Of course he had.Mrs. Lovington had probably swooned.
“I thought your interruption of my tea with Mrs. Farthing was to make that assurance.”
“Yes, but I didn’t get around to doing so. You became agitated. And other matters”—Blythe’s gaze fell to her mouth—“took precedence.” His own lips grew tight, uncertain. Perhaps he was as unsettled as Beatrice from that kiss.
The sparks Melinda kept blathering about made themselves known, skittering along the skin of Beatrice’s arms. Her pulse throbbed gently, responding to Blythe’s nearness. His appeal, she finally acknowledged, had less to do with his looks and more to do with his manner, which was at turns respectful, improper, and oddly comforting.
“I must insist you leave.” Blythe made Beatricefeelthings, emotions barely allowed to bloom in her past life where an excess of affection had been frowned upon.
“Are we going to come to physical blows, Your Grace?” He dipped his chin in the direction of her hands. “Possibly...tussle?”
Another wave prickled the skin of her arms at the thought of rolling about with Blythe. “No need,” she shot back. “I’ve become quite good with a riding crop.”
“Have you? How intriguing.” Blythe took a sip of his brandy, eyes darkening, shrugging off the mask of the pleasing, charming rake with little effort. There was nothing careless about Blythe now. Not with his innate sensuality curling about his larger form like a snake. This was the Blythe who’d nearly swallowed her whole in the forest.
“I find I’m not entirely opposed to the crop.” The words rumbled from his chest, a hungry look crossing his handsome features.
She took the glass of amber liquid he held out, refusing to consider the feel of his mouth on hers any further. Or the arousal fluttering between her thighs.
Beatrice took a shaky swallow of brandy. Hereallymust leave.
“What is your purpose, Blythe?” she managed to get out. “Other than torturing me with your company, which I never asked for and do not want.”
“I made the acquaintance of Vicar Farthing quite by accident this morning.”
Blythe had been in Chiddon. Probably looking for her.
“Don’t frown, Your Grace. I behaved appropriately. Though I must say that if Vicar Farthing were a young lady in her first season, he would have given you a great deal of competition.” The predatory look left him. “Such ambition for a vicar.”
Beatrice’s grip on the snifter tightened. “How lovely to know the vicar and I have something in common.”
“I cannot wait to hear his sermon on Sunday. He was delighted I’d be in attendance and overjoyed I’d be escorting you.”
“Absolutely not,” Beatrice choked out. “I require no escort. Let us speak plainly, my lord, because it is becoming clear that you did not take note of my words earlier. If you are bored and longing to give comfort, seek out a bored housewife in Overton. Or better yet, return to London, where a herd of impressionable young ladies no doubt awaits your return.”
Blythe raised a brow. “No herd of young ladies, unfortunately, only an overbearing mother and two sisters who wish to visit Gunter’s every day. I don’t particularly care for ices. I do like widows, however.”
Heat flew up Beatrice’s cheeks. “Yes, but shouldn’t they like you in return?” Blythe had never liked her. What had happened between them was merely physical desire between two attractive people. Or at least Blythe was still attractive. But she—
“Challenge accepted, Your Grace. Let us enjoy our brandy. I’ll tell you tales of my adventures in Rome while your charming housekeeper brings us refreshments. That’s where I’ve been these last few years. Rome.”
“I don’t believe I asked. Nor even wondered at your absence.”
“Far too busy being Castlemare’s duchess, weren’t you?” A bit of disdain bled into his words. “I’ll admit, I hadn’t thought you’d consider Castlemare.”
Beatrice sat down in one of the chairs facing the fire. Blythe would always assume the worst of her. He considered Beatrice to be nothing more than an unprincipled mercenary, incapable of anything other than marrying well. Driven by ambition and little else. It was best Blythe continue to hold that opinion of her else he might wish to delve deeper. Few in London knew of her accident or that it had been Castlemare, and not grief at his death, which had forced her to Chiddon.
“I had already lost one duke, my lord, to a Barrington, no less. I wasn’t about to allow another to slip through my fingers.”
10
Ellis regarded Beatrice, wondering what sort of madness had possessed him that he’d sought her out a second time. He hadn’t meant to. After that tenuous, tortured kiss, Ellis had returned home so unsettled, he’d started making plans to return to London. But longing for Beatrice had struck him in the chest just after dinner. At first, he’d thought the wine sauce too rich. Hoped it was merely indigestion.
No, it was Beatrice.
Ellis hadalwayswanted her. That was the hard truth. Even when filled with disdain at the way she treated others, he had still felt the pull of Beatrice reaching out to him across ballrooms and parties. He should return to the life waiting for him, but Ellis couldn’t seem to summon the energy to make arrangements. So, he’d gone looking for her today in Chiddon, against his better judgement.
After listening to Farthing pontificate for the better part of an hour—the man was a complete windbag—on his role in assisting the duchess through her grief, Ellis had to call on Beatrice. Farthing alternatively worshipped Beatrice for being a duchess, while passively voicing his dislike for a woman he thought should have long ago written to her contacts in London to find Farthing another position.
