“Hmph.” Gates grumbled and motioned for one of the young boys running about to bring Ellis a mug. “My best batch thus far, my lord. Her Grace is fond of it. I expect you are looking for her, my lord. The duchess.”
“Am I?” Ellis accepted the mug. Hewaslooking for Beatrice but discreetly. It would do no good to make a show of seeking her out, not when she was so bloody skittish. She was damaged, his lovely duchess. Inside and out.
A sheepish look crossed the coarse features of Mr. Gates. “You did escort the duchess to church, my lord. Chiddon is a tiny village. There’s been talk.”
“I liken Chiddon to more of a hamlet.” Ellis took a sip of the ale. “Delicious.”
“There’s few secrets here, my lord. We’ll all know who will sneak off into the dark tonight. There will be a spate of marriages and new babes born, and no one will question it.”
“I’ll take note, Mr. Gates.” Ellis tipped his hat and meandered down the street, listening to various conversations and feeling a sense of contentment he hadn’t even known while sculpting in Rome or attempting to become the next Keats. When Ellis had been younger, his parents had rarely gone to London, preferring to stay in the country with their six children. Lady Blythe hadn’t been a matron of society. That had come later. After his father’s death. He supposed she’d been bored.
Until he went off to school, Ellis had spent his days running through the woods, skipping rocks across the stream bordering Larchmont and carving blocks of wood. He’d known everyone in the small town of Larch, just outside his father’s estate, and they had known him. It had been a simple, peaceful existence. He missed it.
Wandering in the direction of a patch of lawn that was the village green, Ellis spied a handful of burly young men unloading an assortment of benches and tables from a large wagon. He caught sight of Peg, Beatrice’s maid, flirting outrageously with one of the workers who had paused in his labors to eat a slice of pie.
A flash of sunlight gleamed at the far edge of the green, tied firmly with ribbon and slung over one slender shoulder.
There’s my duchess.
When he’d decided Beatrice belonged to him, Ellis wasn’t sure. Probably after that first, violent kiss. Even after their last tumultuous meeting, he didn’t care to relinquish her no matter what nonsense she spouted.
That had been what Ellis decided when he finished the clock.
Content to observe Beatrice directing the activity on the green, Ellis sipped his ale and didn’t move closer. Hands on hips, she strode about, motioning for tables and benches to be set just so. The pale blue of her dress belled around her as she moved. A scarf one shade darker than her dress was wrapped around her neck and tucked firmly into the bodice. Not a bit of skin could be seen, nor her right cheek. Daisies sprouted from the hem of her dress, swirling about her ankles.
A pair of young boys, the same who had waved at her in the church, ran up to Beatrice, offering her a half-wilted bouquet of flowers. Daisies. To match her dress. The boys made identically awkward bows to her.
The musical notes of her thanks floated over to Ellis as she bent down to thank them.
Ellis exhaled softly. Something tugged at the muscles of his chest, as if a rope were tied to his heart and the other end, holding an anchor, had been tossed into the sea.
Beatrice wouldn’t care to be compared to a ship’s anchor.
She patted the tail of her hair, smoothing the thick strands, and adjusted the ever-present ribbon before standing. A smile, one never bestowed on Ellis, lit her features before she abruptly turned in his direction.
Relief softened her features, along with the same sort of longing Ellis held for her.
Beatrice didn’t really want Ellis to leave Chiddon; he could see the truth of it in her face. Nor was the woman before himtrulythe Beatrice Howard who had once terrorized society. This was some other, better version of her.
She is damaged, Ellis. Proceed with caution.
“My lord.” The daisies, poor crushed things, dangled from one of Beatrice’s hands.
“Your Grace. I see your admirers are already plying you with gifts. Alas, I only come bearing ale. Do you require additional assistance?” He handed her his nearly empty cup.
“You don’t have to. I wish to say—” She bit her lip. An apology flitted across her face, perhaps for the day at the mill, but she said nothing more. Beatrice rarely apologized. Ellis didn’t think she knew how.
“I am more than happy to lend my back to such things.” He doffed his coat. “Come now, Your Grace,” he said, seeing her surprise. “You’ve seen me in my shirtsleeves.” Ellis leaned in. “Well past time for offended modesty.”
A hint of pink touched her cheeks at his reference to what had transpired at the mill. “You merely wish to show off for any young lady in the vicinity. Like some strutting rooster.”
“No.” Ellis breathed her scent. Honey. Lavender. “Only one.”
16
Blythe paused, wiping the sweat from his brow, haloed by the sun. A perfect picture of masculine beauty set against the pastoral countryside. Muscles rippled beneath the fine lawn of his shirt, waistcoat unbuttoned and hanging from his shoulders. If he took off the waistcoat completely, as he had his coat, half the girls in Chiddon might faint.
His teeth flashed as he grinned at something Robert Tidwell related to him. Hair curling around his temples, Blythe bent over, giving Beatrice an enticing view of his backside, before straightening once more.
