The Beast's Ruined Bride, page 1
THE BEAST’S RUINED BRIDE
ROGUES GONE DIRTY
BELLA MOXIE
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
1
The Beast had done it again.
Blood covered Dane’s fists. Some his own, most his opponent’s. Sweat dripped into his eyes and his every muscle burned from exertion. The other man lay strewn across the dirt floor at his feet, groaning and barely conscious. The stench of blood and sweat, mixed with the filth of this bloodthirsty crowd, filled Dane’s nostrils and made his heart pound with fury.
All the while, the crowd around him roared in outrage and ecstasy. The Beast has done it again. Dane eyed his opponent, whose face he’d beaten to a bloody pulp.
The Beast they called him, and a beast he’d been.
It hadn’t helped, though. Not even the rush of a fight could appease the sick sense of foreboding. The fear. The frustration.
The rage.
Dane’s gaze moved over the lowlifes who were clamoring for their money and the brutes who were keeping the frenzy under control.
They were his brutes. Dane was their leader, though the criminals and whores of Vestry Lane knew him best as the Beast—King’s personal guard and the leader of his army.
Not the King of England, of course, nor of any other kingdom. King was anything but royal. Though in this narrow cobblestone stretch that separated the best neighborhoods from the worst, the man known as King might as well have been the ruler of the country, for his power here was absolute.
King was watching now from his private seating area above the ring. Like an emperor overseeing his gladiators, the tall, dark, ruthless leader watched it all from the sidelines.
Dane got a nod of approval from the fierce overlord who’d become something of a friend these past ten years he’d worked for him. As much of a friend as a man like the Beast could ever have.
But it wasn’t King’s approval he was after at the moment. For not even King with all his power could help. He’d tried. King had sent his best men out to roam the streets alongside Dane as he’d set out on his quest to find her. Lillian. His Lillian.
But she was gone. Three days now since she’d disappeared and no one could find her. He’d known before most when she’d been discovered missing. He’d had eyes on her for years now, though she didn’t know it. King had his spies throughout the city, but Dane only had eyes on Lillian. Hearing about her secondhand was as close as he’d come to her in a decade because he’d learned more from King than just how to fight.
He’d learned how to rise in the ranks, how to gain power and favor and respect. But mostly he’d learned how to protect. How to protect King, yes, but also Lillian.
Always Lillian.
Even as a child he’d known it was best not to love, for loved ones were a threat. The more one held dear, the more one could lose. Love was a weakness. But when it could not be avoided, it was best to keep them at a distance.
So he’d done just that. He’d kept his distance from the girl who’d shown him kindness. He’d left her to the sort of life he could never provide. But he’d had eyes on her all this time. He’d paid a tidy sum to the servants of her father’s household to ensure that she was happy. That she was safe.
And for what?
All to discover that she’d gone missing, lost in the night like some babe stolen by fairies.
A snarl ripped through him that had his opponent moaning in fear and the crowd around him roaring once more, ready to watch him tear this man limb from limb.
But he wouldn’t. It would do no good.
Fighting hadn’t helped Dane’s seething fury, and he’d been a fool to think that it might. He didn’t feel better for nearly beating a stranger to death when the man he truly wanted to murder was Lillian’s father. How could Lord Garman let his only daughter disappear? And why wasn’t he combing every street and back alley to find her as Dane was?
Another growl escaped as he made his way to the edge of the crowd. He didn’t have to push or shove. The crowd parted of its own volition. No one wanted to get too close to the Beast. He hadn’t risen through the ranks of the gamblers, thieves, and murderers who made up this dark part of the underworld by being reasonable.
Unpredictable was more like it. And brutal. Merciless when it was required.
Leniency only ever led to more chaos, more trouble. Fear in their eyes meant safety and order within the King’s territory. And so the crowd’s silence as he passed was welcome.
Their gasps and whispers behind him, a familiar reminder.
Once upon a time he’d tried to cover the scars of his back, but not anymore. These days he listened with grudging amusement when King and his men passed along the latest theories about how he’d gotten them.
It seemed some believed him to be a former slave. Others thought he’d had a life at sea as a pirate before working for King.
No one knew the truth. No one would even guess that the brutish, vulgar, terrifying Beast had been raised as a gentleman. Well, he’d been raised as the bastard son of a gentleman. The Earl of Fallenmore’s unwanted charge. A reminder that he’d been cuckolded.
A whipping boy when one of the earl’s real sons did wrong, and a beast to be beaten into submission when the earl had too much to drink.
But none of that mattered now. It had been a decade since any man had taken a whip to him and nearly as long since he’d lost a fight. The scars were just a reminder of a life he’d left behind.
Mostly.
It was mostly dead and buried. Except for her. His Lillian. The girl who’d lived at the neighboring estate. The sweet lass with the face of an angel and a heart to match. The beautiful young lady who’d shown him kindness and nursed him back to strength.
To this day he wasn’t sure how she’d always known, but she had.
Without fail, she’d sought him out and found his hiding spot after the worst beatings, and she’d tend to him as if she were a servant and he a lord, rather than a gently bred young miss taking care of an unwanted mongrel.
She’d always been there for him. Taken care of him as his own mother never had, and shown him more love and mercy than anyone ever had before or since.
She’d taken care of him and he’d tried to do the same, in his way. Keeping eyes on her, making sure she was safe. He’d been the first to know when her engagement to the Earl of Fallenmore’s eldest, Malcolm, had been made official.
Dane had nearly murdered a gambler who’d been caught cheating at one of King’s gambling hell the day he’d learned about that. But it wasn’t a surprise. Everyone had known her father and the earl had an understanding that they would join their families.
The wedding was set, and by all accounts she’d been content. Not happy, perhaps, but not distraught. She’d been resigned, that was what her lady’s maid had said.
So what had happened?
Why would she run?
Or had she been taken? His blood froze and his insides twisted with a helpless rage at the thought. But no. King’s best man for these kinds of things had gone to her home and assessed the scene himself. He’d told Dane that she’d clearly left of her own volition. Tracker, King called him, and Dane had never bothered to learn his real name. King was fond of nicknames and the anonymity that came with them. The most Dane knew was that Tracker was a former Bow Street Runner who’d lost his good name, but not his useful skills.
Dane scanned the crowd again. Tracker had been the one who’d insisted he take time off from the search. Said Beast had only been getting in the way when his temper had flared and he’d knocked a drunken pub owner out cold for not answering his questions quickly enough.
Get some sleep, Tracker had said. I’ll report back at dawn.
As if Dane could sleep when Lillian was on her own. As if he could rest when she might be hurt.
So he’d passed the night with fights instead. Earning King and himself more coin they didn’t need, and reminding this rotten crowd that there was a reason he’d been given his moniker.
But the night had passed and dawn’s light was spilling in through the cracks above the wooden slats that covered the windows.
Sure enough, Tracker was lurking in the shadows beneath King’s private box.
Dane caught sight of him through the crowd and changed course—the jeering, shouting crowd shifting with him like a tide.
Dane ignored them, barreling through without a backward look.
He hadn’t even drawn close enough to speak when Tracker gave him the answer he’d been looking for. With a shake of his head the tall, lean man with the sharp features and the even sharper look in his eyes gave Dane the bad news.
Still no sign of her.
Tracker nodded toward a room off the main hall of this dilapidated old warehouse that King had turned into a fighting ring. Another way for the greedy and ruthless to lose their money.
“What’ve you found?” Dane’s voice was little more than a growl in the darkened room.
The rough voice was another remnant of his childhood. He’d never spoken. Never been allowed to speak. Whether it was lack of use or the screams that had wrecked his voice, the end result was this low r
Tracker moved in the shadows with a lethal predatory grace that made him almost a match for the Beast in a fight. Almost. “We haven’t found her but I did get one of the maids to talk.”
Dane stilled. Something in the other man’s voice set him on edge.
Tracker glanced around them to ensure there were no eavesdroppers. “Seems she’d been crying.” Tracker’s lips curved up in a sneer at the word, like he was disgusted by the thought of a woman’s tears.
Dane went cold at the thought of his Lillian crying. “Why?” Tracker started to shake his head, but Beast’s snarl of rage made his freeze. “Who made her cry?”
Tracker watched him steadily, warily, as one might...well, an untamed beast. “The maid didn’t know. Said the girl had been acting oddly for nigh on two months before she disappeared.”
Dane’s brows drew down in a scowl. “Why didn’t her lady’s maid tell us this?”
Tracker lifted a shoulder. “The maid said the girl was trying to hide it. That she’d gotten secretive. Said she was pretending nothing was wrong.”
“But she was crying.” It wasn’t a question.
His Lillian had been upset, and she’d had no one to turn to.
Dane’s temples were pounding with rage and his hands curled into fists. Whoever had made her cry would pay.
And if someone had hurt his angel?
That person would pay with his life.
2
A nightmare had Lillian waking with a start, her heart pounding against her ribcage. Moonlight came in through the open window, but no breeze. The stale air was thick with humidity and her hair was matted with sweat.
It was a nightmare, that was all. Counting her breaths, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The shadows gave way to become the crowded, cluttered space that was her new home. Temporarily, at least.
Only the kindness of a near-stranger kept her from being abandoned on the streets. And what would come of her then?
She had no answer to that. She shut her eyes as if that could change her reality. All it did was make the sinking sensation worse until she snapped her eyes open with a gasp. She was drowning. Her life as she knew it was over, and she was drowning in panic.
How has my life come to this?
Lillian stared up at the worn rafters of the modiste’s attic. It was pointless to ponder how she’d gotten here. Nearly as useless as wondering what might have been.
What mattered was she was here now and she needed to find a way to move forward.
She struggled to sit upright but the room started to spin. She needed food. Her bones felt weary, her muscles heavy with exhaustion.
She needed rest.
Her stomach turned.
She needed a plan.
The sound of the wooden slats moving in the corner had her jumping to her feet. Fortunately she was small in height or she’d have knocked her head on the rafters. The modiste’s assistant wasn’t so lucky and as she clambered up into the attic space, she muttered a curse under her breath that would have made Lillian blush if she had the energy. As it was she found herself swaying as a wave of nausea took hold and made her skin turn clammy.
The assistant Clara took one look at her and tsked. “Ye shouldn’t be standing, miss. You ought to rest.”
Lillian tried to wave away her concern but she couldn’t resist when the older woman hurried over and set her back down on the makeshift bed of hay and leftover fabric.
“Any news?” Lillian asked. She tried to keep her tone light, unconcerned.
Apparently it was too light because Clara fussed about the attic, still muttering to herself as she tried to make the inherently uncomfortable space suitable for the daughter of a viscount.
She took a deep breath, a smile already curving her lips as she waited for an opportunity to ask again. Whom she was trying to fool with this calm demeanor? She did not know. But a lifetime of good breeding left her unable to reveal her panic, as if she’d spent so long hiding behind this perfect young lady facade, she no longer knew how to escape it.
She no longer knew who she was without it.
But despite her cool tones and her expression of mild curiosity, her limbs quaked with nerves.
This was her last chance. Her time was running out. The modiste did not know she was here and even if she did, she did not own this place. No landlord would wish to house a ruined young lady whose own family did not want her.
And the little money she’d left with was gone. She’d given Clara money for her meals the first day she’d arrived, but ever since she’d been living off the kind assistant’s charity.
Clara finally turned around once more to face her and Lillian’s expression inexplicably brightened. Again, habit. “Was your outing a success?” she asked.
Her heart raced. Her stomach turned. If it wasn’t, what would she do?
Clara’s smile was odd. “I did, my lady.”
Lillian’s heart leapt even as her stomach sank. There was something in the woman’s tone. A wariness. A warning. “And?” she asked. “Where is he now?”
Her hands clenched together. Please don’t say he’s dead. Please don’t say he’s left the city.
Dane was her only hope, and it was a farfetched one at that.
“I had my brother and his friends ask about this Mr. Dane Helms gentleman and I’m afraid…” She trailed off with a pained expression.
Lillian shook so badly that even her cool, calm voice trembled. “Please, Clara. Have you found him?”
“Rumor has it he works for a man known as King down on Vestry Lane.”
Relief flooded through her so quickly, she nearly missed the rest.
“They call him—” Clara cleared her throat. “They call him The Beast, my lady.”
The Beast? What a horrid name. She scowled. “But he is in London.”
Clara’s brows drew down. “Yes, miss, but—”
“Then I shall go to him.” She leapt to her feet, and realized at once that she really ought to learn her lessons. The room spun and she landed back on her behind before Clara could even reach her.
“Miss, you cannot go to him,” she said. Her tone was filled with disapproval and disdain.
So much so that Lillian blinked in surprise. “Why not? He is the only person I know will not turn me away.”
Clara tsked again. “Surely there is someone else. There must be someone you can turn to.”
“Like who?” She did not mean to be rude to this woman who’d done so much for her, but the question was in earnest. She’d spent three days running and hiding and trying to figure out a way to exist. A way to salvage her life. She’d come up with nothing. No one.
No one but Dane.
The Beast. The words echoed in her head now and her hands clenched in anger on his behalf. How dare they call him that. In her memory she saw the large, muscular lad who’d been given the name of son and treated as a slave. He never spoke. Well, rarely. But when he did…
Her heart clenched in her chest at the memory of those stolen moments. Of the understanding that had always seemed to exist between them. The shared compassion, and the kindness. She squeezed her eyes shut tight at the memory of the kindness in his eyes. No matter how much pain he was in, no matter how much misery he endured, his gaze when he looked upon her was only ever filled with more affection and love than she’d ever experienced from anyone else in her entire life.
And it was that affection she hoped to call upon now. His mercy. His kindness.
She bit her lip as tears pricked her eyes. Even his pity, if that was all he was capable of feeling toward her.
After all, ten years had passed since he’d left. Ten excruciatingly long years with no friends or allies. Ten years in which he very likely moved on. Perhaps he’d even married.
The thought made her still, her insides churning with a sensation she could not name.
It was worse than the nausea that made it feel like she was moving through thick mud.
“But miss, really, you cannot seek out a man like that,” Clara protested as Lillian headed toward the attic’s entrance.
