Page 48 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

Two weeks had passed swiftly, yet the melancholy farewell at Maplewood Hall remained vivid in Vera’s mind as the Thornborough carriage rattled along the final stretch toward her new home.

The physician had deemed Sir Reginald unfit to travel such a long way—or indeed any distance at all—until his strength was vastly improved, so it had been decided that he would stay at home with the children and staff while her cousin, Imogen, accompanied Vera to Thornborough Abbey.

The journey north from Kent was no trifling matter, even in the comfort of a well-sprung travelling carriage fitted with plush velvet squabs and silk-curtained windows to shield against the dust of the road.

Days passed in a rhythmic procession of mile markers and changing skies, punctuated by brief halts at bustling inns where ostlers hurried to change teams and maids appeared with steaming trays of broth and buttered bread.

The early stages of the journey wound through the southern counties, where the countryside was broken frequently by towns with red-bricked terraces, neat hedgerows, and the ever-present smoke of industry rising faintly in the distance.

As they skirted the outskirts of London and pressed further northward, the roads became narrower, the pace slower, and the scenery ever more wild in its charm.

Vera was grateful to have at least some support at her side for her wedding, but she still felt incredibly isolated and sad as she headed towards a completely unknown future. Still, Imogen’s steady, forthright presence was a small comfort amidst the overwhelming uncertainty.

Father’s frail form and apologetic eyes haunted her thoughts; the twins’ tearful pleading still echoed in her ears. Vera shifted slightly, smoothing her dove-grey skirts, practical yet tastefully simple, chosen precisely for their modesty and utility.

Imogen, her expressive features framed by curling chestnut hair beneath a modest bonnet, broke the silence abruptly. “You do realise what they call your betrothed, don’t you? The Beast of Thornborough .”

“I’m aware of the epithet,” Vera replied evenly, her amber gaze fixed steadily ahead. “But I’m inclined to judge people by their actions rather than baseless rumours. We shouldn’t judge a person by the idle gossip of the ton.”

“How practical of you,” Imogen remarked wryly. “Though practicality may offer scant comfort when facing a husband whose visage sends maidservants—and indeed footmen—scurrying away in fright.”

Vera forced a faint smile. “It is not his appearance that concerns me most, Imogen. Rather, it is his character, which remains a complete mystery.”

“From what I have heard, that has not exactly received glowing praise either,” Imogen replied, never one to embellish the truth with diplomacy when a dose of brutal honesty would dispel the last traces of false hope.

“Thank you for your reassurance, dear cousin,” Vera remarked, rolling her eyes skywards. “You are meant to be offering comfort, not compounding my misery.”

It was not until they crossed into Yorkshire that the true transformation of their surroundings revealed itself, subtle at first—a gentler light in the air, a clearer horizon—before giving way to wide, rolling fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.

The land here seemed to breathe differently, untroubled by the press of population, its serenity broken only by the cry of birds or the lowing of distant cattle.

Dry stone walls replaced the manicured fences of the south, and great swathes of moorland, heather-flecked and golden beneath the sun, rolled past like some vast, sleeping beast. For Vera, gazing out of the window with her gloved hand resting against the glass, it felt less like an arrival and more like a slow exhale—a stepping away from the clatter of society into something older, quieter, and infinitely more enduring.

Yet the nearer they drew to their destination, the more keenly the enormity of what she was about to undertake pressed upon her with terrifying clarity.

The carriage finally slowed after what felt like an endless journey, and the looming edifice of Thornborough Abbey emerged from the mist—an imposing structure of grey stone, its sharp gothic arches piercing the leaden sky, while rampant ivy climbed unchecked along its ancient walls.

Vera’s heart quickened; her composure, carefully maintained throughout the journey, trembled beneath the intimidating shadow of her future home.

What am I doing? Why would anyone marry somebody they had never met before? Particularly someone rumoured to be a beast? The whole idea is absurd.

They halted before broad stone steps, and Mr Kingsley, the kind-eyed butler, appeared to greet them, his spine impeccably straight, his neatly combed jet-black hair a stark contrast to his pristine, starched white shirt.

“Miss Huxford,” Kingsley intoned formally, his sharp eyes briefly assessing their worn travelling cloaks and modest trunks without revealing judgment. “How lovely to meet you. I am the butler, Mr Kingsley. Welcome to Thornborough Abbey.”

“Thank you, Mr Kingsley,” Vera responded calmly, stepping gracefully from the carriage. “The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.”

Imogen followed, her eyes openly curious as she surveyed her new surroundings.

Inside, Vera felt the hush of servants’ whispered exchanges brush against her senses. She straightened instinctively, drawing her shoulders back and displaying nothing but serene composure.

Agatha Renwick awaited them in the entrance hall—a stately figure dressed elegantly in emerald silk, her dark hair streaked subtly with silver. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took swift inventory of Vera’s plain travelling attire.

“Miss Huxford,” Agatha’s voice was smooth yet edged with cool appraisal. “You are most welcome. I trust your journey was not too taxing?”

“It was quite comfortable, thank you,” Vera replied steadily, meeting Agatha’s gaze without flinching. “My father deeply regrets his inability to accompany me; his health is fragile.”

“How unfortunate,” Agatha murmured, raising one eyebrow, but clearly not too displeased by the smaller wedding party. “A pity. Such important occasions do usually merit a family presence. One might wonder about priorities, might one not?”

“My father’s priorities lie precisely where they ought—his health and the well-being of his family,” Vera returned mildly, her voice calm but firm.

“Indeed,” Agatha conceded, her smile sharpening slightly. “Well, we shall manage a quiet ceremony, as suits Lord Thornborough’s preferences in any case. My nephew was never one for overly large occasions.”

“Naturally,” Vera acknowledged calmly, careful to betray no offence at the slight.

Kingsley stepped forward smoothly. “I have no doubt you will want to freshen up after a lengthy journey. Allow me to escort you to your rooms, Misses Huxford.”

They followed him along the dimly lit corridors, the occasional portrait or faded tapestry adding to the solemn, and somewhat oppressive, atmosphere. The rooms assigned to them were comfortably appointed yet felt starkly impersonal—the furnishings bland, and the decoration coldly austere.

“I trust everything will be to your satisfaction, my ladies.” Kingsley offered. “Please do not hesitate to call for me if I can be of any assistance. Dinner will be served in the dining room at seven.”

Once they were alone, Imogen removed her bonnet, glancing around with candid curiosity. “They certainly do not trouble themselves much with warmth here, do they?”

Vera sighed softly, removing her cloak. “I suppose warmth is considered an unnecessary luxury.”

Imogen met her eyes frankly. “You seem remarkably composed, considering the situation.”

“What choice do I have?” Vera replied softly, smoothing her hair carefully. “Composure is my armour now. Without it, I fear I might falter entirely.”

Imogen placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You are stronger than you realise, Vera. And whatever happens, I am here for you.”

***

Phineas stood before the tall windows of the dining room; his reflection fractured in the leaded glass.

Rain misted against the clouded panes, dimming the view of the garden beyond.

The scent of silver polish and cooking smells filled the air.

He listened to the distant echo of footsteps—hers, most likely—approaching the door.

He had not meant to join them so soon, and certainly not early.

He’d planned to enter last, to command the moment as one might a battlefield—swiftly and without pause.

Yet the impulse to see her—to gauge her reaction—had propelled him forward.

It must be done sooner or later, though in truth he detested meeting new people; they seldom concealed their first impressions well.

He turned as the door opened. Vera entered beside her cousin, poised but clearly wary. Her dress was unadorned, her demeanour calm. And then she saw him.

Phineas watched for the flinch. He always did.

There was a flicker as there always was—he caught it—but not of revulsion.

Surprise, perhaps. Or restrained compassion.

It was a vast improvement on introductions he had battled through in the past. At least she hadn’t gawped at him as if he were an exotic animal—her mouth wide open as if catching flies, or looked openly disgusted at his very presence.

Although, he had to admit that he preferred the revulsion. It was far easier to endure than pity.

“Miss Huxford,” he said, his voice low and even.

“My lord,” she replied, her tone controlled and polite.

He inclined his head but said no more. He took his seat at the head of the table, noting how she seated herself with the same careful posture; Vera Huxford was neither meek nor defiant.

Nathaniel arrived moments later, smiling broadly as though entering a drawing room filled with old friends.