“So that is still your intent?” It was the only thing she could say without asking directly if his friend had told him about Castlemare and her banishment to Chiddon. “Ravishment? As you informed me the other day?” She attempted to sound blasé.
“I confessed my desire.” The low tenor of his voice washed over her skin. “Ravishment never came up in our discussion, though I see it has been on your mind, Your Grace. How improper.”
Beatrice felt her cheeks color. “I see nothing but a white cloud, my lord.”
He rolled to his side so that his nose barely touched her cheek. “So difficult. I meant every word, in case you think I was merely driven mad by Vicar Farthing’s sermon. My intentions toward you have not changed. Does that put you at ease?”
Estwood had told Blythe...something. But he wouldn’t question or force the truth from her. Nor had it deterred his pursuit of Beatrice. There was a small amount of comfort in the knowledge, though she still hadn’t decided if engaging in an indiscretion was wise.
“Is this your attempt at seduction, my lord? A reputedly haunted mill?”
“Is it working?” Blythe gave her a cheeky grin before brushing his mouth over hers.
At the touch of his mouth, Beatrice’s entire body melted into the blanket and the soft pad of grass beneath. “But the mill—”
Blythe’s fingers toyed with her skirts before trailing up the edge of her leg to trail lazily between her thighs, which parted without protest at his touch.
“The mill will never be profitable,” she choked out as his teeth nipped at the skin beneath her left ear and his hand pressed into her mound.
“Estwood agrees with you,” he whispered against her neck. “He told me much the same.”
Blythe’s lips moved slowly over the line of her jaw, so gentle and teasing that Beatrice turned her face just to hurry him to her mouth. The tip of his tongue darted out, tracing her bottom lip. His fingers stroked idly at the juncture of her thighs, finding the slit in her underthings with little effort. A delicate ache settled over the lower half of her body.
Blythe claimed her mouth with gentle desperation, kissing her as if he might never do so again, all the while stroking her damp flesh. A slow roll of pleasure built inside Beatrice, one she’d sensed before but had never been able to reach. Castlemare hadn’t cared whether she enjoyed the marital bed, and well, there hadn’t been anyone else.
A delicious pleasure built inside her.
“I have you, Bea.” Blythe nipped at her lower lip, the blue of his eyes glowing down at her as he very deliberately pressed two fingers inside her, all while his thumb tortured—
A gasp left Beatrice. Her hips arched against his hand. She writhed as the pleasure cascaded over her, like a brilliant shower of stars. Goodness, wasthiswhat she’d been missing?
Blythe’s fingers never stopped their tender onslaught against her flesh while Beatrice panted and shifted on the blanket. When the last tremors left her, she opened her eyes to find Blythe regarding her with the intensity of a fire threatening to burst free of the grate. Awareness of him and the hard length pulsing against her thigh had Beatrice shutting her eyes once more.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered.
“You’re beautiful, Bea. More so when you climax. If I could paint you at this moment, I would.”
She wasn’t beautiful any longer. Blythe could only see the best, undamaged parts of her. Beatrice thought of London, of the life she would never have again.Couldnever have again. No balls. No parties. Hiding beneath a veil. My God, she could never even get in a carriage to properly attend the theater. Pushing up on one elbow, she slapped away his fingers.
“Bea?” Blythe regarded her in puzzlement. He reached for her again, and she moved further across the blanket.
“Thisis a foolish venture,” she said stiffly, glaring at him. “As Estwood claims.” Beatrice wasn’t speaking only of the mill but also of her and Blythe. Was this another amusement for him? Now that he knew she was disfigured and found himself curious? Perhaps he’d go back to London and brag of his exploits in Chiddon with the scarred Beatrice Howard.
“Whatever you are thinking, I insist you stop.” Grim determination was etched on his handsome face.
“You should go back to London. Where you belong.” They could never be lovers or anything else. Blythe was part of a world that would no longer welcome Beatrice into their midst. Even if she allowed further intimacies to take place, all of it was bound to blow up in a spectacular fashion.
Oh, Beatrice. You’ll be regarded as one of those unfortunates in a circus, to be stared at and pitied. Would you bring such attention to our door?
Kind words from her mother, Lady Foxwood, when Beatrice had begged to be allowed to stay at their London home.
The only man who would take you as a lover, my dear wife, is one who seeks to use the tale for an invitation to sup.
Castlemare’s not so gentle reminder that she no longer possessed any value to him.
“There is nothing for you in Chiddon. Not even this mill,” she said in her chilliest tone, her body still throbbing from Blythe’s touch. Beatrice wanted to be away from him and this wishful longing for what could never be hers. She jerked to her feet, smoothing down her skirts, and marched off in the direction of Cicero.
“Bea,” Blythe snapped, following close behind.
