The Beast of Bath

By Chasity Bowlin

A Regency re-telling of Beauty and the Beast, featuring a strong heroine and a scarred, tortured hero.



Lord Victor Mayhew, Viscount Norcross, lives in the shadows, hiding his scarred face from those who would fear him... or worse, pity him. He's become accustomed to the dark, and to the aching loneliness that is his only and constant companion. But while traversing the city in the dark of night, he encounters a beautiful woman who is running for her life. 


Lady Thessaly Shade has discovered that the prettiest of faces can hide the ugliest of hearts. While Lord Norcross keeps his face carefully concealed from her, he cannot hide the fact that he is a man of honor, a man for whom the word gentleman is a way of life and not merely an honorary title. 


With no way to repay him for his kindness, for his courage in aiding her at great risk to himself, Thessaly bargains with the only thing she possesses of value... herself. Can she convince him to trust her, to believe that she can see beyond the scars he bears to the man he is? Or will he push her away out of fear and retreat into the loneliness that he knows so well? 


The Beast of Bath is a 30,000 word novella previously published in the Wicked Fairytales Anthology. It features some violence and steamy, open door sex scenes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chasity Bowlin
• Release date: Feb 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393784371

Book preview

Chapter One

Bath, 1817

It was well after four in the morning. The darkened streets were shrouded in fog, muffling the sound of his footsteps. The mist swirled, so thick and heavy it was impossible to see anything. He kept to the shadows regardless. The last thing he wanted was to rouse the town with the screams of whoever should be unlucky enough to stumble across him.

Beneath the hood of his woolen cloak, his hair hung in thick, wet ropes, still damp from his nightly sojourn to the Baths. The soothing waters from the natural hot springs were the only thing that offered any relief when his shoulder pained him. Thankfully the pain had lessened over time, though he doubted he would ever be entirely free of it. Of course, there was still the odd night when it would flare up, intense and debilitating.

His footsteps slowed as he reached the corner of the abbey. He paused before crossing the square, as it posed the greatest risk of running into others. Peering into the darkness, he heaved a sigh of relief. Sticking to the deep shadows afforded by the buttresses, he moved towards the street and crossed it quickly, heading toward the shelter of the tree studded park. It was a circuitous route home, but one that afforded the most protection from prying eyes.

A woman’s sharp scream pierced the night, reverberating in the canyons of mist shrouded streets. His first instinct was to believe she’d seen him, somehow, glimpsing the hideousness of him even in the dark. The sick feeling lodged in his gut, the dread that always accompanied such sightings, rare as they were. Logic told him the sound was too distant for that to be the case, but fear was rarely rational.

Straining his eyes, he saw her in the dim glow of the gas lamps ahead. The white of her gown flowed behind her as she ran, giving her the appearance of a phantom. Then another thought crept in, one even more disturbing. Perhaps, she hadn’t screamed in fear, but in pain, the kind that did not come from injury. She would not be the first woman to hurl herself from that bridge. He would stop her. There was too much on his conscience already.

Moving quickly, all attempts at remaining unseen a dim memory, he raced toward her. The lights on the bridge would expose him, but there was no other hope for it. When he neared her, he saw her glancing over her shoulder, even as she ran forward. Not a suicide after all.

The girl was obviously afraid of something that posed a far greater threat than simply his ugliness. Taking the hill quickly, he reached the bridge just as a pair of horses emerged from the mist behind her. Lathered with sweat and wild eyed from being driven so hard, they barreled toward her.

The bridge was too narrow and the team too fast. Seeing no other hope for it, he dashed forward and grabbed the woman.

Too startled to scream, she merely stared at him for a split second.

A second was all they had. Dragging her with him, he dove over the side of the bridge and into the icy waters below.

The shock of it was brutal, the cold making his muscles cramp. Still, he managed to swim for the shore, thankful at least, that the young woman could swim somewhat. As they reached the mossy bank, he pulled his hood forward, making sure he kept his face well hidden as he tugged her out of the water and towards the park. He knew it like the back of his hand, having traipsed those grounds at night more often than he’d enjoyed the softness of a bed.

The clattering of hooves had stopped above, indicating that the men chasing her now pursuing her on foot. He shook her a bit, gently, attempting to penetrate the daze. Can you walk?

Yes, I can walk, she snapped. Who are you?

A better option than the men running you to ground! Hurry! We haven't time to waste.

For a moment, he could see the urge to argue. It was written plainly on a face so lovely it hurt him to look at it. He dared look no lower for the water had rendered her night-rail utterly transparent. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer her his cloak. Wet as it was, it would provide no warmth, but it would preserve her modestly.

At what cost? Should she see your scarred visage, her screams will bring the entire town running.

The sound of footsteps carried across the water. The men had left their carriage and taken the steps beneath the bridge. They were on the wrong side of the river at least, but it wouldn’t take them long to figure that out.

Hurry, he urged her again and pushed her along in front of him.

Keeping his mind firmly on the men pursuing them and not on the delectable behind of the woman in front of him, a behind clearly displayed by the damp linen that clung to her pale skin, he pressed onward. The pain had faded, his muscles warming with the quickened pace. He would limp the following day, and perhaps longer, but it was a necessity. They needed to reach the safety of his home.

Where are we going? she whispered the question breathlessly.

The Circus, he answered.

She stopped. It’s on the other side of the river! If we step foot on the bridge—

We will not be using the bridge, he retorted, his voice a low hiss. Offering the reprimand, he added, Running for your life should be done quietly.

Her lips pressed firmly together and she fell in step beside him.

It was just as well. Not being able to see her would be a blessing. She was too great a distraction. It had been years since he’d had a woman. His face, in the eyes of most women, rendered him little more than a monster. A soiled dove had once told him there wasn’t enough coin in England for her to crawl into his bed.

They left the safety of the park, creeping through alleys and mews until he found what he was looking for. The small skiff would get them across the river quickly enough.

In the bottom of the tiny boat was a blanket, none too clean and smelling worse for it. Still, she was freezing. Tossing it to her, he noted that her maidenly sensibilities seemed to have fled in the face of pragmatism.

She draped the blanket around her, shielding her charms from his view. Who are you? she asked again.

Dipping the pole into the water, he propelled the boat toward the opposite shore. Using slow and steady motions, it barely made a sound as it cut through the water. Is it that important? he fired back, his voice pitched low.

Yes, she responded emphatically. It is. How do I know that I haven’t just traded one horrible fate for another?

That is something you may never know, he replied. She would not be put off without an answer. From everything he had seen of her, she had remarkable tenacity. The truth, should he utter it, would change everything. Would she run screaming from him? Would she decide that whatever fate awaited her at the hands of her would-be abductors was preferable to being in his clutches? Forging ahead, he tossed out the statement almost in challenge, I am Norcross, but you may know me better as the Beast of Bath.

Her gasp was telling, but she didn’t cross herself or cower. There was no panic, no hysteria. Had he really expected that she would react the way others had, this remarkable and brave creature? Nothing about her was

Reviews for The Beast of Bath

[Sean Fleming · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was so, so eager to love this book. I'm giving it three stars instead of two because I love the scarred-hero theme. The book is very brief, though that isn't really the issue. A skilled writer can create something profound and moving in just a few pages. Sadly, this is simply amateurish writing. It feels sort of like a skeletal version that needed to be fleshed out. I felt no connection to the characters. They were two-dimensional at best. The edition had numerous typos, too. Bummer.