Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,14
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 swallowed 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.
Bad, bad things involving sturdy desks.
He had the book she’d given him in his coat pocket, and he planned to leave it with the butler. He was certain that Lady Beatrice hadn’t meant to give him this particular book. It was a Gothic romance, The Mad Marquess’s Secret by Daphne Villeneuve.
It was about a blonde with the silly name of Sophronia who kept getting chased around the grounds of the castle while wearing a diaphanous nightgown by the mad marquess who may, or may not, have murdered his previous wife.
He’d read it in secret, of course. Hadn’t wanted the boys to rib him about it.
He’d read it at night by the light of a candle. He’d never