Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,83
never approve of a match between us.” And Ford had made no indication that he was thinking about marriage.
And Beatrice would never marry. Though she might share one dazzling waltz with a handsome rogue this evening. A waltz that could lead to . . . other things.
Mina and Drew exchanged a worried look. “I think that might be a yes, Drew.”
“Beatrice, I know that love can come out of nowhere and blindside you. It happened to me.” He stroked Mina’s shoulder. “You lit a fuse that blew a ragged hole in my heart, Mina. I’ve never stopped marveling that you found me.”
“I was given a duke dossier and your name was at the top, my dear.”
Beatrice had heard the full story of their initial animosity and subsequent courtship many times, and it never failed to make her smile.
“I only caution you to be careful,” said Drew. “Men like Mr. Wright aren’t the type to settle down with one woman. And you’re right about our mother’s disapproval. She has her heart set on you making a titled match.”
“I don’t intend to marry, you know that,” said Beatrice. “I’m enduring a few more balls and then I’ll move back to Cornwall. That is, if you’ll still have me?”
“Of course we will. You may stay there as long as you like,” said Drew.
“Forever?”
“Forever. Just don’t adopt seven cats and start talking to ghosts,” Mina said.
“I might, at that.”
Their conversation turned to Thornhill House. She’d successfully deflected their concern for her. She was genuinely glad to see them, and it made her happy, but seeing them openly professing their love had set her heart aching again.
Wishing for impossible things.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Mother—what am I supposed to be?” Beatrice asked later that evening, after she’d been costumed for the ball.
“Why, Psyche, of course. I thought you’d recognize it immediately, being such a learned Greek scholar. Psyche was a princess so beautiful that the goddess Venus became jealous and exacted her revenge by—”
“Yes, I know the myth of Psyche and Cupid. It’s quite a salacious one though, isn’t it? Lots of tribulation and more than the usual amount of violation.”
“Yes, but thankfully there’s a happy ending. Psyche becomes immortal, and she and Cupid are married in the heavens. It’s ever so romantic.”
Not really. Not if one factored in the violating Cupid did in the name of love. Better him than the beast, he reasoned. But it was violation, all the same. Not wanting to argue about the twisted plotlines of Greek mythology, Beatrice decided to let that one lie.
She plucked at the diaphanous yellow skirts. “What I want to know is . . . why am I covered in butterflies?”
“White butterflies to symbolize purity. You are my pure, sweet girl. You’ve always been so very virtuous, held yourself so aloof. You will be like a butterfly tonight. You will climb down from your bridal bower and flit here and there, darting amongst the guests.”
“Mama, please. I don’t flit.”
“Try to flit, darling. Do try.” Her mother took her hands. “For me.”
Beatrice was doing all of this for her mother. Agreeing to wear the gown, be wheeled in on this confounded contraption. Wear the yellow gown and butterflies in her hair.
But she drew the line at flitting.
“And are these actual dead butterflies glued to this blindfold you want me to wear?”
“Mrs. Adler assures me that the glue will hold and not one fragile wing will tatter. Of course you mustn’t venture too close to the candles.”
“Am I combustible?”
“Mrs. Adler did say that the glue was highly flammable, but there’s nothing to worry about. She’s a genius. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that you misplaced her masterpiece of a bonnet before you’d even had a chance to wear it in public.”
“You know this is a blindfold, not a mask?”
“Psyche was kept blindfolded so she wouldn’t see her monstrous bridegroom—and then your Cupid will appear from the crowd and replace your blindfold with this mask.” She removed Beatrice’s spectacles and placed a yellow silk mask studded with diamonds and edged by more white butterflies on her face, tying it with a bow at the back of her head.
“Is Lord Mayhew my Cupid? If so, I need to talk to you about something—”
“Not now, Beatrice. Not now. I have so many preparations to make. All you have to do is recline upon your bower and look beautiful. You look so lovely tonight. You make me so proud.” Her mother wiped a tear away from her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.