Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,1
gulping pints of ale and striking manly poses for the benefit of the housemaids.
He was the most maddening of men.
Another infraction to add to her list: transforming sensible housemaids into breathless scatterbrains.
She overheard them twittering about Wright’s handsome face and brilliant blue eyes. They all fancied themselves in love with him. They said that he was a ship’s carpenter with the Royal Navy and was only here because his father, the duke’s long-term retainer, had suffered an injury falling from a ladder.
The maids opined about the hearts that Wright must break at every port he visited. Their fondest hope was that he would decide to stay in Cornwall, marry a village girl, become the lead carpenter at Thornhill upon his father’s retirement, and settle down to raise a large and happy family.
All the man had to do was flash that roguish grin and levelheaded maids melted into quivering puddles of ninnyhood.
Ninny. Late sixteenth century, English, meaning simpleton, or fool, possibly derived from innocent, or the Italian ninno, “baby, child.”
It was a very good thing that Beatrice had not one ounce of ninny in her.
“I could use a frothing pint about now,” Wright said, restoring his person to a semblance of civility by tucking in his shirt and donning a coat.
“All this heavy lifting makes a fellow thirsty,” agreed one of the younger workmen, a wiry fellow named Preston.
“Reminds me of the load I ’ave to lift every time I take a piss,” said Tiny.
“Got a big tallywhacker, have you?” asked Preston with a cheeky grin.
“Naw, lad. Got to move me stomach out of the way first.”
Wright broke into loud laughter.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. Men.
What she’d gleaned from eavesdropping on several such exchanges was that they had an inordinate preoccupation with their . . . with the aspect of their anatomy that differentiated them from females.
Wright squinted at the sky. “Light’ll be gone soon.” He glanced toward her window.
Beatrice stepped backward, nearly stumbling in her haste to hide. She flattened against the wall, her heart attempting to leap into her throat. Had he seen her?
The lonely spinster in her tower, watching life pass beneath her window.
She knew how the world saw her. But she wasn’t a spinster, at least not yet. She’d promised her mother that she would go back to London for her fourth and final attempt at the marriage mart. Mama was determined to find her a brilliant match.
Beatrice was determined to remain a wallflower.
All she had to do was endure one last wearisome round of social engagements, grating gossip, and insincere suitors, and then she could return to the magnificent library at Thornhill House. For good this time.
She’d be well and truly on the shelf by next summer.
And what was so bad about being on the shelf? Most of her dearest friends lived on shelves.
Her gaze swept the library’s vast expanse of bookshelves, punctuated by sliding wooden ladders.
She’d learned very early in life that books were her most trustworthy companions.
Books never stared. Never whispered or snickered.
Never called her Beastly Beatrice.
You’re beastly inside and out.
Pushing away the unwelcome memory, she feasted her eyes on the library instead. Mahogany shelves hugged every wall and rose to embrace a domed ceiling painted with scenes from Greek mythology. Every available surface was piled high with books and papers, filling her mind with the soaring promise of endless possibilities.
All of those new words just waiting to be discovered, mapped to derivatives and cognates, defined and annotated.
Words were her sole passion in life. She explored their origins in the way a painter mixed pigment to render a stormy sea, or a symphonic composer chose reed instruments to re-create birdsong.
She explored words in the way that lovers explored love.
There’d been a time when she’d entertained foolish romantic notions about true love and fairy-tale endings, but she’d discarded her girlhood dreams after they’d been dashed against the rocks of reality.
This was her future: this library, and her dictionary, which might very well take decades to complete. The most comprehensive and well-researched etymological dictionary of the English language ever compiled by man . . . or wallflower.
The dictionary that, once again, she was sadly neglecting. She settled back at her writing desk determined to make some forward progress. Regrettably, the desk was situated near the open windows and she could still hear Wright and his men talking and laughing.
She dipped her pen resolutely in ink.
Let’s see; she’d finished intercede and interim. Now on to interloper. Late sixteenth century, she wrote, a hybrid of Latin inter and the