The Beast's Beauty

The Beast’sBeauty The Bluestocking WarBook 11 byEva DevonAs Máire Claremont This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental. The Beast’s Beauty Copyright © 2023 by Máire Creegan All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized. All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission. If you are in the dark, know that the light is waiting for you. Keep going. The world is full of hope and possibilities. Special thanks to: Christy, Patty, and Louisa And YOU. You are the star by which I guide my life. You always shine. Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication 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 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Epilogue Other Books by Eva Devon Chapter 1 It was an undisputed fact that every other debutante of the London Season longed to be Miss Jane Portonby. It had been reputed from the moment of Jane’s birth that she was a beautiful babe. Her long chestnut locks curled about her cherub-like face, and her apple red cheeks, bright blue eyes, and cheeky chin only endeared her to all who came within her vicinity. And her genuine disposition of mirth and good humor was a boon to anyone who came into her company. If one was to be honest, she was given to mischief too. But never out of malice. Jane loved her pets—her donkey, her duck, her dog, her cats, and even her chickens—which her parents tolerated with laughter and shrugs. But most of all, Jane loved people. She loved to make them laugh. She loved to dance for them, dance with them, and have a jaunt in the fresh air. Yes, she was beloved by all who interacted wither her, and so it was no surprise that when it came time for her to train to be a lady, she did so with ease. Though she far preferred to ride her pony or go out on the Yorkshire dales for long walks, discovering animals and making merry in puddles. Her parents were indulgent, for Jane was so beautiful that surely any gentleman who wished to ask for her hand would not be bothered by her eccentricities. After all, she came from a relatively good family, though her father had only just been made a viscount. They possessed an exceptionally large fortune, hundreds of acres, and a house created by John Nash. There was little that would stand in Jane’s way. She was an only child and there was no likelihood of her mother ever bearing a brother, for Jane’s birth had been a difficult one. With wringing hands and tuts of woe, the doctors had informed Lady Portonby not to attempt to have more children. Still, being a dutiful wife, her mother had not listened and had nearly died in the process of attempting an heir. The last attempt had stopped all such thoughts. Jane had not been allowed to be there for that moment. After all, young girls shouldn’t know the troubles that awaited them! Or so her father had said. Now, Jane was her father’s sole heir and so had a great fortune awaiting her one day. Finally, realizing nothing could be done, her father saw her as his pride and joy, a perfect, beautiful daughter. Though the fates had not given him a son, her father was sure Jane would make a glorious marriage, one of the greatest that any had ever seen. Yes, all seemed well. When Jane entered society at eighteen years of age, ready to make her mark, she was an instant success. She had everything a young lady needed—hats of every variety with every imaginable plume, fans, gloves of every kind, lace, leather, and silk. She had gowns for every occasion: morning, afternoon, riding, routes, balls, and walking. She wanted for nothing. Her Italian, French, Latin and Greek teachers did their very best to challenge her nimble mind, and some proclaimed she played the piano as well as Mozart’s sister had. She was so well read that she was able to mock poor poetry as well as to write it. She found it terribly funny when gentlemen wrote her poems about her ear lobes and her shoulders, and yet she did not laugh in their faces, for she was not unkind. Every dance was danced, every rout was attended, every song was sung when she was asked to perform, and she sparkled with wit and promise at every dinner. And so, it was expected that soon a duke, at least, would ask for Miss Portonby’s hand. Who knew? Perhaps even a foreign prince would do, though her father far preferred to keep her at home, as she would inherit the massive estate that his father had created. But on a weekend visit to her country home, being the soul of kindness, Jane had gone to visit a sick cottager. She returned to her family’s house struck by the tragedy of death. Within a day’s time, she had begun to feel unwell. Jane quickly took to her bed, and it was with great horror that her father realized his daughter had contracted that dreaded smallpox disease. For those days confined to her bed, Jane battled with death. But Jane, having the character and fortitude she did, refused to give in. No, death did not win against Jane Portonby, but death left its scars, and when the curtains were pulled back from the sick room, she had awakened to whispers. Weak but