Once hidden in the thick woods, Beatrice stopped, pressing her fingertips into the bark of a tree, and waited for her pulse to settle. She drew in several deep breaths, steadying herself.
Riding alone in the early morning was the way Beatrice started each of her days. No one was ever about in this barely inhabited part of Hampshire, a place no one visited deliberately. Or even accidentally. Chiddon, the nearest village, was so far off the main road that it was rare to see a stranger, let alone Lord Blythe.
Was Blythe mocking her by mentioning Castlemare? Surely, he knew the duke had been dead for over two years. Not that it mattered. Even had he been alive, Beatrice’s late husband wouldneverhave accompanied her on a morning ride. Castlemare had found Beatrice’s company lacking in nearly every regard; it was fortunate their marriage had been so brief, though their separation had comebeforehis death, not because of it.
Castlemare had banished his unwanted wife to a forgotten estate outside Chiddon as soon as he’d realized he had no use for her.
I valued your beauty, Beatrice. As I would a finely cut diamond. Now, I fear, there is nothing whatsoever to recommend you.
Ignoring the throb of her right hip, Beatrice took careful steps lest she slip on the damp leaves beneath her feet. She’d fallen harder than she’d thought. Any other woman would have asked Blythe for assistance in remounting. Not Beatrice. Having him close would have been problematic.
Beatrice lifted a hand to touch her hair, pressing the thick plait closer to her right cheek. The pins were still in place. Nothing had shifted or been exposed. If Blythe had noticed anything strange, she would have seen his handsome features shine, first with shock, then with pity. He might have even mentioned the irony of the situation, for surely, if anyone could appreciate Beatrice getting what she deserved, it would be Blythe.
But the only emotion reflected in Blythe’s spectacular bone structure had been disdain.
For her.
She hadn’t seen him since before her marriage to Castlemare, or if she had, Beatrice didn’t recall. Consumed with being a duchess, Beatrice had no longer sought out his golden form at every opportunity, preferring to follow Castlemare’s lead and lord over the rest of society. Then...well, life had become somewhat difficult, and Beatrice hadn’t given thought to Blythe for some time.
A small frown tugged at her mouth.
Why would he be in Chiddon? An obscure locale, at best. The magnificent Earl of Blythe was a creature found most often at a gentleman’s club or being followed about by a host of adoring nitwits, not riding about the countryside rescuing women from bolting horses. Honestly, Beatrice had trouble imagining Blythe outside of a ballroom. Did he have a hunting lodge nearby?
Or perhaps he was visiting a lover. Blythe must have dozens.
In either case, it was unlikely Blythe could go unnoticed for long—not here. Which led Beatrice to believe his visit to the area was of a more recent nature. Melinda, Vicar Farthing’s wife and Beatrice’s dearest friend, would have mentioned Blythe was flitting about had he been in the area for any significant duration. The good vicar was ambitious and eager to make connections—ones he hoped would lead him to a more prestigious position elsewhere. Farthing went out of his way to curry favor with anyone he thought might be of assistance. He’d given up on Beatrice. But an earl falling in his lap?
Vicar Farthing would be beside himself.
Blythe was a beautiful man, even if Beatrice hated to admit to it. He would likely shock Farthing speechless with his magnificence. He was exactly as she remembered. Broad shoulders atop a confident swagger, dripping with charm. A winning grin on his lips. Charming. Always assured of his welcome. The only difference Beatrice had noted was that the burnished gold of his hair was a trifle longer than it had once been, with a curl or two dipping over his ears. He’d once worn it cropped much shorter.
The longer length gave him a romantic appeal.
Beatrice tugged at her own hair once more, reassured by the thick weight along her neck. It was a habit she’d formed since coming to Chiddon. No one in the village ever questioned why the Duchess of Castlemare didn’t wear her hair up in an elaborately styled coiffure more suited to her station.
Or if they did, they were far too wise to ask.
Nor were there inquiries as to why a duchess had taken up residence in the backwater of Chiddon, a place devoid of amusements, in the first place. Castlemare’s estate here was little more than a cottage. The staff was small. Beatrice didn’t even have a butler.
“A butler is unnecessary,” she muttered to herself. “No one visits. I receive little to no correspondence. I doubt anyone remembers my existence.”
As it should be. Chiddon was Beatrice’s refuge.
But now Blythe was here, spoiling her continued isolation. Reminding her of things she’d rather forget. The ease with which she had donned the mask of Lady Beatrice Howard, snob supreme, had frightened her, but it had been necessary. Someone had to drive Blythe away, otherwise, far too many questions might be asked.
If she were anything but unkind, Blythe might persist in learning more about her circumstances—her reasons for being sequestered away. He hadn’t always disliked her. He might—
Beatrice paused.Yes, he hadalways disliked her.
Strange, considering that at one time, she and Blythe had been two of the most attractive people in London. She might have anticipated being drawn together by their mutual vanity, having hushed conversations comparing the number of admirers they each had, but just the opposite had been true. Blythe, after assessing her, had found Beatrice...distasteful. He was the only gentleman who hadnever oncepaid her any attention. Instead, he’d taken great pains to avoid her.
Every title in London had tried to woo her. She’d never lacked for dance partners, had never been more than a word away from a fresh glass of lemonade, and had received a flurry of proposals, all of which her father had refused.
But none of that attention had ever come from Blythe. No, he’d avoided Beatrice as if she were covered in pox sores.
After a time, his inattention had annoyed her. Honestly, how dare he? No gentleman worth his salt ignored the great Lady Beatrice Howard. She was thejewelof London. Frustrated by his lack of interest, Beatrice had taken to mocking Blythe. Sneering at the young ladies who sought his favor. Poking fun at his intelligence. Anything to get him to notice her.
What a self-serving twit she’d been.
