A tingle, arousal again, shot along his thighs.
A succubus.Thatwas Beatrice Howard. Inflaming any male, particularly Ellis, with an overwhelming lust which could only be expunged by an excess of sexual pleasure. There could be no other reason for this unnatural desire he had for her.
After another half hour of following Beatrice, the trees thinned out, and Ellis could see the roof and chimney of a house. It was nothing one would expect a duke and duchess to reside in, no matter how temporary. The cozy two story stone cottage looked of decent size, larger than Ellis’s own residence, with a well-tended gravel drive and a path that probably led to the stables. Wisteria grew up the side of the house, purpled blooms dripping down to cover one window. The overall effect was one of welcome and comfort. Inviting.
Unlike either Beatrice or her duke. It had to belong to an acquaintance.
Ellis took Dante around the other side of the house where he could spy on Beatrice from the safety of the trees.
She rode right up to the front door, smiling as a groom or footman, though he wasn’t wearing livery, came forward to help her from Cicero. He carefully placed her on her feet, looking down at her with concern, far more than a servant would usually express.
Beatrice shook her head and tapped the young man lightly on the arm with a smile. Limping up the steps, a gasp of relief left her when the door was thrown open to reveal a tall, big-boned woman wearing a lace cap. She took Beatrice’s arm and led her inside, admonishing her the entire time. The door shut behind with a kick of the older woman’s foot.
Familiarity with servants. Even if she hadn’t been a duchess, the Beatrice Ellis had known would have never allowed such behavior. But here, there was no ducal livery. No butler. No sign of a duke at all. Just an imposing housekeeper in a lace cap who looked as if she could pull a plow across a field without oxen.
Ellis had never known Beatrice to acknowledge a servant, let alone touch their arm or allow them to put their hands on her. Lord and Lady Foxwood had always had a low opinion of their staff, which they’d passed on to their daughter—something Ellis had easily observed back in London. And Castlemare—well, he certainly wouldn’t allow such familiarity if he were around to witness it.
Ellis walked his horse around the back of the house, taking in the well-tended kitchen garden. A bench sat a short distance away beneath a spray of wisteria, bordered by manicured beds filled with roses. Everything else was rather wild and not at all extravagant.
Which didn’t suit Beatrice at all.
The click of a pistol had Ellis coming to a halt. He immediately put up his hands but didn’t turn.
“Don’t move,” a grouchy rasp came from behind him. “Unless you want a hole blown clean through that expensive coat.”
4
Beatrice sat back in her bath, nearly crying out at the sensation of the hot water against her aching muscles. “Oh, that feels lovely.”
Peg, her lady’s maid, bustled forward, sprinkling another handful of herbs into the water as more steam rose in the air. “There, there, Your Grace. Just close your eyes and relax. I’ve warmed the ointment —”
“I’ll smell like one of the horses when they sprain a leg.” Beatrice closed her eyes. “Can Jasper not make the salve a bit less...bitter smelling?”
“I don’t think so, Your Grace. While you might mind the scent of comfrey, it doesn’t seem to bother the horses.” Peg started to unravel the plait holding Beatrice’s hair, efficiently pinning the mass of curls to the top of Beatrice’s head. “Get some of the water against your shoulder and neck. It will help.”
Beatrice kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see the maid’s reaction to the line of scars decorating the right side of her body. Not that it mattered. Peg had seen the damage any number of times, had even massaged the muscles of Beatrice’s hip and thigh. The rock lining a riverbed was surprisingly sharp. Pebbles, if one lays on them long enough, could embed in one’s skin.
Had Beatrice been a soldier, she could have claimed the right side of her body had been hit with grapeshot. But it had been nothing so dramatic, only the shifting of the carriage along the riverbed with Beatrice trapped beneath, dragging her painfully along the rough edges of rock. After a time, her side had gone numb, and she’d floated, half in and half out of the water. Swaying with her mouth tipped up, no longer caring if she drowned.
Hideous. Like a lizard or another equally foul creature.
The padsof Beatrice’s fingers pressed into the sides of the copper tub as she recalled her husband’s bland assessment of the tragedy that had befallen her. The worst sort of catastrophe for a woman whose only value was in her stunning looks.
Castlemare, blunt to a fault, hadn’t shied away from expressing his opinion of Beatrice’s appearance. No sympathy had been offered. Not an ounce of worry. His main concern had been his own distaste that he was now saddled with a ruined, hideous wife, viewing her with the same sneer as he would a fallen souffle. He’d given no thought to the fact Beatrice had been pinned beneath his second-best carriage at the edge of a riverbed for the better part of two days. No alarm at her disappearance had even been raised from the ducal estate.
Two days. Two days until Thomas, the poor driver, had been found, finally alerting someone to the fact that an accident had occurred. His broken body had floated downstream, dislodged after a day by the rushing water, along with some of Beatrice’s garments and her valise. Poor Thomas, bruised and bloodied, had been discovered with one of her best petticoats covering his face.
That reminded her. It was time to check on Thomas’s elderly parents. His father liked to read. She would surprise him with another box of books from London. Anonymously, of course. It was the least Beatrice could do in addition to the monthly sum her solicitor sent.
Beatrice shivered; though the water was warm and a fire crackled merrily in the grate, she instructed Peg to add another log to the blaze.
The scars, most rounded, others jagged streaks, marred the right side of Beatrice’s face beginning at the corner of her eye, then skirting along the edge of her hairline, cheek, and ear before twisting along the nape of her neck to her shoulder and ribs.
Beatrice would no longer draw the admiration of every male in the room. No gentleman wanted a woman whose skin resembled a gnarled tree.
Or a lizard, as Castlemare had so charmingly put it.
Beatrice had once delighted in gowns specifically designed to showcase her bosom. She’d practiced for hours under her mother’s careful tutelage, perfecting the art of bending, just so, to draw the male eye to the deep valley between her breasts. Her necklines were much higher now, nearly up to her chin. There wouldneveragain be a baring of her shoulders, let alone her neck. She didn’t even have her right earlobe any longer. No more sapphires would be dangling from her ears.
