“Go right ahead. I’m not leaving.”
He’d been so busy basking in the aftermath of Beatrice’s pleasure, realizing once more that Castlemare, selfish prick, had never properly pleasured his wife, that Ellis had failed to notice the slow stiffening of her body. The way she’d absently patted the thick tail of her hair. The iciness which had suddenly bled into her words. All telltale signs that she was having an argument Ellis wasn’t privy to—one calculated to push him away.
Ellis pulled Beatrice roughly to him. Cupping the back of her head, his fingers slid through the thick mass of her hair, pulling out the damned ribbon and the multitude of pins holding the thick mane in place. He pulled at the scarf wrapped around her throat, tossing it into the leaves at her feet.
A horrible, wounded sound left Beatrice, only halting when his mouth fell on hers, hot and urgent. Demanding. She struggled against him, pathetically and without much effort, before a small, feminine growl came from her throat. She nipped at his bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth before wrapping her arms around Ellis, pressing her breasts against his chest.
“I detest you,” she said, hurling the words at him.
“You don’t. Now lift your damn skirts.”
Beatrice twisted, leaning to grab the edge of her dress and pull it up her legs, high enough so that he could just make out the opening in the cotton of her underclothes. The moonlight glinted on the small tuft of hair hidden between her thighs.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Not anymore.” There were unshed tears in her words. She leaned her head so that her hair fell over her right cheek.
Ellis kissed her hard, pushing her back against the tree. “Yes, you are.”
Beatrice pulled at his hair, clutching at his shoulders like a wild thing. He breathed into her neck while unbuckling his trousers, knowing that if he let her go now, she might well keep herself from him forever. Intentionally, he cupped her right cheek, feeling the raised scars and pitted holes just beneath her ear, surprised to find her earlobe was missing.
My poor, damaged duchess.
Lifting her leg, Ellis thrust into Beatrice’s warmth without preamble, her body clasping his like a sheath.
A sob left her as he cupped her backside, pulling both her legs around him, taking her far rougher than he’d originally intended, but Beatrice needed this. The savageness of being forced to acknowledge she was desirable. Any sign of tenderness from Ellis would be misinterpreted as pity. There would be time to properly make love to her later. This joining was just as it should be. Violent. Furious. Passionate. The result of years of frustrated lust.
He slowed, only enough to catch his body against hers, hearing her moan wildly against his chest. Beatrice grew taut, the heel of one foot digging into his backside.
“Blythe,” she sobbed, hands curling into his shirt. “Ellis.”
A ball of sensation settled at the base of his spine as he spilled into her, the first time in his life he’d been so careless. But his body already knew what his mind and heart had yet to admit. Beatrice was where Ellis ended and began. There would be no one else but her.
When the last ripple finally left his body and hers, Ellis pressed his face into her neck, hearing the steady beat of her heart.
“‘I have drunken deep of joy,
And I will taste of no other wine tonight.’”
A small sound of surrender came from her. “Shelley,” she whispered. “And I’ve a cramp in my leg.”
Ellis pressed his forehead to hers, pressing a kiss to her lips and carefully lowering her to the ground. “Take me home, Bea. I wish to do this properly in a bed.”
19
Beatrice could stay here forever, in the forest with Blythe, though the muscles of her leg had started to cramp, and the bark of the tree tore at her back. She wanted to cry out in protest as his body left hers, but she didn’t. It was all Beatrice could do not to cling to Blythe and beg him never to leave, like one of those adoring idiots who had followed him in London.
She had developed such a weakness for this man, a man Beatrice could never hope to keep, not for any length of time. Chiddon was a bubble, one she lived in gladly, but Blythe couldn’t possibly survive here indefinitely. Nor would he wish to.
“I’m all for trysting out of doors.” Blythe raised her wrist and pressed a kiss to her pulse. “But I want you in a bed with me. Now.”
She tried to pull away from him, but Blythe held fast. “I’m not done. I don’t care if you’ve got a bloody peg-leg hiding under your stockings or have a tail.”
Beatrice ran her fingers through her hair, purposefully pulling the now unbound strands over her right shoulder. “You don’t understand.” He couldn’t possibly. The light touch of his mouth and fingers along her right cheek had nearly undone her.
“I do not. But you’re behaving as if you are an ogre wearing a wig.” He jerked his chin. “Or a scarf.” He stooped and picked up the discarded scarf but did not return it to her.
A quarter-hour later, Beatrice begged Blythe to leave her at the door of Beresford Cottage. He, in turn, refused politely. The house was dark. She didn’t need bruises in addition to everything else. Her entire staff was in Chiddon.
