Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,87
waltz.
“It’s Mr. Wright, isn’t it?” asked Viola, her eyes dancing. “He makes a dashing highwayman. Maybe he’ll throw you over his shoulder and kidnap you.”
That would be fine with Beatrice. She was still walking on air, her heart speeding with the knowledge of what she’d done. She felt powerful and more than a little drunk, even though she’d only touched her lips to the wine.
She took her friends’ arms. “Shall we, ladies?”
“We shall,” they said in unison.
They walked through the crowded room, arms linked and heads held high.
“That was quite the entrance, Bea.” Rafe kissed her on the cheek. He wore a green Robin Hood costume with a peaked cap stuck with a jaunty feather. “Wouldn’t have missed that performance for the world. I gather that’s not the costume you’re meant to be wearing?”
“Not even close,” she replied.
“Her other costume was much more elaborate, Lord Rafe,” said Viola.
“Good evening, Miss Beaton.” Rafe made a flourishing bow. “Miss Mayberry.” He doffed his cap for Isobel, who performed the briefest of curtsies in return. She’d always disapproved of Rafe’s wild, and purportedly criminal, ways.
Beatrice searched the crowd for Ford. His tricorn hat shouldn’t be difficult to find.
“Looking for someone, Bea?” Rafe asked.
“A certain tall, dark, and handsome highwayman, perhaps?” Viola asked.
Beatrice noticed a young girl wedged between the potted ferns and the wall. “I think we have another wallflower to befriend.” She nodded toward the girl, who looked truly miserable, the feathers on her straw bonnet drooping to match her forlorn expression.
“A new recruit!” said Viola.
“Ladies,” Rafe said with a bow. “I have an assignation with a brandy bottle.”
“He hasn’t changed at all,” said Isobel, watching Rafe walk away. “It’s a shame he’s such an inebriate. He has a fine head on his shoulders but it’s always sloshing with brandy.”
The three of them headed for the ferns.
“Good evening,” said Beatrice.
“Oh. Good evening,” said the girl, glancing around to make sure they were addressing her.
“I used to hide exactly in that spot during balls,” said Beatrice. “We won’t all four fit, though.”
“I suppose n-not,” the girl stammered, her cheeks turning beet red.
“I’m Lady Beatrice Bentley, and this is Miss Beaton and Miss Mayberry. Might I know your name?”
“I’m Lady Philippa Bramble. This is only my second ball. I’m new to London. Thank you for inviting me, Lady Beatrice.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re having a terrible time.”
“I was until I saw you emerge in your spectacles holding your book. It was splendid. I love your costume. I wish I could wear a simple gown instead of this hideous creation.”
“What are you meant to be?” asked Viola.
“I’m not quite sure.” Lady Philippa glanced down at her dress with a woeful expression. “I think I’m meant to be a shepherdess?” She wore a straw bonnet and a wide, ruffled gown all in white. “Though I feel more like the sheep.”
Beatrice laughed. “You don’t like balls. It’s all right, you can admit it.”
“I don’t like speaking to strangers, present company excluded. I’m no good with conversation. I’d rather be anywhere else, really.”
“I like you, Lady Philippa,” said Beatrice. “Isobel, do you have one of our cards?”
Isobel extracted a card from the small reticule she had looped around her wrist by a silken cord. “Come to the next meeting of our ladies society. You’d be most welcome.”
“Th-thank you. Though I don’t know how to knit.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Viola assured her.
Beatrice caught sight of Ford near the refreshment table. “Ladies, I think I’ll just go and have a glass of punch.”
Viola followed her gaze. “A long, tall glass.”
Beatrice hurried across the room, but people kept stopping her to offer insincere flattery. Luckily, she didn’t see her mother. That was a conversation she dreaded.
When she finally made it to the refreshments, Ford had disappeared again. Frustrated, she stood on her tiptoes, searching the room for a tricorn hat.
A head of blond curls suddenly blocked her vision. “Lady Beatrice,” Mayhew said, “I was told you would be garbed as Pysche. See? I’m your Cupid.”
He preened for her in his fawn-colored tights and white toga. “I have a quiver of arrows waiting to pierce your heart.”
“Mayhew,” she said icily.
“You look flushed. Why don’t we take some air.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the nearby balcony door.
Beatrice dug her heels against the waxed ballroom floor. “I don’t want to. I’m looking for a friend.”
“A brief conversation, my lady.” He caught her eye and raised one eyebrow. “There’s something I want to ask