“Melinda.”
“Right, right.” She stuck a second pink-frosted biscuit into her mouth. “Vicar’s wife and all of that. May I offer rebuttal, Your Grace?”
“You may.” Beatrice took her seat once more. Her fingers shook just slightly as she smoothed her skirts, likely the result of thinking about her life in London. Castlemare. Her parents. All the parts of Beatrice she had buried in Chiddon.
“First.” Melinda held up a finger. “I wish to offer my opinion on your indiscretion with Lord Blythe. I do not think it wise to judge the depth of feeling between you based on your recent acquaintance. You must account for the years preceding it, for I think the basis of the affection he obviously bears you has roots in your past association.”
I want you, Beatrice Howard. I have from the moment I set eyes on you.
“Secondly,” her friend continued, “I would like to point out that your inability to produce an heir might well have been Castlemare’s fault,notyours. Much like it is Vicar Farthing’s.”
Beatrice looked up.
“Surely by now, Your Grace, you’ve guessed that I bear the good vicar little affection, nor does he have a great liking for me. I had little choice in wedding him. I found myself in a difficult situation, which, ironically enough, resolved on its own.” Melinda paused and cast her gaze to the view of the garden outside, eyes shadowed with pain. “My parents, only slightly better than your own, insisted on marriage to Farthing, though I begged them to send me away. But they were overly concerned with their reputation, and so, here I am. He’s dead, by the way.” Her gaze settled on Beatrice once more with a great deal of sadness. “Or he would have married me. I was forced to settle for Farthing.”
“Melinda—” Beatrice’s heart broke for her friend. “What can I do?”
“I doubt there is anything, Your Grace.” She brushed a crumb off her skirts. “But perhaps, should you ever gather your courage and decide to visit London once more, you might require a companion.”
“I’m not going to London, whether Blythe asks it of me or not.”
“Hewill, Your Grace. Lord Blythe does not strike me as the sort of gentleman who will keep you as his mistress in Chiddon. Nor do I believe he means to wed another woman when his affections lie elsewhere.” Melinda shot her a pointed look. “I believe you are correct in believing Blythe cannot be expected to stay in Chiddon indefinitely. Probably should have gone back well before now, but he stays because of you. Eventually, Your Grace, you will be forced to decide on London.”
Beatrice nibbled on her bottom lip. “I have already decided.”
Melinda came to her feet, throwing up her hands. “As you say. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must take my leave. The vicar has requested I review the upcoming sermon for this Sunday, most of which will be directed at me. I am more full of sin than anyone suspects.”
“If you ever need—” Beatrice started, rising to see Melinda to the door. “You know if you ever need anything, you have only to ask.”
“I would make a fine companion for a duchess were she to visit London. Modest. Discreet. I’d stay in the background and carry your fan.” Melinda smiled as she slipped away. “But you must allow me to dance at a ball.”
21
In the weeks following the festival in Chiddon, Beatrice and Blythe fell into a comfortable rhythm.
He breakfasted with her most days, much to the delight of Mrs. Lovington. Her housekeeper bustled about Blythe’s handsome golden form, placing the fluffiest omelets and choicest bits of ham on his plate. Beatrice would sip tea and make snide remarks about his appetite, disparaging him for always taking her seat at the head of the table and lamenting over the cost of feeding him.
Blythe’s heated gaze would rest on Beatrice, promising a wealth of retribution. Nearly all his reprisals were sexual in nature and vastly enjoyable.
She was always sure to be outraged at breakfast.
Blythe rode out to the mill most days, inspecting the work and conferring with Mr. Smythe, whose acquaintance Beatrice had finally made.
Smythe was attractive in a rough-hewn way, ambitious and intelligent. He treated Blythe with casual familiarity which came from the pair having grown up together. Observing Smythe, it wasn’t any wonder why Melinda found him so appealing, especially in comparison to Vicar Farthing.
Beatrice’s interest, however, wasn’t on Smythe. Or the fine mason repairing the crumbling mill wall. Nor even on dredging the pond. It was on the smiling man, hopping about the rocks in the stream, waving his hands about as he examined the mill wheel.
Beatrice’s heart beat fiercely for Blythe. She wasn’t at all sure what to do about it.
Before she took her leave of the mill to see to her other affairs in Chiddon, Blythe would pull her behind the building or a wagon, if there happened to be one about, and kiss Beatrice senseless before releasing her. She would go about the remainder of her day in a blissful haze of Blythe-induced intoxication, visiting Milhenney, the baker, who had completed his move to Chiddon. Beatrice would next check in on the cheese monger, the apothecary, and then, finally, The Pickled Duck.
Chiddon ale had already found a home at several prominent taverns in Overton. Gates was overjoyed.
Beatrice would arrive home in the late afternoon to find Blythe awaiting her in the parlor, a brandy in one hand. If there were problems at the mill, he might come later. But he always arrived in time to sup with Beatrice.
Uninvited, but assured of his welcome.
They often read together in the evenings before the fire, Blythe in the chair beside her. He would pause every so often to trail a finger along her arm or take her hand before returning to his book. Once the house quieted, he would follow Beatrice upstairs, strip her of every stitch of clothing and press his mouth to her skin, using his tongue in ways Beatrice had never imagined. Sometimes, he took her roughly, pounding into her with such force, she worried the bed would shatter. Other times, Blythe took her tenderly, trailing his mouth along every scar and piece of pitted flesh until Beatrice was left shaking and near tears from the pleasure of it.
