Another delightful story in the Chronicles of Aunt Harriett’s Umbrella of Destiny.

She felt his gaze everywhere and suddenly felt the earnestness behind his words. “Unbelievable,” she agreed and touched her hand to his cheek.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then, “I cannot believe I almost gave it all up—”
“The chance to argue with me?”
He touched his forehead to hers. “And to make up.”
“To shun society with me?”
“And to parade before them and show them how little we care.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Well, then there’s nothing for it, get on with it then.”
He pulled back as much as the length of her arms would allow. “It?”
She leaned in, and stood on her tip toes, closer, her lips a hairsbreadth from his. “Kiss me, my beast. Here, now.”
He didn’t hesitate, his arms wrapped around her, and he swooped in and kissed her. Finally.

Our heroine, who doesn’t take nonsense from anyone.

Lord Henry’s careful voice reached out. “Do I have one pound for this lovely basket of delights?”
Basil Driscoll, a man of dubious reputation, raised his hand, and Artie glanced to Theo, who looked alarmed. Whispers floated over the air, and Artie did her best to ignore them. Everything would work out in the end, she was sure. It was not like she was expected to be alone with the man. And she certainly wasn’t afraid.
Lord Henry nodded and looked out. “How about two pounds? Do I hear two?”
A tall, thin man stepped forward, hand raised. “Two pounds.”
Lord Henry asked, “And you are?”
The man bowed, his ears turning red. “Mr. Dorian Simmons, secretary to the Duke of Eastly; I’m bidding on his behalf.”
A collective gasp echoed around the room, and the harsh word, Beastly, could be heard on faint whispers beneath the din.
Artie darted a glance to Theo, who’d turned beet red and wore a look of utter embarrassment. “Your brother?” Artie mouthed.
Theo winced. “Sorry,” she mouthed back.
Artie turned away and crossed her arms. She’d never met the elusive duke, despite her friendship with Theo, but her friend was forever singing his praises. Reclusive beast or not, Theo’s brother or not, how dare the man think he could bid on her basket and not even bother to make an appearance. What? Was she expected to eat her own basket by herself? Would the secretary take off with it, take it to the elusive Duke, and leave her here alone?
Not if she had anything to say about it, even if she ended up having to fight off the advances of that fiend Driscoll as a result.
Lord Henry spoke up. “Do I hear three?”
Artie stood, ignoring Theo, who whispered sharply, “Artie. What are you doing?” and said, “Lord Henry, I’m afraid I cannot accept the last bid.”
Lord Henry smiled. “Come, dear. Surely you do not believe the rumors…”
Artie shook her head. “That is not my point. I will not accept a bid from a man who could not even bother to make an appearance or offer in person.”
She genuinely couldn’t abide the type of man who never lifted a finger but to order others around, particularly the servants or any that sort of man felt were beneath them. She imagined Eastly as a man pale from lack of sun and weak from dearth of exercise. Though that image didn’t fit the painting Theo had drawn in Artie’s mind. In Theo’s eyes, her brother was a veritable saint, the very image of perfection in manners, in mind, in form. Apart from the scars, of course. And strong. The outdoorsy, sporting type.
But perhaps, Theo didn’t see her brother as he truly was, rather maybe, she saw him through eyes filled with love.
Driscoll snickered.
Theo dropped her head into her hand.
Lord Henry glanced warily at Driscoll and said, “But Miss Synclaire, it’s for a good cause—”
Artie could feel the eyes of everyone in the room darting back and forth between her, Lord Henry, and Mr. Simmons. Her cheeks heated, and she lifted her chin. “Nevertheless—”
Driscoll shouted, “Three pounds!”
Everyone gasped.
Mr. Simmons pulled at his cravat and quickly rejoined with “F-four pounds.”
Lord Henry glanced to Artie, who crossed her arms and turned to the secretary. He may have pulled at his cravat, but she read determination in his eyes. He would not fail his employer. Well, then.
Artie turned back to Lord Henry. “All right. If Mr. Simmons wins the basket, I shall dine and dance with Mr. Simmons. Not His Grace. Clearly.” The din of voices grew louder at that pronouncement.

And our hero, the Beast.

He hadn’t intended to reveal himself. Nor to offer such an outrageous sum.
But he’d found her, in a word, magnificent.
Her eyes glimmered with intelligence and audaciousness; her posture suggested confidence and courage. Fire, wit, mettle, beauty…everything he’d ever dreamt of in a woman. He’d spoken before he’d even completed those thoughts. Who could blame him? He was only truly surprised there hadn’t been an all-out war for the opportunity to procure her basket.
She could have packed boiled turnips (he’d rather drink from the Thames), and he’d have still bid the same.
As Eastly entered the luncheon tent and approached her table, he spared a quick glance toward his sister, who had the good grace to offer him a sheepish smile. He’d deal with her later.
Then he caught sight of Aunt Harriett, who winked and raised her cup to him. He’d deal with her, too.
He focused on Miss Synclaire.
He was already consumed with the daring woman before him.
And she returned his gaze with such intensity, he momentarily forgot all about his scarring, not to mention the whispers of beast dripping from everyone’s lips. A first.
He’d been captivated the moment she stood and dared to risk the wrath of a Duke, particularly one with a reputation that was the stuff of children’s nightmares.
“Miss Synclaire.” He executed a flawless bow.
“Duke.” She dipped her head as she followed his movements with her eyes. Eyes that didn’t hold a trace of fear, merely interest.
The effect on his body was most inconvenient. Eastly pulled out his chair, and out of habit, checked its structural integrity. At six foot five, he was not a small man, and the delicate furniture so fashionable today was ill-suited to his size. The specimen groaning beneath his grip was no exception and was an example of one of many reasons why he preferred the comfort of his own home.
But there was nothing for it; he couldn’t very well stand. So, he hooked Harriett’s Umbrella on the back of the chair and sat. With extreme caution.
Miss Synclaire leaned to her left and watched. Slowly, she straightened. “Five pounds says it doesn’t last the hour.”