Farthing, illustrious vicar that he was, deemed the church too small, quaint, and the vicarage far too humble. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to appeal to Beatrice for something grander, once he’d given up that she might recommend him to another post. Farthing probably viewed Blythe as a godsend, a golden earl who might finally take him from Chiddon.
A soft hum filled the church as Beatrice walked to her pew, Blythe gleaming at her arm like a newly minted coin. Women of every age, most old enough to know better, stared as if an angel had descended down to their humble church. There were plenty of gentlemen in England who were as handsome as Blythe but none, perhaps, who had his presence.
Four of the Tidwell boys, dressed in their Sunday best, waved at Beatrice, and she waved back. When Beatrice had last visited the Tidwells, she’d brought them three roasted hens, courtesy of Mrs. Lovington. Mr. Tidwell had been away on business in Overton and Mrs. Tidwell had just given birth to their last child. Another boy.
“Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth for them?” Blythe led her to their seats. “Do they even know what an exalted personage you are?”
“Like most males, their affections can be bought with a pat on the head and a leg of chicken.” She discreetly jerked her elbow out of his hand as she sat.
“I think you’re referring to a dog, Your Grace. And you’ve yet to pet me...anywhere.”
Beatrice kept her eyes forward, refusing to encourage such impropriety, especially in a church, but she bit back a smile. It was pleasing to have a handsome gentleman, even if it was Blythe, flirt with her. Vicar Farthing didn’t flirt, only fawned. Castlemare had never tried to charm Beatrice because being a duke was all the charm he’d needed.
She cast Blythe a sideways glance. Would it truly be so terrible to engage in an indiscretion with him? Beatrice had told him she was in no need of comfort, and she wasn’t. But—she was lonely. Rebuilding Chiddon and atoning didn’t fill every empty space inside her.
The length of Blythe’s muscled leg once more pressed into her thigh as he shifted on the pew.
Blythe was fit. A male in his prime. Unlike Castlemare, who’d worn a male corset of sorts to fit into his formal wear and possessed spindly legs.
“Are you warm, Your Grace? There is a flush to your cheeks,” Blythe murmured, shifting once more so that his shoulder brushed hers.
“I’m quite well, thank you.”
The problem with giving into Blythe, if he meant to seduce and not merely annoy her, was twofold. Hewasa rake by reputation, and she had little desire to have her name added to his list of conquests. Secondly, nakedness would be required in any sort of affair they engaged in.
Beatrice’s fingers fluttered over the right side of her body.
Blythe would certainly be unclothed, which would be spectacular. But he would surely insist she be naked as well.
I simply cannot allow that.
That she was even considering allowing Blythe in her bed was...unsettling. Beatrice tried to summon up all the things she found distasteful about him while listening to Vicar Farthing drone on and on. Instead, she found herself recalling the warmth of his hand as he’d tried to comfort her in the carriage. The sound of his voice reciting Keats.
Good God.
This was intolerable.
12
When at last the service ended, Blythe stood beside her as she greeted an endless stream of villagers, looming a bit too protectively over her the entire time. He didn’t stand stiff and unyielding; instead, Blythe greeted every soul as if they were old friends.
“Shall we walk back to Beresford Cottage, Your Grace?” he said, gently leading her across the grass toward the vicar’s garden. “All that sitting. I need to shake off Vicar Farthing’s brimstone and stretch my legs.”
“What about your carriage?”
“Mr. Lovington will drive it back. I think Peg and Jasper can squeeze between him and Mrs. Lovington, don’t you?”
Blythe was being kind to her.Again.If he kept being so lovely, it would be difficult to keep him at arm’s length. Which she supposed was the point.
Yes, but I’ll have to be unclothed.
“I hope you don’t have any aspirations to take liberties in the woods, as you did before,” she asserted in a crisp tone.
“I wouldnever, Your Grace.” But his tone was deceptively silky, moving over Beatrice’s skin like warm bath water. “I just don’t think you’re overly fond of my driving. I’ll spare you having to tolerate the ride once more.”
He’d noticed her discomfort but would not address it directly. Nor did Beatrice have any inclination to tell him. “But I must still tolerate your company? A poor bargain.”
The blue of his eyes twinkled down at her. “A sacrifice you must make, I fear. I’m going to have you search for appropriate tree limbs which might be lying about. Ones I may carve into something atrocious and unrecognizable. Perhaps I’ll make you something.”
