“That isn’t flattering in the least.” But Beatrice was smiling. He did have a way with words. Not poetry, per se, but something she liked just as much.
“At first, you imagine the cake not worth the effort. You could break a tooth—”
“Because the exterior has gone hard?”
“Exactly.” His cheek slid along hers, sending a ripple of pleasure down her neck. “But once you sink in your teeth—” Blythe nipped at her skin. “You find the interior soft. Delicious. You wish to bury yourself in it.” He spun her once more, catching her deftly.
Beatrice closed her eyes, welcoming the dizzy intoxication of her senses.
“I’m thirsty, Your Grace. Exhausted from being ordered about by a duchess for the better part of an afternoon and being given no cake.” He kept one arm around her waist, pulling her weight into his. “And now I want some of that stale, hardened oat cake.” One elegant hand trailed down the length of her hair, twisting a curl about his finger.
That Blythe knew of her accident was no longer up for debate. He obviously did.
She stumbled, but he caught her, pulling her once more against the muscled length of his chest. Estwood’s visit, and not knowing what he’d told Blythe, had led to a great deal of snarling and bad behavior from Beatrice. It would probably lead to a great deal more. Having himacknowledgeand betender—well, it smacked of pity and—
“Don’t,” she snapped, trying to pull away.
“Drink more ale? I admit, as fond as I am of Chiddon’s ale, I would prefer some wine. Fortunately”—he spun her once more—“I had the foresight to stash a bottle of wine with Mr. Gates at The Pickled Duck. I suggest we avail ourselves of that bottle now. Perhaps find a chicken leg or two lying about.”
“I don’t want a chicken leg.”Or your pity.
“Your Grace, forgive me, but you become incredibly monstrous when you don’t eat properly. I think that’s part of the problem. Lady Foxwood probably starved you for years.”
Her motherhad, but that wasn’t the point.
“You’ve probably had a decent amount of ale—you and Mrs. Farthing. I do adore a brazen vicar’s wife. At any rate, I’m sure the amount of ale, with no food, is the cause of your behavior. Taking liberties with me while we danced.” Blythe made a clucking sound. “For shame, Your Grace.”
“I did no such thing,” she puffed, somewhat outraged by his suggestion, forgetting all about Blythe pitying her. He was very good at deflection.
“I thought my virtue safe, Your Grace.” Blythe led her to a table set back from the others and nestled beneath an enormous tree. “You are as bad as every other young lady, attempting to compromise me.”
“You fat-headed peacock,” Beatrice fumed.
“Puddles have more depth than you, Your Grace.” Blythe pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t move.” He strolled away to retrieve his wine and possibly a chicken leg. The blood pulsed furiously through her veins at his audacity, making Beatrice feel more alive than she had in years. Maybe in forever.
It was utterly, completely terrifying.
Beatrice stretched her palms along the scarred wood of the table, trying to still the crazy beating of her heart. The skin along her arms tingled. Her breasts ached. And Blythe had barely touched her. She thought of herself at the mill, moaning as she chased her bliss, looking up into the blue of his eyes.
Beatrice pulled her knees together.
The wisest course would be for her to proclaim loudly that she had a headache brought on by her work earlier today. Someone nearby would inform Blythe. She could flee through the woods and be safe in her bed within an hour. Beatrice didn’t need to sit here and be tempted by carnal things. No one need ever see her right side, ever again.
“Stop frowning. You’ll get lines around your mouth.” Blythe’s broad shoulders rolled. “At least that is what Lady Blythe claims. Not to me. My sisters.”
The wine bottle met the table with a dull thud.
“I suppose I’ve annoyed you once again, Your Grace.” Blythe folded his legs gracefully to sit beside her. Half an apple pie landed next to the wine. “No chicken legs are to be found. I had to arm wrestle a young boy for the remainder of this pie. Quite the tussle. He didn’t care in the least I was an earl.”
Beatrice took a deep breath. Best to get this over with. No one else was close by. Blythe was facing away from the light so she wouldn’t have to see the distaste and pity on his handsome features. “I suppose you’d like to know everything,” she murmured. “I think that best.”
“About you?” Blythe rolled his shoulders. “I know more than enough, you shallow, ambitious chit.” He took a swallow of the wine and made a sigh of satisfaction. “Quite good.”
“Blythe—” A weight fell over her chest just thinking of the accident. Castlemare. That bloody riverbed. “You may have noticed I favor—”
“Me?” he interrupted. “Entirely. I can’t blame you. Nearly every woman adores me. I’m incredibly dashing. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how you’ve resisted thus far. The mill is what pushed you over the edge. No flowers for my duchess. Only a rotting building in a state of disrepair will do.”
He was shameless.Truly.
