Love Is a Rogue

by Lenora Bell

  His face sharpened into focus.

  She’d known his eyes were blue. What she hadn’t known was that his left eye contained an uneven patch of golden brown, like a sunflower silhouetted against a summer sky.

  His chin was hard-angled, and there was a cleft slightly to the left of center. Dark whiskers shadowed his strong jawline.

  Don’t do it, Beatrice. Do not melt into a puddle of quivering ninnyhood.

  She took a steadying breath. “You’d better climb back down before that trellis breaks under your prodigious weight.”

  “Don’t worry about me, princess.” He winked. “Repaired this trellis myself. It’s built to last.”

  “Do stop calling me princess,” she said irritably, the nonchalance she’d been striving for making a fast retreat.

  “You’re imprisoned in a tower.”

  “I’m here quite by choice. I’m writing, or I would be if you weren’t making so much noise.”

  “Is it the noise that distracts you?” He flexed the muscles of his free arm. “Or the man.”

  Beatrice gulped for air. Why must the man incessantly call attention to his physical endowments? “Such an ostentatious display might be efficacious where housemaids are concerned, but it has no effect whatsoever on female scholars.”

  “You’re not fascinated by me.” His voice swirled from velvet to smoke. “You never watch me from behind the curtains.”

  He caught her gaze and held it.

  He’d seen her watching.

  A fresh wave of mortification washed through her mind. “If I happened to glance out the window from time to time, it was due to sheer frustration. You’ve ruined what was meant to be a tranquil literary haven.”

  “And here I thought I’d been inspiring you.”

  “Inspiring? Hardly!”

  “I was sure you were scribbling away at a romantic novel and needed inspiration for describing your hero. That’s why you were always gazing at me from the window.” He gave her a smoldering look. “I’d be happy to provide a more up close and personal study.”

  “You conceited peacock!”

  “Admit it. You enjoyed the view.”

  “I’ll admit nothing of the sort.”

  He plucked a single red rose and offered it to her through the open window. “For you, princess. It matches your cheeks when they’re flushed from my proximity.”

  “You . . . you . . .” Beatrice sputtered.

  “Scoundrel?” he suggested.

  “Malapert rapscallion!”

  He tilted his head. “That’s a new one.”

  “Have you considered that your renovations might progress more swiftly, Mr. Wright, if you did more carpentering and less flirting? First Jenny and now me—don’t you ever exhaust your store of vexatious trifling?”

  He propped his elbow on the window ledge and leaned closer. “I thought you weren’t spying on me.”

  “I wasn’t. I was watering the roses.”

  “I think you were watching.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Because you wanted to see what a kiss from me would be like.”

  Beatrice wasn’t accustomed to men perusing her with that hooded, hazy look in their eyes. She was no beauty. She never incited desire.

  She never experienced desire.

  And yet . . . the glow in her belly was spreading. She still felt the soft brush of his fingers along the edge of her ear.

  “This conversation is over. Be on your way.”

  “Not yet.” He wrapped his hand over the window ledge. “I have a question to ask you.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want anyone to overhear me ask it.”

  “That doesn’t sound proper.”

  “I’m never proper. Don’t even know what the word means.”

  “It’s from the Latin proprius meaning ‘one’s own, particular to itself.’ It’s not until the mid-fourteenth century that we see the usage meaning ‘by the rules’ or ‘correct and acceptable.’”

  “I don’t play by the rules, either.” He slid one knee onto the ledge. “I’m coming in.”

  “No. Wait—!”

  Too late.

  Her sanctuary had been invaded by a rogue.

  Chapter Two

  Ford jumped down onto the library’s expensive imported carpet. Life was always attempting to bring him to his knees, but he always landed on his feet.

  The duke’s sister had retreated to a shadowy niche between two bookshelves. She stood there, half-hidden, all glinting spectacles and glowing red hair.

  The new-minted copper of her hair never failed to strike his mind and reverberate like a ship’s bell tolling the hour of the watch.

  She was dressed in a simple blue gown, unadorned by frills and ribbons. Her gown might be plain, but there was no mistaking that she was highborn. Sister to a duke. Blazing intelligence in her eyes and finishing school in her posture. Privileged, cosseted, and raised to believe she was a superior being.

  He’d never entered the library before. It looked like an explosion had occurred in the center of the cavernous room, scattering books and papers over every surface.

  Ford flung the rose he was carrying onto a table. “Now you can have a better look at me, princess.”

  “I don’t want a better look. Leave, please.”

  Stay away from the noble house. That’s not your place. No trespassing, do you hear me, son?

  The warning had been drilled into his head over and over when he was a child. Thornhill House and its noble part-time occupants were off-limits.

  Well, here he was breaking the rules. Would the gods painted on the ceiling smite him down?

  Lady Beatrice looked like she wished she had a spare thunderbolt to hurl his way. Her expression was distant and forbidding. Her slender arms were crossed over her chest in a gesture that clearly said no trespassing.

  All summer long she’d watched him from the library windows, but they’d never exchanged a word in person, communicating instead through a brief exchange of notes. He’d glimpsed her walking along the path that led to the sea, her long curly hair escaping from the hood of a gray cloak. Walking alone.

  Always alone.

  She kept herself apart, isolated in her tower, too superior to fraternize with those beneath her elevated social standing.

  His mother was sorely disappointed that there was a lady living at Thornhill House who’d never once paid a visit to any of the cottagers, or hosted any kind of festivities. Not many elegant ladies from London visited these parts.

  Ford didn’t give a damn about social standing or the rules of propriety. He needed information and he would have it. “When will the duke return? I can’t seem to get a straight answer from anyone.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. I expected him home well before now.”

  “Is he stopping in London first, or coming directly to Cornwall?”

  “He planned to spend several weeks in London to visit with family.”

  “I have to speak with him on a matter of urgency.”

  “Why don’t you speak with Gibbons?”

  “Absolutely not,” Ford said vehemently. He suspected Gibbons, the duke’s land agent, of embezzlement on this estate, and possibly on the duke’s other properties. He’d uncovered a series of troubling discrepancies in the receipts for timber and other goods. He didn’t want his father, or himself, to be blamed if the theft came to light.

  “And why not?” she asked.

  He glanced swiftly around the room. They were still alone. She hadn’t rung for a servant.

  “Because Gibbons is the problem.”

  “Really? He’s a distant cousin of ours.”

  “Just because he’s related by blood doesn’t mean that he has your best interests at heart. I can’t discuss it here. These walls have ears. I’ll need to speak with the duke in person.”

  “I’m not sure when you’ll be able to do that. He’s gone missing. I haven't heard from him in weeks, though that's not unusual for
my brother. He must have his reasons.”

  “I’m sure he’s only delayed by weather and his letters were lost. He’ll be home soon enough, and I’ll have my chance to speak to him before I go back to sea.”

  “You’re leaving, then?” She kept her face turned so that all he saw was her left profile. “There seems to be some debate on the part of the housemaids as to whether you’ll stay here or return to the navy.”

  “There’s not a chance in hell that I’d stay in this provincial little village. I prefer broader horizons.”

  And he would be no duke’s servant. At least as a ship’s carpenter he commanded the respect of a crew that knew his skill with his tools was the bulwark that stood between them and a watery death.

  “The maids will be so disappointed to hear that you’re leaving.”

  “And you’ll be devastated, I’m sure.”

  “I’d be delighted, if I weren’t returning to London soon.”

  “I was wondering why you were here instead of waltzing around ballrooms with foppish dandies.”

  “I already told you that I’m here by choice. Why is that so difficult for you to comprehend?”

  “Because no one chooses to spend their summer in the wilds of Cornwall with nothing but books for company.”

  “I’d stay here forever if I could.” She caressed the bindings of the books on the shelf next to her. “This library is my happiest of places.”

  “I’ve seen your lamp burning at all hours of the evening.”

  “I have to work at night because it’s the only time when you’re not banging, hammering, whistling, or telling naughty jokes.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for doing my job.”

  “Well, you could have done it with more sensitivity to my exigencies. When I see the duke next, I’m going to present him with a long list of your infringements.”

  Wonderful. That’s all Ford needed. “I may have inconvenienced you, but the duke won’t be able to deny that I accomplished more in these past months than most men could do in a year.”

  “I’m not debating that, Wright. I only wish your visit hadn’t coincided so disharmoniously with mine. I only achieved a paltry number of pages.”

  He removed the top paper from a stack on the writing desk. “Is this your novel?”

  She startled, moving into a shaft of sunlight. “Don’t read that.”

  Which, of course, made him have to read it. He held the sheet to the window. “‘Stamford Wright,’” he read aloud. “‘See Rogue.’” He grinned. “‘Heavy of hammer and brawny of shoulder,’ eh? So you have been writing about me.”

  She rushed forward. “That’s not for your eyes.”

  “Clearly. You wouldn’t want me to know that you find me excessively virile.”

  “And boundlessly arrogant.” She was close enough to reach out and touch. Her cheeks were pink, and her hazel eyes sparked with indignant light. “Give it here.”

  “‘Thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind,’” he read. “True. Because I am.”

  “Humph!” She reached for the page and lost her balance, tumbling against his chest.

  He folded his arm around her small waist. “Steady there.”

  “You are . . . not . . . a gentleman,” she accused, her breathing ragged.

  “Far from it.” He was the furthest thing from a gentleman that dainty, delicate, sheltered Lady Beatrice Bentley would ever come into close proximity with.

  And she was close.

  Plastered against him, her soft breasts rising and falling against his chest. Her dress was buttery soft beneath his arm. Her hair smelled like apple blossoms floating in honey.

  One of the maids had told him that she’d been born with palsy, which had given her face a distinctive asymmetry. The right side of her lips curved downward and her right eye drooped at the corner.

  There were ink stains on her fingers. A smudge of ink on her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away with his thumb, just to touch her soft skin.

  Stay away from the duke’s sister. That’s not your place. No trespassing.

  “Ruffian rogue. Scurrilous scoundrel.” She glared at him but made no move to distance herself. “Climbing trellises and reading a lady’s private papers.”

  “You like scoundrels. We’re far more interesting than other men. We’re highly distracting to scholarly females. Might I suggest a few edits to your novel, though? Excessive virility is a promising beginning, but I would add ‘handsome as sin’ and ‘completely irresistible.’”

  “No, you may not. And I’m not writing a novel. I’m compiling an etymological dictionary.”

  “Featuring rogues.”

  “What you read was a symptom of extreme discomposure caused by your loud disturbance beneath my window.”

  “And inspired by my brawny shoulders.”

  “My dictionary will be a comprehensive exploration of the origins of the modern day English language.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s a formidable undertaking. It will be my life’s work. If I complete it before my demise, I’ll progress to a study of female authors.”

  “There’s a large market for etymological dictionaries?” He’d dropped his arm from around her waist, but she stayed within touching distance.

  “I don’t expect it to sell particularly well outside of scholarly circles.”

  “Then where’s the profit? Don’t you want it to go into a second printing and be rudely reviewed by all of the most sarcastic critics?”

  “Just like a rogue. Always thinking of profit. It’s not about monetary reward, Wright. It’s about intellectual curiosity. Awakening minds. Expanding vocabularies.” She brushed a lock of hair over her right cheek. “I find that people are bafflingly incurious about the origins of the words they use. Take the word oxymoron for example. It’s contradictory in itself. Oxy comes from the Greek word for sharp and moron from the word for dull or foolish.”

  “Scintillating.”

  “It is scintillating. It excites me to no end to uncover these elegant origin stories. There are many words that contain two conflicting ideas, like chiaroscuro, light and dark, and pianoforte, soft and loud.”

  “I think maybe you need to leave this library more often.”

  “I was sickly as a child, Wright. I spent my days in isolation from other children, alone in my room, and I started memorizing dictionaries. Words are living things. They must be treated with respect. They’re born, they live and grow, and change, just as we do.”

  As she spoke, her entire face changed. She lost the distant and disapproving look, and her hazel eyes lit with emotion. Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, her hair glowing in the fading sun like a candle flame inside amber glass. Her long, slender fingers waved through the air, illustrating her meaning.

  “Sometimes words fall out of fashion and wither and die, never to be used again. I find that dreadfully sad. I make it my mission to use as many lost, arcane words as possible in an attempt to imbue them with new life. I don’t expect you to understand my obsession.”

  “I read the occasional book. Time passes slowly at sea.”

  Or sometimes it passed swiftly in a deafening blaze of cannon fire and shouting. The dull smack of bodies hitting water.

  The backhand of fate across a man’s back. Or his belly.

  Blood frothing in the wake.

  But he wasn’t supposed to think about the battle in Greece. The Admiralty had pinned a medal on him for bravery and told him to turn his gaze firmly forward, never backward.

  “The occasional book . . . ?” She shook her head. He’d disappointed her. “I’m a logophile, a lover of words, as well as a book-devouring bibliophile. One might even say I suffer from bibliomania. Reading keeps the mind nimble and gives me fodder for my dictionary. Reading is my greatest pleasure in life.”

  Now that was just too easy. “Spoken like a lady who hasn’t experienced real pleasures.”

  “Spoken like a rogue who doesn’t read enough books. You cou
ld impress your sweethearts with a larger, more varied vocabulary at your disposal.”

  “My sweethearts are more impressed by the size of . . . other things.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh come now, Wright. Wouldn’t you like to learn some impressive new words for wooing? Your paramour’s voice could be canorous and mellifluous, her eyes pellucid and lambent. Her lips might be ambrosial or sapid, and her figure pulchritudinous and lissome.”

  He didn’t know about pellucid, but the lady’s eyes were a lovely light brown color with sparks of gold that flashed when she talked about words.

  She really, really loved words.

  It was plain to see that this prim and proper lady had passion simmering inside her, waiting to be unleashed by some lucky sot with a large vocabulary. He’d never be the one to bring her passion to the boiling point, but he could have a little more fun lighting those sparks in her eyes.

  “Now you’ve got my attention, princess. Teach me some more words to use for wooing.”

  “You should purchase a volume of Shakespeare’s works. He was a master of ingenuity when it came to wordplay. I have a fascination with archaic words, ones that we no longer use in conversation or in our written texts. I have lists and lists of them. I’d like to bring some back into circulation.”

  “Such as . . .” He wanted to keep her talking, if only to watch her eyes blaze and her lissome bosom heave.

  “We used to embellish our speech with flosculations, and condemn deceitful fallaciloquence. If the moon slipped behind a cloud, we were left murklins and a slothful person was filled with pigritude. A prickly lady such as myself might have been referred to as senticous, and a rogue like you as cockalorum. And after a night at the pub you might be crapulous.”

  He quirked his head to one side. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

  “It’s from the Latin for intoxication and from the Greek word meaning the headache one gets from drinking.”

  He grinned. “I’ve definitely felt crapulous upon occasion.”

  “It’s a delightfully descriptive word. It just sounds so unpleasant. I do love words that make their meaning known with only a few short syllables. Like disaster. The hard ‘d’ and the expansive, merciless ‘a.’ Did you know that disaster originates from the Latin for ‘ill star’? And then there’s tintinnabulation. What a word! Why you can hear the bells ringing within it!”