Curves for the Beastly Duke (Busty Bodice Club #4)

Chapter 1

THE TASK

Lady Rosamund Belle was currently engaged in a staring contest with an oversized door knocker—a contest she was losing. Molded into the shape of a lion, its sharp teeth glinted down at her, its shadowed gaze cold, but that wasn’t why she was hesitating.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was nervous, but also… aware.

Aware that this was her moment. Her best—and perhaps only—chance to see the plan through.

Brighton had proved useful. Charles and Felicity had departed three days prior for one of their romantic seaside interludes, leaving the household pleasantly distracted.

Rosamund had informed the servants she meant to visit Georgiana—newly married and forever in need of sisterly company. No one found that remarkable.

No one except Penelope.

Sweet, earnest Penelope, who alone knew the truth. Who had listened, wide-eyed, as Rosamund confessed the nature of her task. Who had sworn—solemnly, fiercely—to tell no one where she was truly going.

It was enough.

Inhaling one fortifying breath, she lifted her trembling hand to the brass ornament and gave three firm knocks. The sound echoed loudly, startling in the silence of the grounds of what seemed like a forgotten estate.

Ironwood Manor.

“I can do this.”

For Papa.

For herself.

And—though she scarcely dared admit it—for the man who resided within.

Publish something under your own name, Rosa. Make it meaningful. Make a difference in the world.

Only then would she earn her inheritance. Only then would she secure the independence Papa had always insisted she was capable of claiming.

She would not marry merely for shelter. She would not rely on indulgence.

She would stand on her own.

But first—

She had to face a duke no one in polite society dared approach.

With Papa buried and her grief still sharp beneath her ribs, Rosamund stood before the seat of the Duke of Bexley—“Beastly,” as the gossips now preferred.

Rosamund could not believe it was true. She had seen him in the village as a boy, before the war. And although she’d kept a careful distance, she’d recognized something special. He had been beautiful, noble, and… kind.

Rumors did not unmake a man.

She would see the truth for herself.

But in order to do that, she needed to actually meet with him.

Interview him.

She rapped the knocker three more times. She would wait all day if necessary. It was not as if she had anywhere else to go.

But as it happened, she did not need to wait.

The door creaked open only seconds later, revealing—

Not the duke.

The person looking out was a servant, though not a butler. Rather, a woman, and judging by her serviceable gown and apron, a housekeeper. Stout and stern, with a kerchief tied tight about her hair, the older woman frowned at Rosamund as though she were a nuisance peddler.

She offered no greeting, her stare as formidable as the door she guarded.

“Um… hello.” For a moment, the words Rosamund had rehearsed in her mind escaped her. “My name is Miss Rosamund Belle.” Her mother’s maiden surname—easier all around for no one to know who her family was. “I am here to meet with the Duke of Bexley, if you please.”

“His Grace does not receive visitors.”

“But I am not just any visitor,” Rosamund said, forcing some steel into her voice. “I am a… a writer. And I have a proposition for His Grace.”

“He isn’t interested.”

The woman’s stubbornness did not deter Rosamund, rather the opposite.

“I think,” Rosamund persisted, “he’ll want to decide for himself.”

Cool blue eyes narrowed as she studied Rosamund. “What kind of business does a writer have with the duke? Nothing good, no doubt.”

“Oh, but it is—good, that is. I wish to tell his story, so that people might know the truth.” For his own protection.

Because presently, people feared him. And fear, in large enough amounts and pointed in the wrong direction, could very well turn dangerous.

The gossip being bandied about in the village, horrid rumors, were obviously built upon baseless speculation.

“His Grace isn’t interested in telling stories.”

Rosamund folded her arms over her ample chest. “I must beg your pardon then, ma’am, but I’m not leaving until he tells me so himself.”

A stand-off followed, broken only by the restless stamping of Rosamund’s mare in the courtyard. But eventually, with a put-upon sigh, the housekeeper fully opened the door and stepped to the side. “Very well. But when he casts you out, do not say you weren’t warned.”

Rosamund let herself exhale. First hurdle, crossed.

The woman ushered her into a cavernous entrance hall where the air felt unnaturally still.

A great chandelier hung up above, unlit and dull, its stem anchored at the center of an ornate rosette whose leafy patterns were echoed in the spiraling molding that extended across the ceiling.

The few pieces of furniture and decor were shrouded in white sheets—all except for a single console table standing against the wall.

It was a simple thing, but in a room so lacking in color and warmth, the polished wood managed to catch her eye. A small glimmer of beauty amid the decay. The table’s surface was carved with vines and flowers, and her fingertips itched to reach out and trace the lines.

Above the table, however, a large ghostly sheet had been draped over whatever was hung on the wall.

If she were to guess, it hid not a portrait, but a looking glass.

Her throat tightened. The stories of his disfigurement must be true, otherwise, why would he cover his reflection?

The housekeeper, saying nothing, swept her along until they reached the drawing room. Inside, the furnishings were covered, the draperies drawn against the dimming light. Dust swirled in the air as the housekeeper yanked the cloth from a solitary chair with a grudging snap.

“Not like we were expecting guests.” She gestured stiffly. “You may sit and wait here.”

The housekeeper did not look back as she left, the latch clicking shut behind her.

Rosamund remained standing a moment longer than necessary. Then—carefully—she lowered herself onto the very edge of the chair, her weight balanced, her spine held rigid. She tested it the way one tested thin ice.

She remembered too well the sharp crack of one of her mother’s chairs giving way beneath her, the stunned silence that followed, the way refinement had suddenly revealed itself as something brittle and unkind.

This chair… did nothing at all.

No creak. No ominous shift. The legs remained firm beneath her.

After several breaths, she shifted back—only slightly—allowing herself the smallest release of tension. It held fast, unmoved by her presence. With an exhale, she clasped her gloved hands in her lap, willing her breathing to steady.

What madness had driven her here? Any other woman would have turned back at the mere sight of Ironwood Manor—at the sight of the housekeeper’s scowl.

She would not turn back so easily.

Publish something under your own name, Rosa. Make it meaningful. Make a difference in the world.

She was her father’s daughter, and she had a task to complete.

And unlike women who armed themselves with parasols and ribbons, Rosamund was not the sort to require companions or the usual protections. What good would it do to pretend otherwise? She was not delicate, not easily overcome.

In truth, there was a certain freedom in it. Men did not leer at what they did not notice. And as their old governess was fond of saying whenever one of them complained: If a lady could not be admired, she could at least be effective.

Rosamund was nothing if not effective.

So rather than sit there trembling in her half-boots, she used the time to rehearse—calmly, methodically—what she would say when the duke finally deigned to acknowledge his guest.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Minutes turned to hours, the quiet broken only by her own measured breathing. She did not shift, did not fidget. She had not come all this way to be undone by discomfort or doubt.

Still, the room offered no mercy. No fire stirred in the hearth. No candle burned. As the light faded, shadows gathered in unfamiliar corners, and the air seemed to cool around her resolve. Waiting was one thing. Waiting in the dark—in a strange house, in a stranger’s domain—was another.

Perhaps she would have to return another day.

The thought had scarcely formed when footsteps sounded in the corridor. Unhurried, as though time itself bent to his pace.

The footsteps stopped.

The door opened, and the Duke of Bexley entered with a single candle in hand.

Behind him padded a great hound, tail loose and untroubled, followed by a lean black cat that traced the edge of the room as though it already claimed it.

It was as though she did not exist.

Rather than acknowledge her presence, he crossed the room, then bent to touch the flame to the waiting kindling.

Fire caught with a soft rush, and in its soft glow, pieces of him came into view.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. One eye hidden beneath a dark patch, the scar beneath it carving sharply down his cheek.

Her heart gave an inconvenient stutter, but she did not look away.

His black hair was tied back at his nape, though a single strand had escaped to brush his temple. He wore no jacket, no waistcoat—only a plain linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms corded with muscle and hands marked by work.

Her gaze caught there—on long fingers dusted faintly with sawdust, on the trace of woodsmoke clinging to him, sharp and real.

This was not the refined boy she remembered. Nor was he the grotesque creature whispered about back in Hallows Bridge.

The sleek black shadow detached itself from the duke, paused, and regarded Rosamund with bright, assessing eyes. Then—without hesitation—it leapt lightly into her lap and settled there, curling as though it had always belonged.

Only then did he turn.

His visible eye fixed on her.

“Who the devil are you?” His voice was low and rough. “And why would you think you’d be welcome here?”