by Lenora Bell
Ford had vowed to never have his life or his fate controlled or owned by any man . . . there were no rules about bookish ladies.
Why would he say no? This was easy money. He’d have comfortable accommodations, a housekeeper to prepare his meals, a large bankroll, and he’d be impeding his grandfather’s plans.
It was a winning proposition all around.
And the offer came from an employer who was a damn sight more pulchritudinous than old Griff.
Though her allure was more of a warning bell than an incentive. He must keep his attraction to the lady firmly under control at all times. This was a straightforward business proposition.
A duke’s sister wouldn’t be allowed to spend too much time on the Strand. She’d be out most days hobnobbing with other highborn ladies and gentlemen.
What could go wrong? If she did visit the shop, he’d be working and she’d stay well away from him for fear of besmirching her costly silk gowns.
“I have a rule as well, Lady Beatrice.”
“Oh?” She inclined her head.
“Absolutely no bonnets trimmed with sonnets.”
A faint smile hovered at her lips. “I’ll never wear it again, Mr. Wright.”
“You could never see it again, if you chose. What if a strong gust of wind blew it off your head? Then it wouldn’t be your fault if it disappeared.”
“My mother’s choice of millinery, like her aspiration for my future, is bound tightly by stout ribbons and stifling social conventions.”
“What if your maid had left the ribbons only loosely tied and they slipped undone through no fault of your own?”
He caught the edge of one rosy silk ribbon between his thumb and forefinger and tugged steadily until the bow beneath her chin came loose.
Chapter Eleven
Beatrice’s breath caught as he loosened her bonnet ribbons. If he removed her bonnet, there would be no barriers left between them.
Would that be so very terrible?
He untied the red silk ribbons until they hung freely down her neck and over her bosom.
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t see much anyway because, predictably, her spectacles had gone murky, whether from his breath or hers. He was very near. Within kissing distance.
She’d just made him promise to never mention the subject of kissing.
You didn’t say anything about actual kisses, you dolt.
The carriage lurched to a halt.
She was saved.
When they alighted, Wright lifted a finger to the air. “What a strong breeze there is today.”
Before she knew what was happening, he’d plucked her bonnet off her head and flung it into the avenue, where it cartwheeled for a moment until it was squashed flat by carriage wheels.
She stared at him, openmouthed. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“We agreed to follow the rules.”
“Are you going to destroy articles of my clothing every time we meet?”
“Quite possibly. If you come to the bookshop while I’m working you’ll encounter dust, debris, water . . . probably some rats I flush out of the basement. It might be best for you to stay away, at least for the first few days.”
“Trying to be rid of me already. I’m only here for another half hour. I’ve used most of my allotment of hours. The coachman will wait for me here.” She used her key this time to let them into the building.
They were met by a gloomy Coggins and a chipper offer of hot tea from Mrs. Kettle, which they politely declined.
Wright entered the front room. “I’ll start bringing the crates upstairs. Where should I leave them?”
“You can place them in the reading room adjacent to the first-floor landing.”
He stacked two crates, lifted the heavy load, and disappeared into the hallway.
Beatrice examined the titles on the shelves. She’d have to move the most ancient and rare volumes upstairs to the reading room, to protect them from Wright’s dust and destruction. The remainder of the books would need to be covered with cloths.
Excitement bubbled up in her chest, giddy and sweet.
She owned these volumes. She owned this building.
She wasn’t going to let anyone take this newborn freedom away from her.
When Ford returned downstairs, Lady Beatrice was still there. He’d assumed she’d be gone by now. He’d loitered upstairs for at least a quarter hour, stacking and restacking crates, and giving himself a stern talking-to about the divestment of bonnets from highborn ladies whose brothers held the fate of one’s family in their hands.
The devil had made him do it. And the sight of her red hair radiant in the sunlight had been worth risking the fires of hell.
Not only was she still here, she was in the process of removing more articles of clothing.
The fire in the grate was doing an admirable job of heating the small room, but did she have to disrobe if she was only staying a few more minutes?
Ford nearly sprinted back upstairs, but he had a job to do. Crates to carry. No time to waste.
He’d simply have to ignore the lady, and the languid way she undid her smart blue coat. Button after brass button, fabric parting to reveal the lovely, and extremely impractical gown beneath. It was pale pink, with large puffed sleeves that ended in silk bows at her elbows, tied so tightly that he could see the mark they made on her skin.
Her elbow-length white gloves came off next.
As he repacked crates and stacked them together, he watched her from the corner of his eye. Why did it take so devilishly long to remove gloves? Each luminescent pearl button gave way to her fingers in a slow, tantalizing revealing of flesh.
She tugged one glove all the way off and draped it over her shoulder while she worked on the second one. The discarded glove dangled down her back, where his fingers wanted to roam.
Over her delicate shoulder blades, along the ridge of her spine, down to the sweet curve of her . . .
None of that. Lift some heavy crates and climb those steep stairs again in penance for forbidden thoughts.
When he returned, she was standing by the bookshelves with a dusty volume in her hands, her face rapturous as she turned pages.
“Are you inventorying or reading?” he asked.
“Just a few more pages,” she murmured. “And then I’ll go.”
Why did fancy ladies cover up their hands and leave their chests so exposed? He approved of this bodice. It was edged in darker pink ribbon that might even match her . . .
Don’t picture her nipples.
He groaned aloud.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, glancing up from her book.
“Nothing,” he muttered. He lifted more crates.
“What will you require for the renovations?” she asked him when he returned from his last trip.
“A full set of carpentry tools. Ladders. Oak floorboards to replace the damaged ones I remove.”
She jotted it all down with a pencil and notepad she’d pulled from her bag. “Hobbs will have everything delivered tomorrow morning. I probably won’t be able to come myself. I have a lamentably full schedule tomorrow.”
“That’s for the best. It will be chaos in this room when I knock out the wall between the showroom and the side parlor. This is no place for young ladies wearing costly finery. You wouldn’t want to dirty your fine frock. And those flimsy slippers wouldn’t protect your toes from much of anything.”
“I quite agree. These heeled slippers make my ankles wobble precariously. I always wore sturdy footwear in Cornwall. The next time I visit the bookshop, I’ll wear something more practical, I promise.”
The next time she visited? He’d thought she’d give him a wide berth in the short time he had to complete the demanding job. “It might be best if you stayed away from the shop while I do the worst of the demolition and repairs.”
“Ah . . . but you never let me have a moment’s worth of peace in the library in Cornwall. Why should I humor you now?�
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“This is an entirely different situation. You’re the one employing me, and I’ll finish more swiftly if I’m allowed to work unimpeded.”
The last thing Ford needed when he was trying to finish a project swiftly was a privileged, opinionated lady telling him what to do, attempting to help, and making everything more difficult.
“Now you know how I felt in Cornwall, Wright. I’m sorry if my presence will incommode you but I bargained with my mother for the chance to escape her ministrations and spend time in the relative freedom of this shop, and I plan to be here as often as possible. I’ll do my best not to disturb you.”
If she kept removing her clothing in that unintentionally sensual way, there was small chance of that.
“Who knows? I might even be of use to you in your endeavors, Mr. Wright. I may not be broad of shoulder, but I know my mind to be a formidable tool. I shall read a reference book on the subject of carpentry and form my own opinions on the most efficacious and efficient methods for the swift transmogrification of this shop.”
That sounded ominous. “How about if I don’t tell you how to write a dictionary if you don’t tell me how to carpenter.”
“But you did tell me how to write a dictionary, don’t you remember? You said it wouldn’t be profitable unless it was fun.”
Ford and his big mouth. “I was only joking.”
“My friends agreed with you, and so there may be some merit to what you said. It’s true that Samuel Johnson infused humor into his Dictionary of the English Language. For example, he defined a lexicographer as a ‘harmless drudge that busies himself in tracing the original and detailing the signification of words.’ It was his sly moments of humor that made his dictionary a success.”
“I don’t know anything about Samuel Johnson, but it’s true that everything’s better with laughter.”
“I also find it interesting that your critique of my dictionary was based not on its unsuitability as a female pursuit, but on its lack of humor. Most people, my mother chief and foremost, belittle and criticize my endeavor on more conventional grounds.”
“I don’t see why females shouldn’t write dictionaries. But I also don’t see why they shouldn’t write dictionaries that might make them some profit in the process.”
She gave a sharp little nod. “Agreed.”
“Just because you’re taking my advice doesn’t mean that I welcome your thoughts on carpentry. I have less than a fortnight and I know exactly how to accomplish what needs to be done. I won’t require your help.”
She shrugged. “Very well. But I’ll still be here as often as possible to inventory the books and escape my mother.”
She went back to perusing the bookshelves and he began examining the shop counter, to see how it was constructed.
She stole glances at him from under her lashes. Just as it had in Cornwall, her gaze made him want to impress her with his brute strength. He lifted a heavy oak lectern and moved it into the corner of the room. He’d have to move all the furniture out of the way when he knocked down the wall to enlarge the room.
She selected a book and curled up in a chair, tucking her feet underneath her. He imagined that was how she spent a good part of her days, and evenings, when her mother wasn’t pushing her into society.
“I nearly forgot—I brought you this.” She opened her silk handbag and pulled out a book. “It’s the second in the Villeneuve series after The Mad Marquess’s Secret. It’s called The Wicked Earl’s Wishes. I thought you might like to read this one since you appeared to enjoy the first in the series.”
“It had its moments. Though I won’t have time for reading.”
“Keep it by your bedside. I have several copies so you needn’t finish it before you leave London.”
He accepted the book and it immediately fell open to a location about halfway through. He closed and opened it again. “Curious. It opens at the same place every time. Could this be your favorite scene?” He skimmed the page until he found what he was looking for. “‘Fair reader, the Earl of Wrothmore was a most wicked and profligate rogue, but when he kissed me there was nothing I could do but succumb to his embrace, for I craved the taste of his lips in much the same way as—’”
She snatched the book out of his hands. “The binding must have become damaged.”
He held out his palm. “It was just getting good. I want to know what happens next.”
“You can’t start in the middle.”
“I would never do such a thing.”
She handed the book back. “I love Miss Villeneuve’s stories, but the heroine in this one borders on too silly to live. She walks right into the devious snares set for her by the wicked earl.”
“It sounded to me like she was enjoying their entanglement. And if there weren’t any snares, there wouldn’t be much of a plot. It would all be kissing.”
“A subject we agreed to refrain from mentioning.”
“I didn’t mention it, I read it in your book, in your favorite chapter.”
“Humph.”
The clock in the hallway chimed and she startled. “I’m late. I must go. I’ll have your supplies delivered tomorrow.”
She grabbed her coat and gloves and ran for the door. She paused and turned back, her face lit by a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Wright.”
Ford hadn’t known he’d been waiting for her smile until that lopsided quirk of her lips caught his heart unawares and lifted it like a sail in a brisk headwind.
Chapter Twelve
Beatrice had been attempting to return to the bookshop for two days, but her mother had kept her trotting from one social engagement to the next, trailed by maids and modistes to refresh her appearance between engagements.
She was heartily sick of society and beyond ready for an afternoon of books and freedom.
When she finally managed to steal a few hours at the bookshop, a more than usually morose Coggins greeted her at the door.
“That carpenter you hired is smashing everything to pieces.” Coggins took her bonnet and cloak.
The noise was deafening. “What’s he doing in there?”
“Bringing the house down around our ears, that’s what. We’ll all be crushed and then that will be the end of us. All they’ll find in the wreckage is some shattered china and my old bones.”
“Where’s Mrs. Kettle?”
“At her daughter’s house. Wednesday’s her off day.”
The front room was utter chaos. The counter had already been reduced to splinters. Wright wielded a large hammer with both hands like Thor on the battlefield, smashing it against the inner wall that separated the showroom from the small side parlor. He’d already opened a huge jagged hole in the center of the wall.
Beatrice clapped her hands over her ears. “Wright!” she shouted, but he couldn’t hear her.
He continued his demolition, heaving the blunt-edged hammer behind him and crashing it into the wall. Plaster and small slats of wood broke under the force of his blows. He could probably give the gentlemen she knew a run for their money on the cricket field. He’d knock the ball clear out of the green.
He’d thrown cloths over the bookshelves, but it wasn’t nearly enough protection. He did everything hard and fast without consulting anyone but himself.
Crash!
One of the cloths slid off a shelf and books danced as if they’d come to life. A volume tumbled from the shelf and landed on the floor in a disarray that would be murderous to its binding.
There were fragile and ancient books in that collection. She had to make him stop hammering long enough for her to cover the books more securely. This was her house, and he must consult her on these matters.
“Wright!” she shouted.
He was too focused and intent on his task to hear her. She’d have to venture closer, to the hammer . . . and the rogue.
She was near enough to reach out and touch him, but he was still unaware of her presence.
She was fully aware of all six foot and more of him
. Damp white linen clung to his arms and chest. Dark brown hair curled against his wide neck, and the muscles of his shoulders strained and bulged with every swing of his hammer.
“You should put more cloths on the books,” she yelled. And while he was at it, he could wear more cloth himself instead of attacking her good sense with such a mouthwatering display of muscularity.
He paused midswing and spun around, hammer raised, chest heaving. “What?”
She could see that he had cotton stuffed into his ears to block out the noise. She pointed at the bookshelves. “More protection!”
“Already patched the leak in the ceiling and that was the real danger. Stand back now.” He raised his hammer.
She grabbed hold of his solid biceps with both of her hands, physically stopping him from swinging. Too late, she realized the inadvisability of touching him.
The shock of contact lanced through her body, reaching her heart and setting it racing.
He looked down at her with a bemused expression.
She dropped her hands.
He was dirty—not just around the edges, ragged fingernails, and such. He was really filthy. Covered in dirt and plaster dust. Smudges across his cheek. He smelled like sweat and earth.
The men of her acquaintance smelled of hair pomade and brandy.
If he laid his hands on her, he’d leave dirty prints on the pale yellow gown her mother had chosen for her to wear today.
How would she explain that?
Still, she wasn’t going to give an inch, even if he was holding an enormous hammer and towered over her like Vulcan in his forge.
He lowered the hammer to the floor and removed the cotton from his ears. “The books are adequately protected. It’s you who looks the worse for wear. What’s wrong, Lady Beatrice? Why such a cross expression?”
Blast. He was too perceptive. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Then I still have half a wall to pulverize after which there will be a pint of ale with my name on it waiting for me at a dockside tavern.”
“It’s this dratted bargain with my mother.” Beatrice’s shoulders slumped. “It’s working too well. It turns out that all I have to do is pretend to be someone else and suddenly everybody loves me.”