A small gasp came from her. “But we are in full view—” Beatrice looked wildly about. The next table wasn’t so far away, filled with the Tidwells and their children. “Oh,” she gasped as the pad of his thumb brushed along a very sensitive part of her anatomy. “I—” Her eyes fluttered closed. Blythe stroked and teased with such certainty, promising more of the pleasure she’d experienced at the mill.
“You are very wet, Your Grace. Just here.” Two of his fingers drew over her damp folds, drawing out the piece of flesh most susceptible to his ministrations. “I think you like having me touch you with all of Chiddon just steps away.” He pressed a kiss along the slope of her neck. “I know I’m enjoying myself.”
The place between her thighs gave a delicious pulse. More wetness followed. At the mill, Blythe had been all gentleness. Tender, even. This was far more erotic in nature. Naughty, even. Beatrice bit her lip to stop a moan from erupting.
Blythe leaned over, teeth grazing along her ear. “Imagine the things I could do to you at a dinner party while everyone enjoys the trifle.”
The very idea sent another wave of arousal through her. “You are far too confident in your ability to please a woman. Frivolous rake.”
“Ill-mannered viper.” He purred seductively against her throat. “Now keep your eyes on me, Duchess of Castlemare, patron saint of Chiddon.” Blythe’s features remained hidden, cast into shadows so that she couldn’t see his expression. “There has been no one but Castlemare, has there?”
“No. But you likely already guessed as much.” A soft noise came from the back of her throat as his fingers worked themselves inside her. His other hand casually picked up the bottle and took a mouthful of wine as if nothing at all was happening—
He pressed another kiss to her lips. “I want to put my mouth on you, Beatrice. Here.” His thumb flicked purposefully, toying with that small nub, the source of the sensations rioting through her body. “I’ll use my tongue. You’ll enjoy it.”
Beatrice sucked in a breath. She hadn’t any doubt she would. “Castlemare once likened me to a corpse.”
“You don’t feel dead to me.”
Her hand reached out and grasped his shoulder as Blythe’s finger hit a particularly sensitive spot deep inside her.
“Didn’t know what he was doing. Some men have no appreciation for the female form.”
“Your Grace. Lord Blythe.” Vicar Farthing’s voice came from the other side of the table.
“Don’t move, Your Grace,” Blythe whispered for her ears alone. His fingers slowed but did not stop their torture.
Beatrice was caught, held hostage by the waves of pleasure threatening to burst over her skin at any moment and the appearance of Vicar Farthing. She had never detested the vicar more than she did now. Thankfully, Blythe had wisely settled them at a table far from the circle of lit torches. Farthing, unless he could see in the dark, could only make out their outlines. He couldn’t fail to see how closely they sat to each other, but there was no reason to look beneath the table.
“Vicar Farthing.” Blythe’s fingers slid deeper, then retreated, the tip of one digit circling leisurely at her entrance.
Beatrice’s fingers dug into the wood of the table.
“Are you enjoying the festival? I believe Mrs. Farthing is—” Blythe nodded in the direction of the fiddler. “She’s dancing just over there.”
Farthing never even looked in the direction of his wife. “I do not endorse such frolicking about, unlike my predecessor,” Farthing said. “My pursuits are more scholarly in nature. Theological, if you will.”
A tiny squeak left Beatrice as Blythe’s thumb pressed against her.
“Are you well, Your Grace?” Farthing said. “I will escort you to Beresford Cottage if you wish to leave.”
“Yes, I mean no.” Blythe’s fingers pressed inside her again. “I do not require escort, nor am I ill. A bug of some sort ran across my ankle, startling me.”
Another rush of wetness eased between her thighs, giving further credence to Blythe’s assumption that Beatrice actually enjoyed beingtorturedso pleasurably in public. She chased that same blissful release she had at the mill, but this anticipation was different. Stronger. The knowledge that Blythe toyed with her while the vicar and his joyless presence stood across the table did something to her.
Blythe deserved his reputation. Dear God.
“I was wondering, my lord”—Farthing spared her one last glance before addressing Blythe—“if I might speak to you in private? On a small matter.”
Farthing was—another soft flick of Blythe’s finger against her flesh had Beatrice’s fingers atop the table curling into a fist—a bootlicking toady of the highest order.
Oh. Dear.
A quaking sensation swept down her thighs to her ankles, jerking one of her feet. The delicate pulsing between her thighs hummed and spread over her lower body. Beatrice tried desperately to remain still.
“Is it urgent, vicar?” Blythe answered. “The duchess and I were discussing the repairs that must be made to the old Mandrell property. I’m sure you’ve heard I purchased the mill and intend to restore it for the people of Chiddon.”
“My wife made mention.”
