They passed through the vicar’s garden. Bees buzzed in a lazy manner over a patch of salvia, ignoring the hydrangeas. Beatrice stopped, watching them land on the flowers.
“I liken you to a bee,” Blythe said. The breeze caught his hair, moving the thick, honey -colored strands about his temples.
“Because I possess a stinger?”
“That isn’t what I was thinking, although it certainly fits.” An amused sound came from him. “No, I think it because there is one queen surrounded by scores of male drones, all waiting to serve her. An entire hive. I recall watching every gentleman worth his salt swirling about you, fetching a lemonade or stooping to pick up your fan.”
“That was long ago, Blythe.” She plucked a daisy, twirling it between her fingers. A strange bit of tranquility had settled between her and Blythe since he’d forced himself into her house and dictated they share a brandy. Beatrice was loathe to dislodge it.
“Not so long. Only a few years,” he answered, plucking at a hydrangea bloom. “I used to think your eyes were this color.” Blythe held up the flower to her cheek, twisting the petals along her skin. “But yours are a far deeper hue.”
A quaking sensation started low in Beatrice’s belly, caused by the mere press of the flower. Their attraction buzzed in the air, louder than the group of bees. Had it always been present? Just buried beneath a layer of scorn and scathing remarks?
“I quite like Chiddon,” he murmured. “I have always preferred the country.”
What an odd comment from a gentleman whom Beatrice had always thought of as the epitome of a London lord. “It is easier to avoid your mother in the country, I suspect.”
Blythe gave her a half-smile. “Clever duchess. Lady Blythe is quite fierce. Determined. I often liken her to a general. It is not always a compliment.”
“You have a deep affection for her.” Beatrice could tell that he did, though it was clear Lady Blythe annoyed him. Blythe could have simply forced his mother to the countryside and dictated the rest of her days. It would make his existence simpler, but he’d chosen not to.
“I do. I care very much for my family.” There was a serious cast to his handsome face. “Their happiness is my responsibility and has been for a very long time.”
Beatrice looked up at the man she’d so often assumed to be a careless rogue, one who survived on his vanity and connections. Blythe was unfailingly kind. His manner in the church had proven it. Self-deprecating about his lack of talent as well as his good looks, which she honestly didn’t think he gave a whit about. A bit of a romantic. Many lords would see their overbearing mother and herd of sisters as a burden, but not Blythe.
“Lady Blythe is only anxious because she wishes me to wed.” He shrugged. “Mother worries that should I perish, she would be subjected to another man’s whims. Become little more than a visitor in her own home.”
“Is that why you became a rake?” Beatrice said lightly. “To avoid her determination?”
“Partially, though I was never as bad as rumors would have you believe. I adore women. How could I not? My entire household consists of them. You can’t imagine how thrilled I was to receive a nephew.” A lopsided grin pulled at his lips. “I admit only to making improper remarks mostly because I love the way a woman blushes, and I think I possess a unique wit. Reciting poetry when the moment calls for it takes exquisite timing. Oh, and appearing dashing at every turn, though as far as my looks and title, I had nothing to do with either, so I refuse to take credit for those.”
“No wonder you attracted such a flock of admirers,” Beatrice mused.
“Do I possess a herd or a flock?” He gave her an outraged look. “Perhaps a murder. That’s what they call a group of crows. I’ve always found that incredibly interesting, to refer to a flock of crows as a murder.”
“Parliament of owls,” Beatrice said, “is another interesting term. When I was younger, I would imagine an entire group of owls in long robes deciding the fate of England.”
“Clever duchess.” Blythe nudged her gently with his shoulder. “I didn’t imagine you would ever find such things interesting. But I should have guessed, given your reading.The Voyage of the Beagleisn’t a book I’d ever considered you curling up before the fire to study.”
He had looked at her books. “I suppose not. Vain, shallow creature that I am.”
“Can we agree that our past dealings have little to do with our present, Your Grace?” He nudged her once more. He was smiling, the creases spreading out from his eyes making him that much more attractive.
A dangerous proposition. She hadn’t yet decided how to deal with Blythe.
“Agreed. If you will admit that you seek to involve me in an indiscretion due to your boredom in the country and the fact that I am a widow.”
“I am not bored, Your Grace. Far from it.”
Beatrice could hear the truth in his words. It made her stomach pitch in the most pleasant way.
“But I do not deny that I seek to engage you in an indiscretion.”
He stopped, angling his body closer to hers. Reaching out, Blythe gently swept his finger along her bottom lip, stroking to life a gentle hum along her skin. “After all,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, the blue of his eyes darkening to near violet in the late morning light. “Who better? I’ve disliked you. Been annoyed by you. Found your behavior, at times, abhorrent.”
She parted her mouth to issue a retort, but Blythe shook his head, cupping her chin in his large hand.
“But still,” he whispered against her mouth. “I am drawn to you like those bees are to the flowers. I have always been.”
