Page 28 of The Desire of a Duchess
Peg came down the stairs, pausing, eyes wide at the sight of Blythe standing just outside the breakfast room. “Your Grace.” She held Beatrice’s hat, veil dangling from the brim, in her hands.
“Thank you, Peg.” Beatrice nodded at Blythe. “This is Lord Blythe. Should you see him again, slam the door in his face. If he’s lurking about the grounds, have Jasper or Mr. Lovington shoot him.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Peg nodded.
“She doesn’t mean that, Peg,” Blythe said in a loud whisper. “The duchess is only a bit put out this morning. Or possibly every morning.”
Beatrice snatched the hat from Peg, along with a handful of pins, and stood before the mirror hanging in the foyer. Carefully, she placed the hat on her head, securing it so that the veil dipped lower on the right side of her face. She didn’t really need the veil, not with her hair secured, but it still felt like a small, necessary shield against Blythe. “Shall we, my lord?”
He didn’t take her arm. Instead, the light press of his fingers trailed over her spine, sending a tingle below her waist as he led her out.
Beatrice was scared nearly out of her wits. Once outside, she stumbled at seeing the smart little gig parked on the gravel drive.
Blythe deftly caught her elbow.
“Your Grace?”
“A pebble rolled beneath my foot.” She tried to jerk her arm away, but he wouldn’t allow it. Was he being cruel on purpose? Did he know of her aversion to carriages? Did he know what had happened?
No. No,she assured herself. He’s just being Blythe.
The gig appeared impossibly small and fragile, but at least the top was rolled back. Should an accident occur, Beatrice would be thrown clear and not crushed. Her neck would break instantly. A much better fate.
Her fingers trembled, and Beatrice hid them in her skirts.
Broad hands lingered over her waist, longer than was proper, digging pleasurably into her skin as Blythe helped her up. The blue of his eyes remained smooth. Unrippled. Like a broad expanse of the sky at dawn.
Once settled on the leather seat, her fingers found the lacquered edge of the carriage and clung for dear life. Looking up from beneath the brim of her hat, Beatrice caught sight of her staff, watching from the front door.
Mrs. Lovington and Peg knew well of Beatrice’s fear. The two women stood mute and still, powerless to help her. They would take the path through the woods to the vicarage, the same she trod with them nearly every Sunday, along with Jasper and Mr. Lovington. The safest, quickest way with no bloody wheels beneath her or—
Beatrice pressed a hand to her chest, pushing down the panic threatening to choke her. She took several deep, calming breaths. Good lord, a nip of brandy would be quite welcome, if only she’d thought to bring some.
Blythe climbed in beside her, and the gig rocked gently with his weight.
Her fingers dug into the wood.Nothingwould happen. There wasn’t even so much as a puddle of mud on the way to the church. No streams to cross.
Blythe leaned into her, and warmth pressed into her thigh, comforting Beatrice through the thick folds of her skirt.
I don’t want his bloody comfort.
At a snap of the reins, the carriage moved forward, and Beatrice had to press a hand to her lips to keep from shrieking. Sucking in a lungful of air, she tried to focus on the sound of the birds in the trees.
The carriage jerked to the side as Blythe deftly missed a small rut.
Beatrice’s grip tightened. Her entire body grew stiff with terror.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Blythe said in a soothing tone. “We are barely moving. At this rate it will take days to reach Vicar Farthing and his church.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Breathe in, breathe out.
A low terrified sound came from her though she tried to stop it. She shut her eyes against the miniscule sway of the vehicle.
“Beatrice,” Blythe said, gently forcing her stiff fingers away from where she gripped the seat. He threaded her fingers carefully between his, thumb moving back and forth across the top of her hand in a soothing motion.
“It is only that I am prone to a touch of sickness when I ride in a carriage,” she lied, opening her eyes once more. “Your carriage isn’t at all well-sprung. At the very least, you should have a driver.”
