“What if there is an intruder?” He raised a brow, still refusing to release her hand. Leaning over, Blythe’s lips grazed her temple.
“The only intruder I’ve had the entire time I’ve lived here has beenyou, Blythe. I’m perfectly safe. Mr. and Mrs. Lovington will be back before long. As will Jasper. Peg, I’m not sure of.” Her maid was likely getting tupped, possibly in the very woods she and Blythe had just vacated.
“I’m not leaving you.”
Stubborn, glorious, preening dandy. “Fine. But your presence here will likely cause a scandal.”
“Doubtful. Half of Chiddon is rolling about in the grass as we speak.” He waved a hand up the stairs. “Stop trying to get rid of me.”
With a sigh, Beatrice reluctantly led him up the stairs. He’d touched her cheek. He had to have noticed she was missing part of her ear. She cast him a sideways glance. None of that had deterred him in the least. But that had been unbridled madness, their passionate joining in the woods with only moonlight to guide them.
This would be far different.
Could she convince him to allow her to remain at least partially clothed? Her hand unconsciously fell to the curve of her right breast, hidden beneath her corset, and her steps faltered. It was one thing to be taken in the woods where the darkness hid her, quite another to be naked with Blythe before the light of the fire.
Years ago, she might have gloried in it.
Blythe pushed open the door and gently nudged Beatrice inside.
He placed her right in the middle of the room while he strolled about, taking in every detail. The bedchamber was large but not lavishly appointed. Pale lavender pillows sat in a pile upon her bed, matching the counterpane with its design of vines and decorated with silver tassels. The furniture was all finely made but slightly outdated. Beatrice saw no reason to send to London for anything grander. She was quite comfortable here. Books littered the table near the fire, just as they did downstairs. There was a stack of notes on what she hoped would be the dressmaker’s shop. The ledger, her notebook of sins and atonements, was thankfully in her parlor and out of Blythe’s questing gaze.
But her fingers itched to cross off Rosalind Richardson’s name from the list.
“Maybe some brandy,” Beatrice started. “I’ll just retrieve the decanter from downstairs, shall I?”
Blythe’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. “You don’t need the brandy. I’ll warm you up. And you’ve twigs in your hair.”
“Well, yes,” she said curtly, wiggling free of his grasp to wander about the room, unsure of what to do. Castlemare had always appeared in the early evening, lifted her nightgown, and—“You were—”
“Tupping you against a tree?”
“Yes.”
“Come here, duchess.” Blythe held out his hand. “I’ll help you take off your peg leg. At the very least, we can put a ribbon on your tail.”
“You are often incredibly unkind, my lord.”
“Only to you.” His eyes grew solemn, so dark, the blue appeared pitch black. “Tell me what you see when you look at me, Your Grace.” Blythe turned in a semi-circle, handsome and glowing before the fire.
Love.
Beatrice turned abruptly to gather her thoughts, fingers twisting together, before facing him once more. Love had never been a feeling she’d considered overmuch. She’d been raised with the idea that marriage was for other, more important considerations so Beatrice hadn’t expected much from Castlemare in that regard. And after his death, well, she’d had no desire to wed for those considerations again.
I should just get a dog. Or a cat.
“I see an uninvited guest,” she replied in her patented, snobbish tone. “One who charmed his way into my home, taking advantage of my previously stoic housekeeper who now giggles like a schoolgirl at his appearance.”
“I do adore Mrs. Lovington.” A half-smile pulled at his mouth. “Go on.”
“A lover of poetry, though you cannot write a word of it yourself. You have the soul of an artist but cannot create a masterpiece, yet you can mend a plow and take apart a pocket watch.” She gave him a sideways glance. “You love pitwheels and old mills.”
Blythe’s smile widened. “Who doesn’t like a haunted mill, Bea?”
A shiver caressed her skin. She liked the name when he used it. “You are unfailingly kind to others, no matter their station. Charismatic. Friendly. Patient.”
“Yes, particularly with you.”
“You are not a snob.”
