Page 39 of The Desire of a Duchess
“The sun has made my temples ache, my lord,” she said, refusing to look at him. “Will you kindly assist me?”
Blythe stood there so long, watching her, Beatrice thought he would refuse. But he came forward, lifting her with such force into the saddle she thought she’d fly off Cicero’s other side.
“You are being foolish,” he bit out. “Estwood—”
“This has nothing to do with your friend or whatever gossip he brought with him to Chiddon.” Her breath hitched. “But it has everything to do with me not wishing to be yet another conquest of the Earl of Blythe.”
“Surprising you didn’t stop me before I brought about your release,” he drawled coldly. “If you were so averse.”
“I merely wanted to see what all the fuss was about, my lord. Now that I have, I’ll take my leave.” She looked pointedly to Cicero’s bridle, held in the grip of his hand. “Let go.”
Blythe’s hand fell away. “By all means, Your Grace.”
Beatrice nudged Cicero into a gallop, away from the mill and the earl she’d once hated.
She felt far differently now.
15
Ellis wandered down the main street of Chiddon, amazed at the preparations for the upcoming festival. Seemed out of proportion given the population of Chiddon, but Gates had said the idea was to draw people to the village with the hopes they would wish to stay. A peddler’s wagon, complete with a dancing monkey and mountains of pots, pans, tools, and other household goods was set up at the end of the main street. Opposite sat a stall full of ribbons, lace, and other frippery. At another stall, a plump man, round like a ball of dough, manned a booth selling fresh-baked breads, tarts, and pastries.
Beatrice’s baker. Well, at least he’d have a mill close by now, thanks to Ellis. The building she’d had renovated for the baker’s use possessed fine glass windows at the front, perfect for the display of cakes and pies. Living quarters were above. The rent was minimal and set for two years.
Ellis nodded to the baker but continued on to the village green. The thought of the Duchess of Castlemare spoiled Ellis’s mood, as it had for the past week. He’d returned from their tour of the mill—and Beatrice coming apart for him—intending once more to return to London with all haste.
His trousers tightened immediately. Ellis couldn’t get the erotic picture of Beatrice’s pleasure at his hands from his mind. Her dismissal of him had done nothing but make Ellis want her more, if such a thing were possible.
Whatwashe still doing in Chiddon? Buying mills for duchesses who would never—
She is only afraid.
Settling before the fire later that same day, with a tray brought to him by a morose Sykes, Blythe had finished the bottle of wine he’d meant to enjoy with Beatrice. It was the talk of London and Estwood which had altered her mood toward Ellis. They had only danced around the carriage accident when Ellis should have bluntly confronted her, told her that he knew. Untied the damnable ribbon holding her hair and forced Beatrice to confront that which terrified her. Coddling her had been a mistake as it had given her too much time to conjure up a host of absurd reasons for his pursuit.
I couldn’t just find a nice farmer’s wife to tup.
“Ho there, my lord.”
Gates, red-faced in the late afternoon heat, waved from a long table. The owner of The Pickled Duck presided over a makeshift bar, handing out mugs of ale and cider. Several wooden casks were being taken to the village square by a pair of sturdy lads, muscles straining under the weight. Two young boys ran back and forth filling mugs, but there was no collection of coin. Refreshments, Ellis recalled Gates saying, were courtesy of the Duchess of Castlemare.
More of Beatrice’s bloody benevolence. She had it in abundance for everyone but Blythe.
“I worried that your lordship had returned to London before the festival,” Gates said. “Perhaps the good vicar’s sermon had driven you off. Or perhaps the vicar in general.”
Farthing’s ambition was a poorly kept secret in Chiddon.
Ellis inclined his head. “And miss the most fun Chiddon is likely to have all year? Perish the thought, Mr. Gates. I merely had business which required my attention.” In actuality, Ellis had pondered what to do with Beatrice while taking apart the large clock sitting at the top of the stairs at his hunting lodge. Sykes had been aghast at seeing the pieces strewn all over the rug with Ellis, a bottle of wine at his elbow.
A small stack of correspondence sat in his front room, awaiting a response, and the clock was an excellent way to avoid them—particularly the latest plea from Lady Blythe to return to London. Which he should have done by now.
Ellis determined he would respond. When the clock was put back together and he felt steadier, more in control of his emotions. Instead, he’d busied himself looking over plans for the mill. Estwood had already taken the liberty of sending a master stonemason to oversee rebuilding the crumbled walls. Laborers would soon arrive to dredge the pond and get the water flowing properly.
“The music starts at sundown, my lord,” Gates said. “I’ve already got the pigs and birds on a spit.” He jerked his head in the direction of The Pickled Duck where a plume of smoke rose behind the building along with the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat. “Mrs. Lovington is back there ordering around those that volunteered to help her.”
“We are acquainted,” Ellis said. “Lovely woman.”
Gates gave him a dubious look. “Are we speaking of the same Mrs. Lovington, my lord? Tall. Looks like she could take down a sturdy man with one punch?”
“The very same,” Ellis replied with a smile. “Makes a splendid omelet.”
