperones. Nothing out of
the ordinary, I assure you. You’re not going to be forced to marry me, Rhys.”

He snorted, inhaling the
welcoming scent of the brew wafting towards his face. Admiringly, he took an
appreciative sip before gulping down the rest and pouring another, finally
placing himself at the head of the table, Danielle on his left.
Extraordinarily, the thought of marrying her didn’t send waves of unease
coursing through him as it used to. Still, that didn’t mean he had any right to
her. He should still endeavour to ward her off. “I thought I told you not to
come here,” he said with a half-hearted attempt at being hostile. He blamed his
compliance with her presence and on the hangover.

“I told you that I wouldn’t
listen,” she returned with a smile. “I thought that a few days of absence would
make you grow fonder of me. I’m told that it almost killed you, instead.”

He grunted dismissively.
“Hardly.”

“The amount of liquor you
consumed could fell an ox.”

“Don’t be absurd. And who said
you were the cause that?”

She looked at him challengingly,
delicate brow raised and those knowing blue eyes intent on the shadows that
covered his face. “Was I not?” she asked in a feignedly sweet voice.

“No,” Rhys grumbled. He would
never admit to it. Never. He’d take this little secret with him to the grave.
Lord knew she already had far too much power over him as it is.

“Then what was?” she demanded
haughtily.

“Er… old injury playing up. You
know how it is.”

She gave him an incredibly
caustic look. “When my back plays up
I
do not turn to liquor,” she told
him tartly.

“You should. Marvellous stuff.”

She pursed her lips in
disapproval but said nothing more on the topic, preferring to instead focus on
pouring herself a new cup of tea. Her movements were graceful and sure and Rhys
was grateful for the cover of the hood as he had not removed his eyes from her
since he had entered. He was able to enjoy the sight of her at his leisure,
admire the elegant column of her throat, the slimness of her shoulders and play
of light against her flawless skin.