Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,85
or my access to legal records.”
“Why are men so threatened by the idea of allowing women to have any power?” asked Viola.
“Ford . . . Wright suggested that we pay this potential heir a visit.” Beatrice sighed. “And there’s the problem of Mayhew. I’ll never marry him, obviously, but I haven’t found a way to inform my mother that all of her hopes are in vain.”
“Your mother lives in a fantasy world,” said Viola. “She thinks that if she sets the stage and writes the script, that you’ll learn to speak your lines like an obedient girl and accept the handsome prince, and live happily ever after.”
“Poor Mama,” said Beatrice. “She’s in for a rude shock. You know, I’ve been thinking. We women are all so critical of ourselves. We’re too plump, or too thin. Too tall, or too short. Our hair is too curly, or too straight. We live in a society that rewards conformity to a strict set of physical standards and an even more rigid set of rules for proper behavior. We have these unpleasant thoughts running round and round in our minds. Wouldn’t it be revolutionary if we decided to love ourselves exactly the way we are?”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Viola, clinking her glass against Beatrice’s.
“I have an idea,” said Beatrice. “My mother won’t like it, but it’s not about her.” As she told her friends what she was planning, they nodded enthusiastically and offered helpful suggestions.
“Your mother will probably never let you speak to us again after this,” said Viola.
Her friends helped her with the transformation, keeping the maids from the room and watching for her mother.
No one disturbed them and soon Beatrice was ready.
“Are you certain that you want to do this?” Isobel asked her solemnly.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” Beatrice replied. “I’ve decided to stop hiding for the benefit of others. I intend to be wholly me.”
She inhaled, held the breath for a moment, and exhaled, thinking of Ford. He’d given her this idea. Casting her bonnet into the street, praising her choice of gown in Cornwall, and telling her to break free from her mother’s control.
To breathe. To be fully present. To take risks and live life to the fullest. Unburdened by shame or by fear.
She was tired of the bonnets and the blindfolds.
It was time to emerge from her chrysalis.
The costume Thorndon had given him fit Ford perfectly.
Tight black trousers, shiny black boots, a white shirt with lace at the throat and cuffs, a long black silk cape with a high collar, and a black tricorn hat.
A black silk mask that tied at the back of his head completed the highwayman costume.
Ford didn’t give one goddamn about London high society and its exclusionary and frivolous entertainments, but he did care about Beatrice, and how she saw him. In this mask he was a mysterious marauder, come to steal her breath away.
He strode through the crowded ballroom with his customary swagger, and every highborn lady in the room followed him with glittering eyes behind their masks.
Sorry, ladies. I’m here for one woman, and one woman only.
And she was going to be wheeled into this ballroom on a bed atop a wooden platform laden with flowers, fruit, and birds like some sacrifice to the gods.
But he’d be the one to claim her, if only for one waltz. For one night.
He’d show everyone in this room, and Mayhew in particular, that the lady was his, and his alone. And, let’s be honest, he wanted to steal a kiss on the balcony.
And another.
As many as he could. He was well and truly addicted to Lady Beatrice Bentley.
“Admiral, this is the man I was telling you about, Stamford Wright.” Thorndon approached with a naval officer in tow. “Wright, this is Admiral Sir Francis Emsworth.”
“Wright. You’re about to sail on the HMS Boadicea, I hear?” asked the admiral.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“You look an able-bodied sailor, Wright. We require stalwart men in the Royal Navy. I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll see about having you posted to a first-rate three-decker. How does that sound? You’d see more action that way.”
More action. More bodies to feed the roiling cauldron of the sea.
Maybe his own body weighted down by cannonball shards and growing seaweed in his hair at the bottom of the ocean.
“That sounds brilliant, sir. I’m honored.”
“Pretty ladies here tonight, Thorndon. And you can’t tell which one is your wife and which one your mistress with all of these masks, eh?”