Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,84
had pined to hear those words as a child, but tonight they left her hollow.
“Your mask slipped, darling. Make sure it’s tightly secured.”
And there it was. You look beautiful. And then, Make sure you stay covered.
Her mother left the room.
Beatrice sat on the bower in her cheerful yellow gown with its army of chaste butterflies.
She didn’t feel very bright and cheerful. All of this pretending to be docile, chaste, and decorous was beginning to be ridiculous. After what she’d done with Ford, the freedom and abandon she’d experienced, she didn’t want to pretend anymore.
She wanted to be truly herself from this moment forth.
“Knock, knock,” a voice called and Isobel and Viola entered the room.
Isobel was dressed all in gold silk. She raised her arms, showing Beatrice the gold chains and round gold basins attached to her wrists. “I do love a costume that precludes me from being able to dance, for fear of knocking some poor bloke about the head with a gold scale.”
Beatrice chuckled. “And what are you, Viola?”
“You can’t tell?” Viola did a little twirl. “I’m a viola, of course. Can’t you see the scrolls and strings I painted on this old gown?”
“Now that you mention it I do see some squiggles.”
“We smuggled in a bottle of Henrietta’s wine,” said Viola. “We thought you might require fortification.”
A lump rose in Beatrice’s throat. She loved her friends. “Thank you.”
“Oh dear. What is that thing you’re sitting on?” Viola asked.
“It’s meant to be my bridal bower,” she said glumly. “I’m Psyche. And no doubt my mother told Mayhew to come dressed as Cupid. I’m to be wheeled into the ballroom on this thing.”
“And your gown is . . . well, it’s . . . words fail me,” Isobel said.
“Instead of a Grecian robe, my mother has imagined me as some sort of yellow burst of sunshine, dripping with glass beading and butterflies. I think I’m going to blind everyone. Pass me some wine.”
“I brought glasses.” Isobel pulled three glasses out of her reticule.
“I’m supposed to wear this blindfold.” Beatrice held up the silk cloth. “She doesn’t want anyone seeing my face until the very last moment.”
Viola sighed. “I’m sorry, Beatrice.”
“My mother . . . I love her but . . .”
“It’s always difficult with mothers,” said Isobel. “They want the best for us but can’t seem to truly see us.”
“She told me that I looked beautiful, and then, in the very same breath, told me to keep my mask tightly secured. Those two things can’t exist together anymore. I don’t want to stay covered, hidden away. Not anymore. I want to be me.”
She sipped her wine. “Perhaps I should spill red wine all over this gown.”
“Then they’d think you were supposed to be the female version of Bacchus,” said Isobel.
“You could roll out clutching a wine bottle,” said Viola. “Perhaps we could find a cluster of grapes.”
“And we could dress one of the footmen in a Roman toga and have him lolling at your feet. You could feed him grapes.”
“Ladies,” said Beatrice. “While I appreciate your enthusiastic efforts to cheer me up, the fact of it is that this gown is hideous, I look ridiculous in it, and wine won’t improve anything.”
“Wine improves everything,” said Viola, taking a large sip from her glass.
“Mr. Wright is here,” said Beatrice.
“What, here at the ball tonight?” asked Viola.
“My brother invited him.”
“How does that make you feel?”
The butterflies sewn on her mask migrated to the inside of her belly. “It feels like I’ve walked over the edge of the ninny cliff and plummeted into the lovelorn abyss.”
“Oh. Beatrice.” Viola sat next to her on the bower. “Have you finally admitted it?”
“I don’t think I can hide it anymore.”
“Then don’t,” said Isobel, always so pragmatic.
“But he’s leaving soon. And I knew that, of course I knew that. But I continue to have these irrational dreams that he decides to stay, and that my mother magically transforms into someone who would allow me to be happy.”
“Does he make you happy?” asked Isobel softly.
“He does.” She hadn’t meant to admit any of this, but her friends were so dear to her and she was tired of suppressing her emotions.
“Maybe you can find a way to be together,” said Viola, ever the romantic.
“There’s another obstacle thrown in our path, ladies. Foxton visited the shop today and threatened me with the possibility of another heir to challenge my ownership of the property.”
“We’ll fight him,” said Isobel. “We’ll fight him to the death! He doesn’t know about me, for example,