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“There couldn’t possibly be a worse one.”
“Now see here, you drab little eccentric, you should be thanking me.” He propped his hand against the doorframe, effectively blocking her path back to the ballroom.
She’d broken her promise to Ford that she would never be alone with Mayhew. But she’d thought she’d be safe at her mother’s ball, on the balcony only a short distance from the crowded ballroom filled with laughing, dancing people.
“Let me go back to the ballroom,” she said evenly.
“Not until you agree to be my wife.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
“I need your dowry and you’re going to give it to me.”
“Oh, now we get to the heart of it. I’m only a dowry to you. You’ll never have me or my money, Mayhew.”
“I’ll have both. You know it’s the thing to do. You’ll come round.”
“The lady refused your proposal. Now leave,” said a gruff voice.
Ford. Coming to her rescue again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Beatrice wanted to applaud Ford, as he’d applauded her in the ballroom. He was every inch the highwayman, appearing suddenly in a whirl of black silk and flashing ice blue eyes set off by his black mask.
“Leave this ball right now or I’ll break your nose and blood will drip all over that dainty white toga,” he growled.
“I’d call you out if I knew your name, sir,” said Mayhew.
“And I’d kill you from any distance, with any choice of weapons,” Ford replied.
Beatrice shivered, from the night air and from the lethal edge in Ford’s voice. She had no doubt that he could make good on that threat.
“You’d better leave, Mayhew,” she said. “Before you do something truly stupid. No one’s seen any of this. You can leave now with your nose intact.”
“I can’t believe I ever entertained the thought of marrying you.” Mayhew adjusted his wig and shook out the folds of his toga.
“I’ll be warning every lady of fortune I know about you,” said Beatrice. “You won’t find your bountiful dowry here, Mayhew.”
“Leave,” Ford said. “Now. While you can still walk.”
Mayhew glared at them, and then edged his way toward the door.
When he was gone, Beatrice took a long, quivering breath.
Ford framed her face with his hands. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Gods, Beatrice.” His forehead touched hers. “Don’t ever do that again.”
She laid her hands over his. “I won’t, I promise. I didn’t think he’d be audacious enough to threaten me at my mother’s ball.”
“Men like him lash out like wounded animals when their pride is at stake. I lost you for a moment in the crowd. I was searching everywhere for you.”
They stood like that, foreheads and hands touching. His lips were so close to hers.
“I have to go back inside.”
