Ellis agreed.
“I liken Granby’s defection to more an escape,” he said, settling in the chair next to her.
A sound came from Beatrice. “How eloquent of you.”
Assisting Farthing wouldn’t have been difficult for Beatrice, especially since it would have kicked the annoying gnat of a vicar out of Chiddon. There was at least one bishop in Lord Foxwood’s family. Castlemare had numerous estates. Her reluctance to contact anyone in London struck Ellis as odd. He also believed the excessive mourning over Castlemare, which nearly everyone in Chiddon had mentioned, to be non-existent.
Beatrice gripped the brandy in her hands so tightly, her knuckles whitened.
“I find Farthing’s claims of your grief to be exaggerated,” Ellis finally said, watching her reaction.
“Why? Because you find me heartless?” she retorted, not bothering to look in his direction.
“No, because of Castlemare. I knew him by reputation.” Castlemare wouldn’t have inspired an ounce of grief in anyone, especially the woman he’d wed. It should have pleased Ellis that Beatrice had ended up with the sort of man Castlemare had been. But he wasn’t. “I’m not sure he would have liked what you’ve done with Chiddon.”
Beatrice’s lips twitched. “I’m very sure he would not.”
When Ellis had first arrived at the very lovely Beresford Cottage and charmed his way past Mrs. Lovington, he’d been certain that Beatrice’s reason for being in Chiddon couldn’t possibly be grief over Castlemare. It had to be revenge of sorts. That seemed more suited to Beatrice.
Her response at least assured him he was on the right track, but he still couldn’t make sense of her continued seclusion.
“My anecdotes about Rome are fascinating,” he said, changing the subject deftly. “And I want the pleasure of annoying you with my presence. Now drink your brandy.”
“I don’t wish to be fascinated,” she whispered, looking into the fire, but she obediently sipped.
“But youareopen to being annoyed by my presence. Wonderful. We’ll sit here and enjoy our brandy, shall we? We can practice not antagonizing each other.”
Beatrice turned to him. “Why?” Something flickered across her beautiful features.
He didn’t bloody know why. Seduction was the obvious answer, but—well it wasn’t entirely true—or rather, he did want to seduce her—but his reasoning had become murky after that kiss.
Ellis shrugged. “The brandy you keep is excellent, Your Grace. And perhaps I want to see how long it will take you to summon Jasper or Mr. Lovington and have me escorted from your presence.”
Beatrice glanced at the clock ticking away on the mantel. “A quarter hour, I wager. No more.”
A smile hovered at his lips. “Challenge accepted.”
His gaze fell on the stack of books strewn haphazardly over a side table.The Works of Cicero,The Voyage of the Beagle, andThe Adventures of Lord Thurston.An unusual collection for a woman like Beatrice Howard.
There was a slim volume clad in green leather with nothing written along the spine. A ledger of sorts. Ellis had hovered over it, wanting to open and peruse the contents, but he had not.
“I went to Rome to learn how to sculpt properly,” he started. “Needless to say, my talents lie elsewhere.” He launched into a somewhat ribald tale of having finally secured a nude model, only dismayed to find that the model in question was a somewhat elderly gentleman.
The tension left Beatrice’s slender form as he related the tale, her lips turning up at the corners as he related how Signore Bentato had needed the sum promised to model as his wife had cut off his allowance due to his love of wine. Ellis had paid him off, of course, not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings nor wishing to see his naked body every day while first sketching out the man’s form then transferring it to marble.
“It was a wasted effort, at any rate. I’ve little of the artistic genius required to complete such a project. No skill whatsoever with marble or stone unless I’m building a wall.” Ellis had tried, becoming more frustrated with every attempt. Finally, bottle of wine in hand, he’d walked along the Tiber, resigned that he’d only ever be an earl and not a poet or a great artist.
“Then why attempt it?” There was genuine curiosity in her tone and no mockery for his pathetic attempts at sculpture.
“I admire artists. Musicians. Poets. I longed to be counted in their number. Create something that would survive the ages. Move the emotions of others,” he found himself admitting.
“You’re a romantic.” The flames bathed the edges of her profile with a soft golden light. Beatrice’s features should have been committed to canvas or marble by a great master.
“Somewhat.” His friends often poked fun at that side of Ellis. Granby found umbrage with Ellis’s attempts at poetry. Haven insisted Ellis’s love of Keats was due to him being a spoiled twit who had the luxury of contemplating verse. Haven was often bitter.
“Is that why you were so enamored of Theodosia Barrington?”
The question took him aback. Ellis hadn’t thought Beatrice ever paid him a great deal of attention other than lobbing slurs in his direction. “I was never enamored of Theodosia, Your Grace. I was aware of Haven’s attachment to her, apparent from the moment she spilled ratafia on him at the house party. Had you not been so intent on shackling Granby at the time, you would have noticed.”
