The Beast's Bliss

The Beast’sBliss The Bluestocking WarBook 12 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 Bliss 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. Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page 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 Epilogue Chapter 1 Lady Rose, second daughter of the Earl of Millbank, chucked her book across the room. It was a singular thing for her to do, for she was not in the habit of chucking books across the room. No. She revered books. She adored them. She loved them with every fiber of her being. And if Rose had her way, she would have spent the entirety of her days in the pursuit of words upon a page, but she was not allowed to. Much to her dismay, her days were generally spent in practicing her waltz, her walk, her curtsy, how to hold her train, and how to make banal conversation with gentlemen who had very little to say. But the book she’d just concluded was beyond impossible. She let out a horrified groan, turned to her sister Hyacinth, who was bent over her own novel, and all but bellowed, “What did I read?” Hyacinth barely lifted her gaze from her own page as she turned it slowly. She pushed her gleaming gold spectacles up her nose, for they tended to slip down, and replied, “I have no idea, dear sister, but clearly it has you in a strop.” “I cannot be reading nonsense like this,” Rose defended, throwing her hands up. It was impossible to read such a tale. Clarissa. She blew out a breath. Oh, how she wanted to huff out the name and rail at the author for such a horrific ending. She pushed herself up from the settee and charged to the open window. Deeply, she drank in the warm scent of spring. Winter had ruled for far too long and, frankly, she had been barely able to support the gray skies of England. Oh, she had been raised with the gray skies of England, so one would’ve thought she had a remarkable tolerance for them, but she did not. The most frustrating part was that they had brought her spirits quite low recently, and she longed to see the beautiful flowers of the English countryside, or at least have them brought into their London townhouse. Thankfully, spring had arrived at last! Summer was nigh. And the Season was in full swing. She was required to be in London for its entirety, and she was deeply grateful the weather had turned and fresh air had been allowed into the house. A frigid spring was not unheard of, and she was so glad that one had not appeared this year. She studied the carriages bustling up and down the busy and fashionable street. The noise of people shouting and calling to each other gave her a shudder. She liked the idea of people. She liked the idea of company, and she certainly loved to read about people, but she did not actually like being among them. There was a distinct difference. Though she wished it was not true, company made her feel extremely odd. The nerves was how her mother put it. She didn’t like feeling as if she had the nerves. It seemed like it was some sort of weakness, but the truth was that sometimes she just could not get on well in company. Her mother castigated her for it almost daily. She swung back to Hyacinth. “Did you finish reading it?” Hyacinth blinked, pushed her spectacles up her nose again, this time out of habit, and lifted her gaze from the page. “What? Which one?” Rose tsked, though she was not surprised her sister had barely heard a word she said. They both became lost in the world of books easily. They read books every day and often finished them hastily. They both adored three-volume novels, for they guaranteed a long and delicious tale. And frankly, she and her sister would rather be in this room reading novels and discussing them than at balls. They were odd. They knew it, but there it was. They liked it, even if their mother wanted to rend her garments and, at one point, had threatened to burn all the books in the house if they did not behave. They behaved. So, that the books were not thrown out or burned. “Clarissa,” she reminded firmly, pointing to the offending book, which was now page down on the blue and green Axminster carpet. Hyacinth grimaced, and her dark brown curly hair bobbed as she shook her head. “Oh no. I had to put it down. It was far too demoralizing.” Rose sighed. “I agree. The ending.” “Don’t tell me the ending,” her sister protested, horrified. “You won’t wish to finish it,” she pointed out. “It is absolutely appalling what was done to that poor girl, Clarissa. I cannot bear it. And that awful man. How could anyone paint him as a hero?” “Well,” Hyacinth said, pondering this. “Rakes are often painted as heroes, are they not?” “Hmm,” considered Rose. “In my view, I do not see how a rake can possibly reform and make a good hero. That idiot in the book certainly did not, did he?” Hyacinth pursed her lips. “I suppose not. But I