Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,19

room done up in clashing shades of pink and burgundy.

She wasn’t alone.

She sat on a sofa flanked by two other young ladies, one with pronounced, angular features and the other all dimples and sweet smiles.

Lady Beatrice eyed him with a fleeting flare of some strong emotion, and then, as if a screen had been drawn over her eyes, an impassive expression of studied disinterest.

Her hair still glowed like a new copper piece in the noonday sun streaming through the windows, but the rest of her looked . . . different.

In Cornwall she’d been dressed simply. Something blue and soft that he’d approved of, even though the bodice could have been cut lower. Today she was trussed into enough ivory frills and lace that he had difficulty discerning the natural shape of her.

The diamond drops at her ears were obviously real, and probably cost more than he’d see in a lifetime.

He cleared his throat. “Lady Beatrice.”

“Wright,” she replied, with a frosty little nod.

Damn, he should have made a bow. No matter. He wasn’t a bower. No need to start now, just because she wore diamonds.

“What have you done to your hair?” There were two plump curls hanging down on either side of her face, and the rest of it was piled up and towering so high above her head that it must set her off-balance when she walked, like a ship listing under a heavy cargo.

She touched one of the spiral curls against her cheek. “This, I’ll have you know, is the very latest fashion.”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

Sweet Smiles smothered a giggle with the palm of her hand.

“Why thank you so much,” replied Lady Beatrice. “What a pretty compliment.”

He’d already offended her. Nothing to be done about that. He’d already made it clear that he never followed the rules of propriety. But he was here to ask her about her brother and therefore he shouldn’t be insulting her. “What I meant to say was that such a towering coil of hair doesn’t look like you. The lady I knew in Cornwall—the one with ink-stained fingers.”

The one he’d imagined kissing so thoroughly that she forgot every word she’d ever entered in that dictionary of hers.

“That lady isn’t allowed to live in London,” she said.

What did she mean by that? “I’m sure the young bucks of London love the style of your hair. They’ll be showering you with proposals.”

“Don’t assume I wish to receive proposals.”

Ford cocked his head. She couldn’t be much more than twenty. “Isn’t that the usual goal for young ladies?”

“You presume to know the goals of young ladies?”

“Er . . .” He scratched his head. “One generally assumes that all of the dancing and opera-going and folderol that happens in London this time of year is for the sole purpose of matrimonial arrangements.”

“I thank you not to assume that all young ladies wish to be married.”

“If you say so, it must be true. Young ladies can have other goals.”

“Oh we can, can we? How good of you to give us permission.” She pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose. “I see you’ve finally learned how to tie a neck cloth and put on a coat.”

“I’ll take off this noose of a cravat if you tumble that uncomfortable-looking tower of hair. It must be giving you a headache.”

“Humph,” replied Lady Beatrice. “You’re giving me a headache.”

At this, Sweet Smiles giggled, and the one with the angular cheekbones wagged a finger at him. “Living up to your reputation already, Mr. Wright.”

What reputation? Had Lady Beatrice been telling her friends about him?

Not that he cared. Ask his question and leave. “Have you had word from your brother, Lady Beatrice? I’ve been making inquiries and no one knows his whereabouts.”

“I’ve still heard nothing, I’m afraid,” she said frostily.

Damnation. “I won’t trouble you any longer then.”

“Oh don’t leave yet, Mr. Wright,” said Sweet Smiles. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Beatrice?”

“This is Miss Viola Beaton,” Lady Beatrice said, gesturing at her friend with the dimples, “and Miss Isobel Mayberry. They are fellow members of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League, a charitable organization.”

“You’re eyeing the sandwiches rather hungrily, Mr. Wright,” said Miss Beaton. “Wouldn’t you like one?”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Lady Beatrice, glancing pointedly at the door.

She obviously wanted to be rid of him. Ford didn’t like being dismissed by the high-and-mighty princess. He’d leave when he was ready to leave. The sandwiches did look tempting . . . and so did the lady.

His fantasies made flesh. Though in his fantasies her hair