“I promise only insults were used as weapons, madam. Do I look like the sort of man who would strangle a duchess?”
“I suppose not.” She gnawed on another biscuit. Ellis had never seen anyone eat so many biscuits at one sitting—except Haven. “But I’m of the opinion that a person’s appearance does not necessarily reflect their character.”
“Indeed.” He sat across from her and snatched up a biscuit, ignoring the look she gave him. “I could be a villain of sorts, couldn’t I?”
“You could,” she agreed with a sigh. “Though I don’t think that the case. You’re much too shiny. Like a newly minted guinea. If you don’t mind my saying, my lord.”
“Not at all.” Ellis smiled at her cheeky description. “And if you don’t mind me asking, shouldn’t a vicar’s wife be out ministering to her husband’s flock instead of giggling with a duchess over biscuits and tea?” He took a bite, nodding in appreciation. “Delicious.”
“Her Grace provides the best biscuits. It is the only reason I invite her to tea. She is the vicar’s patron, after all. Thus, my concern over her welfare. Vicar Farthing would be most distraught to lose the support of a duchess.”
“Hmm.” Ellis doubted that was the case. He’d observed the affection between the two women. They were close friends.
He stood, finishing off the biscuit. “I bid you good day, madam. Thank you for the biscuit.” He strode over to Dante, taking hold of the reins.
“My lord, will we see you on Sunday? Vicar Farthing noted your presence in the garden earlier, and he is most anxious to make your acquaintance. He might be disposed to arrive when you least expect it. A vicar can never have too many patrons.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Probably best to become acquainted at church, don’t you think? At least, that is what I suggested. An earl of your reputation would wish to hear the vicar’s sermon before committing himself.”
The good vicar would seek him out if Ellis didn’t appear Sunday, that much was clear. He imagined an entire afternoon listening to Vicar Farthing’s ambitions.
“I should like to hear the vicar speak.”
“I assure you the sermon will be marvelous. The subject is the wages of sin on our eternal soul.”
“Splendid.” Ellis hoped he didn’t nod off.
“Her Grace sits in the front pew. A place of honor,” Mrs. Farthing continued. “Due to her station, she often sits alone.” A sad nod of her head. “There is a dearth of titles in Chiddon, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
There was a dearth ofeverythingin Chiddon.
“But now you have arrived. How wonderful that you can provide proper escort for Her Grace with only a bit of coaxing.”
Ellis paused, one foot in the stirrup. He wasn’t blind to Mrs. Farthing’s machinations; it was only that he had no idea what her reason could possibly be for wanting him to escort Beatrice. He wasn’t even sure he wished to see her again, let alone endure a sermon on the wages of sin with Beatrice seated beside him.
“And what makes you think, Mrs. Farthing, that I could convince the Duchess of Castlemare to do anything?”
Mrs. Farthing drew her fingers through the air. “Because of the sparks, my lord,” she said in a solemn tone. “Surely you can see them.”
9
Beatrice brushed a tendril of hair from her eyes before bending slightly until her back made a satisfying snap.
“Much better.”
She and Mr. Gates had spent the better part of the day at The Pickled Duck discussing adjustments to the new batch of ale he was brewing. Gates, bless him, always asked for Beatrice’s opinion on the amount of barley. The color. The taste. Honestly, she didn’t care how he brewed the ale, only that he did. But occupying her mind with business matters was the first step in keeping thoughts of Blythe—thoughts which had growneroticin nature—at bay. Hard work was the only cure for the disease of Blythe.
A tiny snort left her. He would hate being compared to a dreaded affliction or blight on crops. But it served him right, after the way he had invaded Beatrice’s peaceful existence. An existence thatwasn’thiding, as Melinda claimed. Chiddon was Beatrice’s sanctuary. A serene bubble. Balm to her soul. She was not hiding.
“I think we’re nearly done for today, Mr. Gates,” Beatrice announced.
“But you haven’t tasted the last batch.” The top of his bald head appeared behind a large vat.
“I trust it to be as wonderful as all the others I’ve tasted,” Beatrice assured him. Gates and his determination to brew the best ale in Hampshire—indeed, all of England—was laudable, though it was amusing he assumed Beatrice to be a connoisseur of ales and ciders. She’d never even tasted ale before coming to Chiddon.
But a duchess was assumed to know everything.
Gates came forward, disappointment that she was taking her leave apparent on his reddened features. “Are you certain, Your Grace?”
“Quite. I trust your palate implicitly.”
