Wrapping one hand around the back of her throat, Blythe took her again in one hard, punishing thrust. The new angle of their bodies had her gasping. Begging as the pleasure rose once more inside her.
Coupling, indeed.
A calm, tentative word which in no way resembled the way Blythe took her, body bent like a bowstring as he thrust inside her, holding her in place with one hand. She screamed herself hoarse from the sheer intensity of her release, bucking wildly until finally, with a groan, she felt the warm spill of him inside her.
When at last Blythe allowed her to rest, he pulled her exhausted body over him so that Beatrice’s body, scars, and all, lay partially draped over his larger one. She moved her leg, wincing as the muscle cramped, probably from their earlier encounter in the woods. Never in her life had she imagined—
“Lady Foxwood instructed me to lie still in the marital bed and allow Castlemare to do whatever he wished. I did, and it brought me no joy.” Not like this. “There were times he attempted to—offer me some pleasure. But nothing ever happened.”
“Castlemare, as I believe I’ve said, was an idiot.” Blythe’s fingers pressed into the muscle of her thigh, easing the knot. “Right here, Bea?”
It sounded very much like his question earlier, when he’d been busy locating the exact right spot. Beatrice blushed in the darkness. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“A lovely girl I met in Paris. I had a strained shoulder from fighting with Haven.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her right ear. “Don’t be jealous, my duchess.”
“I’m not.” But Beatrice was. A little.
“Lovely liar.” He kissed her once more and curled the warmth of his larger body around her small, battered one. “Sleep. You’re exhausting for a snooty duchess. Insatiable. I’m too tired to move from this bed, so you will have to weather the scandal. And Mrs. Lovington makes a fine breakfast.” His arms tightened protectively around her before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Sleep, Bea. I’ll be here when you wake.”
20
“You look incredibly refreshed, Your Grace.”
“Do I?” Beatrice sipped her tea, wiggling to get comfortable on the settee. She was deliciously sore, especially between her thighs, but overall, she felt rather splendid. Wrapped up in Blythe’s arms, Beatrice had slept soundly for the first time in years, with no dreams of Castlemare or the accident to disturb her rest. She’d been so peaceful, in fact, that her scarred cheek and neck had been the last thing she’d thought of as Blythe had kissed her goodbye this morning.
She frowned into her tea.
Though Blythe claimed to not care about creating talk in Chiddon, and despite his blatant adoration of Mrs. Lovington’s cooking, he had taken his leave just as the sun peeked over the horizon.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Melinda bit into a scone. “Oh, it’s still warm. I can’t wait for Milhenney to take up residence, so I won’t have to depend on the charity of Mrs. Lovington.”
“I fear I had too much ale last night. As did you.” She was trying, with little success, not to have doubts about her evening with Blythe. Beatrice didn’t want to believe that the sight of her face in the morning light had given him pause. It was one thing to have her injuries glimpsed in shadows, another in sunlight.
She reached up and patted her hair, neatly tied over her shoulder with a green ribbon. Secure as always.
“I may have had more than my share of ale,” Melinda answered through a mouthful of scone.
“Who was the gentleman you were dancing with?” Beatrice asked, trying to push aside the sight of Blythe, big and naked, roaming about her bedroom this morning, searching for his discarded shirt.
No wonder he was so arrogant. Blythe was hard to look away from with clothes on, but naked? A small bit of warmth crept up her cheeks. He’d been smiling at her the entire time and hadn’t appeared the least distressed to be greeted with scars and pitted skin. So possibly he was only being discreet by leaving.
“I’d hardly call Jake a gentleman.” Melinda toyed with another scone.
“Jake?”
“Smythe. Jake Smythe. I’m surprised his lordship didn’t introduce you. Jake was brought to Chiddon to run the mill. He grew up near Larchmont, Lord Blythe’s estate.” Her eyebrows wiggled just a bit. “Big, strapping man, isn’t he? The good vicar doesn’t dance. Or do anything else which appeals to me.”
Beatrice eyed her friend from beneath her lashes. Melinda always hinted around her dislike of Farthing but was rarely so blatant in her disregard. “Discretion, Melinda. I don’t think Chiddon or the mill can afford another scandal,” she cautioned. Having had a distasteful husband, Beatrice wouldn’t judge her friend for finding happiness, but neither did she wish her to become a pariah.
“More discreet than you and Lord Blythe? Most of Chiddon saw him running after you last night. Did he catch you?”
“Possibly.” Beatrice took a sip of her tea.
“Was it as magnificent as I imagine? His catching of you?” Melinda took her hand. “You are perched rather awkwardly on the edge of your chair, so I believe I have my answer.”
Beatrice swatted her away. “You are incorrigible. I’m a widowed duchess. Affairs with handsome lords are my prerogative. And I’ve never considered remarrying.” She hadn’t thought any man would show her interest again, not with her scars.
