by Lenora Bell
“What about the Boadicea Club?”
“The name of your ship?”
“She was going to take me away from you. It would be fitting if she were also the reason for our union.”
She tilted her head to one side. “You know what? I love that idea. Boadicea was a warrior queen. And her name means ‘victory.’”
She traced a bead of sweat down his chest. “I’m glad that you’re not threatened by powerful and intelligent women, Ford. I’m glad I don’t have to be weak for you to feel strong.”
“You make me stronger, Beatrice. You reinforce me. I want to be the roof over your head, the floor beneath your feet. It feels like . . .” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips one by one. “It feels like when I have a floor to lay down, and all of the boards fit together seamlessly. We fit together, Beatrice.”
She rolled on top of him and brought her knees to either side of his hips. “We do, don’t we?”
“Again?” he asked, a little breathlessly.
“Again,” she said, rocking toward him and brushing her nipples against his chest.
His hands bracketed her hips. “Beatrice,” he groaned. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I hope not, not when our life together is just beginning.”
“I can’t wait to see what’s in store for us.”
Soon they were flying toward the stars on the horizon again.
She was a new beginning.
She was his haven.
His heaven.
Epilogue
London, one year later
The dedication ceremony for the Boadicea Club, Strand, was attended by no less than four dukes, a grand number for any occasion.
Almost enough to quell the persistent rumors that this new clubhouse was a secret hotbed of revolutionary females plotting to overthrow the right and proper patriarchal order of British society.
The assembled members of the society looked just like ordinary ladies, not bloodthirsty warrior queens, the gathered crowd confirmed. Although Lady Beatrice Wright, who had made a marriage of unequal social rank to the handsome and virile carpenter standing by her side, Mr. Stamford Wright, was seen to be out of doors without a bonnet, though it was a sunny day that teased her copper hair to flame.
The Dukes of Banksford, Ravenwood, and Thorndon flanked the stone entranceway with their vivacious duchesses, while Westbury, who held the dubious honor of being the Most Eligible Duke in London, made a rare daytime appearance in the company of his unmarried sisters.
Two elegant and poker-faced dowager duchesses were in attendance to lend gravitas to the occasion. This solemnity was undermined by the antics of the Duke of Banksford’s twins, a tall lad and a girl who should have known better, darting in and out of the crowd, playing hide-and-seek with their young brother, a sturdy little boy with surprisingly quick legs.
Another rather shocking circumstance was that the Duchess of Thorndon, a new mother, refused to entrust the care of her infant daughter to the affronted nurse who trailed after them, determined to have her charge back.
All in all, if the crowd was hoping for scandal and rabble-rousing speeches from deranged bluestockings, they left disappointed.
“Ladies and gentlemen supporters,” Beatrice began, smiling at her friends and family. “We are gathered here to dedicate this clubhouse to the achievement of women in the arts and sciences and in the area of entrepreneurship, and to the goals of education and sisterhood. It is fitting that the name Boadicea was chosen, the name of a legendary queen and warrior, and a name meaning ‘victory’. We have much to overcome—partiality, prejudice, custom, and ignorance. The members of our society have already achieved many milestones. May we celebrate those achievements, and move ever onward toward our goals.”
“I’m confused,” said Beatrice’s mother as they entered the clubhouse together. “I thought this was a knitting society?”
“There’s some needlework involved. Miss Finchley knit this blanket.” Beatrice saw her mother seated in a comfortable chair near the fire. “Here, let me tuck it over your knees, there’s a chill in the air.”
The fact that her mother was here at all gave Beatrice great joy. Her mother hadn’t fully accepted Ford into the family, but at least she no longer pretended that he didn’t exist.
Ford caught her eye from across the room and Beatrice’s heart skipped a beat. He looked so handsome today, but she couldn’t wait to get him back to their house and reveal the taut, muscled flesh beneath that tailored suit.
They’d renovated one of the buildings next door into a modest, yet extremely comfortable, home.
Isobel and Rafe were arguing about something in a corner. And Viola was surrounded by a chattering crowd of the Duke of Westbury’s sisters.
Lady Henrietta Prince was talking to the society’s newest recruit, Lady Philippa Bramble, who had revealed some surprising ambitions when she attended her first meeting.
Even though they’d christened the society with a new name, Beatrice and her friends still weren’t at liberty to fully divulge the extent of their activities. Isobel, in particular, would never be allowed to graduate from law school if her sex were revealed.
Mrs. Kettle, who had decided to stay on as housekeeper to the club, couldn’t possibly make enough tea for everyone, but she was very happy to try. And Mr. Coggins, who hadn’t yet agreed to retirement, was seen to smile by Viola, though no one would quite believe it.
Ford’s grandfather attended, but only briefly. He complained loudly about all the profit wasted, but privately, she knew he was pleased with his grandson for marrying into the nobility. Beatrice was still certain that Foxton’s business practices were less than humane, but she and Ford, and Ford’s mother and aunt, were wearing him down, little by little, and he would come round to their way of thinking eventually.
Beatrice smiled happily as she walked around the room, making sure a good time was had by all. Who would have thought that she’d be living in London, hosting large social gatherings, one year earlier when she was cloistered in the library at Thornhill?
After the festivities ended, she and Ford walked back, arm in arm, to their adjacent home.
“Come and see what I’ve been working on while you’ve been writing your dictionary these past weeks, my love.” He took her downstairs to his basement workshop.
“A cradle? Ford, isn’t that putting the cart before the horse, so to speak?”
“It’s for Tiny,” he laughed. “I had a letter that his Eliza is expecting. I’ll send it back to Cornwall with my mother.”
His mother had been splitting her time between Cornwall and London now that she was reconciled with her father.
He winked at her. “Though it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a young Ford running around. He’d be a handsome little devil.”
“Or a young Beatrice wearing spectacles and memorizing dictionaries.”
“Or one of each.”
“Perhaps. One day. We have time to try, my rogue.”
“Would you like to try right now? Down here on top of this pile of cedarwood shavings?”
“Malapert rapscallion. Scurrilous scoundrel.”
“You like scoundrels. We’re far more interesting than other men.”
She kissed him then, to show him just how much she loved scoundrels.
She kissed him with the fragrance of cedar around them, reminding her of his handiwork.
His large, capable hands shaping her waist.
She loved his work-roughened hands.
She loved him. More than she’d ever thought it was possible to love.
Their love was strong and solid and true.
Built to weather storms. Built to stand the test of time.
Acknowledgments
As always, I must heap gratitude upon my amazing agent, Alexandra Machinist, and my peerless editor, Carrie Feron. I’m so very thankful for the entire dynamic and dedicated team at Avon, especially Pam Jaffee, Asanté Simons, Jes Lyo
ns, and Guido Caroti, who perfectly captured Beatrice and Ford for this dreamy cover. All of my love to my husband, Brian, and to my extended family in Alaska, Utah, and Wisconsin. The Bookish Belles Facebook group sustains me with cat memes and virtual hugs. Hope to meet more of you in person someday! This book is my love song to you, dear reader. This one is for the lifelong bookworms with out of control TBR piles. The readers suffering from book hangovers, and swooning over their latest book bf/gf. Thank you for believing in HEAs. Thank you for being you.
About the Author
LENORA BELL is a USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of historical romances. A teacher with an MFA in Creative Writing, Lenora has lived and worked on five continents. She currently lives in New Zealand with her carpenter husband and two tiger-striped rescue kitties. She loves hearing from readers! Sign up for her mailing list to hear about new books, sales, and giveaways.
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Also by Lenora Bell
School for Dukes series
One Fine Duke
For the Duke’s Eyes Only
What a Difference a Duke Makes
The Disgraceful Dukes series
Blame It on the Duke
If I Only Had a Duke
How the Duke Was Won
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
love is a rogue. Copyright © 2020 by Lenora Bell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-299335-9
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-299345-8
Cover illustration by Paul Stinson
Cover image © Stokkete/Shutterstock
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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