Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,106
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.