“Lord Foxwood has a mistress?” Melinda regarded her wide-eyed. “I mean to say, Your Grace—”
“I’ve met her, Melinda. Accidentally. Lovely woman. I’m not sure how she tolerates Lord Foxwood. My parents have one of the most successful marriages in theton, but success doesn’t equate with emotion. They are partners and little else.”
Lady Foxwood wrote twice a year. Pages filled with the balls, house parties, and other amusements she attended. Not once had she asked after Beatrice’s welfare. Lord Foxwood had never written at all. At first, when she could still barely leave her bed after the accident, Beatrice had been shocked at their lack of concern. It had taken some time to acknowledge that the depth of Lord and Lady Foxwood’s affection had always been contingent upon Beatrice’s usefulness to them.
And I am no longer a tool for their ambition.
The stunning woman Beatrice had once been, was gone. She had not produced a ducal heir. Another match, one which would benefit Lord Foxwood, was not an option.
“Goodness.” Melinda jumped from her seat, mug clasped tightly in one hand. “I’ve just been seared by a spark.”
Beatrice frowned. “Youarefoxed. They haven’t even yet lit the bonfire—” A warm, clean scent enveloped her along with a hint of citrus.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Mrs. Farthing.” The sound of Blythe vibrated pleasurably along Beatrice’s skin. He stood just behind her, so close his breath ruffled along the top of her head. For most of the evening, Blythe had kept his distance, his lean form flashing in and out of the crowd gathered near the bonfire.
“I believe I was promised a dance, Your Grace.”
“Promised? Surely you are incorrect. Allow me to check my dance card.” Beatrice didn’t miss the significance of the moment. How often had she watched London’s most eligible earl from across a crowded ballroom as he approached nearly every other young lady for a dance? But never Beatrice.
“Long overdue, I think, Your Grace.” Blythe leaned close before she could refuse, the tip of his tongue touching just the edge of her left ear. “Don’t be a coward, Bea.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. She’d been considering her cowardice as of late, particularly in regard to Blythe. Taking the last mouthful of her ale, she swallowed it down, slamming the empty mug on the table before taking his hand. She turned to Melinda, half expecting a knowing look or at the very least a tart remark, but her friend’s hand was already clasped in that of a large, heavyset man who in no way resembled Vicar Farthing.
Good for Melinda.Her friend’s desolation worried Beatrice.
Blythe swung her into his arms, a smile tilting at his lips. He moved her effortlessly across the green as if he danced a country jig every day. He kept their hands tightly clasped, bending forward every so often to trail his nose along the left side of her neck, careful to avoid her right cheek.
“You smell of lavender and honey,” he murmured in a teasing tone. “Unusual for a social-climbing harpy. You should smell of something acrid. The charred bodies of your enemies, for instance.”
Beatrice giggled, somewhat intoxicated, whether from the excess of ale or being held in Blythe’s arms. Impossible to determine, just now, with his breath edging along the rim of her ear and his hips brushing against hers, just why she had fled from him at the mill.
Oh, yes. London.
“Enjoying yourself, Bea?” The low rumble of his voice vibrated along her neck.
She did adore it when he called her Bea. It was so informal. Familiar. Intimate. As if she meant a great deal to him.
“I am. But don’t imagine it has anything at all to do with you.” Beatrice swatted his shoulder. “I don’t wish to feed your vanity, my lord.”
“But I bought you a bloody mill.” He grinned back at her.
Not for Chiddon. Buther. “You are only trying to encroach on my impending sainthood with the good people of Chiddon. You can’t stand for someone else to be worshiped.” She tilted up her chin. “I expect a statue of myself to be erected any day. Not sculpted by you, of course.”
“No, indeed. You might take on the form of a bear or some other creature, not the harpy you are.” He nosed along the top of her head, pulling her tight. “I didn’t realize you liked ale so much, duchess.”
There was little more than an inch separating them, something that, if Lady Foxwood were present, she would have harangued Beatrice over, insisting she never behave in such a shameless fashion, widow or not.
“Mr. Gates’s influence,” she answered. Beatrice’s dress, while quite lovely with its pattern of daisies, was a poor shield against the charms of the Earl of Blythe.
“I enjoy dancing with you in the grass and dirt of Chiddon, Your Grace. I find I like doing so much more than any ball I’ve ever attended. The refreshments are better, I’m sure you will agree.”
“You don’t long for the taste of champagne?”
“I long for the taste of you.” His lips brushed deliberately over hers and Beatrice felt herself arching in his direction. “It is not a recently acquired taste as I may have mentioned.”
“You obviously haven’t had any of Mrs. Lovington’s apple pie.”
“Mrs. Lovington makes an excellent pie, but I still prefer you.” The hand on her waist moved to press along her ribs. “I liken you to a stale, hardened oat cake. One left out on its own for a while. A prettily decorated one.”
