Beatrice placed her hand on his arm, feeling the tug of her heart. “You may have noticed the way I wear my hair. It is because—”
The right side of my face is pitted. Scrapped like a cow’s hide at a tannery.
“You like ribbons. I noticed. But you can purchase your own fripperies, Your Grace. I bought you a mill. There were no cups for the wine. Well, there were, but I’m not sure they were clean. You’ll have to swill from a bottle like some doxy.”
“Blythe—” He wasn’t going to let her speak, at least not now. She didn’t know whether to shake him or curl up against his chest.
“I see you eyeing the pie, Your Grace. You’ve always been a greedy, demanding little snob. Very well.” He scooped up a portion of the pie. “Open,” he commanded in a silky tone. “This is but one of many times I will ask you to do so tonight.”
A shiver ran down her spine. When he spoke to her in such a way with such command...Beatrice pushed her knees together once more, trying to assuage the ache that had sprung up.
Obediently, Beatrice parted her lips as Blythe put a spoon of apple pie between them, feeling the rush of arousal as her mouth closed.
“Good duchess.” The whisper floated over her skin. Blythe was watching her mouth, his hunger apparent.
Beatrice’s insides twisted lazily, like honey dripping on to her morning toast. She could grow used to being regarded in such a way. By him.
“Mrs. Lovington has a way with pie.” She licked just a bit of apple from her lips, fascinated at the sound Blythe made as she did so.
Blythe straddled the bench, facing her. “If we are to share the wine, we should be closer.” He pushed the pie tin away, the spoon clattering along the top of the table. He inched toward her on the bench until Beatrice was securely positioned between the heated muscle of his thighs, then he brought the bottle of wine to her lips. “Try a little, Your Grace.”
Beatrice took a swallow, letting the fruity, warm taste fill her stomach. “This is entirely improper.”
“It is doubtful the residents of Chiddon give a damn. Vicar Farthing might be the only one to care, but he’s far too concerned with currying my favor to dare chastise my behavior. Suppose the decent thing to do would be to find him another post. I could stick him outside of Larchmont, but then I would have to tolerate his presence at my estate. Doesn’t Lord Foxwood need a vicar somewhere?”
Beatrice tilted her chin, smiling at the sight of Peg dancing about in Martin Tidwell’s arms. “I haven’t the slightest idea. Lord Foxwood doesn’t write to me often. Or ever.”
“And Lady Foxwood?” He tilted the bottle up to her once more. “Does she venture to Chiddon?”
“You have already surmised, my lord, that she does not.”
A disgruntled sound came from him, both protective and somewhat frightening. He was angry on her behalf. It warmed her more than the wine.
“I never cared for your parents.” Blythe grabbed hold of her waist, nearly pulling Beatrice into his lap. “And there is a drop of wine at the corner of your mouth,” he purred, licking sensuously along her bottom lip. “Oh,” he said. “There’s another.” His teeth nipped gently before his tongue once more traced the seam of her mouth.
A low, tortured moan came from deep inside Beatrice. He wanted to seduce her, even knowing she was no longer perfect. Desired her even after pushing him away. Repeatedly. There could be no future with Blythe, not beyond Chiddon. She knew that. But perhaps, tonight, Beatrice might have him for a little while. Have him for a time before Lady Blythe and his responsibilities forced him back to London.
Blythe’s mouth swept over hers, claiming every inch for himself. Hunger spilled from his lips as he kissed her, along with a blatant sensuality that had Beatrice wedging herself closer to his chest. Her palms flattened along the lines of muscle, tilting her head so that Blythe could have more of her. Gently, he sucked at her tongue until her fingers curled into his shirt.
Not once did he attempt to touch the right side of her head.
A small cry sounded inside her at the great care he took, even now, when Beatrice was so consumed, so muddied by the feel of his mouth on hers. She would deny him nothing.
The heat of his hand plucked at her skirts.
“It’s far too dark for you to examine the daisies along the hem, my lord.” Her breath hitched as his fingers toyed with the hollow of her knee.
“I don’t care about your skirts. Only what is beneath them.” There was a rawness to Blythe’s voice, so unlike his usual charming, cultured tones. The sound rasped along her skin, holding her in place. “I cannot be near you, Bea, and not touch.”
The hand beneath her skirts inched higher, tracing a circle along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. The ache which had started earlier pulsed once more to life, startling Beatrice with its intensity. Her nerves felt...strained. Taut.
“I think, my lord,” she said, sounding out of breath, “that you have explored there before. And we are in public. Perhaps—”
“Spread your legs, duchess.”
“I don’t—” The words were torn from her throat as the heat of his fingers touched her naked skin. He’d found the opening in her underthings with little effort.
“No more talking,” he murmured. “Unless it is to direct the position of my fingers. Though from our previous failed picnic at the mill, I have a good idea of what must be done to please you, Your Grace.”
