Her mother raised her tea cup. “If you say do, dear. I just question why a man of his stature would need to ‘rest’ here unless he had a specific reason.”
Blythe frowned. Was it inconceivable that he might court her? That he might find her attractive?
He had kissed her, more than once.
It hardly mattered. She was not interested in an entanglement of any sort, especially with anyone of the name Ashton.
Hypatia settled herself on the couch next to Blythe. “He’s somewhat appealing to the eye.”
Blythe frowned at her. “He is practically an Adonis, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“He can be almost charming, in fact.”
“Too charming for his own good,” Blythe muttered.
“He seems to know he has a daughter.”
“Of course he does!” Blythe argued, then with a quick glance to see if Michael had heard, she lowered her voice. “He loves that child. While he may not have the best disciplinary actions at hand, he does right by her.” Blythe blinked. “That was unfair, Mother.”
Hypatia looked at her with wide eyes. “What, darling?”
“I know what you are doing.”
“I am having a casual conversation about our guest. What is wrong in that?” Hypatia looked hurt.
But Blythe knew better. “You are forcing me to defend him, so I will see him in a better light.”
Hypatia winked. “Is it working?”
“Mama!” At Blythe’s loud exclamation, everyone else in the room glanced at her.
“Is everything all right?” Michael asked from his seat in the corner. His Greek-God-statue-chiseled features were chock-full of concern.
“Just fine, thank you, Duke,” Blythe replied. Michael. Michael moved as if to stand up.
“I am fine. Please. I believe I will just get a bit of air.” Even as the words left her mouth, she looked out the window at the rain pouring down.
Michael followed her gaze and glanced back with a curious frown. “It is raining.”
“Yes,” she replied with enthusiasm. “I love the rain. I often walk out in it.”
Cordelia looked up from her embroidery at that. “You do not.”
“Checkmate!” Georgie cried out.
Michael peered at the board and glowered comically. “By Jove, you won.” He sighed. “Well done, Miss Georgiana. Well done.” He stood fully. “Thank you for the game.”
“I won! I won!” Georgiana chimed, skipping toward their mother.
Hypatia ran a light hand over her hair. “That is wonderful, dearest. Against such a fierce opponent, too.”
Michael looked at Blythe. “May I escort you outside?”
That was the last thing Blythe needed.
“That sounds lovely, Your Grace,” Hypatia replied for her. Blythe turned to frown at her, but her mother simply ignored her.
“I believe I’ve changed my mind.”
“You do not want air now?” Michael asked dryly.
“There is plenty in here,” Blythe replied in a sulk.
“Very well.” Michael glanced at the chess board as Georgie moved the pieces back to their beginning positions. “Might I interest you in a game of chess?”
“I do not play.”
“Blythe, you taught me to play,” Georgie reminded her. “Perhaps you are just out of practice?”
Michael grinned. “I believe a game is most in order then.”
Blythe narrowed her eyes. He obviously thought he could beat her. Well, fine. She would trounce him at chess. Then perhaps in a sulk, he might leave her be just long enough that she could catch her breath and stop thinking about him. She stood and walked to the table.
“I’ll even let you play white so you can make the first move,” he offered.
She stared at the pieces on the table. “I do not need special favors. I shall play Greek.”
Miohael raised his brows. “Greek?”
She looked down at the chess table and felt her chest constrict lightly. She held up the smooth wooden King, carved with fine detail into a representation of Zeus. “Zeus. Greek.”
Michael peered closer at the pieces. “I had not even noticed.”
“Too busy trying to win to notice the beauty of the pieces, I imagine.” She purposely baited him. She knew it, even if she couldn’t quite figure out why. She held Zeus out as a sort of peace offering. “My father had this set commissioned for me when I was ten.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Ten? How long have you been playing chess?”
She smiled. “Since I could move the pieces myself.”
“Have I just been hoodwinked?” he asked lightly.
She settled herself into the chair. “It’s been some time since I played last.”
“Yes, but I notice you did not answer my question.” Michael settled into the opposite chair, and as he looked over the chess set, he lifted up the white King. “This is not Zeus.”
“No, the white pieces are of Norse mythology. The black pieces are of Greek mythology.” She reached over and picked up a white Bishop. “Loki, otherwise known as—”
“The Trickster God. Yes, I have read my mythology.” He took the piece back and studied the table. “I admit to some surprise that you have as well.”
“Are ladies of your acquaintance not well read?” She matched his light tone.
“If they were, they hid it well. I cannot recall the last conversation I had with a young lady that did not revolve around clothing, punch or the weather.”
Blythe couldn’t repress the shudder. “No wonder you left.”
Michael pushed a pawn forward. “I do my best to avoid any situation where they will be present.” He frowned. “Though that does not always work.”
Blythe countered with her move and smiled as she glanced about the room. “You do realize you are the single gentleman in a room with five women?”
He met her gaze with amusement twinkling in his eyes. “One might think I’ve lost my senses.”
Caught in his gaze for a moment, Blythe snapped her head down and focused on the board. “One might think I’ve lost mine,” she muttered to herself.
“I beg your pardon?”
She shook her head. “It is your move.” From her narrow view of the board, she could not see him move a muscle. She finally raised her eyes to his and the heat in them sent warmth rushing to her cheeks.
He slowly lifted his hand to move his piece. “Will we be having lemon syllabub for dessert tonight?”
Warmth flushed her cheeks. “I beg of you to keep my midnight visits to the kitchen to yourself. I would never hear the end of it.”
“Your siblings did not discover your habit?”
She chuckled. “I have managed all these years to keep it a secret.”
“Until me.”
His husky tone drew her eyes upward and she met his gaze. He was flirting with her.
“Yes,” she replied softly. “Until you.” She raised her brows. “You can be trusted?”
He placed a hand over his heart. “I shall hold your secret upon threat of death.”
She gave him a stern look. “You had better.”
Her heart raced in double time. It was plausible that Michael simply needed some rest from his life in London.
But she had to admit, it was not likely.
Which meant…what exactly?
“If you take this long to make every move, this game might last through the season,” Michael said, his tone low and teasing.
She opened her mouth and then shut it. She had yet to focus on the chessboard. With a quick glance about the pieces, she made her move.
He nodded as he looked over the board. “Did you play with Thomas?”
Startled, she met his curious gaze. “Did he play?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Michael sounded somewhat dejected.
“Thomas and I…We did not have many opportunities to play games,” she admitted. Except the game where he pretended to love her and she fell for
it.
“Are not games a part of courtship?” he asked lightly.
Flirting again.
Blast the man for doing it so well. And blast her traitorous heart for speeding up at the thought of it.
“Your move again.”
She looked down at the chessboard and after a few minutes, made a move.
“What did you and Thomas do?” Michael asked.
Blythe blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I assume you shared common interests of some kind?” he clarified, the smoothness in his voice replaced with a sharp edge.
Blythe frowned. “Not particularly.”
“Was it his kisses? The way he touched you?” His voice was a soft caress.
“Thomas never—“Blythe paused, flustered. “This is highly improper conversation over chess.”
Michael matched her frown and let out a short breath. “Then whatever made you fall in love with him?” He captured one of her pawns with a knight.
Blythe couldn’t muster an answer. Hindsight gave so much clarity, she had asked herself the very same question.
“You are not being very forthcoming.” Michael’s tone suggested frustration, and she met his gaze.
“Perhaps if you simply ask me the question you wish answered, I can better provide it,” she snapped.
“I did not know my cousin therefore I do not know what questions to ask.”
“And how is this my fault?”
He looked at her with clear, unblinking focus. “Why should anything be your fault? Have you not told me you are a victim in all this?”
She frowned. “In all what?”
He was clearly angry and he wanted something from her, she could feel it. She simply did not know what it was.
“I—” Michael stopped. He let out a quick sigh. “I believe I shall go check on Elisabeth. We can finish our game later.”
“Of course,” she murmured to no avail. He had already gotten up and moved away from her. She stared at his back as he turned the corner out of the room. She looked down at the unfinished game, unsettled by the confusion swirling inside of her.
Michael had been forthcoming about his reasons for being here, and those included getting to know more about his cousin. All Michael saw her as was his cousin’s widow. Nothing more.
And if Blythe felt any sort of disappointment, it was simply due to her being alone for way too long. She certainly would never consider a courtship from Michael.
She turned to look at Elisabeth, who sat in a corner of the room reading a book. Michael had been in such a hurry to get away from her, he hadn’t even noticed his daughter was actually in the room with them.
No, her mother could not have been more wrong about his intentions.
****
A few hours later, Michael halted in front of a servant. “Where is Lady Ashton?”
The young maid jumped back a good foot, her expression that of a startled doe.
The servant’s eyes grew large. “She…she went to the village.”
“The village.” Blast that woman. She’d left the manor house.
“She goes quite often, Your Grace,” the servant replied, looking confused. “A few times a week.”
His mood went from black to even blacker. “I told her I wanted to escort her about today.”
“She left just a moment ago, Your Grace. You might even be able to catch her at the stables.”
He sighed and turned on his heel.
He had needed to walk away from their chess game. If he had sat there with her one minute longer, knowing she was lying, knowing she knew where Thomas was, what he had done, he wouldn’t have been able to contain himself.
Not to mention that every single bloody question that crossed his mind to ask started with, “What had Thomas never done?”
The answers he came up with all boiled down to a sexual position of sorts.
He stopped in mid-gait. He’d asked if it was Thomas’s kisses, his touch that made her love him and she had said, “He never…”
Did she mean he’d never touched her?
Michael shook his head at his own idiotic meanderings. That was preposterous. It just wasn’t possible; Blythe couldn’t be a virgin. His cousin would have been the world’s biggest idiot not to bed her the minute they married. Michael knew if she were his, he’d barely wait for the license to be signed before hauling her off to bed. In fact, she’d be lucky if he waited much longer than slipping a betrothal ring on her finger.
She had to mean something else. Something that might help Michael find a way to the truth.
But what if she was untouched?
It turned everything he believed on end.
Michael racked his brain for the details Keenan had provided of when Thomas had disappeared. He’d married Blythe just a year ago, and then he’d come back to London. Blythe must have been in London as well or somewhere else close by.
Or had she? What if she had been here, at Rosemead, the entire time? What if Thomas had never actually bedded his wife? Could he have been that big of a fool?
At that moment, Michael realized just how low he had sunk. He was trying to determine the exact moment his cousin had abandoned his wife to decide whether or not Thomas been able to tumble her.
He was pathetic. Perhaps even borderline disgusting.
Because part of his curiosity had nothing to do with finding Thomas and everything to do with Blythe.
And yet Michael couldn’t stop wondering.
The idea that she’d never been touched, that she remained as pure as the day she was born tantalized him. He itched to peel off her clothing and feel her skin against his own, to explore her, taste her, and….
He groaned with abject frustration as his body hardened in response. What the devil was wrong with him?
This woman lied to him every minute of every day. She had helped Thomas in his schemes.
And she could be a virgin. Michael had never been interested in virgins.
Especially since the only virgins he had been acquainted with were of the debutante variety, a group that by large seemed practiced to deceive. Then those virginal women became married women who lied, manipulated and cuckolded their husbands at every turn.
Like his mother.
He’d married Victoria purely on his father’s urging that he needed to beget an heir. His wife had certainly been a beautiful and pleasant hostess and nothing more. Michael hadn’t spent any more time than necessary around her. She had died while giving birth, and Michael remembered wishing he could feel saddened by her death. Yet he’d felt nothing for so long, he had believed it impossible to change.
Michael grimaced at where his thoughts had turned. Thinking about his mother, or his deceased wife, was a bad idea on a good day and an even worse idea on a day like today, when he was already irritated.
With a woman, no less.
He approached the stables, glancing from side to side in search of Blythe. The place was deserted and he made a beeline for his horse.
He didn’t imagine he would actually find Blythe in the village, or find her at all. She had probably taken his absence to visit her husband.
But he had to look. Keenan’s report had told him a few more details of Thomas’s travels, and they had traced him up to the last few weeks. From his last known whereabouts, he’d disappeared. And from all accounts that Michael could gather, Blythe had been here at Rosemead. Supposedly the entire year since her marriage, but he knew servants would lie.
He paused in his stride and made a mental note to corner a few servants and see what he could learn.
Making quick work of saddling his horse, Michael threw a leg over his mount’s back to settle himself. He grabbed the reins and turned in the direction of the village. They’d traveled through it on the way to the manor so Michael knew it to be only a short ride away.
He’d be able to find Blythe quickly enough. He’d find her with Thomas, and this whole charade would come to an end.
Chapter
Ten
Two hours later, Michael kicked hard at a rock and watched as it flew against a tree with an audible smack. He’d been searching this blasted village far too long and every time he arrived at the supposed location of the fair and aggravating Lady Ashton, she had moved on to the next house.
Now, he hadn’t a notion where the hell he was or which cottage he’d left his horse at.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think the villagers sending him on incorrect paths for their amusement in seeing a Duke wander around their village in confusion. And yet, every single person he’d stopped had been more than courteous.
Somehow, the affection these people obviously felt for Blythe had automatically extended to him. In addition to glowing reports about her ladyship, he’d been offered coffee, sweets and more than his share of spirits. He’d had a baby shoved in his arms while the mother bent to pick up her basket of fruit and settled it on her hip before reaching back for the child. When his irritation and impatience became apparent, the villagers laughed or smiled and directed him on.
And every single one of them praised Lady Blythe.
It certainly didn’t fit what he believed, but he had discovered long ago that a person could create the impression they wanted others to see, and it didn’t often have anything to do with who they really were.
He caught sight of a house at the end of the road and sighed in relief. God willing, Blythe had actually stayed put at this house long enough for him to catch up to her.
He lengthened his strides and rounded the last curve. His gaze settled on the porch and he halted and stared at the picture before him.
Sunk down onto the wooden slats of the porch, Blythe leaned against the bright yellow of the house with her legs tucked under her equally bright blue skirts. A toddler lay curled up asleep in her lap. Blythe’s arms surrounded the little one, her fingers crisscrossed as she held the child close to her heart. A lilting hum, slightly off-key, wafted toward him and he realized it was her.
She was singing to the child.
Michael frowned. Women, certainly not ladies of society, didn’t do these things. They didn’t hold a child of their own making, much less someone else’s. They didn’t sit on rickety front porches and play with village children.
Willoughby 01 - Something About Her Page 8
