Love Is a Rogue

by Lenora Bell

  “Did you have a good tour?”

  “It was . . . thrilling. Glorious. Exhausting. Couldn’t be anything else with a bride like Mina. My brother got into a spot of difficulty and we . . . Mina and I . . . let’s just say it wasn’t much of a tranquil honeymoon. As I said, I’ve been gone too long. I feel as though I’ve been neglecting my estate. How are things at Thornhill? I can’t wait to see the faded old beauty again.”

  “That’s what I wanted to speak with you about. The great house is very well—I finished the renovations and even progressed further.”

  “Thank you. I was lucky to have your services.”

  “The house is in fine repair, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. I discovered something disturbing during my time there. I think your land agent and your solicitor are in league to skim profits away from Thornhill, and possibly your other properties, as well. Several things just didn’t add up while I was there.”

  Thorndon sat up straighter and set down his brandy. “That’s a serious accusation. Do you have any proof?”

  Ford hadn’t brought the bill of sale with him that he’d pilfered from Gibbons’s desk. “I can present you with proof tomorrow. It’s a bill of sale for timber from your estate. Some of it was to be used on Thornhill, some to be distributed to the tenants for repairs, and some purchased by townsfolk. I calculate that Gibbons only recorded half of what was sold.”

  Thorndon tossed back his brandy. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  “I didn’t want my father to be cast into suspicion if the truth came out another way, as he’s responsible for the logging on your estate. I think they took advantage of his injury to sell for their own profit. And I suspect they’ve been in league for years, and not just undercounting the sale of the timber.”

  “This is disheartening. Gibbons is a distant relation and I trusted him completely. I’ll launch a full investigation.” He poured more brandy. “And I won’t blame your father. He’s never given me any cause to doubt his absolute integrity. I like and value him and I like you, Wright. You’re a good man.”

  “Thank you. So are you.”

  “Even though I neglected my estate.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to . . . I heard it loud and clear. As I said, I like you.” Thorndon set down his glass. “But if you’re toying with my sister’s affections, if you’ve hurt her in any way, I’ll cheerfully kill you.”

  Ford blinked. The transition from amiable to murderous had been so sudden. “Your sister is in no danger from me.”

  Was that true? Ford wasn’t so sure anymore. When they waltzed around the ballroom today he’d indulged in the wild fantasy that they might find a way to conquer the barriers of class that stood between them.

  And here was her brother making certain that those barriers were solidly in place.

  “Good. Then we understand each other?”

  “Completely.” Ford was a good man, but he wasn’t good enough for the duke’s beloved little sister.

  Thorndon refilled Ford’s glass. “Let’s drink to Thornhill.”

  “To Thornhill.”

  A tall, fair-haired man with a pronounced limp walked into the study. “Pour me a glass, Thorny.”

  “Rafe, you reprobate,” said Thorndon. “Where have you been? We’ve been halfway across Europe searching for your sorry arse.”

  “Here. There.” The duke’s brother waved vaguely with his hand. “Hand over that bottle. I’ve a dreadful feeling that I might be sobering up for the first time in weeks.”

  “That’s not an answer, and you know it.” Thorndon poured his brother some brandy. “Rafe, this is Mr. Wright, the son of my lead carpenter at Thornhill.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Wright.” Lord Rafe nodded his way. “Beatrice is looking well. Must be in love, silly goose. Women only get that shiny look in their eyes when they have some poor fellow in their sights. Who’s the lucky man?”

  Ford shifted in his chair. It was probably time to leave now that he was outnumbered.

  “Earl of Mayhew, I think I heard mother say?” said Thorndon.

  Ford couldn’t stay silent at that. “She’s not marrying Mayhew.”

  Both brothers turned to stare at him.

  “Oh?” asked Thorndon, raising one thick, black brow.

  “That is, Mayhew’s not fit to marry her,” he clarified. “The man’s a heartless debaucher. I know it from a friend.”

  “I agree with you there, Wright,” said Lord Rafe. “Mayhew’s rotten, and that’s putting it mildly. Wouldn’t allow Beatrice to marry him.”

  “I’ll have a chat with our mother,” said Thorndon. “Tell her to set some other poor fellow up in her sights.”

  Ford cleared his throat. “Thank you for the brandy, Your Grace. I’ll leave you and your brother to talk. I believe your mother requires me back in the ballroom for more repairs.”

  Thorndon held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. “I’ll see you tonight at the ball, Wright. I’ll send you one of my old costumes. We’re much of a height and build.”

  Ford should feel relieved. The duke had taken his warning about his land agent seriously, Ford’s naval career might receive a major boost tonight, and he had completed the renovations on the bookshop.

  But instead he felt hollow. None of it mattered if Beatrice lost the bookshop . . . and he lost Beatrice.

  “You’ve changed, Beatrice.” Mina cocked her head. “There’s something different about you. You’re looser somehow, less guarded. You don’t hold yourself with such stiffness and formality.”

  “And you’re looking lovely as ever, Mina.” Her sister-in-law had the dainty features and fair hair of a porcelain child’s doll, but her delicate appearance belied her dynamic, resourceful, and powerful character.

  “I feel like a lumbering elephant. Have you noticed how swollen my ankles are? Drew hasn’t even noticed yet. He can be dense sometimes, the big lug.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “That I’m with child.”

  “Oh, Mina. How marvelous!”

  “Is it? Because so far it’s been endless bouts of nausea and swollen extremities.”

  “Why haven’t you told Drew yet?”

  “I wanted to be sure. It could have been seasickness. But your mother took one look at me and she knew. So now I have to face the facts.”

  “You’re not happy about it?”

  “I don’t know what I am. Of course I’m happy, but I feel so out of control of my body. It’s doing these strange things. And my emotions keep seesawing from one extreme to the next.”

  “Once you tell Drew you’ll feel better. Then he’ll have to rub your feet and fetch you whatever delicacies you desire.”

  “He already does that. I have him well-trained.”

  “Mina.” Beatrice laughed. “I missed you.”

  “Did I hear my name?” asked Drew, entering the parlor. He bent to kiss his wife on the cheek.

  “I see your mother is up to her old tricks. Hosting balls in the hopes of finding mates for her remaining children,” said Mina.

  “Nothing can stop Mama when she has her heart set on something,” Beatrice agreed.

  “I hear she wants you to marry the Earl of Mayhew?” asked Drew.

  “Not going to happen,” Beatrice replied vehemently. “I’ve been meaning to set her straight on that count but she keeps avoiding the subject.”

  “Glad to hear it. Because I just had a very bad report about the earl from Wright.” Drew settled on the sofa next to Mina and draped his arm around her shoulders. “You were dancing rather closely with Wright when I walked into the ballroom.”

  “Mama was making me practice my waltzing.”

  “I remember when you met Mr. Wright in Cornwall.” Mina’s lips lifted in a smile. “You told us that he was the most annoyingly arrogant man in the world and that he thought he was God’s gift to womankind.”

  “He does have a very high opinion of himself,�
� said Beatrice, “but he lives up to his reputation.”

  Her brother narrowed his eyes. “I hope you are referring to his reputation as a formidable builder, and not as an inveterate rogue.”

  “As a builder, of course,” she said sweetly. “I can’t wait to show you the bookshop I inherited. Although there’s a ruthless man, Mr. Foxton, who covets the property so that he can build a factory, but we’re not going to allow him to steal it. He’s found a distant relation to make a claim, but Ford, that is Mr. Wright, and I are going to visit this so-called heir and—”

  “Have you and Wright been spending a lot of time together?” Drew asked, the suspicion deepening in his eyes.

  Beatrice kept her mouth closed. She couldn’t be goaded into revealing her feelings so easily.

  “I don’t want to see you hurt, Beatrice,” said Drew, his gaze softening.

  “I’m not going to be hurt.” Though she might be confused. She’d had her life all planned out, and now she felt like something might be missing.

  “Do you love him?” asked Mina, never one to mince words.

  “We can’t be together so what’s the use in using labels like that? He’s leaving London soon and our mother would never approve of a match between us.” And Ford had made no indication that he was thinking about marriage.

  And Beatrice would never marry. Though she might share one dazzling waltz with a handsome rogue this evening. A waltz that could lead to . . . other things.

  Mina and Drew exchanged a worried look. “I think that might be a yes, Drew.”

  “Beatrice, I know that love can come out of nowhere and blindside you. It happened to me.” He stroked Mina’s shoulder. “You lit a fuse that blew a ragged hole in my heart, Mina. I’ve never stopped marveling that you found me.”

  “I was given a duke dossier and your name was at the top, my dear.”

  Beatrice had heard the full story of their initial animosity and subsequent courtship many times, and it never failed to make her smile.

  “I only caution you to be careful,” said Drew. “Men like Mr. Wright aren’t the type to settle down with one woman. And you’re right about our mother’s disapproval. She has her heart set on you making a titled match.”

  “I don’t intend to marry, you know that,” said Beatrice. “I’m enduring a few more balls and then I’ll move back to Cornwall. That is, if you’ll still have me?”

  “Of course we will. You may stay there as long as you like,” said Drew.

  “Forever?”

  “Forever. Just don’t adopt seven cats and start talking to ghosts,” Mina said.

  “I might, at that.”

  Their conversation turned to Thornhill House. She’d successfully deflected their concern for her. She was genuinely glad to see them, and it made her happy, but seeing them openly professing their love had set her heart aching again.

  Wishing for impossible things.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Mother—what am I supposed to be?” Beatrice asked later that evening, after she’d been costumed for the ball.

  “Why, Psyche, of course. I thought you’d recognize it immediately, being such a learned Greek scholar. Psyche was a princess so beautiful that the goddess Venus became jealous and exacted her revenge by—”

  “Yes, I know the myth of Psyche and Cupid. It’s quite a salacious one though, isn’t it? Lots of tribulation and more than the usual amount of violation.”

  “Yes, but thankfully there’s a happy ending. Psyche becomes immortal, and she and Cupid are married in the heavens. It’s ever so romantic.”

  Not really. Not if one factored in the violating Cupid did in the name of love. Better him than the beast, he reasoned. But it was violation, all the same. Not wanting to argue about the twisted plotlines of Greek mythology, Beatrice decided to let that one lie.

  She plucked at the diaphanous yellow skirts. “What I want to know is . . . why am I covered in butterflies?”

  “White butterflies to symbolize purity. You are my pure, sweet girl. You’ve always been so very virtuous, held yourself so aloof. You will be like a butterfly tonight. You will climb down from your bridal bower and flit here and there, darting amongst the guests.”

  “Mama, please. I don’t flit.”

  “Try to flit, darling. Do try.” Her mother took her hands. “For me.”

  Beatrice was doing all of this for her mother. Agreeing to wear the gown, be wheeled in on this confounded contraption. Wear the yellow gown and butterflies in her hair.

  But she drew the line at flitting.

  “And are these actual dead butterflies glued to this blindfold you want me to wear?”

  “Mrs. Adler assures me that the glue will hold and not one fragile wing will tatter. Of course you mustn’t venture too close to the candles.”

  “Am I combustible?”

  “Mrs. Adler did say that the glue was highly flammable, but there’s nothing to worry about. She’s a genius. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that you misplaced her masterpiece of a bonnet before you’d even had a chance to wear it in public.”

  “You know this is a blindfold, not a mask?”

  “Psyche was kept blindfolded so she wouldn’t see her monstrous bridegroom—and then your Cupid will appear from the crowd and replace your blindfold with this mask.” She removed Beatrice’s spectacles and placed a yellow silk mask studded with diamonds and edged by more white butterflies on her face, tying it with a bow at the back of her head.

  “Is Lord Mayhew my Cupid? If so, I need to talk to you about something—”

  “Not now, Beatrice. Not now. I have so many preparations to make. All you have to do is recline upon your bower and look beautiful. You look so lovely tonight. You make me so proud.” Her mother wiped a tear away from her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  Beatrice had pined to hear those words as a child, but tonight they left her hollow.

  “Your mask slipped, darling. Make sure it’s tightly secured.”

  And there it was. You look beautiful. And then, Make sure you stay covered.

  Her mother left the room.

  Beatrice sat on the bower in her cheerful yellow gown with its army of chaste butterflies.

  She didn’t feel very bright and cheerful. All of this pretending to be docile, chaste, and decorous was beginning to be ridiculous. After what she’d done with Ford, the freedom and abandon she’d experienced, she didn’t want to pretend anymore.

  She wanted to be truly herself from this moment forth.

  “Knock, knock,” a voice called and Isobel and Viola entered the room.

  Isobel was dressed all in gold silk. She raised her arms, showing Beatrice the gold chains and round gold basins attached to her wrists. “I do love a costume that precludes me from being able to dance, for fear of knocking some poor bloke about the head with a gold scale.”

  Beatrice chuckled. “And what are you, Viola?”

  “You can’t tell?” Viola did a little twirl. “I’m a viola, of course. Can’t you see the scrolls and strings I painted on this old gown?”

  “Now that you mention it I do see some squiggles.”

  “We smuggled in a bottle of Henrietta’s wine,” said Viola. “We thought you might require fortification.”

  A lump rose in Beatrice’s throat. She loved her friends. “Thank you.”

  “Oh dear. What is that thing you’re sitting on?” Viola asked.

  “It’s meant to be my bridal bower,” she said glumly. “I’m Psyche. And no doubt my mother told Mayhew to come dressed as Cupid. I’m to be wheeled into the ballroom on this thing.”

  “And your gown is . . . well, it’s . . . words fail me,” Isobel said.

  “Instead of a Grecian robe, my mother has imagined me as some sort of yellow burst of sunshine, dripping with glass beading and butterflies. I think I’m going to blind everyone. Pass me some wine.”

  “I brought glasses.” Isobel pulled three glasses out of her reticule.

  “I’m s
upposed to wear this blindfold.” Beatrice held up the silk cloth. “She doesn’t want anyone seeing my face until the very last moment.”

  Viola sighed. “I’m sorry, Beatrice.”

  “My mother . . . I love her but . . .”

  “It’s always difficult with mothers,” said Isobel. “They want the best for us but can’t seem to truly see us.”

  “She told me that I looked beautiful, and then, in the very same breath, told me to keep my mask tightly secured. Those two things can’t exist together anymore. I don’t want to stay covered, hidden away. Not anymore. I want to be me.”

  She sipped her wine. “Perhaps I should spill red wine all over this gown.”

  “Then they’d think you were supposed to be the female version of Bacchus,” said Isobel.

  “You could roll out clutching a wine bottle,” said Viola. “Perhaps we could find a cluster of grapes.”

  “And we could dress one of the footmen in a Roman toga and have him lolling at your feet. You could feed him grapes.”

  “Ladies,” said Beatrice. “While I appreciate your enthusiastic efforts to cheer me up, the fact of it is that this gown is hideous, I look ridiculous in it, and wine won’t improve anything.”

  “Wine improves everything,” said Viola, taking a large sip from her glass.

  “Mr. Wright is here,” said Beatrice.

  “What, here at the ball tonight?” asked Viola.

  “My brother invited him.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  The butterflies sewn on her mask migrated to the inside of her belly. “It feels like I’ve walked over the edge of the ninny cliff and plummeted into the lovelorn abyss.”

  “Oh. Beatrice.” Viola sat next to her on the bower. “Have you finally admitted it?”

  “I don’t think I can hide it anymore.”

  “Then don’t,” said Isobel, always so pragmatic.

  “But he’s leaving soon. And I knew that, of course I knew that. But I continue to have these irrational dreams that he decides to stay, and that my mother magically transforms into someone who would allow me to be happy.”

  “Does he make you happy?” asked Isobel softly.