Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,27

allowed me to visit the shop.”

“But that’s exactly what your friend Miss Mayberry was saying—you own it, not your mother.”

“You don’t know my mother, Wright. When I’m in London she controls what I wear, what I eat, what I think, everything. If one word of this reached her . . . let’s just say that hell hath no fury like a Mayfair mother protecting her daughter from scandal.”

“She sounds quite formidable.”

“She’s not to be crossed, not in matters of propriety or taste. When in London, I’m under her rule. She’s obsessed with finding a brilliant match for me. But here . . .” She spread her arms wide as if she wanted to hug all of the books to her bosom. The movement lifted her breasts, giving him an enticing hint of lush curves. “Here I could be as bookish as I please. This could be my literary haven. My little slice of freedom.”

“You must be thrilled to inherit this collection.”

“It’s like a dream.” Her face fell. “But I can’t possibly read all of them. It keeps me up at night sometimes, knowing that I can’t read every book I own. An unread book is a terrible thing. You should see how many books are stacked beside my bed just waiting to be read. And I don’t have time to read them all.”

Her gaze caressed the books lovingly. “Don’t worry, my beauties. We’ll patch the roof and keep the damp away from you and build you a nice safe home,” she crooned.

The attention she was lavishing on the books made him feel restless and . . . jealous?

He was jealous of a bunch of old books. He must be losing his mind.

He cleared his throat. “If we’re finished with the tour, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, no, we must see the bedrooms. I want you to assess any structural damage.”

“I think I’ve seen enough to make a report,” he began, but she was already out the door and heading upstairs.

The two small guest bedrooms were unscathed by damage of any kind. They moved to the master bedroom.

Take a glance at the walls and be on your way.

Ford turned his back on the spacious bed festooned with pink velvet curtains and peeled back a section of blue paper from the wall. There was a faint line of water, just as he’d known there would be from the condition of the paper. “If I trace this water upward, I’ll find the source of the leak, but it will often be in a different location than one would think.”

“I don’t understand. If the roof is leaking, can’t you just walk around up there until you find the loose tile?”

“Sometimes it’s that simple, but other times not. When slate roof tiles become cracked or dislodged, it’s often too minimal to see, but the water enters nonetheless. And water will always follow its own path throughout the frame of the building. In order to find the source of the breach, someone will need to translate this course upward through its pathway.”

“Within the walls?”

“In the walls, beneath the floor joists, under the beams.” He grabbed a pencil and notepad from a table beside the bed. “I’ll draw it for you.”

She stood closer, watching as he sketched.

He pointed at his drawing with the pencil. “When water enters through the roof, rather than flowing straight down it first follows beams horizontally, then flows down the rafters until it comes to a wall plate, flowing down the interior of the wall cavity and pooling in the base, or following the floor joists until it settles at the lowest point. That would be the leak in the showroom. I don’t think the damage has moved past the ground floor.”

She bowed her head to study the drawing. She smelled differently than she had at Thornhill. Instead of sweet and fresh, like apple blossoms after a rain, this was more of a city scent, heavily floral—a costly eau de toilette that her mother had chosen for her to dab behind her ears.

Ford had preferred the simple scent. As he’d preferred her hair loosely knotted with unruly curls escaping and framing her face, instead of this elaborately constructed tower.

She tilted her head and caught his eye. “You’re a talented draftsman. I wonder that you didn’t become an architect?”

Ford laughed harshly. “You make it sound easy, princess, as though I had all of the opportunities in the world. I’m the son of a carpenter who rents a cottage, and whose livelihood is dependent