Was it only curiosity that had drawn Blythe to her door? Interesting that her scathing manner toward the earl hadn’t dissuaded him at all. She was well-versed in the malice of society, how dealing in secrets and innuendo could help destroy a person. Beatrice was guilty of having done so herself.
A bead of water rolled off her finger and onto the floor.
Blythe had no right to invade her sanctuary or pry into her affairs no matter how splendid he looked in a pair of riding breeches. The last thing she wanted was for Blythe to return to London with tales of the reclusive scarred duchess he’d come across in Chiddon. Could he really not know Castlemare was dead? Or that Beatrice no longer flitted about London?
“Perhaps our intruder is merely confused and bears no ill intent. Far more likely he’s an acquaintance of Castlemare’s who assumes I’ll put him up for the night out of courtesy or invite him to dine at my table.”
“Looking to take advantage of a widow? For shame,” Peg said with a mutinous look. “All for a bit of lamb?”
Ah, Peg. I wouldn’t trade you for the world.
“Please inform Mr. Lovington to put this unknown gentleman back on his horse and escort him to the road. Make sure it is impressed upon him not to return as he is not welcome.”
Blythe would be incredibly annoyed at being tossed out. Served him right. Hopefully Beatrice wouldn’t have to do so again.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Peg bobbed before racing off to do her bidding. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t trouble you further.”
5
Ellis whistled a merry tune as he strolled to Chiddon’s only tavern. He’d grown bored with his own company, rambling about his father’s old hunting lodge where he’d taken up residence. A tavern was sure to boast at least a tankard of ale and a conversation—likely the only sort of amusement to be found in Chiddon. Though he had seen a pamphlet nailed to a tree announcing an upcoming festival of sorts in the main square, but otherwise, the tiny village was devoid of entertainment. There were certainly no ducal estates nearby. No gentry to speak of. Only endless farms dotting the horizon interspersed with swaths of thick forest.
Indeed, there was nothing in Chiddon that should interest Beatrice Howard.
The gruff older gentleman who’d prodded him into an empty stall in Beatrice’s stable hadn’t cared when Ellis had protested and claimed he was an acquaintance of the Duchess of Castlemare. Nor had the grizzled mastiff been impressed when Ellis had informed him of his title. After Ellis had been pacing about in the straw for an hour, the man had returned, still waving a bloody pistol, and escorted Ellis and Dante back to the road where he instructed Ellis not to return.
The entire incident was annoying.
He’d gone directly back to the hunting lodge, or rather merely thelodge, since there was no hunting being done. Fishing for trout was more what Ellis enjoyed, though he hadn’t been doing much of that lately either. Settling himself in a comfortable chair with a glass of brandy, he’d contemplated the mystery that was the Duchess of Castlemare.
The duke wasn’t in Chiddon, that much was clear. Castlemare’s name had been bandied about during Ellis’s brief stay in London, but he’d paid little attention. Beatrice hadn’t been mentioned at all.
He really shouldn’t care one way or another.
Yes, Beatrice held an unnatural fascination for him, all of it entirely of a sexual nature. But he didn’tlikeher. Never had. But liking a woman wasn’t necessary to bed her. If that was a requirement, half the titles in London wouldn’t have heirs. Whether she and Castlemare lived apart wasn’t Ellis’s concern.
It did, however, present an opportunity.
Ellis had yet to meet an estranged or unhappy wife who hadn’t succumbed to his charms. Beatrice presented a unique challenge.
Still, her disdain for him had been palpable. Perversely, that only made Ellis desire her more.
At any rate, the possibility of seducing Beatrice Howard was far more enjoyable to contemplate than a future with Lady Anabeth Swift. He couldn’t even remember what the chit looked like, just a fleeting vision of vaguely pretty features.
Mother’s letter, demanding Ellis’s return to London, still sat discarded on the table back at the lodge. Lady Blythe was beside herself. Anabeth was so sought after as a bride, she was being pursued by a host of suitors and would soon be forced to make a choice, though Anabeth and her mother, Lady Pierce, preferred Lord Blythe.
Ellis had flicked the letter aside as soon as he’d read it and poured himself another brandy. Mother made such dramatic threats.
Walking into the dim ale-soaked interior of the tavern, Ellis was greeted by a broad-faced man with a fringe of hair circling a nearly bald pate. “Welcome to The Pickled Duck,” the man said with a flourish, directing him toward a scarred and battered length of wood where Ellis settled on a stool. “I am Gates, proprietor of The Pickled Duck, and a finer establishment you won’t find in all of Chiddon.”
The Pickled Duck was the only such establishment in Chiddon, but Ellis decided not to point this out to the exceptionally cheery Gates.
“Blythe,” Ellis said simply.
Gates nodded, a question in his eyes.
“I’m visiting the area for a time. My father kept an old hunting lodge just on the other side of Chiddon.”
“Ah. The previous earl.” Gates nodded politely. “Met him once tromping about the woods. He wasn’t much of an outdoorsman, begging your pardon, my lord. Liked to fish a bit, as I recall.”
