If she could stab him with her fork, she would.
He’d anticipated her reluctance at his escort to the church, arriving at her home far earlier than merited. She’d hoped to gulp down her tea and hurry along the path behind her home which led to the vicarage. Beatrice had even mapped out several spots to hide among the trees should Blythe attempt to seek her out. It was rather terrifying that he’d guessed she might avoid him and outsmarted her. What was his purpose in doing so?
He wishes to torment me.
“Your services are not required, my lord. I’m perfectly capable of making my own way to the vicarage. I have been doing so without your assistance for some time.”
“Your Grace,” he chastised. “What sort of...friendwould I be if I didn’t go with you?”
“We are not friends, my lord.” At least, they hadn’t been when he’d found her riding Cicero. Not after years of...armed hostility. When had a truce been called?
When he kissed me.
The memory of that kiss came roaring back once more. In truth, it rarely left her thoughts, instead becoming a catalyst for other, more improper imaginings.
“I disagree.” Blythe chewed thoughtfully. “I am friendly toward you. Though our relationship needs a great deal of work.”
Beatrice took a sip of the tea Mrs. Lovington hurriedly poured for her. “We are barely acquainted.”
“We can discuss our differences on the ride to the church.” Blythe stabbed at the omelet, eyes closing in rapture. “Perfection, Mrs. Lovington. If only you weren’t already wed.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake.
“I prefer to walk,” Beatrice stated. “Unescorted.”
“Nonsense. My carriage sits just outside.”
Carriage. The very word invoked an entire well of panic in Beatrice. Silly, really. But she could almost smell the rotting vegetation. See the blood in the water. Thomas’s broken body.
“No, thank you.”
Beatrice didn’t take carriages, gigs, barouches, landaus, or any other type of conveyance pulled by a horse. Nothing with axles that could break. Or doors that could jam shut. Yet another reason why she would never return to London, because part of the journey would require sitting in a coach. Even if she could feasibly make it back to London without an excess of panic, then what? No. Better to stay in Chiddon.
“I don’t often get to drive myself or anyone else.” Blythe waved his fork gracefully about as he spoke. “I bought the vehicle especially for the country.” His gaze dropped to her hair, gathered by a ribbon to the right side of her face. “And it is a lovely day.” Blythe took one last bite and smiled at Mrs. Lovington before coming to his feet, intent on helping Beatrice up.
“I—”
Blythe’s hands fell to her shoulders before he pulled back her chair, and she was enveloped in his warm, clean scent. Beatrice had the urge to turn her chin and bury her nose in his chest.
“Come, Your Grace. Don’t you want to be the envy of every woman in Chiddon, walking into the church with me on your arm?” He took her elbow.
“You are such a strutting peacock.” There was a slight quiver in her voice, the result of knowing she was going to be trussed into a carriage and could do nothing about it.
“In truth, I am.”
Beatrice’s heart thumped heavy in her chest. She consoled herself with the knowledge that the ride to the church would take little time. If her eyes remained closed, Beatrice could imagine other, more pleasurable things, like how to strangle a splendid earl with his own cravat.
A worried look came from Mrs. Lovington. “Your Grace—”
Beatrice gave a small shake of her head. There could be no fuss, or Blythe would wonder at it. She need only wait him out and tolerate his presence and this carriage ride. Blythe was merely bored. After today, he would tire of annoying her and find some other way to amuse himself. Or he would return to London.
“My hat, Mrs. Lovington. Will you instruct Peg to fetch it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The housekeeper bobbed and hurried off.
“A pity you don’t have a butler, Your Grace.” Blythe stood far too close, his thigh brushing the outside of her skirts.
“Unnecessary. I prefer to live simply.”
