“Hmm.” He placed his hands on his hips, completely absorbed in a gear of some sort while Beatrice fought off a horde of arachnids.
“How on earth do you know so much about mills and the grinding of wheat?” she asked him. “Shouldn’t such knowledge belong to your steward?” Beatrice ducked to avoid a web strewn across one corner. “Could we please move to another location? There is an exceptional number of spiders.” She stomped on another, and it gave a satisfying crunch beneath her boot.
“My father was involved in the management of his estates, so much so that he knew each of our tenants by name. Took tea with them several times a year. He would roll up his sleeves and dive in if a plow broke or there were issues with the thresher.” A wistfulness crossed Blythe’s features as he related that long ago memory.
He missed his father. Had loved him. Beatrice thought of Lord and Lady Foxwood, for whom emotion was something foreign and repellent. “And what about mills?”
A boyish grin, devastating to any female, was leveled at her. “My father had a natural curiosity about what made things work. He liked using his hands. Probably where our paltry skill at carving came from. When I was a boy, I came upon him in his study, taking apart a clock which had stopped working. He explained how all the springs and gears worked together to move the clock’s hands.”
Beatrice tiptoed over a small pile of refuse. The end of a tail was sticking out. She didn’t bother to examine further. “You shared his fascination.”
“I did. Unfortunately, I was also blessed with a mother who didn’t think an earl should know how to repair a harness or the mechanism in a thresher. Such pursuits were for common folk. But I’ve always thought such knowledge useful.”
“Sounds rather contrary to your other pursuits of sculpting and poetry.”
“Oh, it is. I think I’ll always admire the written word and other creative pursuits simply because I lack the skill for any of them. It’s possible I also possess an elder sister who might have advised me that young ladies would be more inclined in my direction if I enjoyed more romantic pursuits. Over time, I hoped to be counted among the number of poets or artists.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “But the fates decided differently. I can only recite words written by another. Speak about brush strokes, but not make them myself. I realized in Rome that while I see only a flower, an artist like Theodosia Barrington sees a complex weaving of color and emotion which she can translate to a canvas. Keats or Byron could do so with words.”
“I expect that reciting a poem to an adoring young lady has the same effect as if you penned the words yourself.” Beatrice’s tone was tart, thinking of all the women who’d been struck by Blythe as he read them poetry.
“Don’t be jealous, Bea.” The side of his mouth lifted. “I can’t write you a poem, but I’ll carve you something.” He turned back to the pitwheel. “And fix your mill.”
“I’m not—” Beatrice stared at the back of his golden head, hating that shewasjealous. Of every bit of attention this glorious man she’d once thought she disliked had showered on any other woman. And Blythe knew it.
How had this happened? Two kisses, admittedly both magnificent, and Beatrice was mooning over Blythe.
Abruptly, she backed away, nearly tripping over an old piece of wood that had come lose from the floorboards above. She coughed, waving her hand before her nose. “There is a rather pungent pile of...something over there. Can we please leave?”
“Yes, duchess.” Blythe once more took her hand, cautioning her to watch her step as he led her out into the bright morning sun. Walking back to Cicero and Dante, Blythe winked before reaching into his saddlebags. “You’re prickly because you need to eat something. I should have allowed you to finish breakfast, but I wanted to talk to you about the mill.”
“I’m not prickly.”
Blythe produced a blanket, a bottle of wine, cheese, and a somewhat battered loaf of bread. He dug around a bit more and came back with one lone apple. “I thought I packed two.”
“You are oddly prepared for our jaunt to view a potentially haunted mill,” Beatrice murmured.
“It isn’t the least haunted. And Idoappreciate a good cheddar.” He nodded at the cheese wrapped in cloth. “I’m afraid my larder isn’t stocked nearly as well as yours. I hope this will suffice for a picnic.”
Beatrice took the blanket from his hands and spread it across the grass. “I’ve never been on a picnic, at least, not without scores of footmen rushing about with trays and a small group gathered to observe something scenic.”
“I’m not sure you are at a picnic now,” Blythe laughed. “A paltry apple, some bread, and a bit of cheese on a blanket doesn’t qualify. I should have asked Mrs. Lovington for a chicken leg or a pie. But at least we have wine.”
Blythe took off his coat, uncaring at the impropriety of being in his shirtsleeves, and formed the garment into a pillow. Laying back, he patted the spot beside him and looked up at the sky. Pointing to a large cloud directly above them, he said, “Do you see that, Beatrice. Right there? A fish.” He tugged at her skirts, insisting she lay beside him.
Beatrice stretched out, conscious of his hard, muscled body so close to hers. Blythe smelled of clean linen with a hint of citrus. Lime, possibly. The warm, delicious scent pulled her toward him, billowing over her senses.
“Can you make it out?” He tilted his head until the top touched hers. “Maybe not a fish. A snake, possibly.” Blythe had made sure to position himself so that his lean form aligned with Beatrice’s left side, not her right.
“I don’t see anything.” Trepidation shot through her, blotting out the pleasure of being mere inches from him. She thought back to his mention of Estwood, a gentleman who must inhabit London. A place where all sorts of rumors survived about Beatrice Howard.
“Relax, Bea.”
The shortened form of her name, which no one but Blythe had ever used, flustered her as did the increasing intimacy between them. Had he told Estwood she was in Chiddon? And in return, what had Estwood told Blythe?
“Just look at the clouds,” he said. “Stop behaving as if I’m about to pounce on you. You haven’t eaten, and you could faint if I attempt ravishment.”
The words he’d said to her the last time they were together pulsed through her mind.
I want you, Beatrice Howard. I have from the moment I set eyes on you.
