A feral, nearly inhuman sound came from Blythe as he released her, his hands springing open as if to ward her off.
My God. He growled at me.
Blythe. The sunny earl. Always smiling. Annoyingly confident and self-assured. A man who could charm the birds out of the trees.
I do seem to have an unpleasant effect on people.
A measured, predatory gaze gleamed in his eyes as he circled Beatrice, eyeing her like a starving dog, one whose bone had been taken away before the meat had been properly chewed off. His broad chest rose and fell, his breath ragged and gasping before Blythe finally turned from her. Would he apologize?
Please no.That would be mortifying. She’d kissed him back.
His burnished curls caught against his collar and cheeks in a tumble. Far too long. Impolite. It all gave Blythe a rather menacing look in the quiet between the trees. There was no charming smile pulling at his lips. Certainly no apology to be found. The blue of his eyes, like the sky filtering through the trees above their heads, remained still and calm. There wasn’t even any distaste in his gaze...just...nothing.
Her anger, laced with the pain of knowing what lay beneath the thick curls at her shoulder, flared and popped. Once again, Beatrice viewed Blythe from a series of balls, watching him dance with every other young lady in attendancebuther. As if she were unworthy of Blythe, the great golden earl. Well, she was less worthy of his attention now.
“Go away, Blythe.” Beatrice heard the hiss come from her mouth. “Just leave.”
His features remained impassive, regarding her with unnerving silence.
“I’ve no need of your companionship or anything else you feel required to offer.” His perusal had her touching the neatly tied tail of her hair once more, smoothing the strands along her cheek. A protection of sorts.
Something stirred between them, wanting to rise out of the scatter of leaves covering her half-boots. The panicked flutter of her heart started up once more. Blythe was dangerous to the life Beatrice had so painstakingly pieced together from the remnants of her past. He would ferret out her secrets and spill them.
“The next time you show up at my home,” Beatrice warned as he watched her, big and still, “I’ll have my man put a hole through your lovely coat.”
She turned and headed in the direction of Beresford Cottage, blindly stumbling down the path, touching her lips, which still throbbed from his kiss.
* * *
Tea with a hint of honey.
A tiny bit of sweetness in a woman who had little. A great deal of obstinance, the sense that she would never capitulate. Ellis tasted all those things along with something surprisingly carnal. That had surprised him. Yes, Ellis had often likened her to a succubus, determined to prey upon any gentleman foolish enough to get too close, but he hadn’t considered that Beatrice actually possessed passion. Or that if she did, the emotion would need to be drawn out of her. Forced.
She was a spoiled chit. A harpy. A snob.
Surprising to find what was trapped beneath all those starched, frilly petticoats. More so to have all that sensuality come rushing unexpectedly out tohim. There was a thin line separating love and hate, especially between him and Beatrice. It felt as though the dam holding such powerful emotions had cracked, then erupted completely, nearly drowning them both.
That’s what it had been like to kiss Beatrice.
I don’t even like her.
Ellis ground his teeth. That was a half-truth. It would be more correct to say he didn’twantto like her let alone find her so bloody desirable. His actions had startled him. Ellis, as a rule, didn’tpounceon women; heseducedthem. But he’d wanted to rip the clothing from Beatrice’s body, bite and suck every inch of her—
“Damn it,” he said out loud, frightening a group of wrens from a nearby shrub.
This wasn’t at all how he’d meant to start the overdue conquest of Beatrice Howard, an idea which now seemed naïve in the extreme. A tupping would not expunge the harpy from his system. Kissing her had made his...obsessionthat much worse. My God, he’d practically—
Beatrice could bloody well enjoy Chiddon on her own. Ellis decided he didn’t care why she was helping Gates brew ale or rebuilding churches. Seducing her wasn’t worth the effort. Not if it made him an animal. Not if he lost his soul.
“Sheisa succubus,” he muttered to himself. Perhaps that was how Castlemare had died; that harpy had inhaled his soul, leaving nothing but a withered husk. The idea would make a splendid poem, if only Ellis had an ounce of talent with which to write one.
He followed the trail until he saw the stone fence surrounding the garden of the vicarage. Mrs. Farthing was once more seated outside, the nearly empty tin of biscuits before her. She looked up at his approach.
“Tea, my lord?” she inquired. Her gaze lingered over Ellis a moment. “Are you wounded? Bleeding? Her Grace has been known to draw blood.”
Mrs. Farthing was quite sassy for a vicar’s wife. “No blood, Mrs. Farthing. I hope that isn’t disappointing. I have an aversion to it.”
Her eyes, a deep brown, twinkled back at him. “As do I.” She cast a glance toward the path disappearing into the woods.
