“You should have told me, Your Grace.” The gentle caress of his thumb along her hand calmed her. She tightened her fingers, clinging to him, unable to speak.
“‘My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains.
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains.
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
’Tis not enough envy of thy happy lot.’”
The rich tenor wrapped firmly around Beatrice, soothing the fear so that it didn’t erupt.
“‘But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.’”
He had a lovely voice for reciting poetry. No wonder those dithering chits in society flocked about him. Any young lady faced with a shimmering Blythe reading a poem would surely swoon.
“Keats,” Beatrice said, drawing in a long, shaky breath. Her pulse still raced but no longer skipped about in fear. The poem was one of her favorites, though Blythe couldn’t possibly know.
“We’ve arrived, Your Grace.”
A breeze ruffled the veil on her hat, teasing at her nose until she opened her eyes and pushed it away.
Vicar Farthing and Melinda stood just outside the tiny church, welcoming in the crowd of parishioners and waving them to their pews. Her friend looked up, not surprised at all to see Beatrice with Blythe.
Beatrice pulled her fingers from his. “Let go of me.” The embarrassment over her fear had begun to sink in. She felt ridiculous. Exposed before Blythe. “Did you think a small bit of poetry would result in my allowing you to take liberties?”
“I’ll choose something longer next time.” Blythe laughed. “Maybe Byron.”
Beatrice’s heart thumped loudly in her ears. Blythe was breathtaking when he laughed.Orwalked.Orate an omelet. Glorious sitting a horse. Magnificent quoting Keats.
Things were far easier when we snarled at each other.
He helped her down, the pads of his fingers sinking into her waist. Without giving her time to pull away, Blythe tucked Beatrice’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her to the entrance where Melinda stood, ignoring her repeated attempts to separate from him.
“Don’t cause a scene, Your Grace,” he whispered into her ear, leaving a maddening tingle behind. “You don’t want to cause gossip, do you?”
Vicar Farthing sputtered and stammered at the appearance of Blythe and Beatrice. His dark eyes gleamed with avarice as he greeted them far too effusively for Beatrice’s liking. He could barely take his eyes from Blythe, gazing at him like an adoring lover.
Melinda turned away from her husband. “Sparks, Your Grace. I see them floating about your shoulders like glowworms,” she murmured. “Lord, but he’s rather spectacular up close, isn’t he? Blinding, almost.”
“You should know. Didn’t he visit the vicarage? Have tea?” Beatrice lowered her voice. “You could have warned me.”
“I had no idea Lord Blythe was capable of coaxing you into a carriage. One wonders what else he might induce you to do.”
“I’m not amused,” Beatrice whispered back. “I shall never forgive you. You are a terrible vicar’s wife.”
Melinda bit her lip and attempted to appear contrite. “I didn’t know he’d insist on a carriage,” she whispered back, before turning to greet Mrs. Tidwell.
Chiddon’s church remained small, even after Beatrice had made vast improvements to the structure. A larger building had been suggested but ultimately deemed unnecessary for the village, given the current population, though Beatrice thought her other improvements might bring more families to Chiddon.
