Blythe made a great show of sneaking out of the house just as the light turned misty gray to ride to his own residence, shave, and change his clothing before once more appearing in the breakfast room as if he hadn’t been tupping Beatrice upstairs just hours before.
None of her staff were fooled, but they were discreet.
Until Blythe, she had never considered herself to be capable of such passion or carnal appetites. If she had once had any inhibitions, Blythe had fully wiped them away. The sight of him naked, curls tossed about his temples, snoring in her bed, undid her. When he absently ran his fingertips along the scars decorating the edge of her cheek with no disgust, Beatrice wanted to cling to his broad-shouldered form and beg him to never leave her.
Beatrice had found the meaning of happiness. It was Blythe.
Her prior existence as the jewel of London was a pale version of her life now. Even Chiddon, before Blythe, seemed stale and far too dull. Her feelings for the earl, once so filled with anger and bitterness, had grown into something beautiful. Richer. More profound.
But one day soon, this blissful interlude would end, and there was little Beatrice could do about it. They didn’t speak of the future, at least not directly. Blythe made vague references to London and an eventual return, but he spoke nothing of his intentions.
Beatrice didn’t give voice to her own feelings, too afraid of rejection or that she had misjudged the depth of his attachment to her. Even if Blythe loved her, marriage was out of the question, and the only other option—well, Beatrice didn’t think she could tolerate being known as the Earl of Blythe’s scarred mistress.
Either way, Beatrice had to decide on London. But not today. Or tomorrow.
Which is why, when she walked into her parlor, slightly foxed from having spent the afternoon sampling ale with Gates, she was overwhelmed by her own emotions. Blythe sat before the fire, drinking her brandy and paging through the book he’d been reading. Her heart fluttered softly at the sight, as it always did in response to his presence, and whispered a single word only Beatrice could hear.
Love.
* * *
“My lord.”
Ellis leaned over the arm of the chair to see his lovely Bea, standing at the doorway of the parlor. There was a flicker of joy across her delicate features before she attempted to hide it from him.
“How unexpected to find you here,” she said in a clipped tone.
It really wasn’t. Pretending to be irritated by his presence when he was in her bed every night was a game Beatrice seemed to enjoy, so Ellis played along.
He glanced at the blue ribbon neatly tied around the thick mass of curls dangling over her right shoulder. Ellis had coaxed Beatrice to wear her hair up over the last few weeks since the festival, but the results were mixed. On the first occasion, Beatrice caught sight of herself in the mirror, scars exposed, and had ripped out all of Peg’s hard work. They’d had quite the row after, he and Bea, ending only when he’d lifted her skirts and pressed his tongue inside her.
The next time Ellis persuaded Beatrice had been better, but only because he’d had her bent over the edge of the settee, her teeth sunk into a cushion so Mrs. Lovington wouldn’t hear her scream when she climaxed.
“Good day, Your Grace.” Ellis sniffed at the air and stood. “I caught the scent of roasted chicken and came to investigate.”
Beatrice gave him a dubious look. “All the way from the mill? You’ve a keen sense of smell, my lord. I suppose you expect an invitation to dinner. Do you even employ a cook at your own residence?”
He ambled toward her, brandy in one hand. “I adore roasted chicken. I hope there are potatoes.” Ellis bent, trailing his lips hungrily over hers. Sparks ignited between them, fusing their mouths together.
He would never,ever, tire of kissing her.
“I’m uncertain about potatoes.” Beatrice tilted her chin. “My other lovers prefer carrots. Sometimes peas. A turnip, if I’m feeling generous.”
Beatrice was bluffing, teasing him deliberately, because there weren’t any other lovers. But the thought of another man, even a nonexistent one, touching his duchess didn’t sit well with Ellis. Jealousy wasn’t a completely foreign emotion for him, but usually his envy was for a poet or a sculptor. Never over a woman. Not until Beatrice.
“Vile creature. You seem to require convincing that I am a most desirable companion.” Ellis set down his glass and carefully moved aside the thick tail of her hair. He cupped her chin, his mouth lingering over the scars along the edge of her cheek before moving to Beatrice’s lips once more. Everything Ellis felt for Beatrice bled out in that kiss. He no longer wondered why a romantic poem had never flowed from him; Ellis had never had the proper muse until now.
“Any roguish peacock can kiss properly,” she whispered against his mouth.
“Yes, but not like me.” He tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth. “Harpy.”
Beatrice rubbed the top of her head against his chest, like a kitten needing to be stroked. “Agreed. There are some benefits to your presence.”
He held her tight for a space of time, relishing the feel of Beatrice’s softness against his chest. “I come bearing gifts.” Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, Ellis caught the scent of wind and lavender tossed among the strands. He pulled a small package from his coat pocket, wrapped in silk with a neatly tied bow atop. “I had a devil of a time getting the bow correct.”
“A gift?”
“You may not think so after you open it.”
