Page 1 of Dearest Beast
Mayfair, England
May 18, 1832, just after midnight
Rebecca Adler gulped yet another mouthful of the gin she was not supposed to be drinking.
Maudlin.That was the only accurate word to describe her mood. Inappropriate, considering the event surrounding her: a betrothal celebration for her best friend—or the closest someone like her had to a friend—to the only man remotely worthy of the woman. It didn’t hurt that he was completely besotted.
Which was why Rebecca, herself, had—as gently and subtly as possible—pushed the relationship.
But now that her efforts had succeeded, why could she not seem to muster the appropriate amount of joy? Rebecca smoothed her chronically wrinkled sleeves as if the action could force her into emotional compliance. Or at least erase her melancholy.
This was good. Isabelle was always going to marry. But instead of being saddled with some fop or fortune hunter or worse, someone who would stifle her essence, her friend was acquiring someone who not only loved her but also supported her exactly as she was.
A rarity. But something Isabelle certainly deserved.
Even if it was something she, herself, would never see.
Rising, Rebecca ambled to the high arched windows along the eastern wall, absorbing the night breeze. A waste of space that could be used for books, though a pleasant addition that night.
Cold, off-putting, sharp, not to mention plain, with no desire to change or yield.
The matchmaker’s words from so long ago echoed in her head. As did their veracity. One of the unfortunate ramifications of her intelligence was an ability to read people’s reactions. Rebecca knew where she stood with potential husbands. The same place she stood with most people, save Isabelle and her own mother: unwanted company unless her services were needed.
Not that she minded. Being free from social entanglements permitted her more time for learning. From the knowledge she gleaned, she’d devised tools and treatments to improve her and her mother’s midwifery practice, along with honing capabilities great enough that she was called upon to handle certain sensitive, emergency medicinal matters.
Ones in which both discretion and skill were prized.
Yes, while she lacked a pleasing disposition and appearance, her contributions were valuable, even critical. She saved lives. The most important of mitzvot.
Only shallow, silly, selfish people sought accolades or adoration or attention for performing obligations. She was above such frivolous, vapid, insipid desires. Had always been.
And while the time she’d spent with Isabelle these past three and twenty years had been pleasant—more than pleasant—she was clever enough to understand that time could not stand still. People changed. As did their needs. Even if her friend no longer had time for her, she would cherish the time they’d spent but find a more useful occupation for her own future and thus—
The door let out a creak before hastily slamming shut. Whirlingaround, Rebecca stared at the man who’d entered, and groaned. Just her luck. Or lack thereof.
Apparently, her mental tirade had summoned a man whose family epitomized every quality she found distasteful.
Roger Berab. The youngest of Isabelle’s business partners—one who’d aggressively sought her friend’s hand—and lost. He lorded over the threshold, like the room was his, eyes lingering on her garments with clear, disapproving judgment. As if there were something wrong with wearing a simple, modest, well-made gown instead of flashy fare designed to catch eyes.
“Truly?” the man said, irritation and disappointment etched on his odiously handsome face, despite the fact he had no more right to the room than she.
Infuriating to say the least. But, as Rebecca had been told for as long as she could remember, she was a virtuoso at vexation. And she’d been there first.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, matching his stance.
Berab, however, did not immediately retreat, nor even respond. No, instead, he stared at a spot above her head, as if meeting her gaze was too unpleasant to bear.
Not that his opinion mattered to her, as he possessed a series of platitudes and behaviors gleaned from a gentile comportment book instead of a personality.
“Well?” Rebecca folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your knack for vacuous diplomacy?” she continued, her voice rising. “Or am I not worth the trouble?”
“Neither.” He paced inside the room, his eyes finally falling upon her. “I’m looking at you, Miss Adler.”
Rebecca squinted in the low light, working to decipher the insult in his tone. None was obviously detectable. But who would ever desire to look at her? Was the man a complete dunce?
Possible. There was logic to the idea that he was a touch slow, especially given his lack of interest in anything beyond mere surfaces.
Not that she ever closely observed him, but she understood the type.
