The tin of biscuits was well within Beatrice’s reach. She glanced in that direction, possibly contemplating tossing what remained at Ellis’s head. He waited patiently for her opening salvo. Anticipation, like a lightning rod striking his skin, coursed through Ellis, though he knew he was about to be insulted.
“My God, are you so starved for female attention you must invade a vicar’s garden?”
“Your Grace.” Ellis bowed, hiding his grin. “Goodness, but you make me sound quite desperate for your attention. You are not the only lovely woman taking tea in the vicar’s garden, are you? A pleasure, Mrs. Farthing. I am Lord Blythe. Apologies for the intrusion, but Mr. Gates spoke in such glowing terms of the newly repaired vicarage and church, I thought to see them for myself.” He took her hand.
Mrs. Farthing blushed prettily. “My lord. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Beatrice gave them both a frosty glance.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Farthing said, jerking her hand from his. “I’ve completely forgotten about the pie...I have baking. Yes, a pie. I should—well, I wouldn’t want it to burn.”
“Melinda,” Beatrice warned.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” Mrs. Farthing hurried off, skirts flying, in the direction of the vicarage before disappearing into a small door set into the stone.
“You,” Beatrice said in a cool tone. Small, gold curls danced at the corners of her temples, begging Ellis for merely a touch.
“Yes, me.” He tilted his head toward the vicarage. “Lovely woman. I haven’t yet made the acquaintance of the vicar. But I’m told he gives a rather stirring sermon from the pulpit of his newly rebuilt church, courtesy of you, Your Grace. And you repaired the vicarage. Full of rats previously, according to Gates. That would explain the enormously fat tabby I found on the vicarage steps. He must have eaten every rodent for miles.”
“It was Castlemare.” She regarded him a bit defensively. “He decided the church required a new roof. I only did his bidding.”
“Did he order you to do so from the grave?” Ellis replied casually, watching the color sweep across her cheeks. “Allow me to apologize, Your Grace. I had no idea the duke was dead.”
“My lord, I’m uncertain why you are lingering about Chiddon inspecting roofs and flirting with the vicar’s wife—”
“I merely took Mrs. Farthing’s hand,” he interrupted, “and greeted her properly. As to roofs and stonework, such things are interesting. Perhaps the country air has bored me.”
“I suggest you find other ways to amuse yourself. I’ve advised Mrs. Farthing of your questionable charms. You won’t find any welcome here. Go sniff about another set of skirts. You are shameless in your pursuits.”
The low thrum of arousal slid down Ellis’s legs.
“I’ll take your opinion under advisement.” Trading insults with Beatrice was akin to foreplay of sorts, tossing barbs far better than tepid conversation. It was part of his attraction to her, he supposed, which made Ellis worry for the state of his mind.
“Mrs. Farthing appeared to be very welcoming,” he said with a hint of impropriety merely to see how Beatrice would react. “I’m sure she isn’t baking a pie for you, Your Grace.”
“She isn’t baking a pie at all.” The cobalt of her eyes glowed with disdain and a small flicker of...envy. Beatrice didn’t like that he found Mrs. Farthing attractive. “Why aren’t you in London?”
“Why aren’t you?” Ellis countered. “Frivolous parties. Bland conversation. Dancing about in your newest gown while ruining the reputations of those you deem deserve it? A vicar’s garden seems to pale in comparison. Are you deciding how to sour the milk of the cows of Chiddon? Seems a proper thing for a witch to do.”
Her fingers tugged at her skirts, the only sign of her agitation. “What a pretty compliment. You recall me quite fondly, my lord. But I no longer care for London as creatures like yourself call it home.”
Ellis grabbed his chest as if struck by a blow. “You wound me, Your Grace.”
“Asdelightfulas it has been to see you”—her words dripped with ice—“I have other matters to attend to. Enjoy the remainder of your stay in Chiddon.” Beatrice spun on her heel and marched off in the direction of the heavy woods. Ellis could just see a path peeking around the stone wall of the vicar’s garden.
Dismissal? That wouldn’t do, especially since it wouldn’t further his aim of seducing her, which became more crucial with each passing moment. The reaction of his body, humming like a bloody tuning fork in her presence, was not to be borne. He must exorcise the demon that was Beatrice Howard from his system, and Ellis couldn’t do so if she kept stomping away.
The twitching of her skirts disappeared into the dappled light sifting through the big trees, urging him to follow. Unusual to see her in such clothing. The dress was high-necked. Buttons nearly up to her chin. Beatrice had always been proper, but her necklines had not.
Ellis took off after her, his longer legs eating up the distance between them with little effort.
Sensing him trailing behind, she stopped. “Whatisthe point of your continued harassment?” She tugged at the length of hair cascading over her right shoulder.
His eyes followed the movement, wondering why she didn’t wear her hair up, as she always had before. Not even while playing bowls at Granby’s stupid house party had he seen the golden mass down around her ears. Usually, the sunshine-kissed curls were artfully piled atop her head so that one could admire the gentle slope of her neck. Or compliment the seashells of her ears. Or pine after the gentle swell of her bosom, which was so well hidden at the moment as to be non-existent.
“I’m not done speaking, Your Grace.”
“Yes, but I am donelistening, my lord.” She waved one hand as if batting away a fly or some other annoying pest. “Rarely have I heard anything of interest come from your lips. I doubt I will do so now. Please excuse me.”
