by Lenora Bell
“Let me make a speech first.”
“I’m leaving,” said Foxton.
“No, you’re not.” His daughters linked arms, standing in front of the doorway.
“Is it happening?” asked Isobel and Viola, appearing in the doorway. “Is it our turn?”
Tears gathered behind Beatrice’s eyes. Blast. This wasn’t at all how she’d wanted the scene to go. Everyone must be staring at them, but all she could see was Ford.
The sunflower in his eye. His powerful shoulders.
“Mr. Wright is down on one knee,” Viola whispered. “Hush now.”
“Lady Beatrice Bentley, you make me believe that love is stronger than hate. That good can triumph over evil. That a carpenter can find love with a lady. I swear to you that I will work my fingers to the bone to give you the life you deserve.”
“And what life is that?” she asked.
“A life where you never want for anything, a large house and a commodious carriage. Perhaps not so grand as what you’re accustomed to, but something you can be proud of.”
“Is that what I want?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Ford, I thought you knew me better. You’re talking about some Beatrice you’ve created in your mind. A princess on a pedestal. That’s not me at all. We could live in a one-room cottage and I’d be happy.”
“But where would you put all of your books?”
“Well, perhaps a one-room cottage with a large library attached?”
“You’ll need money to buy paper and ink.”
“True. But those aren’t extravagant requirements.”
“I may not be able to keep you in diamonds, but I want to keep you in the best ink, the finest quills, and the thickest paper.”
“And I want to be by your side, ripping up floorboards, patching roofs, and learning how to use more tools. I want to build beautiful things with you, Ford. A life. A . . . family. Four walls and a roof that doesn’t leak, and you. That’s all I require.”
“Beatrice, would that truly be enough?”
“More than enough.”
“Isn’t this a touching scene,” said Foxton with a sneer.
“Hush, Father,” said Ford’s aunt.
Ford reached for her hand. “Lady Beatrice Bentley, in front of these gathered witnesses, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“It had best be a hasty wedding,” said Foxton. “They’re lovers. I caught them here early this morning.”
“Quiet, Foxton,” Isobel commanded. “You’re not allowed to speak. You’re trespassing on the premises of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League, or whatever we decide to name this clubhouse.”
“We have knitting needles,” said Viola. “And we’ve been taught to use them in unusual and painful ways.”
Beatrice’s spectacles were becoming fogged by tears and emotion. She wiped them on her skirts. Ford rose from the floor and set her spectacles back on her face.
The soft brush of his fingers on her cheek sent ripples of desire through her entire body.
“Ford Wright, I love you because you threw my bonnet into the road,” she said with a catch in her throat.
“It didn’t suit you,” he replied.
“Fear didn’t suit me. I was afraid to truly live. I was going to retreat from life, bury myself in an early grave, and then you came along. You challenged me at every turn and you made me see that I wanted to live. Truly be alive. Taste life and love and all that it has to offer.”
Ford smiled at her, his eyes beginning that slow smolder that made her knees weak. “And you came along and expanded my vocabulary . . . and taught me how to love in the process.”
“Well, Beatrice . . . are you going to answer his question?” asked Drew.
“Oh. I forgot to answer.” She brought Ford’s hand to her lips and kissed each one of his hardworking knuckles. “Yes, you arrogant rogue. I’m yours. Now and forever.”
“Hoorah!” Viola cried.
“Oh, my dear ones, I’m so very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Kettle, who stood with Mr. Coggins, watching from beyond the doorway.
“Just you wait,” said Coggins. “Something’ll go wrong, yet.”
“Don’t think this is over,” Foxton growled. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers. Phyllis, let’s go.”
“No,” said Ford’s aunt. She tightened her grip on her sister’s hand. “No, Father. I’m not leaving. Not without Joyce. You can’t keep me from my sister any longer. I love her too much. We’ve lost too much time already.”
“Father,” said Ford’s mother. “I forgive you. Can we move forward from here?”
“I forgive you, as well,” said Ford. “I know now that you had a harsh and unforgiving upbringing.”
Foxton shook his walking stick at them. “Stop forgiving me. I don’t want your forgiveness. Phyllis, we’re leaving.”
“Or what, Father? You’ll disinherit me, as well? Cut me and your granddaughters out of your life? You can’t build enough walls to keep all of us out.”
“I believe that there’s a heart beating inside your chest somewhere, Mr. Foxton,” said Beatrice. Finally, she could give her speech. “I don’t believe we ever lose our capacity for love. We can bury it, or it can be stolen away, or it can atrophy, over time. But it’s always there inside us, waiting to be remembered. Waiting to blossom.”
Mrs. Kettle chose that moment to arrive with a tea tray. “Now everyone, if you’ll all have a seat, I’ll serve the refreshments now. Mr. Foxton, please be our honored guest.”
“Pah,” he said. But he took a seat.
Mrs. Kettle poured him some tea. “Here you go, love. A nice cup of tea.”
Foxton accepted the cup. “I see you’ve all united against me.”
“Not against you, Father,” said Phyllis. “For you. We are your family. We love you.”
“Love. The root of all evil,” said Foxton.
“I believe you mean money,” said Beatrice. “For the love of money is the root of all evil.”
“I meant love,” said Foxton. “It doesn’t make the world go round, it turns it inside out. Turns sensible people into fools.”
“That’s how I felt, Grandfather,” said Ford. “Until I met Beatrice.”
“That’s what I thought, as well,” said Drew. “Until I met my Mina. I’m going to be a father.” He grinned from ear to ear. “Can you believe that?”
“That’s wonderful, Drew!” Beatrice cried.
Viola clasped her hands together. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”
“Father,” said Ford’s aunt. “Have you considered that this could be the fulfillment of all your ambitions?”
Foxton’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t say that I have.”
“You’ve always wanted someone in your family to marry into the nobility. And now it’s coming to pass. Your status will be greatly elevated by association with a duke.”
Foxton’s brow wrinkled. “I suppose I hadn’t considered it in that light.”
“And not just any duke,” said Drew. “Me. You’re not a fortune hunter, are you Wright?” he asked suddenly, as if he’d just remembered to ask the question. “My mother seems to think you are.”
“I’m a carpenter,” said Ford, “and a damn good one.”
“I suppose I’ll have to employ you now,” muttered Foxton.
Had Beatrice heard him correctly? “I think your grandfather just offered you a job,” she whispered to Ford.
He grinned. “I think he did.”
“I still don’t see why you can’t have your clubhouse somewhere else, Lady Beatrice,” Foxton said with a loud harrumph. “I have other suitable properties, you know.”
“My aunt wanted me to keep this property in the family,” said Beatrice. “And my friends will be the beneficiaries of her bequest.”
“Lady knitters.” Foxton glared at Isobel and Viola.
Viola shook her knitting needles at him.
“Does this Mr. Leonard Castle have a valid claim, Mr. Foxton?” Isobe
l asked.
Foxton shrugged his bony shoulders. “I didn’t think we’d have to find out. I thought Lady Beatrice would fold more easily.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then. The prosecution rests,” said Isobel.
Beatrice gave her a loving smile.
Foxton set his cup on a side table. As he attempted to rise, he nearly lost his balance.
Both of his daughters immediately rushed to his side, taking his arms.
“Don’t fuss, don’t fuss,” he said testily, but he didn’t try to pull his arms away from them.
They helped him rise. “Let’s go home, Father,” said Ford’s aunt. “This has been enough excitement for one day I should think.” She smiled warmly at Beatrice. “Thank you, Lady Beatrice. For everything.”
Ford’s mother approached. “It was lovely to meet my future daughter-in-law. I’m looking forward to a nice long conversation very soon.”
Beatrice nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
“I’d better go back to Mina,” said Drew. “She said she had a craving for ripe strawberries coated in sugar and dipped in cream, though where I’ll find strawberries in London, in winter, lord only knows.”
One by one, everyone left, giving their excuses and their congratulations, until she and Ford were left alone.
“He’s not going to transform overnight, but I’d say it’s a promising beginning,” she said.
He nuzzled her cheek. “Now will you come upstairs with me? I’m hoping to unwrap you while you unwrap that ancient book.”
She started. “The Revelations.”
“You completely forgot about your ancient book, didn’t you? I have that effect on bookish ladies.”
They climbed the stairs together and Beatrice’s heart soared higher with every step. She was about to make a momentous discovery for womankind, if she was right about the book.
And she was about to taste pleasure again in the arms of a rogue.
Her very own rogue.
Chapter Thirty-One
Beatrice untied the parcel with trembling fingers. She parted the folds of the cloth to reveal the leather-bound manuscript she’d been longing to see. “It’s the Revelations of Divine Love, Ford.”
“Why would your aunt leave it hidden beneath the floorboards?”
“Perhaps this will explain.” She lifted a sheet of parchment from the book. It was a letter from her aunt. “She says that she acquired the manuscript in a box of ordinary religious texts that had been stored in the attic of an estate in Kent. This could be a very rare fifteenth century copy, or a copy made in the mid-seventeenth century, she’s not sure which. She was growing ill and didn’t dare trust it to anyone’s care for analysis, for fear it would be stolen.”
“And so she left it for you to find, knowing you would treat it with love and respect.”
“I can’t believe it.” She opened the book gingerly and examined the color of the dark curving ink letters. “Either way, it’s extremely valuable. It belongs in a museum, though I’ll make use of it first. After I finish my dictionary I’ll move on to a study of female authors. How thrilling to own an intact copy of the earliest known work written by a woman in English.”
“It’s one of a kind. Just like you, Beatrice.”
“I can’t wait until we open the clubhouse. It will be a haven for those females who feel ostracized, or silenced. For the ambitious ladies who want to succeed at endeavors normally relegated solely to men.”
“I’m honored to have aided in creating this sanctuary. I’m humbled by it.”
“It’s not finished yet. I have a long list of projects for you. Why don’t we purchase the buildings on either side from your grandfather and transform them, as well?”
“Using your money,” he said, a shadow crossing his face.
“Yes. Why not? Just because I’m a woman you won’t accept my money? The gentlemen I know accept large dowries as a right.”
“I’m not a fortune hunter.”
“Don’t be so hardheaded. I’ll purchase the buildings, and you can renovate them. And I won’t have to pay you anymore for your services.”
He grinned. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“I have a way with words.”
“And I have a way with kisses. Beatrice?”
“Yes, my rogue?”
“Put down that book.”
She folded the cloth back around the manuscript.
He kissed her then, tumbling her back onto the bed and covering her with his powerful frame.
“Damn you, Ford. You reduce me to a puddle of quivering ninnyhood.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And do you know? I’m quite happy about that.”
“I don’t usually admit these things, my love, but you make me weak at the knees.”
“I do?”
“Mmm. Especially when you whisper archaic words in my ear.”
“Crapulous,” she whispered. “Slubberdegullion. Quodlibetificate.”
He groaned. “Stop, temptress.”
“Sesquipedalian. That’s me. It means ‘having the tendency to use long words.’ Here’s one you might like—apodysophilia, the feverish desire to undress.”
“I do like that one.”
“And here’s another you might like—dodrantal. It means ‘nine inches in length.’”
“I think you just added another inch, or two,” he growled. “I once had a lady teach me some wooing words. Let’s see if they work. Beatrice, your eyes are lambent. Your lips are sapid. And your figure is pulchritudinous.”
“Ford.” She beamed at him. “You remembered.”
“I remember everything. Seeing the glow of your hair in the library window and wanting so badly to talk to you, to walk with you to the sea. Hand in hand.”
His lips teased the edges of her mouth. “Thinking that you really, really loved words and wondering what it would be like to have that passion directed at me.”
He slid a hand down her bodice, cupping one of her breasts in his palm.
“Handing you that sledgehammer that weighed nearly as much as you did and watching you smash the plaster to dust. Something came loose inside of me then, Beatrice. I think that’s when I knew that I was seriously in trouble.”
“That’s when I knew I was . . . falling in love,” she said, her voice breathy because he was doing very wicked things to the tips of her breasts with his tongue. “When I held your hard hammer.”
A snort of laughter. He lifted his head. “I was completely lost when I walked into the room and saw you wearing those trousers that you had no idea hugged every one of your curves.”
“I had some idea.”
“You were cursing at that stubborn floorboard, just like you castigated me during our arguments.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“I know. But you found a way to pry my heart free from its moorings. And I’m so glad that you did.”
He kissed her then, ravishing her lips until her mind filled with longing and her body craved his touch. But she had one more thing to show him.
She reached into the specially designed pockets of her blue gown. “I thought you might like the third book in the series.”
“‘The Dangerous Duke’s Desires,’” he read.
“Turn to page one hundred,” she instructed.
“Are we going to act out your favorite passage? I like the sound of that.”
“Just open the book.”
“What’s this?” He pulled something fragile and red from between the pages.
“The rose you gave me in the library in Cornwall. I told myself I was keeping it as a talisman to ward away swooning tendencies and imaginary kisses from arrogant rogues. But really I kept it for much more sentimental reasons. I knew then, as I know now.” She traced the line of his strong jaw. “You’re the rogue that stole my heart.”
Later, when they both gleamed with sweat and he was quite breathless, Ford decided to broach the subject of desks.
“I’ve had a fa
ntasy about you ever since we first met, Beatrice.”
“Oh? Do you want me to teach you more words?”
“I want to teach you about desks.”
“Desks? I know all about those. I use them every day.”
“Not in this way, you don’t.”
“Oh,” she said in a knowing tone. “You don’t mean writing on desks.”
“I mean ravishing.”
She gave him a saucy smile and hopped out of bed. “How does this work?”
His heart began pounding. “Bend over the desk, princess.”
She bent over the desk, just as she had that night when she visited his room. But this time she was entirely naked.
And entirely his.
“When you arrived in this room the other night and slid over this desk with your pert bottom in the air. Gods, I wanted to . . .” He positioned himself behind her. “I wanted to do this.”
He buried his length inside her, watching the globes of her bottom shiver with each thrust.
She moaned, tossing her hair over the desk. “I didn’t . . . know that I was . . . being so provocative.”
She wiggled her bum and tilted her chin back toward him. The look in her eyes was pure sensuality, and it was all over for Ford.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and rocked inside her until he exploded, moaning her name like a prayer.
Several hours later, they lay entwined on the bed, enclosed by pink velvet curtains and surrounded by love.
“Ford?”
“Yes, my wallflower?”
“Have you exhausted the limits of your excessive virility?”
“Maybe.”
“Then we can talk.”
“We can always talk, Beatrice. Always.”
“I thought I was making the difficult choice by retreating from society, but this is the more difficult decision. Taking the risk of loving a rogue.”
“I’m a one-woman rogue. I’m all yours. Risk-free.”
He kissed her. He’d never get enough of being able to kiss her whenever he felt like it. “What will you name this new clubhouse?”
“We couldn’t decide on a name at the last meeting. Isobel suggested the Virago Club, but I thought that was too negative. Viola offered the Muses Society, because we’re our own muses, but that’s too commonly used.”