His brows drew together.
“Your taste for ale,” she clarified. “Remember, I am only your patron, nothing more.”
Gates nodded. “Can’t have a duchess getting her hands dirty.”
“No, indeed.” It was a useless request. Gates treated Beatrice as if she’d come down from the heavens to help him brew the ale. And honestly, did she give a fig what Lord and Lady Foxwood or Castlemare’s brother thought? Shewasa duchess. A tattered, scarred one, but a duchess, nonetheless. Even if all of London found out, Beatrice would do as she saw fit, which was to help Arnold Gates achieve greatness by selling Chiddon ale.
Atonement for Martin Dilworth.
Dilworth, lips trembling, sweating far more than any human being should, had been one of Beatrice’s many hopeful admirers. He’d been handsome, outside of the sweating. Wealthy. But not titled. Dilworth had always been kind to Beatrice, though she’d treated him as if he were no more than a trifle. A flea that had infested her clothing. He’d professed his love, and Beatrice had laughed. Determined to win her, Martin had left for France on a business opportunity he hoped would elevate his status. Make him moreworthyof her. He’d asked Beatrice to see him off, and instead, she’d taken a nap.
Dilworth’s ship had broken apart during the crossing to Calais. A sudden storm. All aboard were lost.
Beatrice pressed a hand over her heart. Gates and his ale were for Martin Dilworth.
When the first cask of Chiddon ale was delivered to several establishments in Overton, Beatrice would cross Dilworth’s name from her ledger. The Dilworth family’s wealth had come from the importing of wine and other spirits. The ale wasn’t wine, but she thought Martin would appreciate the sentiment all the same.
She said her goodbyes to Gates and headed to the building she was having renovated. Next to the apothecary, the space of weathered wood and stone wasn’t large and required a new floor and roof. Dilapidated, as had been nearly everything in Chiddon before her arrival. But the building did boast living quarters on the second floor.
Perfect for a dressmaker or draper.
Castlemare was likely pitching about his grave at knowing his widow was performing such acts of charity. He’d found Chiddon to be the worst sort of backwater. A dreary village filled with uninteresting common folk who weren’t worth his attention. He’d hoped Beatrice would wither here, among the thick trees.
Instead, Beatrice had found purpose.
Chiddon was in dire need of care, as Beatrice had been herself when she’d first arrived. The village had embraced her, thrilled to have a duchess take up residence in their midst.
Beatrice might never dance at a ball again or visit the grand establishments on Bond Street. Nor change who she’d once been.
But Beatricecouldhelp Chiddon.
When Castlemare’s coach had first deposited Beatrice at Beresford Cottage, she’d barely been conscious enough to see her surroundings. A great deal of laudanum had been required to force Beatrice into a closed box pulled by horses. Bandaged. Alone. Wounds seeping and painful. Not even her maid, a girl who’d been tupping Castlemare behind Beatrice’s back, had cared to make the journey. Lord and Lady Foxwood had sent a note. They’d been hosting a house party and couldn’t be bothered to see their daughter off.
A puff left her at the thought of her parents. It was hard to still desire the love of two people who hadn’t the capacity to give it.
Mrs. Lovington had taken one look at Beatrice and proceeded to castigate the Duke of Castlemare’s two footmen and driver. Tucking her beneath one muscular arm, Mrs. Lovington had gotten Beatrice upstairs and settled, clucking over the blood seeping through the bandages, cursing Castlemare under her breath. The stoic housekeeper hadn’t left Beatrice’s side for months, nursing her with far more care than Lady Foxwood ever had.
Beresford Cottage came into view, and Beatrice nudged Cicero in the direction of the stables, shouting for Jasper, her groom. She peered into the dark interior of the stable. “Jasper.”
“Apologies, Your Grace.” There was a half-eaten carrot in Jasper’s hand, a treat usually reserved for her mount, Cicero. A gelding was tied to the post nearby, chewing on the portion of carrot her groom had given him. A familiar horse.
Jasper bowed, guilty and clutching the carrot like a shield. His throat bobbed. “You have a visitor, Your Grace.”
“Hmm. Give Cicero an apple instead of his usual carrot.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Jasper helped her dismount Cicero.
Beatrice stormed up to the front door, cursing Blythe the entire time. The staff had been instructed to turn him away if he appeared. Knowing Blythe, he’d managed to charm her entire household long enough for them to forget all about tossing him out. Her fingers smoothed the thick tail of hair along her shoulder, making sure the length was firmly secured.
Assaultingher in the woods—unexpectedly and without permission—did not give Blythe leave to call on Beatrice.
Her mouth tingled at the remembered touch of his lips. The warm, male scent of him.
Very well.Less an assault than a mutual taking of liberties.
Mrs. Lovington swung open the door at her approach, cheeks flushed, stern features softened enough to almost make her attractive. “You’ve a guest, Your Grace. Lord Blythe. I’ve put him in the parlor.”
“So I’ve been informed.” Beatrice stepped inside. It would do no good to chastise her housekeeper. Faced with an onslaught of Blythe’s sunny manner and well-timed flirtation, Mrs. Lovington hadn’t stood a chance.
