Love Is a Rogue

by Lenora Bell

  It felt so right to hold her, fold her into his arms. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. He scuffed his boot against the molding. “I had an idea last night, after you left.”

  She pulled back a little. “About the manuscript?”

  “Yes. But I have to show you, and it’s upstairs in the bedroom.”

  The unspoken words hovered there. Could they trust themselves to go into the bedroom together?

  “You think you know where to find it?” she asked.

  “I think you’ll know, when you see what I show you.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” She grabbed him by the hand and practically dragged him up the stairs. He laughed. When the lady was on the scent of an ancient manuscript, nothing got in her way.

  When they arrived in Aunt Matilda’s bedchamber, he brought her to the portrait. “Remember that her letter said ‘let me point the way’ and you took it literally to mean that her body was pointing in that direction?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Well, I thought, she’s reading a book. Perhaps there are words somewhere on the book that might give us a clue.”

  “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it?” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and peered at the book in her aunt’s hands. “She’s reading the Revelations. I didn’t notice because it was written in Latin instead of Old English. And the letters look like a recent addition—the paint strokes are fresher. And beneath the title”—she bent forward—“it says in French, une chamber avec vue. A room with a view.”

  She grabbed hold of his arm. “Ford. We have to go back to the reading room. The view of the Thames and the steps leading down to the river.”

  She raced back down the stairs. He’d known she would cleverly put it all together.

  What an intellect. It made him want to kiss her in the worst way.

  But they were on the hunt for an ancient manuscript.

  When they entered the room, he pushed the desk out from the wall and dropped to his knees in front of the window, searching the floorboards for cracks. Almost immediately, he found what he was looking for. He pulled his trusty versatile tool out of his pocket and opened it to the blade.

  He scraped around the edges of the board, working it loose, and then pried it up with the flat of his blade. It lifted easily. He reached his hand inside the exposed cavity and found the wrapped parcel.

  He brought it out and handed it to Beatrice.

  She accepted it with an expression of awe, holding the bundle as if it were an infant. “My treasured one, you’ve found a good home. I’ll take care of you.”

  Ford couldn’t take much more of her sweet words and the joy in her eyes. He made a show of replacing the board and moving the desk back into place.

  “I don’t even want to unwrap it yet, Ford. I want to live in this moment of discovery forever.”

  He wanted to unwrap her. She was too lovely in the morning sun, holding her precious book.

  She set the wrapped parcel carefully onto the shelves he’d built her. “Ford, we’ll find a way to keep this property, I know we will.” She touched his cheek lightly.

  “Beatrice, when you say we'll find a way to keep this property, it sounds like you think we could have a future together.” He placed his hand over hers. They stood like that for a few seconds, their hands joined, their gazes locked.

  “When I'm here with you in this house, I believe that anything is possible,” she replied softly.

  He kissed her fiercely, reveling in her sweet scent and the softness of her skin. The blazing intellect that burned through her words and the bravery with which she faced the world.

  The mingling of their lips was nearly desperate, close to bruising, a driving urge to imprint themselves, to make this memory last forever.

  She was wearing the same blue gown she’d worn in Cornwall, simple and pretty. “I like this one of your gowns the best.”

  “It’s my favorite, as well.”

  “And this hairstyle is so easy to undo,” he said in a husky voice, following his words with action.

  Her red curls bounced over her shoulders, beckoning his fingers.

  They were probably going to run back up those stairs in a few seconds.

  “Beatrice? Where are you?” A high-pitched voice intruded into their idyll.

  She jerked away from him, her face panic-stricken. “My mother!”

  He dropped his arm from her waist. They stared at each other, frozen, for the space of a few seconds, and then they both began to move.

  Pins back in her hair. His shirt tangling as he hastily fastened the buttons. The sound of footsteps on the stairs and another call of “Beatrice?”

  “Mrs. Kettle and Coggins must have returned and they let my mother in,” she whispered. She touched her lips, which were pink and swollen. “She can’t see me like this.”

  “No,” he said grimly. “She can’t. You’ll have to hide. Quickly, under the desk.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Beatrice crouched beneath the desk. Her mother entered the room.

  Don’t look down, Mama.

  “Have you seen my daughter? She left a note that she’d be here, and the housekeeper told me she was upstairs.”

  “Good day, Your Grace,” Ford said smoothly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you calling as I was hammering these shelves.” He held up a hammer. “Lady Beatrice was here, but she left shortly before you arrived. I think she said she was going to visit a Miss Mayberry.”

  “That’s back in Mayfair. I wonder why she didn’t take the carriage today. I don’t like her walking when she’s feeling ill. She must have slipped away without the servants seeing her. Are you the carpenter my daughter employed?”

  “Stamford Wright.” He bowed. “At your service. Would you care for a tour of the improvements I’ve made on the first level?”

  Beatrice’s nose tickled; it was dusty beneath the desk. She was going to sneeze. Oh lord. She held her nose and tried breathing through her mouth.

  “I don’t want a tour, Wright. I want you to return to Mayfair with me,” the dowager duchess said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I’m hosting a costume ball this evening and everything is in a shambles. I had a set piece designed for Lady Beatrice, and it’s completely unstable and not fit to be seen. I want you to come and fix it for me.”

  “Er . . .”

  “It’s only for an hour. I’ll hear no protests. My daughter can spare you for an hour. Come along.” Her mother always did get what she wanted.

  They left the room together, and Beatrice listened until the carriage wheels crunched away before emerging from her hiding place.

  That had been entirely too close of a thing.

  When she arrived home, Hobbs informed her that her mother wanted her in the ballroom. “Such a to-do, Lady Beatrice,” he said as he took her pelisse and bonnet. “This ball will truly be a memorable occasion.”

  Her mother was in the ballroom, standing over Ford’s shoulder as he fitted wheels onto a wooden cart of some sort. “Beatrice! You’re here at last. Come and see! This is what I’ve been planning.”

  She approached, pretending to feign surprise at seeing Ford. “Mr. Wright?”

  “I borrowed him for an hour. The other carpenter ruined everything, and Wright is doing an admirable job on the repairs.”

  He caught Beatrice’s gaze for a brief moment before returning to his work.

  Seeing him made her blush, thinking of what they’d been about to do.

  Her mother caught her hand. “Well, I see the fresh air has done you good, you look blooming.”

  “Mother, what is this?”

  It appeared to be an elaborate bed in front of a painted backdrop depicting a lush meadow filled with flowers and birds. The bed was mounted on a wooden frame that curved up at the sides, and the entire affair was set atop four wheels.

  “It’s your bower, Your Ladyship,” said Ford.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” her mother e
xclaimed rapturously.

  “Why does it have wheels?”

  “Because you’re going to be rolled into the ballroom, reclining upon your bower. Oh, how I wish your brothers would be here. I would have them roll you in. As it is, I’ll have to use footmen. Mr. Wright, I request that you attend tonight to make certain there are no mishaps with the wheels.”

  “She’s lighter than a feather, Your Grace,” Ford said, “and I’ll build these wheels to last. Never fear.”

  “Excellent. That’s exactly the reassurance I needed to hear.” She pulled Beatrice toward the arrangements of red hothouse roses arranged at intervals along the walls. “Aren’t they lovely?”

  “Surpassingly.” She plucked a red rose.

  “Don’t do that, my dear. You’ll spoil the arrangement.”

  “What is my costume to be, Mama? You still haven’t told me.”

  “You’ll see soon enough. Mrs. Adler will arrive any moment now. And how was Miss Mayberry?”

  Beatrice stared blankly for a moment before remembering Ford’s story. “Ah, er, she’s doing well. She’ll be here tonight.”

  “What will her costume be?”

  “I believe she’s attending as the scales of balance.”

  “Well that should be interesting. Such a strange girl, Miss Mayberry. Almost totally lacking in feminine graces.”

  It was disconcerting seeing Ford inside her brother’s house. He looked as confident and commanding as ever. He never changed, no matter the setting.

  She wanted to go to him. Pull him upstairs to her room to show him the pile of books by her bedside. He’d built her those bookshelves, and she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he’d been trying to tell her something with his gift.

  “Are you listening, Beatrice?”

  “I’m sorry, Mama, what were you saying?”

  “I was not at all satisfied with the way you waltzed at the last ball we attended. Your steps were very poorly executed and your carriage was insufficiently erect.”

  Beatrice thought she heard a soft snort of laughter from Ford’s direction. Yes, her mother had said erect. The man had a filthy mind.

  And so did she, when it came to rogues who had been about to carry her into bedrooms.

  “I’ll do better tonight, Mama.”

  “It’s your carriage and the position of your neck the critics will be scrutinizing. Mr. Wright,” called her mother. “Do you waltz?”

  Ford turned. “I know how to waltz. But I don’t care for dancing.”

  “Overcome your distaste and help me, Wright. This is an urgent matter.”

  “Mother,” Beatrice said, “he doesn’t want to waltz, and neither do I. I’m rather tired. May I go upstairs?”

  “Not yet. I want to see you waltz. Every detail must be perfect tonight.” She sailed over to Ford. “Mr. Wright, indulge me for a moment. Come to the center of the floor”—she led him out by the hand—“so that I may show my daughter the correct posture for the waltz.”

  Beatrice nearly broke into laughter when she saw the expression of helpless horror on Ford’s face as her mother positioned his arms to her liking and then stepped into them . . . and led him into a waltz.

  “Now see, Beatrice,” her mother said. “Observe how the angle of my head makes my neck appear longer. Very nice, Wright. You’ll do much better for dancing practice than Hobbs, and that’s certain. Are you watching, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice chuckled softly. “I’m watching.”

  Ford glowered at her as he spun around the dance floor with her mother in his arms.

  “There, now, it’s your turn,” said her mother breathlessly, curtsying to Ford and stepping away.

  Ford held out his hand. “Lady Beatrice,” he said in his low, compelling voice. “May I have this dance?”

  Her mother clapped her hands. “That’s perfect, Wright. Join in the spirit of things.”

  The laughter died on Beatrice’s lips. All of the smolder had flared back to life in Ford’s eyes. Couldn’t her mother see it? He was practically devouring her with his gaze.

  The temptation in that simple question was too much to resist.

  Yes, I’ll dance with you. I’ll take you to my bed. I’d board a ship with you, if you asked me in that wicked way.

  “I would be honored, Mr. Wright.” She walked to him, holding his gaze.

  She handed him the red rose she’d plucked and he tucked it into a buttonhole of his coat.

  “Now, take her in your arms, Wright. And Beatrice, lift your chin, you look like a turtle. And arch your back slightly, there, that’s better . . . One, two, three. One, two, three.”

  Her mother’s voice receded into the background. All that existed was Ford’s hand on her waist, his fingers closed around hers.

  I’m sorry, she mouthed.

  “Don’t be,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m enjoying myself.”

  She breathed the sweet scent of the rose. What would her mother do if Beatrice and Ford ended this waltz with a searing kiss?

  Probably collapse on the floor and have to be wheeled out on that bower.

  Hobbs came into the room and handed her mother something, and she left with him.

  Ford slipped his hand lower, over her hip. The impact of that possessive gesture hit her full force in the chest. Yearning filled her heart.

  He stroked his thumb over her palm. “So soft.”

  She felt both fearless and tentative, the new Beatrice, the one who waltzed with her lover in her mother’s ballroom.

  She wanted to run her hands over his bare flesh. She wanted to be shaped by him, in return.

  “How’s my favorite little sister?” a gruff voice asked.

  Beatrice dropped Ford’s hand and spun around. “Drew!” She raced toward her brother, arms outstretched, and flung herself into his embrace. “You’re back!”

  “Beatrice, sweetheart. Let me look at you.” She laughed as her brother held her at arm’s length. “What’s happened while I’ve been away? You’re positively glowing.”

  Beatrice glanced at Ford, who had moved back to his work and taken up his hammer. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “Where’s Mina?”

  “She’s feeling a bit off—went upstairs with mother. She’ll be down soon. What’s all this?”

  “Rehearsals for the costume ball tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Drew groaned loudly. “Dear God, no.”

  “Afraid so. And you know you’ll be expected to attend as the guest of honor. In fact, you’ll probably have to wheel me into the ballroom on that ridiculous contraption over there.”

  “What the devil is that?”

  “A mobile bower.”

  “Wright? Is that you?” Drew asked. “What are you doing here?”

  Ford stopped hammering at the floral bower and bowed. “Your Grace.”

  “Thought you’d be back at sea by now,” said Drew. “And your father, is he fully recovered?”

  “Back on his feet and already repairing the mews.”

  “I’d expect no less. So you’re in London and my mother found out and hired you?”

  “Actually, Lady Beatrice hired me.”

  A puzzled frown appeared on Drew’s face. “Hired you, for what?”

  Beatrice hooked her arm into her brother’s elbow. “So many things have happened since you’ve been away. I inherited a bookshop from Aunt Matilda—did you know about her?—and Mr. Wright has been helping me repair the roof and patch the flooring. He’s done a wonderful job! It’s going to be the new clubhouse for the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League, that is if another prospective heir doesn’t win his dubious claim.”

  “I’ve been gone too long.” There were mauve shadows under her brother’s eyes and new lines around his mouth.

  “My ship arrives day after next,” Ford said. “Before I leave London, I’d like to speak with you on a business matter, Your Grace, but it can wait until tomorrow, after you’ve reunited with your f
amily.”

  “Why don’t you join me in the billiard room? I could use a drop of something to calm my stomach. Still feel as though I’m standing on the deck of the ship.”

  “I know the feeling,” Ford replied.

  The dowager appeared at that moment. “Andrew, my love, you can’t take my carpenter away. Not when I’ve just found him. The bower will be complete by tonight, won’t it, Mr. Wright?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Wright, you’ll attend the ball as my guest,” Drew said. “I’ll invite some naval officers. It will do your career good to be seen hobnobbing with dukes.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Ford stiffly, his back straight. “I don’t own any formal wear.”

  Drew clapped him on the back. “It’s a costume ball, so you can wear anything you like and I won’t take no for an answer. You’ll be my guest. And he’ll keep an eye on the bower, Mother. He’ll make sure everything goes smoothly. Wright always gets things done. Now about that drink . . .”

  Drew winked at Beatrice and then steered Ford out of the room.

  Beatrice knew that Ford had been waiting to talk to her brother. It had been his goal all along. Now that the shop was renovated and her brother had returned, he really had no reason to remain in London.

  As her mother chattered about costumes and dance cards, Beatrice couldn’t help thinking that tonight might be the last time she ever saw Ford.

  The thought pierced her heart, leaving a pain that was almost physical.

  If he attended the ball tonight, she’d be expected to ignore him while lavishing attention on people she was at best indifferent to, and at worst loathed passionately.

  She could never ignore Ford.

  The seed of an idea began to germinate in her mind. A proper lady was supposed to wait for a gentleman to ask her to dance.

  But Ford was no gentleman, and Beatrice no longer followed the rules of propriety.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thorndon waved away his servants and poured Ford a brandy. They sat in comfortable chairs by a roaring fire and the duke loosened his cravat.

  “It’s an unexpected pleasure to see you, Wright. And it’s wonderful to be back in England.”