by Lenora Bell
Oh joy of joys. A proposal from a man who saw her as a moneybag with arms and legs, if he saw her at all.
Whenever Mayhew spoke to her, his eyes were always searching the room as if looking for someone more worthy to bestow his attentions upon.
All the eligible gentlemen of London desired was her dowry, and she wasn’t about to hand it over to them in exchange for a lifetime of humiliation and unfulfilled dreams.
“That’s four rules,” she pointed out. “Am I finished now?”
The dressmaker was consulting with one of her assistants about ribbon choices. She seemed to be nearing the end of her ministrations.
“I just thought of another. Rule number five—you must avoid the company of wallflowers. Their society can only diminish your luster.”
Beatrice gave a short laugh. “You do know that I’m considered to be a wallflower?”
“You won’t be when I’m finished with you,” said her mother with grim determination. “Your wardrobe will be the envy of every lady in London.”
Beatrice had never understood what all the fuss was about. Her mother and her mother’s friends discussed hairstyles and gown designs for hours on end. To Beatrice’s mind, clothing was what separated man from beast. A gown was a necessary covering for one’s naked form.
The more comfortable and serviceable the better.
She’d had three gowns made before she left for Cornwall. All exactly the same, with sleeves loose enough to allow for reaching books on the highest library shelf, but not so voluminous they made one’s arms feel like the clapper inside a bell.
She’d had pockets specially sewn into the skirts for the storing of books and papers. Her one concession to luxury had been the fabric—brushed cotton that flowed almost like silk, in a lovely blue color that put her in mind of a summer sky.
“I’m afraid I can’t agree to the last rule, Mama. Most of my friends are wallflowers. Miss Mayberry and Miss Beaton should be arriving any moment, in fact. May I be excused?”
Beatrice couldn’t wait to reconnect with her friends.
Her mother pursed her lips. “Not until this gown is perfectly fitted.”
“If it fits any closer, I won’t be able to breathe. Isn’t that generally a requirement for dancing?”
“A lady doesn’t need to take deep breaths. Gentlemen prefer to be the robust and lusty ones, while ladies should take small sips, shallow breaths, and dainty steps.”
Beatrice groaned. “You don’t truly believe that tripe, do you, Mama?”
Mrs. Adler returned with several lengths of ribbon. “The white or the yellow, Your Grace?”
“The yellow, I think,” replied her mother.
“I’ll sew the ribbons to the bodice myself. I can’t entrust the task to anyone else.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Adler.” Beatrice’s mother clasped her hands together. “It’s simply perfect.”
Beatrice glanced down at the layers of ruffles rioting down to the carpet. “It’s extremely stratiform.”
“What was that, Your Ladyship?” asked Mrs. Adler.
“Layered. It’s very layered.”
“It will put Mayhew in mind of a wedding cake,” said her mother.
“You want him to think about eating me?”
“That’s the idea.” Her mother and Mrs. Adler exchanged cryptic glances.
“The bonnet you ordered arrived,” the dressmaker announced. She snapped her fingers, and a maid arrived bearing an enormous hatbox.
Mrs. Adler unwrapped the bonnet reverently and held it up.
“Ooh!” exclaimed the dowager duchess.
Zounds, thought Beatrice. It’s hideous.
“What do you think? Isn’t it the very height of fashion?” asked her mother.
It was the height of something—a towering mishmash of yellow straw, red ribbons, white feathers, and . . . what were those scrunched-up round things? “What have you trimmed this hat with, Mrs. Adler?”
“Poems,” announced Mrs. Adler, permitting herself the ghost of a smile. “Your mother told me that you are known as a bookish lady, and so I fashioned roses from verses.”
Beatrice squinted at the paper roses. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day . . .’ You desecrated a volume of Shakespeare for my millinery?”
“It’s utterly ingenious,” said her mother. “Everyone will want to copy this design.”
“What if it rains?” asked Beatrice. “Paper doesn’t do so well in a downpour.”
“Don’t be so prosaic,” said her mother. “I’m sure they are treated with a fixative.”
“Of course, Your Grace. These paper roses are as durable as any stiffened cotton.”
“If I agree to wear this bonnet trimmed with sonnets, may I leave, Mama?” She always had to bargain for any precious moments of freedom.
Her mother nodded her assent, and she and the dressmaker moved to the wardrobe to discuss other gown options.
A maid helped Beatrice into a frothy day dress. At least she could breathe in this one. She filled her lungs with air. “I daresay I’ll even be able to eat a ham sandwich,” she mused.
“Lettuce, not ham, dear,” called her mother. “You must forego ham in the pursuit of the greater prize.”
Mrs. Adler and her wedding cake gown departed. Unfortunately, the sonnet bonnet remained.
The dowager duchess handed Beatrice an envelope. “This came by post for you today. It’s about the property.”
“What property?”
“Didn’t I tell you? It must have slipped my mind. While you were in the country, your Aunt Matilda bequeathed you a property.”
“I’ve never heard of an Aunt Matilda.”
“She was your father’s eldest sister. No one spoke of her.”
“Why? What did she do?”
“She married a bookseller.”
“Is that all?” Beatrice had been imagining scandalous liaisons, or secret babies out of wedlock.
“That’s more than enough,” said her mother with a frown. “Your father, may he rest in peace, was furious. First, his sister married a shopkeeper, and then, when Mr. Castle died and she inherited the shop, she refused to sell. She continued to run the shop herself. The sister of a duke engaged in commerce. It used to keep him up at night and give him terrible dyspepsia. He tried to run her out of business, but the woman was very stubborn.”
“Did you say Mr. Castle, as in Castle’s Bookshop on the Strand?”
“That’s the one.”
“I visited it once. I remember it very clearly. He had a marvelous collection of antiquarian volumes. Did I inherit his inventory, as well?”
“I’ve no idea. All I know is that the building has fallen into disrepair lately, and there’s been quite a generous offer on the derelict bookshop and I told your brother’s solicitor to accept it.”
Beatrice regarded her mother with disbelief. “Are you telling me that I inherited a bookshop, and you’ve already instructed Greenaway to sell it?”
Why should she be surprised? This was only the latest rung on a long ladder of indignities stretching back to her childhood.
“That’s right, now come along. I want you to try this darling pair of slippers I found in the window at—”
“Mother.”
“Yes, my dear?”
“You can’t make decisions like that on my behalf without consulting me.”
“Well!” Her mother picked an imaginary speck of lint off Beatrice’s gown. “I don’t know what you’re so cross about. It’s best to let the men of business deal with these things, and if it’s a derelict property, we’re best rid of it. I thought you’d be pleased with the profit from the sale.”
“But the books. What about the books? I must go visit the shop to see if the rare and ancient volumes and manuscripts are still there. May I go with my friends this afternoon?”
“I suppose you may go for a brief visit to view the inventory. I believe there was a small inheritance, as well, though Greenaway will have the detail
s.”
“Did I inherit a leasehold, or the property outright?”
“Outright, I believe, though I’ve really no idea. I don’t concern myself with such things, and neither should you. As I recall, there’s some scandal attached to the shop. I think your aunt Matilda was not a virtuous or pious woman. There are . . . rumors.”
Beatrice waited for her mother to elaborate. “Rumors of . . . ?”
“Lovers,” her mother whispered. “After Mr. Castle died.”
So that was it—Aunt Matilda had been scandalous because she’d been a merry widow. Men were expected, even encouraged, to have their diversions, but Lord help a woman if she decided to pursue diversions of her own.
“Now you see that it’s quite impossible for you to keep the property,” said her mother. “So do come and see these darling slippers. Every detail must be perfect.”
Beatrice followed her mother out of the room, her mind still reeling from the news of the inheritance. Wait until she told Isobel about this; she’d be so excited.
Her mother stopped and placed her hand on Beatrice’s arm. “I’m simply determined that you’ll conquer society this year. Though I’d settle for you conquering one eligible earl.”
Unfortunately for her mother, Beatrice had no intention of conquering anything other than etymological dictionaries.
“Now that you’re a warrant officer, with the blue coat to prove it, it’s your solemn duty to marry, Mr. Wright,” said Mrs. Meade, Tiny’s sister, passing Ford the butter dish.
Ford normally took lodgings in a boardinghouse for sailors while in London, but this time he’d traveled to London with Tiny, and his friend had insisted that he stay with him at his sister’s home.
Ford only had a fortnight in London before his new ship, the HMS Boadicea, arrived in port. Tiny had traveled with Ford to London to pick out a promise ring for his intended, a Miss Eliza Broome.
“He’s only five and twenty,” said Tiny, through a mouthful of sausage.
“He’s not getting any younger,” Mrs. Meade replied. “And what would happen if he were killed in battle?”
“I should think that’d be a reason not to marry,” said Ford.
“Don’t you want to leave a son behind to carry on your line?” asked Mrs. Meade.
Her three daughters, ranging in age from thirteen to nineteen, leaned forward, eager to hear his response. He couldn’t keep their names straight. The youngest one was Dinah, and he thought the eldest was Martha. The middle one he couldn’t recall.
“I’m not the marrying kind, Mrs. Meade. I treasure my freedom too much.”
And he never stayed in one place long enough to be tied down.
“All bachelors say that until they find the right girl,” said Mrs. Meade. “Love will find you yet, Mr. Wright, mark my words.”
If Tiny’s sister had her way, love would find him right here in this breakfast room. She’d been pushing her daughters in his path ever since his arrival yesterday.
Ford wasn’t looking for a bride. Finding female companionship was easy enough. He preferred experienced women with healthy appetites for carnal adventuring and no expectations of anything beyond a mutually pleasurable and finite liaison.
He never put down roots anywhere; he stayed adrift.
“Love found you, John, didn’t it?” asked Mrs. Meade.
Tiny, whose real name was John, ducked his shaggy head. “Eliza’s a sweet lamb of a girl.”
Ford had met Eliza and he wouldn’t describe her as sweet or docile, but perhaps Tiny wanted someone to rule his roost. The big lug was clearly besotted.
More fool, him.
“Still no word of Thorndon?” Tiny asked, mercifully changing the subject.
“I visited his solicitor yesterday, and the man practically begged me to send word if I heard anything about the duke’s whereabouts. He’s gone completely missing. Last time anyone saw him was in Naples at the Hotel Royale where he was staying with his new bride. They left there and haven’t been heard from since. Never showed up to board the ship back to London.”
“Strange, that. A duke and his bride going missing,” said Tiny.
“Maybe they’ve been kidnapped,” said Dinah.
“I hope not,” Ford said. “I need to speak to him before I ship out. I’m going to visit his townhouse today to see if the family has any more recent news.”
“You’re going to the Duke of Thorndon’s townhouse in Mayfair?” asked the middle niece, her eyes widening. “You must tell us every detail.”
“Lady Beatrice Bentley is rumored to have the most beautiful gowns in all of London,” Dinah said with a sigh.
“And she’s bound to marry a dashing duke or a handsome earl this Season,” said Martha.
Ford set down his fork. “How in the world do you know all of this?”
“We read the society pages,” replied Dinah. “If you see Lady Beatrice you must tell us what she’s wearing. We want to know the color of her gown, the pattern of the cloth, how her hair is dressed, we want to know everything.”
“Men don’t notice details like that,” said Tiny.
Ford was fervently hoping not to see Lady Beatrice. He’d been seeing far too much of her in his memories. The copper of her hair, the glow in her eyes as she taught him new words.
“I’m due at the jeweler’s at nine,” said Tiny.
Ford rose with the rest of the group. “Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Meade.”
“Don’t forget the details,” said Dinah.
Ford and Tiny left the house and headed toward Covent Garden.
“If you stay at my sister’s house much longer, she’ll have you married to one of my nieces,” Tiny remarked.
“Your nieces are safe from me.”
“Martha’s taken a shine to you. She’ll be heartbroken when you leave.”
“What about you? You’re actually going to go through with it and tie the noose around your neck?”
Tiny ducked his head. He was so large that passersby stared at him. “Reckon Eliza’s the girl for me.”
“She’s got you wrapped around her finger.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Love makes fools of us all.”
His parents had married for love and paid a high price. His mother had been disinherited by her wealthy father for choosing a mere carpenter when her father had wanted her to marry into the aristocracy and increase their social standing.
London never felt welcoming to Ford. This was his estranged grandfather’s city—a cold and pitiless place where gold was king and thousands of unfortunates were left to rot in the poorhouses, workhouses, and rookeries.
“I hope you have the chance to talk to the duke before you leave London.” Tiny frowned. “Never did like Gibbons, that close-fisted windbag. What if the duke doesn’t return before you leave, then what will you do?”
“Then I’m in a bad spot. If the embezzlement comes to light, I know Gibbons will try to pin it on my father—or on me. I must warn the duke about him in person, or find another trustworthy method to warn him before he leaves London for Thornhill.”
“I wouldn’t want to visit the duke’s townhouse without an invitation.”
“Dukes don’t intimidate me. A title doesn’t make them any better than you or me. Noble blood is only a lie passed from generation to generation, a way of keeping all of the power in the hands of the few.”
“Well, Thorndon’s not a bad sort, as far as dukes go. I think he truly cares about the fortunes of his crofters.”
They walked through Covent Garden—the bustling heart of London, teeming with taverns, theaters, brothels, and coffee houses. Tiny stopped outside a jeweler’s shop. “This is me.”
“There’s still time to reconsider,” Ford said jokingly.
“And you still have time to find yourself an Eliza.”
“Small chance of that when I’m always at sea.”
“Good luck at Thorndon’s.” Tiny had to duck to enter the shop doorway. He was soon swallo
wed by glittering displays of nuptial shackles, taken in hand by a gatekeeper of hell disguised as a jolly salesman.
Ford shook his head and continued on his way to Mayfair. He wished Tiny the best. He could be happy for his friend, even if Ford would never marry.
He walked along Piccadilly and headed into Mayfair. Here the houses stood in rows of imposing stone facades and orderly windows. Massive iron gates set close to the buildings stood at attention to keep the riffraff away.
Lady Beatrice had grown up in this exclusive neighborhood, protected by guards and governesses, blinkered to the harsh realities of London’s poorer areas.
He couldn’t seem to shake Lady Beatrice and her slender waist and oversize vocabulary from his mind. He kept thinking about that near kiss in the library. If they’d actually kissed, he probably would have forgotten about it by now, but an almost-kiss was a memory that could be expanded and elaborated upon in endless variations.
She’d wanted him to kiss her.
There’d been no denying her intentions when she stared, unmoving, at his lips for such a prolonged length of time. He’d almost convinced himself that she was about to kiss him, and he’d been so close to making the first move.
But reason had prevailed. It hadn’t mattered if the lady wanted kissing. What mattered was that her brother was a duke, and his father’s employer, and she was an innocent lady.
They were from two different worlds. Kissing was forbidden.
In reality. Fantasies were another matter.
There was nothing stopping his mind from reliving the moment, and making a very different choice. Gently removing her spectacles from her aristocratic nose and setting them aside.
Cupping her face with his palms.
And giving her one unforgettably passionate kiss.
In his fantasies it lasted a long time, that kiss.
He teased her lips open with his tongue, swallowing her soft, startled cry. He deepened the kiss and moved his hands to her softly rounded breasts, brushing her nipples through the buttery fabric of her gown until she moaned . . .
He stopped walking and muttered an apology as a man swerved to avoid running into him.
He had to stop thinking about the kiss not taken. Especially because he might very well be granted an audience with her mother today, who would be horrified, outraged, and quite possibly litigious if she knew the things he’d done to her daughter in his mind.
