Beatrice wiped furiously at her eyes, which were sprouting an enormous amount of moisture suddenly. She paused in her pacing as a sob left her. Then another. Soon she was roaming around the room in a circle, weeping like a banshee. Her stomach roiled and pitched at the thought of never seeing Blythe again.
Peg silently slipped into the room, bobbed politely, and pressed a handkerchief into Beatrice’s hands.
She hadn’t meant it. But her emotions, swirling like a terrible maelstrom of self-pity and bitterness, feeding every fear she had over Blythe, had somehow spewed out of her. Beatrice had always operated under the assumption it was better to strike first. Reject before she could be rejected. Blythe hadn’t even been given a chance to explain. He might have proposed marriage sometime during their argument. Or at least he’d made a vague reference to her becoming a countess and living at his country estate. He’d given her a poorly carved bee.
A wail left her as she fell to the floor. “I didn’t know the bee was some sort of promise. A betrothal bee. And I do not wish to give him over to Lady Anabeth Swift, who I’m certain is merely an insipid, obedient twit. She’ll only adore him.” Beatrice pounded on the rug, sobbing as if her heart had been torn from her. Because it had been. And now Blythe was gone. “I just don’t know if I can get into a carriage. Or let everyone see my cheek. I don’t have a bloody ear lobe.”
Blythe was right. She was a coward.
“This is unbecoming behavior for a duchess.”
Beatrice looked up and wiped at her eyes.
Melinda stood at the door of the parlor, regarding her calmly.
“Go away.” Beatrice threw the balled-up handkerchief at her. “Can you not see I am bereft?”
“Temper tantrums do not become you, Your Grace. Nor caterwauling and wailing about like some washerwoman having a fit. Creatures are fleeing the woods. Vicar Farthing claims he hears the devil about to ride to Chiddon. Frankly, you’re terrifying.”
“Blythe is gone.” She hiccupped. “I think he may have returned to London.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted, Your Grace? Forgive me, but you kicked that magnificent earl away like a small pebble found in your shoe. I suppose you had illusions you weresavingBlythe so he can wed Lady Fancy Petticoats and have a brood of brats. Or was it sparing him the shame of your association?”
Beatrice collapsed into a heap on the rug. “A hasty decision concocted from my own unwieldy emotions.” She pointed to the mantel. “He carved me a bee. A betrothal bee.”
Melinda strode over and picked up the carving. “I would have said cricket, but it is the sentiment that matters. A ring would have been more appropriate.”
“I thought—” Beatrice dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her skirts. “I thought I was doing what was best.”
“Yes, your decision to send away the man you love has brought you great happiness. It is apparent for all to see. Or hear.” Melinda stooped down, picked up the handkerchief Beatrice had tossed, and threw it back to her. “Wipe your nose, Your Grace.”
Beatrice grabbed the cloth. “Where is your comfort? You are a terrible vicar’s wife.”
“So I’ve been told. But I am an excellent friend. Now, shall we see what your glorious earl has to say?” Melinda held up a note. “I intercepted a messenger coming up the steps.” A wrinkle took up residence between her brows. “A boy. He said to tell you Mr. Sykes apologizes profusely for the error and begs you not to allow Lord Blythe to sack him. Mrs. Lovington,” Melinda called over her shoulder. “I know you’re in the hall listening. Will you bring tea please? Some biscuits?” She took Beatrice’s arm and led her to the settee.
“I don’t want biscuits. My stomach is distressed of late.”
“The biscuits are for me, Your Grace. You can hardly expect me to console you on an empty stomach.” She held up the note once more, showing the waxed seal. “What an ugly bird.”
Beatrice’s name was scrawled across the top. Blythe had beautiful handwriting, much like the rest of him. “It was supposed to be a raven. The legs are all wrong.” Beatrice took the note and slid her finger beneath the wax.
Your Grace,
Matters dictated that I return to London immediately. Lady Blythe has taken ill. I apologize I was not able to inform you of my departure in person.
Beatrice looked up at the date of the letter. Blythe had left the day of their terrible argument. Word of his mother’s illness must have been waiting for him. “He’s been gone from Chiddon for nearly a week, and I wasn’t told. No wonder Sykes feared his dismissal. I suppose I should be lucky he remembered to send me the note at all.”
I did not leave Chiddon willingly, Your Grace. Not without you.
A deep, rasping sob came from Beatrice at reading the words. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to leave her. Even after Beatrice had so brutally dismissed him. He’d yelled. Stomped about. Said some unpleasant things. But Blythe’s feelings for her had not faltered.
Shehad faltered.
“He meant to propose, I think.” She wiped her eyes. “And I—I dismissed him and told him to wed another woman. But Blythe—”
“Loves you, Beatrice. Deeply. You are the only one who doesn’t realize it.” Melinda put an arm around her shoulders. “I doubt you can ever rid yourself of him. Nor do I think you wish to.”
“He asked me toattemptLondon, Melinda.Attempt. He was prepared to try to live in two places at once for me.” Beatrice pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes. “Instead, I told him to go off and marry someone else. Because I may not be able to give him an heir and his friends won’t like me.”
