Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

“He’s my friend,” Indio explained earnestly. “And he fed Daff all his dinner.”

At the mention of her name, the little dog ran over and, growling in what she no doubt considered a ferocious manner, began to worry the ragged hem of Apollo’s breeches.

“Humph,” Maude said, her tone as dry as dust. “If that’s the case, better come inside, all of you.”

Indio bent and rescued Apollo’s breeches by picking up Daffodil, who immediately began bathing his face with her tongue. He laughed and trotted past Maude. His mother gave Apollo an indecipherable look and motioned him in ahead of her. Apollo ducked his head and entered the charred theater, trying to quell his unease. There was no reason to think she’d seen through his subterfuge.

The last time he’d been in the building was on the night the garden had burned. Asa Makepeace was an old friend and the only one Apollo had trusted to keep his whereabouts secret when he’d been rescued from Bedlam. He’d hidden in the garden for only a day before the place had burned down. Then the theater had been smoldering and had stank of smoke and devastation.

Now there was still the faint smell of charred wood, but there were other changes. Miss Stump had obviously attempted to make the place more comfortable—a table and chairs were in the center of the room, and a print of ladies in bright dresses hung on the wall. A fire crackled on the grate, and a rack had been erected nearby to dry clothes. Someone had been knitting, for two knitting needles and a half-finished sock were stuck in a ball of gray yarn on a stool near the hearth. A tiny side table held a messy sheaf of papers, a corked bottle of ink, and a chipped mug with several quills. On the mantel sat a single, rather ugly black-and-green enameled clock—working, unlike Makepeace’s. Before the fire was an incredibly plain purple settee, one corner propped up with several bricks.

he was struck dumb instead.

He was there—Indio’s monster. He was in the pond, his back to her.

And he was quite nude.

Lily blinked, frozen in place. The garden was all of a sudden eerily still as the day made its last farewell. His massive shoulders were bunched, his head lowered as if he saw something in the water. Perhaps he was struck by his own reflection. Did he know himself when he saw that man beneath the water—or was he frightened at the sight? She felt a flash of pity. He could not help his own huge size—or the deformity of his brain. She ought to speak, ought to make her presence known, ought to…

All thought left her head as the giant plunged beneath the water.

Lily’s mouth half opened.

The setting sun broke through the cloud cover and bathed the pond in golden light, reflecting off the ripples left by his movement. He burst from the water. He was facing her now. The muscles bunched on his arms as he slicked his wet, shoulder-length hair back from his face. The mist swirled amber over the surface of the water, adorning his gleaming skin as if he were the tributary god of this ruined garden. Her pity evaporated, burned away by the sudden realization that she had it all wrong.

He was…

She swallowed.

Good Lord. He was magnificent.

The water trickled down his chest, trailing through a diamond of wet, dark hair between his beaded nipples, down over a shallow, perfectly formed navel, and into a dark line of wet hair that disappeared—rather disappointingly—into the concealing misted water.

She blinked and glanced up—only to find that the giant, the beast, the monster was looking directly back at her.

She ought to be ashamed. He was a mental defective and she was ogling him as if he were able to reciprocate any feeling she might have… except his expression didn’t seem stupid now. He almost looked amused by her stare.

Not defective at all.

And an awful, terrible, mortifying thing happened: she felt herself grow wet.

Just yesterday she’d had tea with the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. The Duke of Montgomery had aristocratic cheekbones, sapphire-blue eyes, and shining, golden hair—and he’d moved her not at all.

Yet this… beast before her, this man with his wild muddy-brown hair, his animallike shoulders, his big, knobby nose, his wide, crooked mouth and heavy brow. Him she found attractive.

Obviously she needed to take a new lover—and soon.

He began wading to the shore, his leaden expression returned. Had she imagined the look of intelligence, supplying one where none existed?

Lily squeaked as he neared, but sadly, did not turn her back.

She had a moral defect—a despicable personal flaw—for she simply could not look away. Her eyes dropped to the wet black tangle between his legs as he strode toward her, the water swirling about his muscled thighs. There was a hint of the flesh below, crude and male and—

“Mama!”

Lily jumped, whirling, her hand on her heart, which surely had stopped, poor, worn thing.

“Indio!” she gasped, rather breathlessly, for her wretched son had chosen this moment to emerge from the shrubbery. He was standing on the path she’d just come from, a leaf stuck in his curly black hair. Daffodil, looking even muddier than usual, capered up to her and planted filthy paws on her skirts.