by Lenora Bell
“Ah . . . but opposites attract, Ford my boy.” Griff wiped his beard with his sleeve. “Tale as old as time. You’re a workingman and she’s a highborn lady. She swans around Mayfair, you sleep in a hammock on a ship. It’s the forbidden fruit we want to pluck the most.”
“Love is out of the question. Do you hear me? It’s not going to happen. It can’t happen. I won’t let it.”
His friend smirked. “Keep telling yourself that, mate, if it makes you feel more in control. Keep deluding yourself.”
Ford didn’t have the heart to voice any more denials, but he couldn’t admit that there was even a sliver of truth in Griff’s words. “She’s at the opera tonight with some foppish Earl of Maypole.”
“Maypole?” Griff snorted. “Sounds like a right tosser.”
“No, it was Mayhew.”
Griff’s hand closed around Ford’s forearm. “Mayhew. You certain that’s the name?”
“That’s the one—why, do you know him?”
“I do.” He spat on the floor. “And he’s not the sort you want near her if you care about her at all.”
“Why?”
“’ere, Peg. Tell my friend about the Earl of Mayhew.”
Peg approached, a look of contempt on her face. “Mayhew, that scum sucker. If he ever comes in here again, I ’ave ten good men will give him a thrashing he won’t soon forget.”
“What did he do?” Ford asked.
“Left my sister for dead, that’s what he did. Threw her out like she was so much refuse. Him and his wealthy friends come to the public houses looking for sport. About a month ago, he took a liking to my sister. Nelly was a good girl, all sunshine and birdsong, she was. Until Mayhew forced himself on her. He set her up in a house, after that, promised to keep her, then threw her into the gutter.” Peg wiped her nose with her sleeve. “Poor broken bird. She’s gone back to Sussex, back to the farm.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ford. “He deserves more than a thrashing.”
“His kind take what they want and never suffer the consequences,” Griff said.
Ford’s stomach roiled. This was the man Beatrice’s mother wanted her to marry.
Over his dead body.
“Easy now.” Griff laid a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “You’re about to crush that tumbler to splinters.”
Ford glanced down at his hand. Griffith was right. He wanted to be crushing something else. Mayhew’s windpipe. “I can’t sit here while she’s in danger, Griff.”
“Lots of people crowding that opera house. She won’t be in danger.”
“Lots of shadowy corners, as well,” Ford growled. “I’ve got to warn her away from him. What if he proposes to her tonight and she accepts? I can’t stand the thought of Beatrice shackled to that cur for life.”
“What are you going to do, burst into their box at the opera?”
“If I have to.”
“That’ll mean pistols at dawn, my boy. That’s how the Fancy do things.”
“I’m a crack shot.”
“I know you are, lad. I know you are. But what were you just saying about highborn and low? It wouldn’t be a fair fight. He’d find some way to cheat and you’d end up dead.”
Ford jumped off his stool. “I don’t care. I have to do something. I’m going to the opera.”
“You’re not dressed for the opera.”
“My money’s as good as theirs. I’ll bribe my way in if I have to.”
“One kiss and you’re willing to fight to the death for her.” Griff shook his head. “Oy, lad. You’ve got it bad.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Was it a real kiss this time?” Viola whispered, her eyes sparkling in the gaslit opera box.
“Very real.” Beatrice closed her eyes briefly, remembering the kiss. “Not imaginary in the least.” She glanced at her mother, who was occupied with perusing the gathering crowd below their box, leaving Beatrice free to have a whispered conversation with her friend. “I kissed him first, but that was a disaster since I connected with his nose instead of his lips, and then he, seeking to rectify matters, gave me a proper kiss. Wrong choice of words. There was nothing proper about it.”
Viola giggled. “Beatrice. I’m surprised at you.”
“Of course it can never happen again.” She knew that, but her traitorous mind kept imagining second kisses.
“Tell me all about it. Don’t leave anything out.”
The dowager duchess fit her opera glasses to her eyes, searching the crowd. “Where is Lord Mayhew? His mother promised that she would bring him to our box for an intimate tête-à-tête before the opera began.”
“I’m sure he’ll be along soon, Mama,” Beatrice said loudly. Her mother was seated in a velvet chair at one end of the built-in wooden table made to hold refreshments and opera programs, and Beatrice and Viola were at the other end.
Beatrice rolled her eyes at Viola. “Ugh. Mayhew. He’s been overly attentive lately.”
“I don’t see why not. You’re a great success now and each new gown you wear is more beautiful than the last. This one with the embroidered roses with diamonds for dewdrops is quite the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s dreadfully uncomfortable and very heavy.”
“I wish I had a new gown to wear.” Viola glanced down at her plain white muslin gown with its ordinary blue sash. Her father, a famous composer, was related to an earl by marriage, but a composer didn’t generate much income when he was going deaf.
Due to her father’s worsening infirmity, their income had been sorely reduced, and Viola had been forced to take employment as the music instructor to the Duke of Westbury’s five sisters.
“Take some of my gowns,” said Beatrice. “You’re welcome to them. I must have two dozen new ones hanging in my rooms.” She’d rather be wearing the same plain blue gowns she wore all summer in Cornwall.
“I don’t think they would fit me. I have a much more ample bosom.”
“The gentlemen won’t mind if your bosom can’t be fully contained,” Beatrice said with a wink.
Viola giggled. “I think that kiss has changed you, Beatrice. You’re much saucier now. I like the new you.”
“I see him!” exclaimed her mother. “Beatrice, smile at the earl.”
Beatrice dutifully glanced down into the crowd and pasted a smile on her face.
“He saw you,” her mother reported. “He’ll arrive soon, I have no doubt.”
Oh, joy. She had summoned a conceited windbag of an earl. The very last thing in the world she desired.
Her mother’s dearest friend, the Dowager Countess of Fletcher, arrived in a flurry of wavering ostrich feathers and the cloying scent of floral perfume.
“How are you, Lady Fletcher?” asked Beatrice.
“I’m very well, Lady Beatrice. You look lovely tonight, ladies.” Lady Fletcher settled into the empty seat next to Beatrice’s mother. “And what are you plotting now, my dear dowager duchess? I heard Mayhew’s name mentioned.”
The two older ladies bent their heads together, laughing and chattering like magpies.
“My mother’s been very secretive lately,” Beatrice whispered to her friend. “She’s plotting something, and I won’t know what it is until the very last moment, so that I can raise as few objections as possible.”
“Would you like me to make some inquiries to see if I can discover what she’s up to? I’m supposed to go and say hello to the conductor from my father, before the opera begins.”
“Would you? I’d like to know what her plans are, and there’s no use simply asking her because she enjoys keeping me in the dark.”
“It would be my pleasure. I’ll be back.” Viola slipped out of the box.
“Where’s Miss Beaton going?” her mother asked.
“She promised her father that she would give his regards to the conductor of the orchestra.”
“I do wish she’d take more care with her appearance. That gown must be two seasons old. I know her circumstances are
reduced, but surely they can afford at least a few new gowns. The girl is not lacking in beauty, but her dowdy clothing will attract her no suitors of quality.”
“Perhaps I’ll give her one of my gowns.”
“Absolutely not,” said her mother sternly, her normally placid face settling into a frown. “I don’t want her outshining you. Especially not at the costume ball next week.”
Her mother and her friend went back to passing judgment on the clothing of the other attendees and repeating the latest gossip.
Beatrice would rather be anywhere else than sitting here waiting for Mayhew to come and talk about himself. Thankfully, he wouldn’t stay long before going to his family box. She couldn’t take much more of his inanity without allowing her true feelings of revulsion to show. He always smelled overpoweringly of spiced cologne. She knew from experience that she’d smell it in the air for a full half hour after he left the box and even taste it in her mouth. How she detested the overuse of scents.
Ford used nothing more than soap, yet he always smelled delectable. And tasted even better.
Talking about the kiss had made her remember it vividly.
The rough touch of his hand on her cheek, sliding over her chin. The taste of his lips on hers . . . his tongue coaxing her mouth to open. The possessive grip of his hands around her waist.
“Are you cold, dear?” asked her mother. “You’re shivering. Here, take my wrap.”
“It’s the Parisian style of gown,” said Lady Fletcher. “It doesn’t cover the shoulders and bosom enough—she’ll catch a chill.”
This brought their conversation around to the subject of clothing, which would occupy her mother and Lady Fletcher until the performance began.
“I wonder what Miss Hind will be wearing tonight?” mused Lady Fletcher. “I heard that she dismantled her jewels and the diamonds were sewn to the bodice of her costume.”
“I heard that the opera house hired several policemen to guard the jewels,” Beatrice’s mother replied. “There she is!”
The ladies trained their glasses on the entrance of the scandalous prima donna who was rumored to be having an affair with a member of the royal family.
Beatrice couldn’t care less about jewels sewn on bodices.
All she wanted to do was relive forbidden kisses.
Ford wasn’t dressed for the opera but he didn’t care. Women were still giving him appreciative glances as he made his way through the crowd. Normally he would have returned those glances, assessing any offers, but tonight there was only one woman he wanted to see—and she was floating above him, so far out of reach she may as well be on another continent.
He craned his neck to see her, wishing he had a pair of those little magnifying glasses on a stick that everyone was waving about. He stopped walking, and someone bumped into him and cursed in his direction.
Finally he located her box by searching for the glow of her red hair. She sat with her mother and another mature matron. As he watched, a fair-haired man wearing elegant black evening dress entered the box and bowed over her hand.
Mayhew.
The bastard was practically sticking his nose in her cleavage.
And Beatrice was smiling up at him, fluttering her lashes and laughing at something he’d said.
Ford’s jaw locked, and white-hot resentment obliterated all rational thought. That vile abuser had the right to bow over her hand and Ford was stuck down here, powerless to do anything about it.
Ford glared at them with rising fury. His fists clenched.
He couldn’t allow that man to propose to her. What if she bowed to the pressure from her mother, from society, and accepted him? His heart clenched along with his fists.
He didn’t belong in this glittering world, but he wasn’t going to stand down here like an impotent fool any longer.
He had to go up there and warn her.
He began pushing his way through the crowd. He didn’t care if he had to fight his way to her door and oust Mayhew by the collar.
“Mr. Wright, is that you?” A soft touch on Ford’s elbow drew his attention.
“It’s Miss Beaton, don’t you remember me? Why, whatever is the matter? You look ready to kill someone.”
“I have to speak with Lady Beatrice. I have to warn her about something. Someone. I’m going up there to speak with her.”
“My, that would cause quite a scene. You’re not dressed.”
“I’m wearing clothes.”
“Not the right ones.”
“I don’t care about any of that. I have to talk to her.”
“Mr. Wright, stop a moment. Listen to me. You can’t charge in there. It will put everything in jeopardy—Beatrice, the future of the bookshop, your very life. If you care about her, if you want to continue your work, then you have to calm down and come with me. I know a back way. And there’s an empty box at the end of the row.”
Ford realized that Miss Beaton was on his side. “You’ll bring her to me?”
“I’ll find a way. It might take a little while. Once you’re in the unoccupied box, you should try to relax. You might even enjoy some opera.”
“I doubt that.”
“Not an opera lover?”
“Don’t know, and don’t care.”
“Don’t dismiss what you haven’t tried. Wait until you hear the Queen of the Night’s most famous aria. It’s fiendishly difficult. I hope the soprano is ready for all of that coloratura and the top F.”
“I’m not here for the arias. I have to talk to Lady Beatrice.”
“My, so impatient.” She hit his arm playfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll give her the message.”
“If you don’t, I’m coming in.”
Mayhew had finally left. Her mother and Lady Fletcher would gossip and play cards through the opera, stopping only to scrutinize the prima donna as she sang her arias.
Viola reentered the box and sat beside Beatrice. “I discovered two things,” she whispered. “The first is that your mother has been spreading the rumor that Mayhew will propose to you at the costume ball at your house—and that you will accept.”
Beatrice’s temperature rose. “She’s delusional if she thinks I’ll accept a proposal from that bombastic braggart.”
“The second is that there is a highly volatile and possessive rogue waiting for you in the empty box down the hall.”
“Wright?” she whispered urgently, her heartbeat starting to gallop.
Viola nodded. “He says he has something urgent to tell you.”
Beatrice’s first thought was Foxton. He’d been back to the bookshop and made more threats. It must be dire if Ford had come here to talk to her.
Beatrice looked at her mother. She was absorbed in her game of cards. Mayhew had already visited and been promised the first dance at the costume ball, so her mother’s goal for the evening had been achieved.
“Mama?”
“Yes?” Her mother didn’t even glance up from her hand of cards.
“May Viola and I take a brief turn down the hallway and back? I’m feeling somewhat faint and would like a little exercise.”
“Handsome earls do tend to make ladies feel dizzy,” said Lady Fletcher with an insinuating smile.
“Yes, dear,” her mother said distractedly. “Don’t be gone too long.”
Chapter Fifteen
“What is it, Ford? What’s so urgent?” Beatrice asked. He was a hulking shadow in the unlit and unoccupied box.
“Shh.” Ford pulled her inside and drew the curtains, enclosing them in darkness and red velvet. “We can’t let anyone see us.”
“I know that. I’m taking quite a risk coming here. I only have until the end of this aria. Viola is keeping watch outside. Is it Foxton? Did he return to the shop?”
“It’s not Foxton.”
“It’s not? Then it must be Mrs. Kettle or Mr. Coggins. Has something happened to one of the servants?”
“It’s not the servants.” He grasped her shoulders. “It’s Mayhew. I don’
t want you talking to him.”
“Mayhew?” She laughed softly. “Is that all? He’s harmless.”
“No, he’s really not. I don’t want you talking to him, laughing at his jokes, gazing up at him, or allowing him to stare down your bodice. And you definitely can’t marry the man.” He let go of her shoulders. “That is all. You may go back now.”
Her jaw dropped. “Seriously? And here I thought you had something truly important to say. You came all the way here . . .” She sniffed the air. “From the pub, if I’m not mistaken, to tell me what I can and can’t do.” She tossed her head. “I get quite enough of that from my mother, thank you very much.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve just heard a story about Mayhew that would make your blood run cold. He’s dangerous.”
“What story?”
“I was in a pub by the docks and a barmaid told me that Mayhew had . . . violated her sister. He lured her with promises and then cast her away like a soiled glove.”
Her stomach dropped. “He can’t get away with that.”
“He already has. Happens all the time. Wealthy men treat the dockside taverns as their hunting grounds. Promise me you won’t marry him. Promise me.”
“Or . . . ?”
“Or I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?” She rested her hand on his chest. “You’ll kiss me into acquiescence?”
Now why had she said that?
He narrowed his eyes. “No more kisses. That was a mistake.”
“Obviously.”
“I was going to say that I’d burst into his opera box and drag him out by his collar and give him a drubbing.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Ford. Do you honestly think I would be featherbrained enough to marry someone like Mayhew?”
“I don’t know, Beatrice. I saw you flirting with him, laughing up at him.” His hands curled into fists by his sides. “I saw him staring down your bodice.”