“But who do you suppose will operate the mill?” she asked. “No one in Chiddon will volunteer. I’ve tried.” She gestured to the crumbling building. “There isn’t a soul who would buy the mill either. I posted a notice in Overton but received no offers.”
“You’ve such little faith, Lady Beatrice, Patron Saint of Chiddon.” A dazzling, heartbreaking smile broke over his lips, sending warmth along her limbs as if Beatrice had just walked into a patch of sunlight.
“Make sure to say that with the proper respect.” She cocked her chin, pretending to be annoyed. “I cannot do much about the mill at present, so I’ve turned my attention to other matters. Sugar beets.”
“Ah, yes. Sugar beets. Just the other day, after that rousing sermon from Vicar Farthing, Mr. Tidwell and I engaged in a lively discussion on sugar beets,” Blythe said. “Your plan is to allow his son to work those fields at the edge of your property. I quite agree with the assessment. You aren’t doing anything with the land.”
“Sugar beets are a profitable crop, and Mr. Tidwell is a renowned expert on the vegetable, though I fail to see why he felt the need to discuss my affairs with you.” Duchess or not, Beatrice was still a woman, which meant her opinions were often questioned. There was a reason she’d threatened that stonemason working on the vicarage with a riding crop. It was the only way he would listen.
“Prickly, aren’t you?” Blythe stood, looking at the mill, moving from the stream emptying into the pond to the wheel and back, likely envisioning the movement of the water in his head.
A softness for him took root in her chest—a gentle ache which had her looking away from him once more.
“This could be a more profitable project than your sugar beets,” he said with certainty. “And more useful than a dressmaker or a baker, Saint Beatrice.”
“Every woman deserves to eat a proper scone while dressed in an elegant gown.”
Blythe snorted. “Chiddonneedsa mill. The assumption that the place is haunted by anything other than mice, spiders, and other vermin is ridiculous and not enough reason to allow it to remain empty.”
“My lord, not one person within a hundred miles will set foot in that mill. Even now, no one in Chiddon dares to mention Mandrell. The entire incident was quite gruesome. A man of the cloth was murdered.” She glanced once more at the rubble of the mill covered in weeds. “I’m told his blood still stains the stone floor.”
Blythe rolled his eyes. “Good lord, madam. I’d not thoughtyouto be taken in by tales of ghosts and specters. Thankfully, I don’t believe in such things. Which is why I had Estwood purchase the property for me,” he said, still studying the pond and the wheel. “Come, let us take a look.”
“You boughtthismill?” Beatrice said in disbelief.
“Estwood did on my behalf. Do you recall him? You may have met at Granby’s house party.”
Disquiet settled over Beatrice at the mention of the stupid house party. She recalled a striking man with eyes like silver, one of low birth who Lord and Lady Foxwood had instructed Beatrice to keep her distance from. “Vaguely. But I don’t understand why you would have him buy the mill. It’s a poor investment. You’ve no ties to Chiddon.”
“Estwood handled my affairs in London while I was absent. And he’s a friend.” Blythe’s eyes caught hers. “And as to the mill? I cannot stand the thought of you being more adored than myself in any instance. It goes against the grain, Your Grace.”
Beatrice’s fingers tightened on Cicero’s reins. “If you are bored, Blythe, you should return to London.”
“Never said I was bored.” He studied her intently. “At present, I am quite entertained.”
Her heart, already unsure how to beat properly with Blythe so near, once more lost its steady rhythm.
She drew in a breath and turned her attention to the mill. The pond. The stream. A great deal of water. If Beatrice listenedtoolong, the stream would becometheriverbed. A vision of poor Thomas would float before her. The scream inside Beatrice, the same one she’d made for two long days trapped beneath a carriage, might erupt. “If we are done here, my lord—”
“The flume is blocked,” Blythe said. “But the pitwheel is still in fine condition. Come, take a look with me.” He raised his arms to help her down.
“What on earth is a pitwheel?” Blythe’s palms spread over her waist, and a tiny shiver shot along the base of her spine. The idea that they could be lovers for a time struck Beatrice once more. It was impossible, of course. But—
“Come.” Blythe took her hand, lacing their fingers together with a great deal of familiarity.
Beatrice did not pull away.
He led her into the cobwebbed, spider-infested interior of what must once have been a fine mill. Not that Beatrice knew a great deal about such things; she didn’t. But she had an eye for buildings, especially after all the renovations she’d overseen in Chiddon. The masonry was solid. The roof, still mostly intact. And the air smelled of nothing more than wet earth and dust, not decades-old blood. Solid stone walls covered with the slightest condensation greeted her as they stepped down a set of stairs curling down to the base of the building.
“The Mandrells came to a bad end,” she reminded him in a hushed tone, looking around and batting at a cobweb stuck to the brim of her hat. A pile of what looked to be rodent droppings sat in one corner where an ancient bag of grain had been torn open.
“Why are you whispering?” Blythe leaned over her shoulder, allowing his nose to drift along her neck. The light touch sent a spray of sensation across her shoulders and between her breasts. Her nipples grew taut, peaking beneath the velvet of her riding habit.
Oh, good lord.
“Let’s go look at the pitwheel,” Blythe said with undisguised enthusiasm, dragging her behind him. The pitwheel, as it turned out, was a large axle to which a toothed gear was affixed. The water came through the flume, which was indeed clogged with vegetation, rocks, and other debris, and moved the water wheel, which then turned the pitwheel and forced the stones to grind.
Blythe explained everything to Beatrice, taking time to examine every inch of the pitwheel, much to her dismay. The mill was infested with all sorts of unpleasantness. She crushed a large spider beneath the heel of her boot and hopped about to avoid another. “Blythe.”
