Love Is a Rogue

by Lenora Bell

  “He does.” She hadn’t meant to admit any of this, but her friends were so dear to her and she was tired of suppressing her emotions.

  “Maybe you can find a way to be together,” said Viola, ever the romantic.

  “There’s another obstacle thrown in our path, ladies. Foxton visited the shop today and threatened me with the possibility of another heir to challenge my ownership of the property.”

  “We’ll fight him,” said Isobel. “We’ll fight him to the death! He doesn’t know about me, for example, or my access to legal records.”

  “Why are men so threatened by the idea of allowing women to have any power?” asked Viola.

  “Ford . . . Wright suggested that we pay this potential heir a visit.” Beatrice sighed. “And there’s the problem of Mayhew. I’ll never marry him, obviously, but I haven’t found a way to inform my mother that all of her hopes are in vain.”

  “Your mother lives in a fantasy world,” said Viola. “She thinks that if she sets the stage and writes the script, that you’ll learn to speak your lines like an obedient girl and accept the handsome prince, and live happily ever after.”

  “Poor Mama,” said Beatrice. “She’s in for a rude shock. You know, I’ve been thinking. We women are all so critical of ourselves. We’re too plump, or too thin. Too tall, or too short. Our hair is too curly, or too straight. We live in a society that rewards conformity to a strict set of physical standards and an even more rigid set of rules for proper behavior. We have these unpleasant thoughts running round and round in our minds. Wouldn’t it be revolutionary if we decided to love ourselves exactly the way we are?”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Viola, clinking her glass against Beatrice’s.

  “I have an idea,” said Beatrice. “My mother won’t like it, but it’s not about her.” As she told her friends what she was planning, they nodded enthusiastically and offered helpful suggestions.

  “Your mother will probably never let you speak to us again after this,” said Viola.

  Her friends helped her with the transformation, keeping the maids from the room and watching for her mother.

  No one disturbed them and soon Beatrice was ready.

  “Are you certain that you want to do this?” Isobel asked her solemnly.

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” Beatrice replied. “I’ve decided to stop hiding for the benefit of others. I intend to be wholly me.”

  She inhaled, held the breath for a moment, and exhaled, thinking of Ford. He’d given her this idea. Casting her bonnet into the street, praising her choice of gown in Cornwall, and telling her to break free from her mother’s control.

  To breathe. To be fully present. To take risks and live life to the fullest. Unburdened by shame or by fear.

  She was tired of the bonnets and the blindfolds.

  It was time to emerge from her chrysalis.

  The costume Thorndon had given him fit Ford perfectly.

  Tight black trousers, shiny black boots, a white shirt with lace at the throat and cuffs, a long black silk cape with a high collar, and a black tricorn hat.

  A black silk mask that tied at the back of his head completed the highwayman costume.

  Ford didn’t give one goddamn about London high society and its exclusionary and frivolous entertainments, but he did care about Beatrice, and how she saw him. In this mask he was a mysterious marauder, come to steal her breath away.

  He strode through the crowded ballroom with his customary swagger, and every highborn lady in the room followed him with glittering eyes behind their masks.

  Sorry, ladies. I’m here for one woman, and one woman only.

  And she was going to be wheeled into this ballroom on a bed atop a wooden platform laden with flowers, fruit, and birds like some sacrifice to the gods.

  But he’d be the one to claim her, if only for one waltz. For one night.

  He’d show everyone in this room, and Mayhew in particular, that the lady was his, and his alone. And, let’s be honest, he wanted to steal a kiss on the balcony.

  And another.

  As many as he could. He was well and truly addicted to Lady Beatrice Bentley.

  “Admiral, this is the man I was telling you about, Stamford Wright.” Thorndon approached with a naval officer in tow. “Wright, this is Admiral Sir Francis Emsworth.”

  “Wright. You’re about to sail on the HMS Boadicea, I hear?” asked the admiral.

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “You look an able-bodied sailor, Wright. We require stalwart men in the Royal Navy. I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll see about having you posted to a first-rate three-decker. How does that sound? You’d see more action that way.”

  More action. More bodies to feed the roiling cauldron of the sea.

  Maybe his own body weighted down by cannonball shards and growing seaweed in his hair at the bottom of the ocean.

  “That sounds brilliant, sir. I’m honored.”

  “Pretty ladies here tonight, Thorndon. And you can’t tell which one is your wife and which one your mistress with all of these masks, eh?”

  Thorndon didn’t crack a smile. He was dressed in a similar costume to Ford, with a black cape with a red silk lining, but no tricorn hat. “I have no mistress and never will. One woman is all I can handle.”

  The admiral shrugged. “To each his own.”

  “What are you supposed to be, Your Grace?” Ford asked.

  Thorndon pulled his black silk cape over his face with one arm. “I’m a bloodthirsty vampire. Now where is that pretty wife of mine? I want to bite her neck.”

  Thorndon and the admiral left.

  Ford intended to stay right here in the center of the throng, ready for Beatrice’s grand entrance. The moment had arrived. A hush fell over the crowd as the orchestra began a dreamy melody with lots of quivering notes from the violins.

  Soon Beatrice would glide through the doors, hidden at first by the high sides of the bower, and then she would rise in her glittering silk gown with her hair towered high and probably stuck all over with flowers and feathers, and, who knew? Perhaps an actual bow and arrow. Ford wouldn’t put anything past that mother of hers.

  He was here to applaud her triumph, and he wanted her to see him watching.

  The rolling wooden bower appeared with Miss Mayberry and Miss Beaton pushing it from behind, trailed by some very confused looking footmen.

  They wheeled it into the center of the ballroom, and the footmen opened the hinged sides of the platform to reveal Beatrice reclining in her boudoir, propped up on one elbow.

  She plucked an apple from the basket of fruit and took a large bite.

  The room went completely silent.

  The dowager duchess emitted a high squeaking sound.

  Beatrice smiled that breathtaking, lopsided smile of hers, and stepped down from her bower with the aid of her friends.

  Instead of a frothing silk ball gown, she wore the simple blue dress. The one he liked the best.

  Her hair was loose and long. She looked like a dreamy Arthurian maiden from a painting in a museum, coppery red curls rioting over her shoulders and down nearly to her waist.

  She held the apple in one hand, and a book in the other.

  She wore no mask, and her spectacles caught and reflected the light from the chandeliers overhead. She held her head high, regal as any princess, as she stepped forth, setting the apple down but keeping the book.

  “Greetings,” she said, nodding to a guest. “How are you this evening, Lady Livingstone?”

  It came to him in a blinding flash. This wasn’t the costume she was meant to be wearing.

  She’d thrown her mother’s elaborate costume away. She was taking a stand. Drawing a line in the sand.

  This was Beatrice in all of her bookish glory.

  And Ford wanted to fall at her feet.

  He began applauding, loudly, wanting her to know that he understood the purpose of her performance and he celebrated her choice. At f
irst it was just him standing there, clapping his hands, but then Thorndon joined in the applause.

  Once the duke was clapping, everyone had to join in.

  Thorndon gave him a brief smile as the applause swelled.

  Beatrice met his gaze from across the room. She gave him a smile, and his heart expanded to fill his entire body.

  She was too gorgeous, his Beatrice. The one with ink stains on her fingers and books in her pockets.

  He’d been deluding himself since the day he met her.

  She was the reason he’d agreed to work on the bookshop—not his grandfather.

  When she’d visited him at the docks in that travesty of a bonnet that blinkered her from the world, he’d thrown it away, and latched on to her like a life preserver in a stormy sea.

  Cold, unwelcoming London had grown a heart, and that heart beat inside a woman brave enough to defy her mother in public. Bold enough to claim this ballroom as her own.

  She’d claimed his heart from the very first moment he saw her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Well that went as well as could be expected, I’d say,” said Viola.

  “Is my mother still breathing?” asked Beatrice.

  “Mina is there with her, offering her a glass of punch,” Isobel reported.

  “That tall masked highwayman started clapping and then everyone joined in. I think you have a mysterious admirer, Beatrice.”

  “Not mysterious.” She’d known him instantly. No mask could hide those handsome features, that chiseled jaw, those mismatched blue eyes.

  He’d applauded and her heart had soared into the chandeliers. He’d been swallowed up by the crowd but she knew he was there, and that he cared for her, and she meant to find him and claim him for a waltz.

  “It’s Mr. Wright, isn’t it?” asked Viola, her eyes dancing. “He makes a dashing highwayman. Maybe he’ll throw you over his shoulder and kidnap you.”

  That would be fine with Beatrice. She was still walking on air, her heart speeding with the knowledge of what she’d done. She felt powerful and more than a little drunk, even though she’d only touched her lips to the wine.

  She took her friends’ arms. “Shall we, ladies?”

  “We shall,” they said in unison.

  They walked through the crowded room, arms linked and heads held high.

  “That was quite the entrance, Bea.” Rafe kissed her on the cheek. He wore a green Robin Hood costume with a peaked cap stuck with a jaunty feather. “Wouldn’t have missed that performance for the world. I gather that’s not the costume you’re meant to be wearing?”

  “Not even close,” she replied.

  “Her other costume was much more elaborate, Lord Rafe,” said Viola.

  “Good evening, Miss Beaton.” Rafe made a flourishing bow. “Miss Mayberry.” He doffed his cap for Isobel, who performed the briefest of curtsies in return. She’d always disapproved of Rafe’s wild, and purportedly criminal, ways.

  Beatrice searched the crowd for Ford. His tricorn hat shouldn’t be difficult to find.

  “Looking for someone, Bea?” Rafe asked.

  “A certain tall, dark, and handsome highwayman, perhaps?” Viola asked.

  Beatrice noticed a young girl wedged between the potted ferns and the wall. “I think we have another wallflower to befriend.” She nodded toward the girl, who looked truly miserable, the feathers on her straw bonnet drooping to match her forlorn expression.

  “A new recruit!” said Viola.

  “Ladies,” Rafe said with a bow. “I have an assignation with a brandy bottle.”

  “He hasn’t changed at all,” said Isobel, watching Rafe walk away. “It’s a shame he’s such an inebriate. He has a fine head on his shoulders but it’s always sloshing with brandy.”

  The three of them headed for the ferns.

  “Good evening,” said Beatrice.

  “Oh. Good evening,” said the girl, glancing around to make sure they were addressing her.

  “I used to hide exactly in that spot during balls,” said Beatrice. “We won’t all four fit, though.”

  “I suppose n-not,” the girl stammered, her cheeks turning beet red.

  “I’m Lady Beatrice Bentley, and this is Miss Beaton and Miss Mayberry. Might I know your name?”

  “I’m Lady Philippa Bramble. This is only my second ball. I’m new to London. Thank you for inviting me, Lady Beatrice.”

  “You don’t mean that. You’re having a terrible time.”

  “I was until I saw you emerge in your spectacles holding your book. It was splendid. I love your costume. I wish I could wear a simple gown instead of this hideous creation.”

  “What are you meant to be?” asked Viola.

  “I’m not quite sure.” Lady Philippa glanced down at her dress with a woeful expression. “I think I’m meant to be a shepherdess?” She wore a straw bonnet and a wide, ruffled gown all in white. “Though I feel more like the sheep.”

  Beatrice laughed. “You don’t like balls. It’s all right, you can admit it.”

  “I don’t like speaking to strangers, present company excluded. I’m no good with conversation. I’d rather be anywhere else, really.”

  “I like you, Lady Philippa,” said Beatrice. “Isobel, do you have one of our cards?”

  Isobel extracted a card from the small reticule she had looped around her wrist by a silken cord. “Come to the next meeting of our ladies society. You’d be most welcome.”

  “Th-thank you. Though I don’t know how to knit.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Viola assured her.

  Beatrice caught sight of Ford near the refreshment table. “Ladies, I think I’ll just go and have a glass of punch.”

  Viola followed her gaze. “A long, tall glass.”

  Beatrice hurried across the room, but people kept stopping her to offer insincere flattery. Luckily, she didn’t see her mother. That was a conversation she dreaded.

  When she finally made it to the refreshments, Ford had disappeared again. Frustrated, she stood on her tiptoes, searching the room for a tricorn hat.

  A head of blond curls suddenly blocked her vision. “Lady Beatrice,” Mayhew said, “I was told you would be garbed as Pysche. See? I’m your Cupid.”

  He preened for her in his fawn-colored tights and white toga. “I have a quiver of arrows waiting to pierce your heart.”

  “Mayhew,” she said icily.

  “You look flushed. Why don’t we take some air.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the nearby balcony door.

  Beatrice dug her heels against the waxed ballroom floor. “I don’t want to. I’m looking for a friend.”

  “A brief conversation, my lady.” He caught her eye and raised one eyebrow. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  Beatrice’s heart sank. She’d always known she’d have to refuse Mayhew at some point. There was no use hiding from this onerous duty. “Very well. A brief conversation.”

  He led her through the balcony doors. It was a cold evening and Beatrice shivered. “Very brief, Lord Mayhew.”

  He dropped to one knee in front of her and attempted to take her hand, which she promptly snatched away. “Lady Beatrice, you must know what I’m about to ask you.”

  “I have a sinking suspicion.”

  “Our mothers have arrived at an understanding.”

  “Have they?”

  “And now it’s up to us to fulfill their fondest hopes and desires. I agree it will be an excellent match. I’m willing to overlook your eccentricities, and you’ll be gaining the most sought-after groom in all of London.”

  Beatrice couldn’t stand the smug smile on his face. Her shoulders shook with rage. He actually thought he was doing her a favor.

  “Lord Mayhew, let me be extremely clear. I would never marry you. Not in a million years.”

  “Pardon me?” An expression of disbelief descended over his face. “I must not have heard you correctly.” He rose to his feet gra
cefully, towering over her while storm clouds gathered in his eyes.

  Beatrice threw back her shoulders. “I know what you did to that barmaid, Mayhew. And I’m sure she’s not the only innocent you’ve debauched and discarded.”

  His face blanched. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I was told that you would accept my proposal of marriage.”

  “You were told wrongly, then.”

  “You won’t have a better offer.”

  “There couldn’t possibly be a worse one.”

  “Now see here, you drab little eccentric, you should be thanking me.” He propped his hand against the doorframe, effectively blocking her path back to the ballroom.

  She’d broken her promise to Ford that she would never be alone with Mayhew. But she’d thought she’d be safe at her mother’s ball, on the balcony only a short distance from the crowded ballroom filled with laughing, dancing people.

  “Let me go back to the ballroom,” she said evenly.

  “Not until you agree to be my wife.”

  “That’s never going to happen.”

  “I need your dowry and you’re going to give it to me.”

  “Oh, now we get to the heart of it. I’m only a dowry to you. You’ll never have me or my money, Mayhew.”

  “I’ll have both. You know it’s the thing to do. You’ll come round.”

  “The lady refused your proposal. Now leave,” said a gruff voice.

  Ford. Coming to her rescue again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Beatrice wanted to applaud Ford, as he’d applauded her in the ballroom. He was every inch the highwayman, appearing suddenly in a whirl of black silk and flashing ice blue eyes set off by his black mask.

  “Leave this ball right now or I’ll break your nose and blood will drip all over that dainty white toga,” he growled.

  “I’d call you out if I knew your name, sir,” said Mayhew.

  “And I’d kill you from any distance, with any choice of weapons,” Ford replied.

  Beatrice shivered, from the night air and from the lethal edge in Ford’s voice. She had no doubt that he could make good on that threat.

  “You’d better leave, Mayhew,” she said. “Before you do something truly stupid. No one’s seen any of this. You can leave now with your nose intact.”