She tugged at the twist of hair pulled tightly against her right cheek.
Castlemare had invaded her dreams last night, among other unpleasant memories, and he was still here, haunting the landing where she now stood. The duke had approached Beatrice during a ball while she’d still been reeling in disbelief from Granby’s rejection. Lord and Lady Foxwood had fixed the blame for the debacle of Granby’s deception firmly on Beatrice. She’d embarrassed the family. Shaken the standing of the Foxwoods. Hersolepurpose in life, Lady Foxwood had declared, was to secure a duke. At the very least a marquess. And to be routed by the likes of Andromeda Barrington?
Inexcusable.
Beatrice had been suffocating, unable to breathe without Lady Foxwood criticizing her every move. Castlemare had made no secret of his admiration for Beatrice, likening her to crown jewels. She had run right into the duke’s arms, not pausing to consider what sort of man Castlemare might be. It hadn’t mattered that he bore her not a whit of affection nor she him. Their marriage was for status. Wealth. Power was within Beatrice’s grasp. The culmination of the ambition of the Foxwoods. Finally, Beatrice had gained her parents’ approval. Lord Foxwood had boasted of the connection to Castlemare. Lady Foxwood had accepted dozens of new invitations as the mother of a new duchess. Beatrice had been fawned over. Showered with invitations, gifts, offers of friendship. Castlemare had treated her kindly.
Now, Lady Foxwood had insisted, Beatrice need only to secure her future by giving Castlemare an heir.
Disappointment had returned in droves when she’d failed at her appointed task.
Castlemare had ceased being kind.
The aroma of bacon hit her nostrils as Beatrice made her way down the hall. She’d eaten little last night, preoccupied and too unsettled by Blythe’s visit. She’d poured another brandy after his departure, fingers trailing over the green, leatherbound ledger, still buried beneath the stack of books on her table. Blythe had been in the parlor for only a short time before her arrival, according to Mrs. Lovington. It was doubtful he’d done more than glance at the table. Even if he had, Blythe wouldn’t have known what to make of the list of names and notations. Not even Beatrice truly understood what she was trying to accomplish. Some of those listed were dead and beyond caring. But the ledger gave Beatrice a sense of purpose. A duty, of sorts, though no one had asked her to brew Chiddon ale on Martin Dilworth’s behalf.
This duty was about atoning for the horrid creature Beatrice had once been.
Her fingers tightened on the banister as she made her way down the stairs. The desire gleaming in Blythe’s eyes would become moot once he realized there was no possibility of nibbling on her right ear lobe. Or if Blythe caught sight of the gashes decorating her right breast and shoulder. Possibly the holes in the skin of her neck and cheek.
She’d woken up just as dawn streaked across the sky, a scream lodged in her throat. She’d once more been trapped. The stream. The rocks. The absolute blackness of the riverbed where she’d lain for two days. Thomas’s bloodied face, neck hanging at an odd angle before floating away while she’d sobbed for help.
Blythe’s presence brought the past back to her. This was his fault. All of it.
Admittedly, Beatrice had enjoyed his company the previous night, but she would not, under any circumstances, receive him again. A fingertip touched her lips.
No matter how marvelously he kissed.
Resolved, Beatrice continued down the stairs, almost toppling down the remainder as a masculine rumble drifted up from the breakfast room.
“Mrs. Lovington, you are a treasure.”
Damn him.
Blythe had,unbelievably,once more invaded her sanctuary. Why could he not leave her alone? Hadn’t she politely listened to his tales of Rome?
Lifting her chin, Beatrice steeled her shoulders and made her way down to the bottom of the stairs. She stood at the entrance of the breakfast room, lip curled in dislike as she viewed the scene before her.
Mrs. Lovington, likely thrilled to be able to wait on themagnificentLord Blythe—oh, and he was quite splendid in a coat the color of burnt toast—bustled about his golden form, presenting Beatrice’s unwelcome guest with what appeared to be an omelet sprinkled with herbs while asking if his lordship would like more bacon. Two tiny pink dots stood out on Mrs. Lovington’s cheeks as she fussed about him like a mother hen, smothering him with attention. When Mrs. Lovington, normally the most uncompromising of women,giggledlike a schoolgirl, Beatrice burst into the room.
This was intolerable.
“Lord Blythe,” Beatrice greeted him curtly. “How unexpected to find you at my breakfast table.”
“Delightful is the word you’re looking for, Your Grace.” Blythe sat back in his chair, eyes alight as she came into the room, daring her with a wink to be tossed out. He had never more resembled her description of him as an affable, slightly annoying dog. She hoped he hadn’t tracked in any mud.
“Perhaps your definition is different from mine, my lord. Tea, Mrs. Lovington, if you please.” Beatrice took a chair at the opposite end of the table, eyeing Blythe with annoyance.
Blythe had taken Beatrice’s place at the head of the table. As if sharing one brandy, telling her stories about a naked man in Rome, andnotbeing escorted out at the point of a pistol entitled him to do so.
Wretch.
He raised a brow and chewed his omelet, a bit more seductively than Beatrice thought necessary. The way he drew his lips over his fork, lips dragging over each tine, had a flare of heat inching up her spine.
“Do you often appear, my lord, uninvited for breakfast?” Beatrice kept her voice chilly.
“Not often, Your Grace. But I did promise to escort you to church today. The vicar has a wonderful sermon planned.” He rubbed his hands together as if the idea of Vicar Farthing and his sermon excited him. “Don’t tell me you forgot, Your Grace?”
Overindulged peacock.
